The High Priest's Daughter

by Katie Cross

  Papa and Marten waited for me in the High Priest’s office, which looked like a personal military fortress. Crossed swords hung on the wall above the fireplace across from three glimmering shields arranged in a triangle. A sprawling tapestry featuring a roaring dragon decorated the back wall, where a secret entrance had been filled in decades before. His office was simple and to the point, just like Papa.

  A new injury crossed Papa’s cheek, stitched together with dark pieces of string, so he only greeted me with a warm half-smile. He didn’t say anything until Merrick closed the door and stood against it to prevent anyone from wandering in. A flurry of light zipped around the edges, sealing the sound of our conversation from listening ears.

  “We have a problem,” Papa said, motioning to Marten with a nod. “Mabel refuses to talk to Marten. She says she’ll only speak with one witch.”

  I glanced between their grim expressions in suspicion. The hair on the back of my arms rose.

  “Me.”

  Papa’s nostrils flared. The skin on his face was taut, but bags hung off his eyes, a testament to the weariness of his endless job.

  “Yes.” Marten said quietly.

  Silence filled the air, as oppressive and expansive as the dark magic in my wild dreams. Was it a coincidence that I’d dreamt of Angelina moments before I went to see her daughter?

  No. Coincidences weren’t repetitive.

  “I see,” I whispered, buying time.

  “Are you sufficiently concerned that Mabel already has the Book of Spells?” Papa asked Marten in a clipped tone. Marten met Papa’s intense gaze without flinching.

  “I believe a discussion between Mabel and Bianca is necessary, yes.”

  “Meaning that the downfall of the Network could hinge on this decision? This conversation could prevent a war?” Papa demanded. “I won’t have Bianca exposed to her for any reason except to prevent the possibility of total annihilation of the Network.”

  I stepped forward and put a hand on Papa’s arm. The tension in his body seemed to unwind.

  “I’ll do it gladly, Papa,” I said, forcing a clear voice. “We need to know if May already found the Book of Spells. It really could change the fate of the Network.”

  Despite my bravado, a tight vise had constricted in my chest. Speak with the witch who murdered my mother and the High Priestess? What would I say? Would I be able to control my magic? Just thinking of Miss Mabel stirred the dark dragon that lived in the innermost parts of my heart. Papa studied me, as if seeking to understand whether or not I was lying to sound brave.

  “She can’t hurt me in there, anyway,” I added. “You’d never let her.”

  “Not physically.”

  “Or mentally,” I said. “I’m stronger than she is.”

  Papa ran a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he muttered. “But you only have five minutes.”

  “Ten,” I said. “At least.”

  He glared but gave in with a nod. “Ten and not a second more. Merrick, transport to the dungeons and let them know we’re coming.”

  The dungeons felt damp and bleak.

  Light flickered over the walls in weak licks of flame. Papa led the way, and Marten followed just behind me. No one said a word, and I was glad. Really, what could have been said? I was about to face Mama’s murderer. Angelina’s voice rang through my head.

  Let my daughter go.

  Papa stopped outside a heavy iron door and turned to me with an unreadable expression of steel and ice.

  “She’s in a cell. You’ll be in the room alone with her, but she can’t touch you or curse you. She can’t do any magic whatsoever here. This cell is under my power alone. Not a living soul can do anything to it. Any changes to the magic controlling her imprisonment would require my blood. The only thing she’ll be able to do is talk to you. Understand?”

  “It’s fine, Papa. I’m not afraid.” I hoped the lie would comfort him.

  He tugged on the door, but hesitated. “She’s … different. Just be prepared.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant and didn’t have the time to ask. He whispered an incantation that I’d never heard before but committed to memory to study later. When I stepped inside, the door closed behind me with a firm thud. Papa and Marten wouldn’t be able to overhear the conversation, which gave me a bit more courage. My eyes accommodated gradually to the dim light of the claustrophobic room.

  I peered into the shadows, seeing nothing but the glint of light off iron bars on the left. Two torches illuminated the wall to my right, casting a gleam onto the floor where I could walk up to the bars that separated me from my worst enemy.

