A Spell for Portals and Passage
Ever since you were a tiny thing, you’ve loved little more than going.
It didn’t matter where. You were always enchanted by the prospect of the next journey, the next surprise, the next wonder to be uncovered.
I loved taking those jaunts with you as you grew, teaching you about our world and the wild folk who dwell hither and yon.
And as you’ve become independent, I also love keeping the porridge warm and a soft bed waiting for you after a good, long wander.
Now then, you already know about mushroom circles, but you won’t always be near one, will you?
So you must have a mode of travel accessible for emergencies.
This spell requires complete focus, so don’t attempt it if you’re suffering stress or simply having a dreadful day.
To portal where you’re meant to be and not end up somewhere entirely wrong, keep your wits about you.
Opening a portal is a little different than a passage charm.
The latter allows you to pop into another room, perhaps past a locked door.
Not that I’d speculate regarding your intentions about such an endeavor.
The former takes a fair bit out of you, especially if multiple beings pass through with you.
I’ve never been able to bring anyone with me when I create a passage.
You’ll require:
A hagstone made from a stalactite (agate will substitute in a pinch)
Dandelions, basil, and juniper berry
A bronze kettle and a tin cup
Clear water blessed by a nixie
Heat the water in the kettle, using your magic, then steep the fresh herbs until you have a savory tea.
Pour it through the hagstone into the tin cup.
Down the drink in one go while you focus on opening the path.
You’ll feel energies gathered, though you may need to take some nourishment from anyone who might be nearby, as this is a large working.
The portal should look like swirls of energy in the same hues as your aura.
You’ve got a lovely silvery-white corona, my gem, so your portals, when you succeed at this spell, will reflect that shade.
Pass through quick as you can, as it burns energy to hold such a fold in the world.
Let the portal go when you’re safe, and reward the nixie who provided the water.
Speaking of which, Nerys sends her love.
To grant passage, the steps are similar, but be familiar with the space you’re trying to enter.
If you can’t picture it in your mind’s eye or see it with your actual eyes, you can’t safely transit to that space.
Otherwise, the wild fae would be robbing vaults every day.
Alas, we’re limited to places we know by heart, but it’s a lovely spell if you find yourself locked out of a warm house in a pouring rain.
Writing these notes has me missing you something fierce. You’re ever and always the joy of my life and the jewel in my imaginary crown.
Thea
When the others vanish, I jump in too.
It’s got to be the exit, right? I surface in brackish swamp water, not too far from where the ship-in-a-bottle trap lay in wait for Kerboros. There’s no need to warn him not to touch anything. He’s got that lesson etched on his bones now.
I can’t believe I shared the lizard story. It took a week before Da found me. I was much younger then, and he was fearful to the bone.
But he didn’t punish me. Instead he told me calming stories while he painstakingly unraveled the spell, sharing lore he’s gathered of “my people,” though I can’t verify the authenticity or accuracy.
From time to time, Da has also shown me relics from the mortal realm, including various religious texts.
I find an academic interest in such things.
They are fables to me, nothing of worship, but there was a story about a primordial garden and a tempter snake, as I recall.
The front of Macha’s demesne—where we are now—that’s how I imagine that eternal garden from the human stories.
The trees are bent but not stunted. They grow together in a wall to protect her, branches intertwined.
Beneath the water that surrounds the small peninsula, juts of dark root tangle with white flowers growing upward toward the light.
Above, green moss drapes the branches like bridal veils and pixies flutter in gossipy clusters on iridescent wings.
Shereth, the one who painted the mural on the loft ceiling, isn’t here, and the others don’t greet us.
Swamp pixies tend to be cliquish. Nearby, a small yellow lizard lounges on a log.
I wonder if it’s anyone I know. They’re not trying to get my attention, however, so they could be enjoying the break.
“Where are we going?” Zeph asks cheerfully, falling in step beside me.
I glance at them. “We were visiting Macha before we got sidetracked.”
The air is perfumed with pollen, and deep breaths make me feel as though I’m hovering on the verge of a great sneeze. In the distance, something splashes into the water, swimming about us in slow circles.
“Should I be concerned?” Kerboros asks.
About the thing in the water? I shrug. Presuming Macha wishes us harm, she hardly needs a beast to do her bidding.
“This should be fun,” Zeph declares. “Do you mind if I spectate?”
“Not at all. You did get us out of the bottle. Wise sorceress, if you’re willing to speak, prithee let me know,” I call, directing the last statement in a louder voice.
I’ve had the most success with that greeting where Macha is concerned.
Kerboros gives me a look as the silence builds, and then I hear the rattle of reeds that could be mistaken for bones. That’s the sound of Macha gliding through wind chimes that line the perimeter of her home.
“It’s been some time since I saw you,” the swamp witch says in a silken tone.
Beside me, Kerboros starts faintly, likely in surprise.
People are never prepared for her beauty, I think.
In legends, swamp hags are wizened old crones with matted gray hair and gnarled, clutching hands.
But Macha is ageless like a forest, with dark green hair that flows down her back in a river of silk.
She wears a simple gown with many hidden pockets, and her features are exquisite, pointed and foxy, full of clever, knowing amusement.
Her eyes are endless shadows, black like onyx, and she gazes at me briefly before her attention shifts to Kerboros.
“I’ve been conscripted,” I say wryly.
“The Winter Lord does enjoy evaluating the extent of his reach,” Macha says. “Whom have you brought me?”
