Magic of Fire and Shadows (Curse of the Ctyri Book 1)

by Raye Wagner

  Adaline scrunched her face as she tried to wrap her mind around what her aunt was saying. “So, how do you know what you can do? Your power is so different than mine.”

  “Which planes you have access to is dependent on which plane your ancestors originated from, their abilities, and their level of power.”

  “You’re saying I’m related to a djinn?” Horror doused Adaline, and her chest felt hollow with the thought. “Are you saying my mother or father wasn’t really—”

  Dimira shook her head. “Magic can skip generations before it manifests. And as for a djinni, I doubt your ancestor was terrestrial. Your power was very challenging to bind, and I was not completely successful. Even in the Lumea, your power is strong, and I believe it will extend beyond the terrestrial someday.”

  “I’m powerful?” Adaline asked. She, the spare-heir of Cervene, actually had magic and it was strong?

  “Not yet,” Dimira said with a laugh. “But I’ll admit I’m a little jealous of your potential.” The queen regent then opened the metal box, lifting the lid on its hinge, and a sickly, overripe, sweet odor wafted out.

  Adaline leaned forward to see. There, in the box on a satin pillow, rested a rotten apple. Brown spots dotted the once-red skin, and on one side, the rot had eaten through to the core, exposing the now-brown flesh of the fruit. Adaline grimaced at the juxtaposition of the rotten fruit on the satin pillow, and while she resisted the urge to plug her nose, she couldn’t stop herself from leaning back.

  “This is an exercise I do when I want to sharpen my focus.” Dimira pointed at the apple and asked, “What do you see?”

  Adaline wondered if her aunt had lost her mind. Had the strain tipped her over the edge because . . . “It’s a rotten apple.”

  The queen regent blew out a laugh. “Yes, of course. But do you see just the apple, or can you see a second layer? Think back to when you were little, how you would see magic before your power was bound. Try very hard. Concentrate.”

  Adaline narrowed her eyes and leaned in toward the smelly fruit, staring at it. She thought of each of the different colors, thought of what the threads had looked like, but even after ten minutes of staring, she saw nothing but the single rotten apple.

  “It’s all right. This will take time.” Dimira leaned forward and held a hand over the produce. “This apple is old, diseased, decaying, but the apple doesn’t know—it just is. Mankind only sees one possibility, the linear progression of existence, but a witch can see the energy and power of the Lumea. She can take that energy, bend it to her will, and change what happens here.”

  Under Dimira’s outstretched hand, the rotted brown spots diminished and then disappeared as the flesh of the apple cleared and then brightened to pristine white. The insides of the fruit knitted together, and the withered skin smoothed and then darkened to vibrant red. The smell lessened until there was nothing but the faint tang of an apple orchard. From the now-pristine apple arose a faint white mist as if the fruit was steaming from the transformation.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Dimira took the apple out of the box, holding the red fruit out to Adaline.

  “Incredible,” Adaline whispered in awe. How had she never known such magic was possible? Had the Celestial Sisters always been able to wield such power? To change the very nature of life . . .

  “Hold it,” Dimira said. “Take it, and feel that it’s real.”

  Adaline reached for the proffered fruit, her fingers stroking the smooth skin. Determination surged from within because one day, hopefully soon, she’d use her power to tear down the barrier of the Phoenix Fire, and then she would manipulate the power of the Lumea to exact her revenge. Deadly thoughts filled Adaline, her rage with the tsar ballooning. Righteous indignation would be her reward when she tore the essence of his life from his body. She gritted her teeth with resolve.

  “You could even eat it if you wish—” Dimira’s words cut off in a gasp.

  Adaline stared, her eyes widening, at the apple in her hand. The fruit’s skin wrinkled and withered; brown spots appeared and then turned black as the apple rotted down to its core and then disintegrated into dust that sprinkled between Adaline’s fingers to the rug beneath.

  Adaline jumped up, smacking her now-dirty hand on her billowing skirt. “W-what was that?”