  “Bianca, darling. How good it is to see you again.”

  Her voice came from the darkness, setting my hair on edge. Such an alluring, silky voice for such a maniacal devil.

  “Miss Mabel,” I said, gritting my teeth. “You asked to see me.”

  A fine layer of straw muffled the rattle of manacles on the stone floor. She shuffled into the light. Had I not known with certainty it was her, I would never have recognized her. Unable to transform her appearance with magic, Miss Mabel had become her true self: a wrinkled old witch.

  By all accounts she should be in her sixties or seventies, though she used to transform herself every day to look as if she were twenty-four. But now bags hung off her high cheekbones underneath the hollows of her eye sockets. Her eyes were the same electric blue, and her body slender. Perhaps too slender. Heavy wrinkles pulled her face into a perpetual grimace. Underneath the layers of age, I began to recognize my old teacher. A wan smile, perpetual mocking, the hooded gaze of indifference.

  “I did so want to see you,” Miss Mabel said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken with my favorite pupil.”

  “We never liked each other.”

  A coy smile bloomed on her thin lips. So familiar, so icy. So trapped behind bars.

  “That’s what I liked about you, Bianca. You’ve got spunk. Tell me, how are things out there? Are they just as lovely as you thought they’d be once I was subdued in prison?”

  “You know very well what it’s like,” I retorted, stepping further into the room but keeping myself at arm’s distance.

  “No, actually, I don’t,” she said, and I could tell she meant it. “Derek does a fabulous job keeping me locked up in here. I know that you’re having a problem or twelve, but that’s all. You might not believe it, but I’m quite isolated in my cozy little hole.”

  A hungry gleam emanated from her eyes. Six months without sunshine had left her skin nearly translucent.

  “Let’s get to the point, shall we?” Let her wallow in ignorance. “How long have you had the Book of Spells?”

  Her chest bucked, as if she were suppressing a cough.

  “Who says I have the Book of Spells?” she asked, palms up at her side in an innocent gesture. “I haven’t even got a pot to call my own here.”

  I hesitated. Marten had taught me that diplomatic conversations were struggles for information. The more you had, and the less you revealed, the greater the power you retained. I wasn’t sure what I should tell Miss Mabel and what I should conceal.

  “I stumbled onto some Almorran magic the other day,” I said.

  She tutted under her breath and shook her head reprovingly. For a moment, I was swept back to the year she taught me in the attic of Miss Mabel’s School for Girls.

  “You show your ignorance with such a stupid remark,” she said, lifting her chin. “Don’t you know there are lesser Almorran scrolls floating around?”

  The idea curled my gut. Was she lying? “You’re trying to tell me that a couple of scrolls have survived thousands of years? It seems far-fetched that even a book would last that long.”

  She chuckled. “You underestimate the power of the dark Almorran magic, Bianca. Evil doesn’t just last, silly fool. Evil thrives. It protects itself, don’t you know? It’s the most purely selfish thing in all of Antebellum. It exists because it likes to exist. You may not give it credit
for being an entity unto itself, but it is. Just try fighting it, and see how you feel.”

  Her eyes lit up in a sudden flash, as if a bolt of lightning moved through the room. I didn’t move as I watched her.

  “Besides,” she said, “one doesn’t just stumble across Almorran magic, does one? No. Almorran magic finds those that will give it the greatest opportunity for power. Selfish, remember? Mother dearest must be giving you real problems if Derek allowed you in here to speak with me, eh?” Her eyes sparkled. “Dreams, perhaps? Fire? Death and destruction? All kinds of icky, scary spells that haven’t been seen before?”

  I clenched my fists, striving for control as magic flared hot in my chest. Dreams, perhaps? So my suspicions must have been correct. My nightmares weren’t idle dreams; Angelina gave them to me. My chest felt cold.

  “Goodness,” she cried, leaning back in surprise so that the shadows nearly cloaked her face again. She rubbed her fingertips over her lips, her eyes alight with some internal flame. “Did I guess correctly? Is sweet Mother dear trying to get me back? Yes, she must, or else you wouldn’t have gone so pale. I’m going to guess she’s giving you dreams. It’s her favorite method of communication, you know. She does love a sleeping, vulnerable mind to toy with. It feels terrible, doesn’t it? Being trapped and unable to get free?”

