6. Chapter 6
Chapter 6
I mani didn’t have time to waste. She shivered, realizing she’d lost her cloak at Malis’s house, in the fire. With the maps in one pocket and spells in the other, she hurried to the industrial lot by the river, rubbing her arms to stay warm.
Malis might have been insane, but he had been correct about Asim moving in on her family’s position. She had several orders she’d planned to collect that night and needed everything to go perfectly.
After Riona had died— was murdered —Imani had become their collector and managed all the transactions for their business for years, taking orders for the spells then delivering the magic to the buyer while obtaining payment.
Imani needed to stay vigilant and focused on this one in particular to set the tone for her leadership moving forward.
Her magic skills were so unpracticed that she could easily see Asim taking advantage of her weakness. While the unbranded grew ignorant of her kind, other witches didn’t forget, and it had only been a century ago when people killed female Norn in droves, or enslaved them. Vulnerable Norn witches were either killed or prostituted, forced to feed from customers or use their soul draw for their owners’ gains.
The lot sat next to an old but well-maintained tavern managed by a common-bred naiad nymph. Common- and low-bred naiads were usually unpleasant when purchasing magic, but she preferred dealing with them over breedless hobs who were always nasty and tricky. Riona was the exception to the rule.
Imani wove between the massive barges, feeling exposed despite having cleaned off the ash as best she could and changing clothes in their tailor and seamstress shop. Her whole body trembled, but she kept moving.
A flash of light purple caught her eye. A rare fall flower peeked out of a bit of snow. It would be perfect for her sister’s favorite perfume. Imani paused and pocketed the flower, putting it with Aralana’s wand and the maps.
The darker it got without the familiar lights of the Fabric dancing overhead, the more fear gripped her heart. Magic was disappearing, and while they didn’t have many in Essenheim, every Fabric event worsened the situation. In fact, the witches’ ability to channel and cast magic could soon be gone forever. Murdering Malis was one thing, but causing a Fabric event had not been in her plans. With magic already so unstable, the consequences terrified her. She prayed it was a reverberation—a rapid slinging of violent magic back at the caster—but the signs showed it probably hadn’t been.
After such an event, she was utterly unprepared to take on her new role as owner and matriarch, but now that magic and their family’s business were in her grasp—the power and independence she craved—how could she let it go? She had Dak and Meira to care for, too.
Massaging her temples, she thought about how disgusted Ara and Riona would be at her failure and wished her friend were here again.
The dark, wooden tavern door groaned as Imani pushed it open. People were drunk and boisterous, enjoying the pub’s warm fires and meals, despite the raging storm outside. Her ears flicked back and forth at the loud volume as she made her way toward the back.
Meira exited the kitchen, wand in hand. Worry radiated from Imani’s sister, paling her perfect skin into a dull gray. Her gaze landed on Imani, and Meira rushed to her side.
“Imani? Where have you been? Why is there soot and blood on you?” Meira’s eyes were alarmingly blue tonight, wide and unsettling.
Another clap of thunder boomed, and they both gasped at the sound.
Meira lifted her apron to Imani’s neck, mouth thinning into a disapproving line. “This is from the burning, isn’t it? I wish you hadn’t gone,” she muttered, dabbing the remnants of Malis’s body off Imani’s skin.
“Someone had to go.”
“We should’ve spent the day together, just the three of us. Why don’t we close the shop tomorrow? Let’s take Dak and spend some time together by the river.” She grasped Imani’s hand in hers. “Dak and I might need another day,” she whispered.
A day? A day of sitting around with the shop closed again? Another day so a new witch or coven could move in on their area?
The offer was tempting, especially with how tense things had been recently. Imani was exhausted and wanted to spend time with her siblings, and they deserved some kindness and reprieve after all these weeks.
But people expected products—magic and clothes—from the Aowyns, and they had money to exchange—money their family desperately needed. So, no, they would do no such thing.
Imani pointedly ignored her sister. Instead, she handed Meira one of the plants she’d found earlier. Meira picked up the stem and twirled it.
Her sister wanted to say something. “Spit it out. What’s bothering you?”
“I’ve been thinking it’s time for you to stop making these cosmetics. They don’t earn us any money. It’s a hobby. You must start splitting your time between the sewing shop and magic collections.”
