Page 176 of The Black Witch

“How did she curse them?”

“The two Sisters who betrayed the Goddess were sent to live with the First Men, who were strengthened by the extra bone in their fists and emboldened. They sought to enslave these two Sisters and abused them in every way. But the loyal Daughter was greatly blessed by the Goddess and remained strong and free. So you see,” Professor Volya says, sitting back again on the hay bale, “from the beginnings of time, men have been untrustworthy and only interested in cruelty and domination.”

“But your own son,” I say, “he seems a decent sort...”

Her eyes take on a faraway look. “He is kind and good because we perform every ritual the Goddess requires. In return, She has taken pity on him and blessed him greatly.” She’s quiet for a moment, considering me as a nearby mare snuffles and pulls at some hay. “You should be going,” she says, getting up. “It would not be good for the Vu Trin to find you here.”

I get up and brush the hay off my tunic.

“Good luck with your Selkie, Elloren Gardner,” she says to me. “You have done a brave thing. May the Goddess help and protect you.”

* * *

Andras is standing next to a large Keltic workhorse, stroking its neck, speaking to it softly. He keeps his eyes on the horse as I approach.

“So,” he says, “did my mother tell you the story of my cursed fist?” The disdain in his voice is surprisingly sharp.

“She did.”

Andras makes a disgusted sound as he continues to stroke the horse’s neck. “It’s a powerful story,” he admits, a hard edge to his tone.

“I’d never heard it before.”

Andras shakes his head in bitter disapproval. “She never stops recruiting for her tribe, my mother. Shunned for more than eighteen years, and still she’s loyal to them. The ironic thing is, my mother’s a brilliant scientist.” He holds his hand up for my inspection. “She knows that I have exactly the same number of bones in my fist as she does in hers, and yet, she believes.”

Andras peers off into the distance, where his mother is astride a white Elfin mare, riding away from us, her tunic’s rune-marks streaking red trails in their wake. “If she’d had a daughter, instead of me, she’d be with them still.” He turns to me, his brow tight. “I ruined my mother’s life.” He reaches up and strokes the horse’s neck. “And so,” he continues, his face full of resignation, “I go with her every full moon to perform the rituals the Goddess requires. Every morning we leave offerings and pray to Her. We follow every last Amaz tradition to the letter of the law. All except one.”

“What would that be?” I ask hesitantly.

He turns to me, his hand still on the horse. “My mother refused to abandon me at birth because I’m male, as Amaz tradition dictates. And she’s spent every single day of her life trying to atone for it.” He shakes his head and lets out a deep sigh. “Do you know what else is ironic about all this?”

I hold his gaze, waiting.

“I’ve never once had the slightest urge to raise my fist against a woman, contrary to what the Amaz creation myth says about men. The only person I’ve ever wanted to seriously hurt is the University groundskeeper, but I’m sure I’m in complete agreement with my mother in that regard. She may wind up killing him before I get a chance to.”

“Actually,” I say, “I think Diana Ulrich is first in line.”

He looks surprised. “The Lupine girl?”

I nod. “We had to talk her out of ripping his head off earlier.”

Andras stares at me for a moment, then laughs. He has a nice smile, wide and open. “I think I would like this Diana Ulrich.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Safety

When I return to the North Tower, the sun newly set, I find Yvan waiting for me in the upstairs hallway.

He’s sitting on the stone bench, a sack propped next to him. He snaps to vivid attention when I enter and rises.

My steps halt as I catch sight of him, the breath momentarily hitching in my throat. Our eyes lock, and I stare at him, blinking. His larger-than-life presence fills the narrow hallway, the low ceiling making him seem taller than he already is.

“Dried cod,” he says, not taking his eyes off me as he lifts the sack a fraction and sets it back down on the bench. “For the Selkie.”

My eyes flit to the sack then back up to him. I clutch at the sides of my cloak and close the distance between us, feeling self-conscious and flustered. There’s a gentleness about him that’s unexpected, his green eyes intense, but newly open and unguarded.

“I met your lodging mate,” he tells me, his tone significant. “Diana Ulrich.” His brow rises in unspoken disbelief.

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