  “Oh dear! I-I’m so sorry. It was your power,” the queen regent said as she, too, got to her feet, her brow furrowing. She grabbed Adaline’s hand and traced through the residual dust. “Your power is strange. Very strange. Like nothing I’ve seen before.” Dimira met Adaline’s worried gaze and rushed to add, “But it’s good because that’s what will bring down the wall.”

  Adaline’s heart beat against her ribs like it was trying to escape, and her legs twitched, urging her to heed the warning. She glanced at the door and then her hand where the apple had been seconds before.

  Whatever this magic was made her stomach churn, and her thoughts swirled and spun as she tried to sort whether she disliked magic or if it was just unfamiliar? She shook her head and dusted her hands together. Her unease didn’t matter. There was no other option if she wanted to defeat Beloch. Swallowing her discomfiture, Adaline asked, “Can you show me again?”

  Dimira went to the fruit bowl and plucked another apple from the arrangement. She first made the apple rotten and then reversed the process before handing the fruit to Adaline.

  This time, nothing happened. Adaline held the apple, pushing on the skin, bruising the crisp, fresh fruit. She smelled it, picked at it, and then with a frown, handed it back to her aunt. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t it work?”

  Dimira pursed her lips, and several moments passed. A knock at the door broke the silence, and Dimira called for her maid to enter and ordered dinner to be brought to her room. After the servant left, the queen regent sat next to Adaline and asked, “What were you thinking about? When you made the apple’s magic disappear, what were you thinking; what were you feeling?”

  Adaline blushed, mortified to admit her ghastly fixation with destroying the tsar of Beloch.

  Dimira studied the princess, and as Adaline contemplated her hatred, she could see no reason to deny it. Surely, Jarian would want the same, so Adaline told her aunt how she wanted to rip the threads of Tsar Baine’s soul from him to avenge the evil he’d inflicted. When she finished speaking, a slow smile spread across Dimira’s face, and Adaline asked, “Do you think you can help me?”

  This time, the queen regent nodded, her eyes flashing with excitement. “Yes, my dear. I do believe I can.”

  22

  Vasilisa

  After two quiet nights in the woods, Vasi was confident she’d lost the duke and his men. Even so, she carefully picked her way through the foliage, holding the branches as she passed and glancing behind to ensure they snapped back into place to hide her trail. She moved forward on her toes, stepping as lightly as she could, trying to minimize any traces of her presence. She’d slept in a log one night and up a squatty tree the second. She could ill afford to have risked so much only to be caught again.

  Vasi’s stomach rumbled, and her skirt caught on a barren blackberry bramble almost as if to mock her. Fresh water had been easy to find, but she hadn’t found a single bite to eat, and the little food she had was gone. Time ticked, precious seconds spent to extricate herself without breaking the branch or tearing her skirt, and Vasi’s frustration mounted. When she was finally free, she lifted her skirt, pulling the back lower hem to the front, and tucked it into her belt, creating makeshift trousers. Able to move a little faster, Vasi ducked under branches, twisted between trees, and threaded her way deeper and deeper into the thick woods of the Ctyri forest.

  Even with the rising sun, this deep in the woods the air nipped her skin with its chill. Vasi's fingers tingled uncomfortably, feeling thick and wooden. She tucked one hand under her arm until her fingers warmed and then switched sides.

  Frustration and anger bubbled in her chest, and Vasi glared at the woods around her as
she stomped sensation back into her toes. She was lost, parched, starving, damp, and cold. She cursed Marika, the tsar, and even Prince Nikolai for her current predicament. With an additional curse for Lord Baine, Vasi kicked the trunk of a large tree.

  An injured foot will only slow you.

  “Shut up,” Vasi snapped in response. She shook her head a moment later as she realized the progression of her insanity. “I’m talking to myself and telling myself to shut up.”

  Sunlight broke through the canopy above, and the scent of jasmine wafted in on the warmer air. With a heavy sigh, Vasi reminded herself the djinn could help if she found them, so she best take care of her body and what was left of her mind. She studied the shrubs and then the ground, searching for edibles to sustain her. By late summer, the wild strawberries were gone as were the huckleberries and currants. She continued her search, head bowed as she examined the ground for mushrooms.