Imani wished it weren’t true, but her sister was probably right. They needed to focus their efforts with three elves to feed, their modest flat to pay for, and Dak’s schooling. The problem with the shop was that, even before Ara’s arrest, people preferred to go to nymphs instead of the strange elves. It didn’t make much income and served mainly to launder the money from their illicit magic dealings.
But Imani had plans to change their situation now.
Meira continued babbling. “Besides, I’m taking on more magic now, and I have my job here, so I won’t be able to work in the shop at all.”
Despite Meira’s lovely, soft tone, Imani couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
Even with her erratic behavior in recent months, Ara had at least done some of her own collections, and she frequently accompanied Imani on more significant, riskier transactions. Imani didn’t expect Meira to go on collections at all, but she thought her sister would still put in her fair share at the shop until Imani could hire help.
“You can’t leave me to run the shop without?—”
“You wouldn’t understand what it’s like,” her sister cut her off, her voice like the crack of a whip. “You’ve never understood. But trust me; what I do is far more tiring than making rudimentary potions.”
Imani wanted to respond calmly but couldn’t find the words. Meira had never spoken so harshly. After the day Imani had, the brusque tone felt like a slap to the face.
She never considered gathering herbs, weeds, and plants for cosmetics to be a substitute for magic—she would never be that insulting. All it did was offer a bit of quiet, order, and refuge from Imani’s otherwise chaotic existence, and she enjoyed creating things, even if it wasn’t with magic.
Meira motioned around the room, her voice a low whisper among the raucous noise of the tavern. “How can you be so uncaring? The one person who understood the burden of magic is gone,” she choked out, and a quiet sob escaped her throat. “I will never find my heartmate because we don’t belong here. Now Ara is dead, so I’m performing all the magic alone, and I can’t do it—I can’t .”
Her sister had always been the sweeter one, and Imani loved that about her, but this past month had taken a toll on Meira, giving her an air of bitterness.
A heavy silence fell. The sisters stared at each other as if a great chasm had opened up between them.
With a sigh, Imani broke the tension by wrapping her arms around her sister in a hug. “I’m sorry I’ve been so hard on you these past few weeks. When we get home, I have something important to show you, and it will improve everything.”
Exactly the same height as Imani, Meira gave her a trusting look and nodded. “I’ll finish up here soon, and we can leave.” She framed Imani’s face with her hands. “Your illusion is slipping, ahavah . Let me help.”
Hearing the endearment elves used with loved ones made Imani’s stomach knot. She hated lying to her sister.
Before Meira could cast the spell, Imani grabbed her wrist and shook her head. She was done relying on her family for her protection, not when she finally had her own magic to protect herself.
“It’s fine. We’ll go home after I talk to Elyon. Where’s Dak? What are you doing here working, by the way?”
Meira motioned to the dining room. “He’s here. Lira stopped by earlier and said they needed help. We waited for you at home, but you never came by supper.”
“Saints, Meira, I didn’t think you’d rush off to work a shift in the kitchens. They can live without magic for one night.”
Meira crossed her arms. “We need the money, and you know it.”
Unable to wait longer, Imani glanced around to confirm their privacy then rolled up her sleeve to remove the illusion over her brands. “You won’t have to work here anymore, ahavah . Things are different now. Here, let me explain?—”
Thunder rumbled closer, and the building shook again. Every boom made Imani’s fists tighten, and she paused her attempt to show Meira the brands to glance around the room.
“Everyone is talking about the Fabric event. It was terrifying …” Meira trailed off, tears filling her eyes. Imani knew all too well how terrified Meira probably felt. The Aowyn sisters witnessed one other Fabric event this close before, and it had been devastating.
Meira pointed at Imani’s chest. “If you’d been home on time, I wouldn’t have brought him tonight. But I couldn’t sit and worry, and I was too scared to leave him home alone.”
“There were so many fires. I stayed to help.” The lie slipped out as Imani reached for her sister’s hand. “Do they know who cast the magic?”
Meira shook her head, eyes still brimming with tears. “Fen came by to talk to me. Although the Order has yet to confirm where their master witches worked earlier, they believe our family is the only one wielding magic for miles,” she said, clearing her throat.
“As far as we know.”
“They can’t blame this on us. He knows I was working here when it happened, and we’ll admit to Fen you don’t have any magic, if needed.”
