Hallowed Circle

by Linda Robertson

  “It does.”

  A few steps later, she paused before a door similar to all the others. “Here’s the holding room. The restroom is across the hall, there,” she said and pointed behind her toward an alcove farther down the hall. “Modern flushes, running water, heated-air hand dryers, and everything.”

  “Thanks.” Lifting the door’s handle, I pushed hard and entered a space about the size of an average school’s classroom. Other contestants were already waiting. Everyone looked at me, evaluating me as they surely did everyone who walked through the door. It made me uncomfortable. We weren’t here as friends, we were here as competitors all vying for the same prize. Well, they were, anyway.

  The room was also stone-walled, and—being twenty-plus feet underground—it was cool, like walking into a cave where the temperature was maintained naturally. The scene made me think of a candle party at Goth boot camp. Black military-style cots sat in rows to either side, with a wide central walkway in the middle. Each bore a folded black name placard with silver calligraphy, atop a small pillow resting on a folded gray blanket with black-tasseled corners. Candelabra provided enough light to be functional, but didn’t do much to relieve the overall gloom of the place.

  I found my name and sat on the cot. The women returned to whispered chatting, cross-armed pacing, or fidgeting. I counted cots. Twenty-one. More than I’d expected. About fifteen were here already; Hunter was not among them.

  They were an eclectic group; all shapes, sizes, colors. They all seemed a little older than me, early thirties or forties. Three of the women I’d have guessed were in their fifties. The attire was mostly jeans and sneakers, though a few went for dressy office style with pantsuits and low heels and a few others wore jog suits. One of the fifty-ish women wore a loose broomstick skirt and long-sleeve tee. Her skin was tan and the rust-colored shirt suited her well. Her long hair, some brown but mostly gray, was braided. The name card at the foot of her cot read: Maria Morrison.

  At least my jeans and sneakers weren’t a faux pas. I’d considered wearing a flannel overshirt again just to rankle Hunter, but ended up in a plain black tank under a copper Henley, and a zippered, dark-green sweatshirt with a wide collar. Layers, practical.

  The door opened and another woman came in. She immediately struck me as Welsh: thick, shoulder-length blond hair in a bob style; pale skin; and brown eyes. A little over five feet tall, she wore camel corduroy pants, a yellow V-neck tee, and a khaki-brown hoodie. She was all the colors of a wheat field.

  Like me, she glanced around, realized there were names on the cards, and began searching for hers. It was beside mine. She whispered quietly, “Hi.”

  “Good morning,” I answered. She was young; barely twenty. It surprised me that anyone so young would be ambitious enough to compete for high priestess.

  She picked up the placard. “I’m Holly.” She flapped the paper once, peered at mine. Her brows puckered and I knew she was stuck on the pronunciation.

  “I’m Persephone,” I said.

  “Oh, right.” She smiled. “Apt name for a high priestess.”

  I shrugged. “Guess so.”

  Holly sat. Her knees bounced. She repositioned her feet. Her hands ran over her hair.

  I yawned.

  Everyone else here was excited and nervous. They wanted to be here. They wanted the title and position and believed they had a good chance of winning it. My preference would have had me in bed sleeping. My mind was reeling and my eyes didn’t want to stay open. If Hunter didn’t show up, maybe I could just go home.

  Of course, as soon as I thought of her, the door opened and speak-of-the-devil walked in. No, actually, she strutted in. Her hair was fluffed and bound up in a stylish way, and her expert makeup enhanced the striking beauty nature had blessed her with. It was impossible to ignore her and, even dressed conservatively in sky-blue yoga pants and spandex shirt under a matching jacket, her arrival held the spellbinding quality that a high priestess’s entrance should never lack.

  It took longer for the others to resume their chatter than it had after Holly and I had entered. Hunter had likely hand-jolted everyone here, or tried, so we all took a moment to think something begrudging toward her.

  “She zap you too?” Holly whispered.

  I shook my head. “She tried. Nothing happened.”