  Something tugged on her hair from above, and Vasi glanced up and grinned with triumph. Heavy-laden with fruit, glorious blackberry canes leaned over the decaying tree they’d used as a trellis, the dark-purple berries begging to be picked. Vasi plucked one and popped it into her mouth, the juice bursting across her tongue with wonderful sweetness. Ignoring the thorns scratching her skin, Vasi ate berry after berry, first by the handful then as her hunger abated, one at a time, savoring the delicious fruit.

  Vasi ate and ate and ate, but the more she ate, the more berries seemed to appear on the fruited canes. Her fingers darkened, stained purple by the juice, and she grimaced, her lips involuntarily puckering from a particularly tart berry. With a sigh of satisfaction, Vasi wiped her hands, wincing when her coarse cloak rubbed against her scratched skin.

  “Come to eat my fruit, pretty girl,” rasped a woman.

  Vasi whirled and gasped, unable to scream as shock stole her voice. Her mind blanked, and she forgot all about the thorny briar behind her. Vasi continued to suck in short bursts of air as she stepped back into the canes of blackberries, desperate to escape the hag in front of her. The rotted trunk crumbled underfoot, and Vasi stumbled. Thorns tore at her clothes, hair, and skin, and she lost her balance and landed on her butt.

  But the pain from the thorns barely registered as Vasi stared, open mouthed, at the hideous old woman standing before her. The crone extended a gnarled hand, but Vasi somehow knew the pain of the blackberry bushes was less than what she’d endure at the hands of the witch.

  The myths of djinn seemed like happy tales compared to the frightful appearance of Baba Yaga. The witch’s lower jaw extended well past her upper lip, and instead of teeth, triangular pieces of metal, much like the serrated edge of a knife, protruded from her gums in a grotesque grin. Stringy gray hair fell about her face, and her mottled skin had splotches of red, purple, and brown as if repeatedly stained, but the soap was not strong enough to clear the spill. Her nose hooked like the beak of a hawk, except instead of being smooth, the witch’s nose was marred with warts and moles. Like her hands, her body was twisted and stooped, her right shoulder much higher than the left, and the curve of her spine forced her into a bowed position of faux humility.

  But her most terrifying feature was her eyes. Where her irises should be a beautiful blue or green or warm brown, the witch had live flames crackling between her pupil and sclera.

  The witch cackled, the sound akin to breaking a chicken’s neck, and then with unnatural speed, she grabbed Vasi’s arm and pulled her from the thorny bramble. “Had your fill now, have you?”

  Language eluded Vasi, words disappearing faster than they were formed, and she nodded and then shook her head.

  Baba Yaga pursed her lips, a seemingly impossible task with her gruesome teeth, and she studied Vasi from her head to her toes and back up again.

  “What are you doing in my woods?” the witch asked, breaking off a thick blackberry cane with her bare hands. She narrowed her eyes then stuck the end of the cane between her lips and gnashed on it with her serrated teeth. Pieces of green fell from her lips in a fearful display. The witch finished all but a dirt-encrusted stump of the plant then pointed it at Vasi and said, “I’ll not be making a love potion for you, and I won’t help you find a husband.”

  Vasi shook her head. “I . . . I don’t want a husband.”

  “I’ll not help you get rid of a babe neither, so don’t be asking for that.”

  Vasi’s indignation was stronger than her fear, and she straightened. “I’m not asking you to. I’m looking for the djinn. I need them to help me stop the war.”

  The grin that spread over Baba Yaga’s face was truly horrifying. Pieces of the blackberry branch were stuck between her teeth as well as shreds of other things.

  Vasi didn’t want to think about why there might be a scrap of leather or a piece of red cloth in the hag’s mouth. The stories of Baba Yaga feasting on the bones of men suddenly didn’t seem metaphorical, funny, or far-fetched, and Vasi’s knees wobbled.

  Baba Yaga leaned toward Vasi and, grabbing the front of her tunic, pulled her face close. “What will you get if you stop the war?”

