Chapter 39
inesh and dreska appear in a swirl of magic. Lowri inhales, looking down at Amma, and finds their fingers interlaced. The cracks in the wards have been repaired, for now. But she cannot push them out to encompass the town of Ennor without help. Only the power of three will do.
Dreska bites her lip as Inesh raises her chin, and it strikes Lowri how very like the two sides of Brielle they are: one hesitant, no doubt calculating quickly, each scenario playing out in her head; the other is grounded in courage, methodical and unwavering.
Her heart twists for them, for what she is about to ask of them.
‘I know you’ve both had a long journey from the Spines.
I know you will be tired and frightened.
But I need you. We must bolster the wards, the three of us, together.
If these islanders are to stand a chance of survival, we must give Eli, Mer, Pearl, Joby and Caden a chance of defeating as many vessels on the waves as possible before they reach our shores. ’
‘There are still wyvern out there, riding the air currents,’ Dreska says quietly. ‘I sense half a dozen left.’
‘You sense …’ Lowri takes a breath, eyeing her appraisingly. ‘Do you sense any other creatures?’
‘Below the waves, I can sense sirens, but they are moving further away and … others. Huge predators.’ Dreska licks her lips. ‘They are hungry. One feasts on human hearts.’
Lowri blinks quickly, not showing her fear at what Mira now faces. Not knowing if she is still there with her siren sisters, if she’s still alive. ‘When we survive this, you will become a hunter, Dreska,’ she says quietly. ‘The first of our new coven.’
‘And I?’ Inesh asks, clasping her fingers before her.
‘You are a hunter too, from what Brielle has told me.’ Lowri smiles. ‘But you both also have an aptitude for spellwork. I will train you both too, when this is over. Now come. We do not have long.’
She hands the vial of Tanith’s drake blood first to Dreska then Inesh, their eyes flaring wide as their veins darken.
‘Oh!’ Dreska says as Inesh giggles, a high chattering sound, more creature than witch.
‘Settle, fledglings,’ Lowri says. ‘Take my hands and follow my lead.’
What could be mere moments, or hours later, Lowri stumbles, eyes flying wide as the walls shudder again.
She is so deep in her work, so focused on the weaving, and now the wards are moved further out, almost covering the town below.
Her fledglings are both lost still, consumed by the spellwork, as Nova brushes up against Lowri’s ankles, purring in her monster-like way.
Lowri senses for the first time how Nova soothes her, taking away the sharp edge of her magic.
They look at each other and Nova blinks before leaping up to curl beside Amma on the armchair.
‘Lowri …’ Amma says. ‘Lowri, it’s time.’
Lowri reels, her senses spinning as she comes back to the library and her own form.
When she looks down at Amma with her own eyes, she finds her translucent, flickering in and out of focus, losing whatever form Elena created with her dying will.
Lowri sinks to her knees beside her, letting go of Inesh and Dreska’s hands.
They blink slowly, as though they too were both far away, veins limned in inky magic, and step towards the window.
‘I’m here,’ Lowri says, taking both Amma’s hands, which feel at once like a whisper, like silk, like fog on an autumn morning.
‘Release me,’ Amma gasps softly, smiling at the witch. ‘Only a Tresillian witch can do so. And I have done what Elena intended: I have safeguarded Ennor for her boy. But now there is you, and you are ready to take up the mantle. I feel it. I see it.’
‘She’s right,’ a voice says from near the door, and Lowri straightens, not turning round. She would recognise that voice anywhere. ‘You are the truest Tresillian witch since Elena’s passing. Truer than me. You are the rightful heir to the Tresillian magic and grimoires. The next guardian of Ennor.’
‘Mother,’ Lowri murmurs, heart twisting, despite herself. ‘You’re late.’
‘I am sorry.’
Lowri’s heart skips a beat and she turns round then, taking in the Malefant.
Regal as ever, neat and seemingly unremarkable.
But Lowri knows that looks can be deceptive and Hillary Tresillian, the leader of Coven Septern, the strongest witch she’s ever known, is like steel.
A melding of metals. Unbreakable. Unbendable.
