Page 3 of Destined to the Lycan
“I have no clue where to begin to investigate your case. Right now, this toxin inside you is bound to kill you sooner than later. All I can do is to delay it,” Ronika said carefully. “You need someone with greater power.”
“Someone like who?” I asked, as if she had made a ridiculous statement.
“Cliona Nox, the Weaver,” she said in an almost solemn tone.
I recoiled and stared at her in shock. “The Weaver?!” I exclaimed. “She rejects everyone who comes knocking at her door. As I understand it, unless you have something of extreme value to her, she will not give you the time of day. What could I possibly have that she might want? I’m just a candle maker.”
“I won’t lie and pretend that she has an open-door policy. No one truly knows why she grants her assistance to some and not to others. You would be surprised by what she may deem valuable. Anyway, what have you got to lose? If her gates open, then you’re in luck. If they don’t, then we will continue to look for other alternatives. But at least, we’ll know for sure that we explored every option.”
The urge to argue burned my tongue. I heard so many things about the Weaver, most of them scary. No one knew exactly what she was. While the common folk often referred to her as the Hag, rumor had it that she was in fact one of the Ancients, and maybe even a goddess descended amongst mortals to entertain herself.
The problem was that the lucky few who benefited from her assistance never spoke about what had transpired between them or what the cost of her services had been. Naturally, that led people to spread all kinds of outlandish statements implying that one had to sell their soul to her, sacrifice someone dear to them—especially a child—or to subject themselves to some sort of unholy ritual in exchange for her aid.
Ronika never implied—let alone hinted at the fact—that she personally benefited from the Weaver’s assistance. That didn’t stop everyone in Willow Grove—me included—from thinking her newfound impressive healing powers had been a gift from the Weaver. But what had been the price for it?
“Very well,” I conceded at last. “Like you said, at this point, I’ve got nothing to lose. The worst thing that could happen will be for me to be turned around.”
Ronika smiled then proceeded to heal me the best she could with a mix of magic and potions. By the time she finished, the lancing pain I hadn’t fully realized was eating me alive completely faded. It had grown so gradually and in such a subtle fashion that I became used to it and pushed it to the back of my mind. But now, I could see the difference as the sudden feeling of being free, healthy, and full of energy surged through me. It was merely a reprieve, but one I intended to use to the best of my ability to seek a cure before it came back with a vengeance.
Before releasing me, the healer handed me multiple vials containing a potent tonic to help give me a boost whenever my energy level crashed. It felt odd to have her pay me for the candles when I felt like I owed her even more for the treatment. But she charged ridiculously low prices, nominal at best. She truly was a healer at heart, in the profession for the sake of improving the lives of her patients, and not as a scheme to enrich herself.
The entire journey to my new home, I debated when to head over to the Weaver’s house, and above all, what I could offer her as compensation should she bless me with opening her gates. What could a goddess possibly need from someone like me?
I crossed the small bridge over the moat leading to the entrance and stopped my carriage right in front of my mansion. I’d inherited a well-maintained gothic house on a large private land. Four towers rose above the three-story home. Black gablesadorned the witch’s caps topping them. The decorative shingles, columns, and railings around the balconies on each of the upper floors as well as on the front porch presented the same dark color. Thankfully, the paler sandstone hue of the stone walls brightened the otherwise slightly ominous style of the house.
A flock of birds took flight in the distance, soaring over the tall trees of the peaceful forest surrounding the estate. One could hunt some small game within it, mostly rabbits, deer, and the occasional pheasant.
Sighing, I climbed the short flights of stairs, accompanied by the soothing sound of the water flowing below, and the singing of the windchimes dangling over the porch. I made a beeline for my workshop to put away the supplies I purchased in Charmers District. The prospect of working at long last with a centaur’s hoof dust and a chimera’s venom thrilled me beyond words. I never would have been able to get my hands on such reagents in the small town of Harmstead, where I grew up. I eyed my cauldron, itching to get to work. But I needed to go to stable my horse first.
No, you need to go see the Weaver first.
My shoulders drooped, and my stomach knotted with apprehension. It didn’t take a genius to know I was procrastinating. The prospect of meeting the Weaver scared me. I honestly couldn’t say if it was the woman herself or what she potentially would tell me that I feared the most. My gut screamed that her verdict—assuming she even received me—would be a devastating blow.
Delaying won’t make it go away.
In fact, delaying only enabled the disease to progress further. Every minute wasted could be another nail in my coffin.
Groaning inwardly, I exited my workshop and headed back to my carriage. As excited as I felt about experimenting withnew candle recipes, I wouldn’t live long enough to see how well people would receive them if I keeled over.
For a split second, I debated whether to simply ride on horseback or once again use my carriage. In the end, I settled for the latter. It shamed me to admit that the fact the carriage would go slower played a big part in that choice.
The one-hour journey to the Weaver’s home both took forever and flew by too quickly. It gave me far too much time to imagine the worst possible scenarios as to what she might want as payment for her assistance. How far was I willing to go? What would I deem too steep a price in exchange for saving my life? The part of me that couldn’t wait to be there and to get this whole ordeal done and over with battled with the part that dreaded what was about to happen. I almost hoped that the gates wouldn’t open.
The silhouette of the gates appeared in the distance, flanked by tall pillars atop which gargoyle-looking creatures stood watch. From all accounts, one shouldn’t be fooled by their stony appearance. They weren’t statues but powerful guardians that could tear any would-be trespassers to shreds if they didn’t heed their warning to turn back.
To my shock, long before I even came within range, the doors quietly parted open as if pushed by an invisible hand. My heart leapt, my conflicted emotions going into overdrive as fear and hope warred within me in equal measure. I softly gasped when the eyes of both creatures lit up with a yellow glow. They didn’t emit a single sound but turned their heads to stare at me as I passed through the gate. The only thing that kept me from peeing myself was the complete absence of any threatening demeanor on their part.
Eyes wide, I crossed the two-hundred-meter path up to the house, framed by the most exotic forest I ever beheld. While I recognized some of the plants and trees, others were completelyforeign to me. One thing was for certain, very few people could boast having access to what had to be an immense fortune in greenery. Even from here, I could feel the potent magic contained within them. What I wouldn’t give for only a few leaves, petals, or sap from this treasure trove.
I frowned in confusion as I closed in on the humble, cliché witch hut that greeted me at the end of the path. There was no way so powerful a being would live in such a house. Surely, this was some sort of illusion. But the door opening with a will of its own before I even stopped my carriage knocked all those wandering thoughts right out of my mind.
I swallowed hard as another wave of worry twisted my insides. But cowering stopped being an option the moment I crossed the gates. Come what may, I was committed. I stepped down from my carriage, absent-mindedly patted my horse’s neck in a soothing fashion, and made my way towards the house. Despite the soft light emanating from the open door, it still resembled a gaping maw eager to swallow me whole.
With an assurance I certainly didn’t feel, I stepped inside the house to find the Weaver sitting behind a table facing the entrance. If not for her somewhat otherworldly appearance and the undeniable power radiating from her, one might have believed her to be a receptionist manning the front desk.
She was beautiful, her age undefinable in light of the smoothness of her lightly tanned skin, and yet undoubtedly ancient. Her pupils narrowed into vertical slits in the purple sea of her irises as she watched me approach. She tilted her head to the side and distractedly ran a hand along the endless length of her silver white-hair plaited in a single braid that pooled to the floor.
“Greetings, Amara Sanni. I was expecting you,” the Weaver said in a throaty and slightly seductive voice that sent a shiver down my spine.