  Vasi grimaced from the putrid stench of the hag’s breath but didn’t pull away. Looking into Baba Yaga’s flaming eyes, Vasi said, “My papa.”

  Baba Yaga released Vasi, and the cruel sneer the witch wore dissolved into a furrow of confusion. “You want your father back?”

  A lump of emotion formed at the back of Vasi’s throat. Tears pricked her eyes, and her vision blurred, and she tried to blink away the burning emotion. Unable to speak, Vasi just nodded.

  Pointing a gnarled finger at her, Baba Yaga said, “You will come with me.”

  Hope, followed by gratitude, sprung into Vasi’s chest. She clasped her hands to her heart and let the tears fall. “Thank you. Thank you so much for helping me.”

  Baba Yaga threw her head back and cackled with raucous laughter. When she met Vasi’s gaze, the hag wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “You’re a fool.”

  Vasi furrowed her brow as confusion doused her hope. “Then where are we going?”

  Baba Yaga lunged forward and grabbed Vasi’s wrist; the witch’s gnarled hand was like a vice. “Yer leaving my forest, thief. If you’re lucky, I won’t kill and eat you on the way out.”

  Vasi froze, her heart skipping a beat before thundering to life. Her vision tunneled, and Vasi turned her head side to side, searching for a path of escape.

  As if sensing Vasi’s response, the witch tightened her grip.

  Vasi pulled, uselessly, trying to break free as she stammered, “I-I’m no thief; I-I only took a few berries, and there’s so many left. I need to find the djinn. I-I need to save my papa.”

  Baba Yaga yanked Vasi forward. “There’s no djinn in this forest—never has been. Let’s go.”

  The words slapped Vasi, puncturing holes into her chest, and her hope poured out, pooling on the ground at her feet. She stumbled forward after the witch, her mind reeling.

  If there were no djinn, there was no hope.

  23

  “Release me!” Vasi yelled, her throat raw from screaming. “You have no right to force me . . . Someone, please! Help.”

  Baba Yaga strode through the forest, her gnarled body moving fluidly through the thick undergrowth.

  Vasi stumbled along, tripping over a tree branch, the bark scraping against her ankles as she tried to keep up. The witch’s pace was brutal, and Vasi’s arm burned with pain as Baba Yaga merely yanked Vasi’s wrist after her fall.

  Vasi scrambled back to her feet, fiery anger burning through her heart and she reached for her knife.

  No.

  “What?” Vasi shrieked, livid with herself, and then, straining against Baba Yaga’s grip, added, “Let go.”

  Hours seemed to pass, and Vasi’s voice grew thin and hoarse. Her hope for escaping the witch also ebbed although Vasi tried to convince herself Baba Yaga was somehow lying. She had to be lying. The Phoenix Fire existed; therefore the djinn must exist. Vasi would not be turned away. Fai
lure was not an option. She just needed to figure out how to force Baba Yaga to help.

  Once more, Vasi pulled against the witch’s grasp, but for the thousandth time, the witch showed no reaction, no slowing of her pace, no change in her determined expression.

  Vasi thought of her knife, the only seemingly viable solution, and reached for it.

  Don’t touch your knife if you want to survive.

  Vasi let her arm fall to her side. That was the third time the voice had told her not to use her weapon. But time was running out, her struggles in vain, so with no other option, Vasi screeched, “Help me!”

  “Silence!” the witch snapped, acknowledging Vasi for the first time since the blackberries.

  Shock stunned her, and she tripped and stumbled as she waved her free arm in an attempt to stay upright.

  The witch stopped and, turning her head, fixed her firelight gaze on Vasi. Baba Yaga narrowed her eyes as she sniffed, sucking air into her protruding nose. She raised her chin and took a greedy inhalation through her flared nostrils and then glared at Vasi. “You’ve brought men into my woods,” the witch growled. “Are guards after you? What crime have you committed, thief?”

  “I told you; I'm not a thief!”

  The witch stilled and then roared, “How dare you bring men to my woods?”

  Vasi couldn’t hear anything at first, but a moment later, the yapping of dogs was followed by the snapping of underbrush.