  I turned away.

  “Perhaps it’s not me you should fear, Bianca,” she said. “For Angelina is infinitely more powerful than you could ever imagine. One could even say she’s a master at what she does.”

  Her cloying tone told me she meant something else, something important, but I couldn’t decipher the implications of her words. Don’t let her do this, I told myself. Don’t let her win by unnerving you. Get back to the point, Bianca. What was the point?

  “Did May find the Book of Spells?” I asked, regaining my composure. “Is that why Angelina is so powerful?”

  Miss Mabel smiled. “Ask whatever you want, Bianca. No matter what I tell you today, you’ll learn—or face—the truth soon enough. Angelina always gets what she wants.”

  “What truth is that? That you’ll rot to death before you ever see the light of day again? Papa will never let you go.”

  “The truth is that you need me,” she hissed, gripping the cold iron bars in her hands and shoving her face against them. I stepped back, startled. “And when you realize it, you’ll come back and set me free.”

  “I’d rather die,” I snarled. She studied me with distant annoyance.

  “Yes,” she said. “I believe you. You would rather die than let me see freedom again. But your life isn’t the one you should worry about bargaining for, is it? Angelina is already in your mind, silly child. Even I can see that. Don’t you think she knows how to get what she wants?” Her voice grew low. “Or, more importantly, don’t you think she’s willing to do whatever she must to get what she wants?”

  “And what does she want?”

  “Me. She wants me. Mother always was a bit more sentimental than May, you know. Far more sentimental than I would ever be. She has a bit of a soft spot for her daughter.” She grinned. “And don’t you know how weaknesses can be exploited?”

  The feel of Mama’s lifeless body falling into my arms replayed itself in my mind. I folded my hands behind me and cleared my throat.

  “Why did you want to talk to me?” I asked. “What do you want?”

  She smiled. “Information, of course. And you’ve just given all of it to me, Bianca darling. Thank you for the lovely chat. Give my regards to Isadora, will you?”

  Miss Mabel smiled and faded back into the darkness from which she’d come. I searched for her in the empty air, but seeing only the dim glow of her bright eyes, left the chamber without another word.

  Before the Storm

  Marten took the next couple of days to think over what had happened with Mabel and decide what we should do about the Book of Spells. I’d given up on finding it, convinced that Angelina had it. We focused on Network business and didn’t speak of Miss Mabel again.

  The snow and winds swirled in bitter winter wrath through the Central Network, a late blizzard lasting nearly two days. I worked with Marten, stayed up late trying to avoid sleep, and ran with Merrick in the snowy mornings to keep my agitated powers at bay despite Papa’s request that I run with someone else.

  When I stepped into the Witchery after a full day of visiting border towns and checking event logs—which were always uneventful—I stopped in my tracks. Priscilla sat in front of the fire reading a book. The rest of the Witchery lay quiet and empty. As soon as she saw me, she started and closed the book.

  “Oh, sorry. Camille said I could stay here and—”

  “It’s fine,” I said, motioning her back down when she made a move to stand. “I don’t care if you sit in front of the fire.”

  She hesitated and finally relaxed again. I wondered where her old friends Jade and Stephany were. Priscilla had spent most of her free time with Camille, and I’d noticed she seemed to have no other ties. Why didn’t Jade visit her here? Why didn’t I ever see her with letters from Stephany or her parents? Perhaps their friendship hadn’t been deep enough to span the gap that comes with growing up. I thought of my own friends, grateful we’d found a way to pull together so far.

  “I’m just glad you weren’t Leda. She’d kick me out,” Priscilla mumbled under breath, and I laughed. Her forehead ruffled in surprise, as if she’d expected me to pounce her instead of agreeing.

  “You should be glad I’m not Leda,” I said. “She can hold a very long grudge.”

  “So I’m learning.”

