According to the witch who authored this book, our magic was similar to a muscle that needed to be exercised. If ignored too long, it atrophied. She also described it as “Source”： a place within us readily available to draw from, like an endless well in our core.
The wise Spinners of Fate say our power is a gift bestowed from the goddesses and therefore has a tendency to mimic their abilities to some degree. Some bloodlines will notice an affinity for certain spells, especially those using the four elements. It is an indication of which goddess a witch should pray to in order to enhance that magic. The lesser spoken of fifth element, aether, is thought to be the rarest, but that may not be true in this context.
I stopped reading and allowed that information to sink in. And with it another emotion I’d rather not examine closely. Not quite suspicion, nor anger, but something related to both. Nonna had never explained where our power came from or how it worked. It was possible my grandmother didn’t exactly know, but I couldn’t quite believe that.
This was also the first time I’d ever heard of the Spinners of Fate and praying to one goddess. We’d always been taught to pray to them all. I searched my memory for any altars Nonna made for any one goddess and could think of none. Perhaps our magic wasn’t closely aligned with any of the elements.
I leafed through the grimoire, searching for more information on the Spinners of Fate, but there were no further mentions. I flipped back to the beginning, concentrating on Source.
Anger at Nonna and my own lack of questioning our education distracted me.
“Focus.”
Skeptical of my abilities, I closed my eyes, cleared my thoughts, and tried to sense that inner source of power. At first there wasn’t anything unusual, then the world quickly faded around me. It grew darker in my mind. I knew nothing, was nothing. I became nothing.
It was almost a void inside me, yawning open into endless darkness. I had the strangest impression that it had been waiting for me to tap into it, and once I acknowledged its existence, I was immediately drawn in. Now I felt everything. I tunneled down, down, down into my very center, near my wildly beating heart, and paused. My magic slumbered here. I wasn’t sure how I knew, but I did. I brought my consciousness around the magic, trying to get a better sense of it. Something ancient and powerful and spitting mad cracked an eye, furious at being awoken.
I withdrew from that place with a gasp.
“Holy goddess above… what was that?”
I flipped through the pages of the grimoire, but there was no mention of a power like the one I’d just experienced. It certainly didn’t fit into earth, air, fire, water, or aether. It was massive, all-knowing, powerful in a way that worried me. Its rage burned with an intensity that obliterated reason. If I could summon that force at will… I could destroy this realm.
Not that I wanted to do that. I only wanted vengeance against my twin’s murderer. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, ready to try again.
“Oh, pardon me.”
I glanced up from my spell work, my education abandoned, and closed the grimoire with a loud clap. A young woman—with curly jet-black hair, rich sepia-colored eyes, and brown skin—gave me a polite curtsy. Little animal skulls were fastened in her long hair, similar to the way I pinned flowers in mine. A deep russet-copper dress hugged each of her generous curves. She held a book on arboriculture, a surprising but interesting choice.
“You must be Emilia. The whole court is vastly intrigued by you. I’m Fauna.”
I gave her a tentative smile. I’d been counting on the fact that gossip would be as widely used here as it had been in the marketplace back home. “What kind of nasty rumors are circulating?”
“The usual. Your hair is made of serpents, your tongue of fire, and when you’re angry, you spit flames like the mighty ice dragons of Merciless Reach.” She grinned at my look of surprise. “Teasing. They’re too smart to start rumors while Prince Wrath is in residence. As his personal guest, you’re off limits. He’s made that very clear. Lord or lady of the Royal Demon Court, if your name is on anyone’s tongue, he will rip it out.”
“More like he’ll glare at them until they wither and die if they impede his mission.”
She gave me a curious look. “Actually, he was quite literal in his threat. Lord Makaden’s lucky he escaped with his intact. The prince promised the next time he speaks ill of you, his tongue will be spiked outside the throne room and stay there until it rots. Makaden’s prominent standing in the court is likely the only reason he’s not maimed now.”