Chapter 23
Between Florence’s collection and my own, the assortment of flora was rather impressive.
Every jar was lined up on a shelf, their labels stripped away to test my ability to identify them based on appearance and smell.
I had a good knowledge of herbs and knew my common fungi, but my understanding was limited to physical effects.
“Mugwort,” I said, taking in the sage-like aroma of the dried plant. “Medicinally, it’s good as a digestive aid and regulator for menstruation, and magically…?”
I trailed off, still unfamiliar with the magical properties of most of the collection.
I’d learned that valerian was good for soothing troubled minds and inducing prophetic visions, that lavender served as a ward against psychic attacks, and fly agaric supposedly enabled the spellcaster to thin the veil between this world and the next…
though I wasn’t sure of the last one, and I definitely wasn’t willing to test it out.
One encounter with the Lord of Night was enough for a lifetime; I couldn’t risk another spiritual bombardment.
“Mugwort enhances dreams and visions.”
Ah, yes. There seemed to be a lot of that; every other herb affected visions, dreams, prophecies.
I went on.
“Hawthorn berry.” From the royal garden just before winter. “For treating ailments of the heart, as well as tempering blood.”
Florence tapped the side of the jar. “And magically, it assists with matters of love, though I understand you have little cause for concern in that regard.”
I huffed and rolled my eyes. “So, if I gather hawthorn berries into the full circle, and accent the crescents with fly agaric, could I enter the realm of spirits and make love to a soul?”
The hypothetical amused Florence, but she shook her head.
“I wouldn’t suggest it, dearest.” The affectionate term had upgraded alongside my new status.
At least Winnie had given up on her objections.
“The in-between is no place for an amateur sorceress to find herself. It is easy to become lost, or for less-than-benevolent forces to seek control of your body.”
“You speak of possession?” I turned to her.
“Many young apprentices have gone to sleep in their circles and never woken again. Many maleficia have attempted to bond their souls to those more powerful, only to become slaves within their own skin. If you thought the pain you experienced in your tethering was severe, you cannot imagine the suffering.”
I swallowed, putting a little distance between myself and the fungus. Until now, possession was only a grim superstition shared to frighten children into behaving. To know of its reality, and of the unimaginable pain it brought, raised the hair on my neck.
A familiar knocking informed us of Winnie’s approach, and as Florence crossed the room, she looked over her shoulder.
“It would be better to use hawthorn and mugwort within the crescents, and blue lotus in the full moon,” she educated, opening the door and walking away without so much as a glance toward Winnie.
“Hawthorn opens the heart, mugwort bridges the dreams, and blue lotus allows spirits to touch, creating a sacred space within the rift for intimacy to occur. You’d learn these things if you read my journals, as I suggested. ”
I’d tried, but even if the subject material weren’t overly complicated, Florence’s calligraphy was abysmal.
Winnie grunted, the burden of laundry heavy in her arms as she entered the room. She threw the clothing down and glared at Florence, putting a hand on her hip. “Pray tell, which of those herbs will get you off your lazy ass to assist with the pressing?”
Florence looked to me expectantly. I turned back to the jars with serious deliberation. “Hm…peppermint, or maybe golden root?”
“Very astute.”
Not especially fond of the jest, Winnie snapped her attention to me.
“Lunch will be taken in the dining hall today. A few esteemed guests have arrived and would like to make their introductions. I’m not sure who, just yet; Lord Quinn seemed rather preoccupied with greeting them, so I don’t believe he will be joining us on our route. ”
My stomach rumbled at the mention of food. I soothed my hand over it, watching as Winnie continued to hang my pressed garments within the armoire. The guilt had long assuaged itself; if I’d risen to help, Winnie would have berated me, princess or not.
“Right,” Winnie sighed, shooting one more glower at a blankfaced Florence. “Shall we?”
Closing the cabinet so that the jars were concealed, I joined the other two in their exit.
I reflected on the lesson as we walked; intentions, I had learned, were often not enough to cast a spell, hence the offerings.
To cast an intention alone would drain the mana from the speaker’s body, often exhausting them and sometimes, depending on the strength of the wish, it could even result in death.