I’m surprised by the gently protective instinct that makes me want to shield Kerboros from the sharpness of Macha’s interest. “This is Kerboros.” I gesture at the sharply scintillating fae on my left. “And Zeph.”
“Oh my. I’m entirely spoiled for choice today, I see.” The faint trill on the word entirely indicates the intensity of Macha’s intrigue. “I had no notion that Winter’s hound was so…” Clicking her tongue, she circles him with predatory fascination instead of finishing the thought.
Kerboros withstands her scrutiny without moving. “Your interest is noted.”
Good. Neutral is the best way to handle Macha. She doesn’t respect those who beg for her favor, but she’s also easily offended. There are those who have approached her and remain trapped in the form she chose for them when they irritated her, mainly wild fae without an innate ability to shift.
“I’m suffering greatly from all this lack of attention,” Zeph says then.
Macha turns her regard in their direction, angling her head. “Hmm.”
“Is that a good hmm?” they ask.
“There’s a puzzle to solve,” I cut in. “I hope you can figure it out.”
It never hurts to appeal to her wits. Or her vanity.
“I’m willing to listen, though I make no guarantees.”
Succinctly, I explain how the Summer delegation has gone missing and none are able to track them using any type of magic known to Winter. “You’re the most powerful person in any realm,” I say. “So I thought…”
“That I could track for Lord Winter?”
Oh no.
I shake my head quickly. “Not at all. But maybe you could give us a hint? You’d know if unusual magic was used anywhere near your domain.”
I’m taking a risk. If Kerboros tells Lord Liskaal that I’ve implied Macha is the real power in the Winter realm, it won’t end well for me.
I’m about to start gnawing my nails when Macha speaks. “I may be willing to have a look, but…I require incentive. Tribute, if you will.”
This is the best possible result, but I don’t know what I can provide that she doesn’t already have. But I still say, “I’m willing to negotiate.”
“You can’t pay the price,” she says silkily while staring at Kerboros.
He tenses. Yet he can’t ignore our mission objective either. “What do you require?”
I hope it’s not blood.
“Nothing you cannot spare, Winter hound, though I should name you spider. A memory. You know the one I want, seeing as you relived it recently in my snare.”
Despite the fact that I’m used to Macha, her tone sends a shiver through me.
I don’t know if this is a good idea. The loss of memory is like death to a fae because they’re eternal, and they carry time with them.
Kerboros must be old beyond my imagining, and if he yields this to her, it will be the same as surrendering a little bit of his life.
I wonder if I could persuade her to accept a lock of hair instead.
Kerboros has gorgeous hair. Long and dark, shiny, and threaded liberally with silver.
It looks like it would be extremely soft, basically the only part about him that does.
His skin is warm copper in this light, with the faintest patina of green from the canopy above.
I wonder how I look to him—odd, when I rarely consider my appearance at all.
In fact, I have been known to paint myself entirely in mud from head to toe.
I had good reasons at the time.
Giving him time to consider is the right move, I don’t speak because this is his decision, between him and Macha. I won’t interfere. If he thinks this is a bad idea, I won’t press. We can figure something else out.
A powerful feeling simmers inside me; I don’t want anyone to hurt him ever again.
He’s started to feel like someone I should risk myself to protect.
On the surface, it’s ridiculous. He’s a renowned warrior, deadly with a blade, and famous for having an even sharper tongue.
His words cut deep, and he wears solitude like an icy crown.
But inside him remains a boy terrified and alone in a dreary cell.
I might be the only one who knows that about him.
If Kerboros looks to me for help, I’ll see if I can turn Macha from this notion.
I do have a flair for words and an affinity for bending people to my will, usually by sapping some of their anger.
But Macha is a force more than a person; I cannot feed on her emotions.
Mostly, she feels…watchful, to my attenuated senses.
Is that even an emotion? It’s certainly not a feeling that offers me any sustenance.
“I’m already under a compulsion,” Kerboros says in a graveled tone. “A secondary constraint would—”
“No. You must take my word for it, but that is not my intent. You will gain no tether to me, should you make this bargain.”
Again, I repress the urge to intercede. My hand twitches with the urge to touch Kerboros, to pull him away from Macha and her tricksy ways. Bargaining with the swamp witch, he’ll never win. She keeps her beauty by stealing from others—life, time, memories, magic—and her loveliness is legendary.
Please don’t hurt him. He’s been hurt enough.
“Then I am willing to trade for your expertise,” Kerboros answers.
Macha’s delight is unnerving as she glides toward him and frames his head in her hands.
Her long nails curl downward, pricking into the top of his skull, and shadows flicker, darting inside his head like tentacles made of smoke and spite.
Though Macha isn’t evil per se, she does take some joy in tormenting others.
He flinches, and then the smoke tentacles withdraw, glowing with orange at their tips.
The swamp witch inhales her prize and then faces me. “That could have seemed cruel. But if you knew what I know, you might call it a kindness.”
I can’t piss her off. “Maybe so. Should I accompany you?”
Even when I lived here as a lizard, I never saw the inside of Macha’s home.
I don’t expect that ever to change. She’s revered and feared, but no one knows her.
Not intimately. I’ve heard stories, of course, tragedies—a mortal artist who broke her heart long ago.
But I’ve never gotten confirmation, and I think she prefers to maintain that air of mystique.
Yet it’s better to be sure.
She sears me with a stare. “Wait. I will attempt to discern what you wish to know.”