  Her brows shot up. “Really? Wow. You’re probably the best bet to win against her, then.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m sure this test isn’t going to come down to the best hand jolt.” I glanced around. “And so is everyone else, or they wouldn’t have shown up.” I examined Hunter for a moment. “If all is right and fair it won’t come down to that.”

  Holly leaned closer. “I’ve heard the Elders at the Mother Covenstead are fighting among themselves. WEC is supposedly in danger of falling apart and they are vying to create alliances with the Covensteads, hoping to create power bases for themselves. Someone who can tap into power like that could be helped into position and then, of course, their loyalty to the Elder who put them there would be expected.”

  I faced Holly again, my expression darkening in irritation. Political maneuvering pissed me off and witches should know better. Our history was laden with being on the tortured end of such idealized endeavors. “I have no interest in what the rumor mill says and it won’t sway my opinions.”

  Holly gaped at me. Despite the warm light from the candles, her Welsh features turned icy. “That’s noble of you, Persephone, but I hope you’re not noble and blind. You do see how they hate us out there, don’t you?”

  I certainly did, but the meek, small woman transforming into a crouching tiger surprised me. I utilized my newfound blank expression. “Us?”

  “Witches, wæres, vamps, the fey. All of us. After twenty years, the novelty of having real monsters among the populace is wearing thin.”

  That notion wasn’t unfamiliar to me but, from her, it was unsettling. Unless she retained lucid memories of being an infant, this was how the world had been her whole life. It wasn’t a novelty to her.

  “The media’s once-positive spin has become ambiguous. Intolerance is on the rise,” she continued. “If we don’t combat it now, if we don’t choose strong leaders they can’t criticize—leaders who can see what’s coming and act to head it off, who are savvy enough to use the media, who can be positive role models and live up to the expectations of their positions—then this ‘going public’ nonsense will blow up in all of our faces.”

  Her vehemently whispered tirade had taken me aback, but I tried not to show it.

  Holly abruptly got up and headed for the door, probably for the bathroom.

  The entry door opened before she got to it, however, and she slipped around the group of women who strode in and searched for their places. They completed the ranks of contestants. This much interest in the position, with women willing to relocate to a new city, was encouraging. After they’d found their cots the whispering slowly resumed. I glanced over the group. They were a restless, nervous bunch. It seemed I was the only one unmoving; fatigue was creeping over me.

  Hunter was motionless as well. She watched me steadily, seeming to take my calm for confidence. She gave me an up-nod, like men do to acknowledge each other without nodding their heads in what might be taken as a submissive gesture. I offered her one back.

  When Holly returned, Hunter stood. “Ladies.” With that one word, she charmed the group into silence. “There are twenty-one of us here to compete for one position. One.” She strode to the end of her cot and made eye contact with each of us in turn. “We are sisters in a common goal and one among us will be victorious. I’m sure you all want it as badly as I do, that you’ve all tried to prepare as hard as I have. Maybe harder! May the Goddess be at our sides, may we all reach our highest potential as we compete and, when it is done, may we all be friends.” She reached to her left, then her right, and took the hands of the women nearest her. “Wha
t say you?”

  A circle formed then, as each turned to take the hands of those around them. I stood and moved forward to take my part in it.

  Hunter faced me. “What say you?” she repeated.

  I knew a challenge when I heard one, even disguised as a call for friendship. She was very good, very smooth. Probably thinking she had this wrapped up, she wanted to win over the toughest critics first—those she competed against. Acting like she was the leader already, she put those words to me as if acknowledging I was the direct competition. So was she offering me a chance to put my foot in my mouth? A chance to show I could outshine the pizzazz she’d already shown? I didn’t want to do either. My efforts here were meant to bring about the best outcome for the coven. I wanted nothing more than to knock her from the running and go home and sleep.

  “May we all be friends,” I repeated her words.

  “May the Goddess be pleased,” Maria in the broomstick skirt said, “and this community best served by what transpires here.”

  Hunter smiled convincingly at her, seeing her for the first time, but clearly realizing that here was another competent woman. She’d found the strength in the room.