‘Sorry for what?’ she asks. ‘Being late to the party? Or not pledging your help sooner?’
The Malefant’s features soften. ‘Sorry for not being the mother that you, Caden and Brielle needed. Or wanted. Sorry for being a Malefant first, even before –’ she swallows – ‘even before being a good sister to Elena.’
Lowri regards her for a moment. There is much she could say, accusations she could hurl.
She could even walk away or ask her to leave.
But in the end, she realises, the bitterness would set in.
Sorrow over not having the mother she wanted or needed hardening and souring.
She doesn’t want that for herself. The best thing is to accept her mother for who she is and know to expect nothing more.
That path would only lead to disappointment.
And, right now, Lowri needs to be strong.
She needs the Malefant of Coven Septern to stand beside her.
‘Thank you,’ she breathes. ‘Now tell me you’re here to help and not hinder. ’
‘I’ve brought my best witches and hunters. We stand with House Tresillian as it has always been.’
‘Against the ruling council?’
Hillary’s mouth twists. ‘Against the usurpers, yes.’
Before Lowri can ask her what she means, there’s a clap as magic displaces the air in the room and Brielle comes in with a bleeding form in her arms. Tanith.
Brielle’s gaze snaps to Hillary, then Amma, before finally resting on Lowri. ‘She needs to be healed. She fought in her drake form so valiantly. She’s wounded. I’ve done my best.’
‘We will help her,’ Hillary says firmly, summoning two witches into the library with a commanding witch word. She nods to them. ‘Get that table. Bring it into the light. The drake needs to be healed.’
The table is shifted next to Amma, and Brielle lays Tanith’s broken body on to it.
She’s a mass of wounds still and Lowri holds in her shock as Brielle steps back beside her.
For the first time since they were little, Brielle reaches out a hand and Lowri squeezes her fingers, comforting her sister as the Septern witches begin their work.
Brielle is always the strong one, her emotions in check, her decisions built of stone.
But now Lowri feels the tremble in her fingers, senses the way in which she’s keeping it all inside.
She draws her other hand round their clasped ones, wanting Brielle to know she is here.
The walls shake again, dust shivering from the ceiling, and Lowri senses something hard slamming into the wards.
She glances to the window, finding the sea a churn of flotsam, flame and bodies.
The armada has thinned, several vessels limping away from the isles, but Eli’s fleet has suffered far greater losses.
The few still holding back the might of the armada are smoking or surrounded.
Her heart creeps up her throat, and all she can do is feed more of herself into the wards, thickening them like a second skin.
Amma reaches out a hand to Tanith, wrapping her feeble grip round Tanith’s fingers.
She is almost nothing, a wisp, a cloud, a memory.
‘You saved me. And now it is my joy to save you. Live long, love longer.’ And, with that, the last of Amma, the final piece of Elena Tresillian, flows into the drake and she dies.
Lowri stifles a sob as her mother sucks in a breath, a single tear tracking down her cheek. Where Amma lay, there is nothing. And Lowri senses a shift, a reweaving of the wards as the role of guardian, of the last of the line of Tresillian witches, passes fully to her.
Then Tanith draws in a breath. Brielle stiffens as Tanith’s eyes open.
The two healer witches pause as the drake regards them, then her gaze travels to Brielle and Lowri.
She smiles, and it’s oddly reminiscent of the creature wrapped inside her.
‘It seems I was mistaken,’ she says in her melodious voice.
‘Perhaps I have nine lives, like a familiar.’
There’s a sudden boom like thunder, then the entire wall of windows shatters. Lowri throws up her hands, crying the witch word for shield, as glass scatters across the floor. Hillary waves a hand, forming another word, and the glass reforms, intact once more.
They all stride to the windows and Brielle hisses. ‘The wards have been breached. An enemy ship approaches the isle …’
‘It’s Coven Mereen,’ Hillary says. ‘The wily serpents.’
‘Inesh, Dreska,’ Lowri says, looking to them, trembling with fury that her work, all her careful work of extending the wards, has already been cracked by this rival coven. ‘Stay with Tanith and guard this library. It holds too much to fall into enemy hands. Nova?’