“They won’t blame us,” Imani said, not entirely believing herself.
“Could it be another fugitive, like the one who came into the shop that day? Or a visitor?”
“I’m not sure,” Imani lied again.
A raucous, drunken song got louder by the bar. Stumbling footsteps followed the singing.
“Oi, Imani! Come have a drink with us,” Ren, her brother’s best friend, shouted.
“You know you want to,” Dak sang.
Despite the heaviness weighing on her shoulders, Imani fought a smile. Dak was a terrible singer.
“You boys are sixteen years old and should be home,” Imani hollered as she folded her arms.
Ren’s brown eyes drank her in as he leaned his forearm against the creaky bar, more to help himself remain upright than to appear handsome.
“We won’t accept no for an answer,” Dak said, spreading his arms wide. His silver-blond hair was curly and messy.
Although Dak was growing from her goofy younger brother into a strapping young man, he still always made her laugh.
Ren motioned her over with a crooked grin.
Imani waved them away. “I have a collection,” she explained.
Ren shrugged and walked back into the crowd, but Meira sniffled, and Dak’s eyes narrowed.
He pushed between the sisters in a blur and shoved Imani’s shoulders. “Are you upsetting her again? All she does is cry now because of you,” he shouted, voice still slurring.
Imani gaped at her brother. He was drunk, and Dak always protected Meira, but he would not have tried anything like this with Ara—in public. Their grandmother would have beaten him bloody for this behavior.
Pointing to the door, Imani’s voice was quiet when she spoke. “Go home, Dak.”
“I don’t have to listen to any more orders, rules, or bullshit, especially from you.” He plowed on, “Meira’s right; without magic, you’re nothing. Absolutely nothing . We are on our own.”
Imani braced a hand on the wall as Dak’s insults and Meira’s soft crying continued.
Her siblings—her best friends—were turning against her, and she had no idea what to do. Her family was falling apart bit by bit. She had been too wrapped up in her other problems these past few weeks to do anything about it.
Grasping Aralana’s wand inside her pocket, she made her choice. She pulled it out, pointing it at her brother.
“You can’t even use her wand,” he sneered, wrapping his arms around Meira.
Imani murmured the enchantment she knew by heart. As soon as the words escaped her mouth, Dak’s voice disappeared, and Meira gasped.
A heavy silence settled around them, the only noise coming from the crackling fire and the bar. It was so crowded no one noticed them, but they were still exposed.
She flipped the wand across her fingers then slipped it back into her dress. “If you cannot respect me, you will be quiet until you do,” Imani said with a pointed look at Dak. “Aralana left everything to me. I am in charge of this family and our businesses. I will run both as I see fit.” Her chest heaved as she pointed between the two of them. “It simply won’t do for us to always be quarreling. So, decide now.” Imani paused. “Either we’re together or not—there’s no in-between.”
Tears streamed down both Dak’s and Meira’s stunned faces. They both nodded.
Imani wanted to be remorseful about her harsh response, but she merely gave them a curt nod. “Dak, go home and go to bed. We’ll be there soon.”
He couldn’t speak or even meet her eyes as he stomped away, outside the pub.
She should’ve remembered how the hate burned when Ara had exerted such cruelty over her, but Imani didn’t have the luxury of kindness or mercy, even for her family. They were vulnerable, and avoiding hard decisions would only worsen things. Not only were they elves, but they were the grandchildren of an executed witch whose bones lay in the middle of town like a dead stray dog.
Imani turned back to Meira.
The color of her sister’s blonde hair shone bright in the firelight. Pleated perfectly, her subtly pointed ears were only slightly visible. Similar to Imani, silver freckles dotted her cheeks like diamonds, as well. With her naiad blood from Ara, she was never as ideal of a High-Norn as Imani, but even crying, Meira was the prettiest Aowyn sister.
Appearing as a dramatic example of the quintessential Norn, the classic features of a high-bred elf dominated Imani’s looks. Which, according to her grandmother, was “too much”—too intense, too bright, too glowing, too ethereal, too pointy, too noticeable. Some found High-Norn elves beautiful, but others considered them unsettling. Disconcerting.
Before the scarring had appeared on her cheek, and before Ara had mutilated her body parts for various punishments and flesh magic spells, Imani had imagined she might have been more beautiful than her sister in her true form. She could admit it made her jealous for years, despite loving her sister completely.
