Page 13 of The Witch's Fate
And yet someone is here. In all the years no one has dared. Perhaps they know not where they are or who I am. A lost wanderer in the storm. Empathy overwhelms me but still I am wise to keep my guard up.
Cautiously, I finish standing up, shaking myself out of my frozen, indecisive state.
It is only a few steps to the kitchen, where the athame hangs from a hook, cradled in a leather sheath. I swing the sheath over my head and pull it into place on my shoulder, then draw the athame.
I am more grounded the moment my fingers close around the silver hilt. The blade is sharp and well-maintained, and I have practiced with it for years.
A deep exhale steadies me as I wave a hand at the grate. A roaring fire springs up, filling the cottage with flickering orange light. The flames leap higher and higher, throwing heat out of the grate as well, and the power settles me even more.
There. Armed with a blade and with my powers, I face the door as a third knock forces the wooden door to tremble.
With a few deep breaths, I approach the door, leaving a foot or two of space between myself and the thick wood. On the other side is a stranger.
Still, I wait for a few more seconds, half of me praying that this strange visitor will disappear back into the rain and half of me praying that they will knock again. It is such an odd sensation that I feel almost dizzy with it. Or is that another shift in the magic? I cannot tell. A person at my door issoout of the ordinary that I can do nothing but face each second as it comes.
“Who goes there?” I call out. My voice does not waver. Strength finds me even still. I imagine my coven at my back, waiting with their chins held high, armed with their own powers and their faith in me.
That is always how they were. That is why they decided to go and fight in the war.
“I am alone,” a voice says through the door, rumbling and gruff. Strong, even through solid wood. “And my portal has failed me. My commander”—a peal of thunder drowns out a few words—“come to you. He said you may be able to help.” My first reaction is one of shock. I am stunned. There is a man outsidemy door. With a voice that brings a certain feeling to the depths of me that I haven’t felt in so long.
I push aside the delicious sound of the being’s voice and focus on his words.
“Your commander?” I question. What reason would a commander have for sending a soldier here? Tomylands, where I am the only person for miles? What business would an army have? “Why are you here?” The thinly veiled anger is deliberate. “This is my property,” I call out.
“I came to collect flowers for a wedding,” he says, his voice seeming carefully tense. I wish I could hear him better, but I would have to open the door to do that, and I willnotbe reckless about opening the door. Instead I stare at the intricately carved doorknob. The metal holds a spell within it.No one shall pass who wishes me harm.I remind myself of that spell as I soak in the stranger’s tale.
Flowers for a wedding? Who sends a soldier to collect flowers for a wedding?
“Show them to me,” I tell him. “Bring them to the window.” I’m lifting my hand to open a pair of the shutters when he makes a sound.
“I sent them through my portal before it failed. I don’t have them any longer.”
A sarcastic laugh leaves me. How utterly ridiculous a lie. “Then how can I trust you?”
There is another long pause. My heart flutters, and it is not the flutter that warns me of danger. It is the flutter of curiosity. Who is this man? And what has truly brought him?
I shake my head, trying to get rid of that feeling. Curiosity brings danger. It can make a person forget to protect themselves.
The curiosity I feel won’t leave me alone. More questions come to mind. What if it was this soldier who changed the magic in the land? What ifhewas the one who summoned the storm?There’s another shift around me and it’s then I hear the crack of thunder far too close.
“I am at a loss—” He raises his voice and then pauses again to let another loud crash of thunder die down. “I do not wish to disturb you,” the soldier says, starting again. “But with the rain and the lack of a portal, I am trapped.” The smallest break in his voice speaks of his honesty. “And I am at your mercy.”
I cannot speak.
I search for the words to reply, but I can’t think of what to say.
“I ask,” he continues, “that you take pity on me. I will not stay long. Only as long as it takes for my portal to charge. Then I will go and leave you in peace.”
It is not the first time a being has been at my mercy. Many beings who cannot cast spells but need one to get by have been at my mercy. I have received letters from frantic mothers and desperate fathers. I have heard from determined daughters and sons who will not rest until they have a solution. I have received a great many requests for mercy in the words that pour off the pages in my letter box.
My heart aches with empathy as if I’m the one who’s cut off from home. Yes, I have lived in the cottage alone for the years since my coven was taken. I kept our physical home, but not the people whomadeit home, and I have been homesick for them more often than I haven’t.
I know what it is to be far from everything you know without a way to get back.
I wave my hand at the door, undoing the latch and the bolts, then pull it open fast, before I can lose my nerve. If he can step through the doorway, he may enter. It is as simple as that. I will aid him in leaving this place as soon as the storm passes.
Outside, it is very dark from the thunderclouds, but more lightning burns across the sky, and there he is.