I will guard the grimoires and the fledglings.
Lowri nods and turns to Brielle and Hillary, who nod in return. ‘Please stay and work on the librarian,’ Hillary says to the fledglings. ‘This drake is precious.’
The three of them traverse down to the town.
When they land on the quay, Caden greets them, eyes flaring wide when he sees his mother. ‘Decided to do the right thing, have you?’ he says, frowning. ‘Or come to argue a point and insist your coven stays outside any politics while my people die?’
‘The former,’ Hillary says briskly. ‘Now direct my coven, Caden. Where should we focus our efforts?’
Caden opens then closes his mouth, as his frown partially disappears. ‘Two ships have snuck in past the wards. They hold the witches. Eli could only traverse in with Pearl.’
There’s a sudden shriek from the ship to the far left, which has breached the wards.
Then bodies begin hitting the water: half a dozen witches, abandoning ship, leaping into the waves.
Lowri looks up at the deck and sees a girl leaning against the railings.
A slight girl with pale blonde hair and a wicked grin.
‘Little ghost works swiftly,’ Caden says with a chuckle. ‘Looks like your efforts will be needed on the remaining ship carrying witches to our shores.’
‘Coven Septern, with me,’ Hillary commands, and they all vanish.
More ships from the armada begin pushing against the wards in the surrounding waters and Lowri feels every single one.
She begins reeling the wards back in like a net, so they are not shredded by Coven Mereen’s magic, further and further until eventually, they only protect the castle and its surroundings once more.
Looking down at her hands, she sees her veins drip black, and she senses the crisp edges of burnout.
‘Caden,’ she calls, searching for him as he rallies the people.
There’s a boom of cannon fire, an enemy ship testing the wards, and it lands far too close to the shoreline, raising a gasp from the people of Ennor.
‘Caden! Anyone who cannot fight must get to the castle. Everyone else … needs to be ready.’
Caden searches her features and nods, speaking quick commands to a group of runners.
Lowri watches as they weave through the people, dispersing the news.
‘There is no more preparation we can do,’ he says, placing a hand on her shoulder.
‘You should retreat to the castle as well, keep the wards strong.’
‘I will fight by your side, brother,’ she says softly.
More ships sail closer, then Lowri sees Phantom go up in flames. Caden takes a step forward, tracing his gaze over the waters around it. ‘Eli was on there! He was—’
‘I’m here,’ Eli says from behind them, gravel in his throat as he coughs. Two sailors stumble away from his grasp and he runs a dirty hand down his face. ‘I must rescue our crew still aboard the last ships of our fleet. Stand tall, Caden. Never falter.’
Eli takes a shuddering breath and traverses again. Lowri bites her lip, scanning the last of their limping fleet. He’s closer to burnout than she is. Closer to the edge of his power.
The crowd on the shore, including the fierce women and girls trained by Caden – from Rosevear, Ennor and Penrith – grip their weapons as the enemy ships approach the shore and the quay.
A strange quiet hangs in the air, broken only by the occasional muffled sob.
A melancholy sweeps over them all, silence shivering and cloaking them.
It is as though they are already ghosts.
But then …
A voice.
One older, cracked voice parts the silence.
A woman with grey hair, clutching a sword to her chest. She begins to hum.
Another picks up the tune, then another, and Lowri’s heart swells.
Other voices join in, stumbling over the notes at first, then singing in synchronicity.
A chorus of many singing a folk song, one they know well on the isles.
A song about braving the wildest of storms. The gathered begin singing in rounds, beating their boots on the ground.
Caden hauls in a breath and joins them, his deep voice weaving under the higher notes.
It’s more powerful than a war song. Steadier than a sea shanty.
It’s hope, its home, it’s the layers of their ancestors’ voices, all joined as one.
As the melody weaves around her, tears trace down Lowri’s cheeks.
She feels every Tresillian witch standing beside her.
Generation after generation, staring down the enemy.
And her heart is a fist, formed of iron.
She opens her hands, magic dusting her fingertips, opens her heart, her mind, her soul.
Ready to unleash her power and save her true home.