  “She’s just loyal,” I said, setting my bag on the table, grateful that the room was already warm. “Once she finds a friend, she takes them in like a family member, though she’d never admit it. Try to tell her that and she’d probably hex you and say you’re a sentimental sap. But in the end she’s ornery out of love.”

  Priscilla snorted and looked at the fire, a dubious expression on her face. I moved closer to the hearth, hands outstretched, surprised by the lack of tension in the air. It had been well over a year since Priscilla and I had spent any time one-on-one, and it hadn’t ever gone this smoothly.

  My fingers started to thaw—I’d been outside during a long dispute with a Border Guard who had nearly crossed into the Eastern Network trying to hunt a squirrel.

  “How was work?” Priscilla asked, though her voice sounded rigid and formal. She glanced at me from the corner of her eye, and kept her neck so tall I thought she’d snap.

  “Ridiculous,” I muttered. “Some witches don’t think.”

  “What exactly do you do again?”

  “Whatever Marten wants me to do. Mostly Assistant stuff, I guess, though I don’t really know what other Assistants do. Being the Ambassador’s Assistant isn’t the same as a Council Member’s Assistant.”

  “Do you like it?”

  I stared at the fire, forcing myself to think about the answer. “It’s not the worst job,” I said. She peered at me in surprise.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.”

  Priscilla leaned back. “Some witches work their whole lives to become an Assistant to … anyone. You’re not even eighteen, and you’ve already become the Assistant to the Ambassador. You’ve traveled to Networks that no one else will ever see. This job should be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

  I squirmed, thinking about Miss Scarlett’s lecture during our last etiquette lesson last month about how work should bring joy.

  “I didn’t say it was the worst job, did I? It’s just not … I never planned for a career. I never planned for a future, so now that I have to face it, I don’t know what I want to do.”

  Her eyebrow lifted, and she seemed so much like her former self that I felt more comfortable. High-handed Priscilla I could take. But this quiet, polite girl that had taken her place recently flummoxed me. Without her followers from school to dote on her she seemed a bit … lost.

/>   “What does enjoyment have to do with anything?” she asked, though I wasn’t convinced she’d said it to me. “Seems like a dream job to me.”

  I stared at her, wondering how honest I should be.

  “When I went to the Eastern Network, angry witches shot flaming arrows at my carriage and hit my driver,” I said, meeting her astonished gaze. “The horse bolted. I had to climb out of the back of the carriage, put the driver under a spell, and take the reins. When I went to the Southern Network, Mikhail forbade me from ever returning because, as a female, I dared to carry a sword. Today, five witches yelled at me because their logbook, which I have nothing to do with, was wrong. A dream job?”

  She had the presence of mind to appear sheepish. “Oh. I didn’t realize it was so dangerous.”

  I scoffed lightly and sat down. “Neither did I.”

  She studied me in the ambient light of the fire. “But that’s perfect for a witch like you. You’re brave. You can handle situations like that because you’re in them so often.”

  Her words annoyed me. I wasn’t brave. Most of the time I was just desperate, doing what had to be done to save my family. I craved a normal life. Consistency. Things to remain happy and solid for more than a year at a time.

  “Can … can I ask you about your mother?” she ventured quietly. “You can say no. It’s just that there are all these rumors about what really happened and …”

  Surprised that Priscilla would broach such an intimate subject without sounding catty or imperious, I simply nodded.

  “I’ve asked Camille so I wouldn’t bother you, but she said it wasn’t her story to tell. What really happened?” she asked. “Rumors swirled that Miss Mabel killed your mama, but all we ever officially heard was that an accident happened in the attic. We heard you screaming, and someone running through the school. Witches from the Network swarmed the school for days afterward, and then you were living at the castle, Leda and Camille left, the school closed, and no one heard anything else until Miss Mabel killed the High Priestess.”

  Her voice went a bit distant. My heart began to pound in my chest, though not as hard as it used to. Mama had been gone for over a year now. The pain had faded, I supposed. Instead of fresh, hot, and stinging, it felt dulled, like the low, constant pulse of a heart. Always present but not as frantic. I met Priscilla’s guarded eyes.