The thought brought Laetitia to mind. My father described the burning at the pyre, the screams that curdled his blood.
She’d spoken her curse with only a circle carved into her own skin, no offerings of herbs or sacrificed animals (a lesson for another day, and one I did not especially wish to partake in), and yet she lived to suffer through her burning.
Florence met my inquiry on the matter with a chilling answer: “Blood is an offering.”
We took our seats and waited for the room to fill. Several new chairs were set up along both sides, and just before the royal family arrived, another chair was brought in to the center table.
As Queen Adelaide entered, the prince right on her tail, they sat with the new chair empty between them. She turned her attention to me, then gestured with a hand.
“Alana Chastain, please join us,” she said, the room quieting in respect for the occasion.
I stared at the empty seat, then at Nicolas.
He smiled fondly, concealing the expression behind folded hands.
I expected the offer to rescind at any given moment, and for all of this to be an elaborate ruse, so I cautiously treaded to the seat.
When no one stopped me, I sank into its plump, uncompressed cushion, fingers resting around the carved hart features.
Another servant came forward, presenting a circlet atop a fine velvet pillow. He bowed to me, offering it forward, and I took it for inspection. It was a delicate construct, a rose gold design of intertwining branches accented with berries of peridot and freshwater pearls.
“I had it specially crafted to honor your journey,” Queen Adelaide said.
This had to be the finest gift I’d ever received. I put it on, feeling it sink into my hair as the court applauded.
I looked at Nicolas, whose eyes shined brightly with repressed sentiment; to Winnie and Florence, who both cheered with pride; to Quinn, or to his chair, as he had yet to arrive. I tried my best to appear as grateful as I felt, in lieu of speaking my appreciation; the queen patted my arm.
“And now,” Queen Adelaide said, “let us rise to greet the first of many guests who will reside within Altaigne until the conclusion of the royal wedding.”
Everyone stood. Quinn came through and moved to the side, a polite gesture to those who followed.
“May I present Taran Banewight and his apprentices, Asli and Sahra Doonle-Banewight of Aduran.” My heart stopped.
The first to enter behind Quinn was a middle-aged man of compact, stocky build.
His short, dark hair had begun to show its silvers among the curls, glinting like ornaments in the intimate lighting.
His face bore the weight of his profession, with penetrating dark eyes and a brow that cast a shadow.
I wondered if the Banewight could see through my facade from such a distance, or if he could smell the magic on me.
His clothes were practical, despite the occasion, as if he’d come prepared to hunt in black leather armor and silver buckles etched with protective wards.
His heavy cloak bore the insignia of his order, a falcon carrying thorned branches, and various pouches and vials hung from his belt, all filled with mysterious powders.
I knew the name Taran. This was the man who executed Laetitia; he knew of my curse, and if he didn’t know who I was by now, he would soon enough.
If Taran announced my curse to the court, it would rain a scandal upon the whole affair.
There was no way in hell the queen would let the marriage continue under those circumstances. A farce, she might call it.
I bit down on my tongue and prayed that he would not know me, that the memory of my father would be washed away by countless other encounters with witches throughout the years.
He moved aside, giving no hint of recognition. Behind him were two figures that left me utterly transfixed: two Adurani from across the southern sea.
The woman’s skin glowed in contrast against the bright, sunny colors of her robes.
Her hair was worked into an intricate pattern of thin braids that traced elegant curves along her scalp before cascading down her back.
Small shells and golden rings were woven throughout, creating a gentle chime when she moved.
It was almost as if someone had drawn delicate maps across her head in dark silk.
The man’s slightly darker complexion made the silver at his throat shine like the moon against the night. He wore his hair in a soft, dark cloud around his head, the thick curls hanging loose and full rather than pulled back.
Taran bowed to the queen, that piercing look refusing to spare even a moment of reverence. “Your Majesty, I thank you for opening your home to us. It’s been too long.”
“Taran Banewight,” Queen Adelaide recalled, “I believe it was my own wedding when last we met. But I cannot blame you for your infrequent visits; you are a busy, well-traveled man.” Her focus fell on the apprentices.