Imani didn’t care much about that these days. After working for Ara for this long, she aspired to more than using looks to her advantage—she wanted real power, which had nothing to do with beauty and everything to do with magic.
Imani almost smiled, despite Meira’s crying.
Meira’s red-rimmed eyes widened to the size of saucers as she tentatively reached for Imani’s wrist. “Show me,” she whispered.
On a whim, Imani cast a hasty illusion over her own red sigil with Ara’s wand and left Malis’s. She would be honest about the other two red brands—her magic and her heartmate—but she wasn’t ready to share or even accept the truth about her mysterious breed.
It wasn’t a secret that Imani’s mother had a chosen mate years ago, and he was Imani’s real father. But her mother had found her fated mate shortly after Imani had been born, and once a person met their heartmate, there was no separating them. Imani’s father had disappeared shortly after.
Everyone assumed her birth father was a Norn elf. Her mother and siblings were all Norn, and Imani appeared and acted precisely like them. Most considered her a well-bred Norn elf the moment they laid eyes on her, and she wanted to keep up the ruse, even in front of her sister.
She shoved her bare forearms toward Meira, admiring how each brand sparkled in the dim light. Meira was a powerful witch with five brands—a potential master witch—but Imani couldn’t deny she enjoyed having two more magics than her sister, even if one was a terrifying red one.
“You have seven, and three are different from mine! I have divination, but you have alteration and alchemy … and this one.” Meira pointed to the red brand and bit her lip. “You’ll need a wand to properly channel the raw magic for any of these marks. I can teach you to use fire and water as channels for certain spells, but as you know, the wand will be the most versatile. I wish we had money to make a new one for you, but Ara’s will work fine after I alter it.”
Imani nodded. She didn’t want a new wand—her mother had made Ara’s.
“And these appeared today?” Meira’s voice was filled with pure amazement.
“Yes, after Ara died.” Imani’s shoulders slumped. “But I suspect they’ve been on my arm for a long time now.”
Tracing the lines of each one repeatedly, Imani tried to remember when these markings could have appeared. Nothing came to mind.
The Fabric could bestow more power to worthy witches later in life—after adversities and tests of magic and strength—but such events were rare. More commonly, the Fabric enhanced the already gifted abilities, making people master or archmage witches—far more powerful witches than normal.
“It was to protect you,” Meira stated. “Ara must have decided it was too risky to have you using any magic with an illegal marking. I know you and her never got on, but she cared in her own way.”
Protection was the most logical reason because they’d kill a young elf who couldn’t control her magic, especially if anyone caught even a hint of the red brands. Guilt for being so angry with her grandmother swirled inside her gut. All she could do was swallow and nod.
It still didn’t excuse the rest of Ara’s treatment of Imani, but it explained some.
“You have more than five brands. So, you’ll have to register as a potential master, like me, right?”
“Yes, I suppose,” Imani muttered, hoping Meira would drop the line of questioning. Unless the urge to commit suicide hit her, Imani had no intention of registering with the Royal Order of Magic or becoming a master witch, especially with the red marks marring her skin.
She’d get a license, as all witches had to have one to perform magic, but it would be easy. Official master witches, on the other hand, were so powerful it was required the Order employ them after taking the ascension assessments if they wanted to use their magic. Imani had no desire to become one of the Order’s minions, so she’d never opt to take the tests. Being a potential master was perfectly fine with her.
As part of the ordinances—a series of laws meant to help people safely use magic without further destabilizing the Fabric—only the Order could facilitate a witch earning a master brand. Such an accomplishment took more than practice and hard work; it took sacrifice. A board of master and archmage witches at the Order, plus the First Witch, created and administered three demanding assessments once a year, all intense enough to trigger the Fabric master brand. Intense enough people could—and did—die taking them.
Outside of accidental ascension, any witch caught wielding an unsanctioned master brand and not working for the Order would have their license to practice magic revoked. They would probably end up in jail—or, these days, worse. They’d never believe she remained ignorant of her brands with a family member found guilty of illegal magic.
“Ara would want us to continue like nothing happened. I need to go on a collection now. I’ll be home shortly.” With that, Imani rolled down her sleeves and shut down any more conversation. She strode into the main room of the pub, intent on her task, but a male nymph made Imani pause.
The constable was here.