  Hoping I’d fallen off her radar at that point to be replaced by Maria, I watched the two of them measure each other up behind the polite expressions they wore.

  More than money was on the line here. More than prestige and a respected office. This should be about someone attaining the position in order to pass on knowledge and instill ethical standards in those coming up.

  But it wasn’t. As Holly had pointed out, even if I naively didn’t want to think so, power was on the line.

  The door opened again. Lydia stood in the opening; her usual bun-bound hair lay loose and flowing over her white robes. She said, “It is time.”

  The Covenstead’s giant domed interior was dark, save for a line of eight wrought-iron candelabra, each holding a trio of slender but tall white pillar candles. The iron stands flanked a rectangular dais where five thrones sat, each with a rustic broom resting to its right.

  That same candlelight backlit a dragon statue placed at the eastern end of the dais. Like an ominous and fierce relic from an ancient time, the dragon seemed like a roughly chiseled block of stone. Tarnished iron and copper bands accented the base of each of two ivory horns, lending a draconic majesty. Obsidian eyes and ivory fangs and claws gleamed, making it seem almost alive. A large cast iron cauldron sat before the beast.

  Lydia guided us contestants to form a line, steadfast and serious, running east to west like the dais. Then she took a position for herself at the west end of the dais. My eyes scrutinized the details of the elaborately carved, dark wood thrones. Two had the triple-crescent Moon Goddess symbol engraved on them; two had pentacles. All were padded with black leather and round silver studs fastened the dark skins to the wood. The centermost seat had a wider back, was significantly taller, and the Goddess-symbol of the full moon with the waxing and waning crescents on either side crowned it. Studying the design, I realized that the triple moons were large pieces of moonstone, and the center full moon disc was engraved with a pentacle.

  We waited silently in that regal ambience. I’m sure we were given this time to be in awe of the moment, to consider those seats and reflect on our purpose, our competition, and the weight of what we were about to engage in.

  Lydia said, “Welcome witches, to the Venefica Covenstead Eximium.” She spread her arms wide. “The women who will sit upon these thrones are your Elders. The one who will sit in the center will have the highest rank among them. She will demand the most respect as she carries the greatest power. While each Elder will be involved in selecting a test you will be given, the center-seated Elder, given the title Eldrenne, will choose the terms of the Eximium’s final test.”

  She paused.

  “Once the Elders enter the Covenstead, no contestant may leave until the Eximium is over. Neither may anyone enter, save for select guests who are arriving to aid or observe the tests.” Fingers folding together in front of her, her saccharine-granny smile perfect, she continued, “I give you this one warning: these tests will reveal much, not only to the Elders, but to yourselves and to each other. If you are wary, if you doubt, speak now, for you will be bound and required to participate in every aspect of the tests, whatever they may be, until such time as you fail to advance to the next round. You must compete until you are bested; refusal to participate for any reason will bring severe consequences. You will be permanently disqualified from future Tournaments. You will be expelled from your current coven membership and henceforth denied membership in any formally recognized coven. Depending on the circumstances, you could be Bindspoken.”

  Lydia let that sink in. Nana’s warning rushed back to me.

  “Should you choose to compete and become disqualified or lose a round, you will remain in a separate area until the Eximium is completed.” Again she paused, then made eye contact with each of us in turn. “Questions?”

  No one moved or spoke.

  “I will ask this only once, so if you harbor any sliver of doubt in your mind, if you fear you may not be willing to comply with these rules, then answer now. Is there any among you who wishes to withdraw from the test and leave these grounds?” She waited.

  Silence.

  “Very well.” From within pockets in the folds of her gown, Lydia produced a small vial. “The details of how this Eximium functions and its tests are secret. No one may divulge these secrets after it is complete. You must each donate three drops of blood, to be added to the binding spell of silence.” Assuming a position next to the dragon, Lydia nodded to the woman in the broomstick skirt. “Maria. Come forward.”

  She approached Lydia, who indicated the cauldron. Maria reached in and came up with a dagger. Lydia uncorked the vial. “If you please.”

  Maria unsheathed the blade and made a quick, shallow slice on her thumb. Holding it over the vial, she allowed three drops to fall in, then returned to her place in line, dagger still in hand.

  “Next,” Lydia said.

  On my turn, I did as everyone else had. The cauldron held many daggers and I selected one—they were all identical. Releasing it from the tooled leather sheath, noting the similarly tooled design on the blade and the razor-sharp edges, I cut my thumb and added three drops to the vial.

  When everyone had made their donation, Lydia put the stopper in the vial and returned it to her pocket. Then she strode to the western end of the dais and gestured to the east. “Let the Elders enter the Covenstead!”

  The eastern doors creaked open. Glowing rays of dawn fingered through, bringing crisp autumn air and birdsong with them. One by one, with infinitesimal slowness, four old women filed in.

  It was a kind of parade, a cavalcade of witches, a procession of disguised power. They were not a pretty sight. Eyes sunken, skin sallow and waxen, wrinkled and scowling, they shuffled along as Nana did, their gnarled hands gripping their ceremonial staves tightly, aiding their slow progress.

  Each wore ceremonial robes, flowing layers of gray and maroon and black. The lapels and cuffs of the robes were hemmed in silver designs: crescent moons for the first two, ankhs for the third, and pentagrams for the fourth. These variations meant something, gave clues to their status, but the symbolism was lost on me. I wondered if Hunter understood it.

  White hair, either thick and slightly frizzy or softly curling ringlets, cascaded over their shoulders from under the wide brims of crooked, pointed hats, each with a band and silver buckle. The bands for the first two were maroon, the third was gray, and the last was deep, deep purple. Upon the bands were tarnished charms—badges they had earned. Among the charms, I saw spiders, crow’s feet, centipedes, snakes, fireflies, dragonflies—there were more I could not see.

  The very air they stirred reached me and it carried a promise: here, was unequivocal power.

  The Elders were not to be trifled with.

  Why had I ever thought I could hide what I was from t
hese women?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Elders took their places upon the outermost thrones, leaving the center empty.

  “Enter the Eldrenne!” Lydia cried.

  The doors to the east had shut, but now they creaked open again and a mist flowed through, curling across the floor. I could smell anise and nutmeg.

  Another woman stepped into the doorway, head down, and paused like a shadow against the swirling mist. A raven sat upon her hunched shoulder. The staff she held was topped with a small crystal ball held in place by a weaving of wood as if the staff had sprouted branches that twisted together to form a beautiful, loose net.

  Edging the staff forward, she eased from the doorway and began crossing the distance toward the dais very, very slowly. The bird launched itself to the air with a cry that echoed throughout the dome. The Eldrenne seemed never to take a step but to flow like the mist at her feet. Her other hand was held slightly out, palm to the floor, fingers spread. She wore large rings with big stones set in tarnished metals. They seemed very fitting on her twisted fingers.

  The robes of the Eldrenne were gauzy black-on-black layers that fit her frail frame as if there were nothing but a ghost below her bony shoulders. The edges bore elaborate embroidery in metallic black thread. Her hat was a scrawnier style, the narrow brim rippled slightly. The cone bent behind her and slightly under. A copper pentacle charm dangled from the tip. The band around her hat was shiny black, the buckle copper. Charms were spaced along the band, as well as up the cone of the hat. Some even dangled from the brim edges.

  Her hair was a white waterfall, sleek and fine, falling into the mist where the ends were hidden. She approached the dais steps, floating up them smoothly, as if hovering. When she arrived before the center throne, she turned to the assembled group and the mist retreated, flowing up and under her robes.

  The brim of her hat finally levered up as she lifted her chin. A silver veil with a large black appliquéd spider hid her face.

  Free hand rising in a smooth, slow gesture, she revealed her face. Her sunken cheeks were pink; stark against otherwise pallid skin. When she opened her eyes, I gasped; her eyes were covered by a fine, bluish film.