Page 57 of The Rowan
Bianca steps forward. “Arden has an affinity to all six bloodlines. The testing concludes, and the results are final.” Bianca makes a mark on the tablet and steps closer to me.
“Welcome to the family,” she whispers. “Brace yourself.” Handing the tablet to Caro, she walks over to stand close to my family, quietly declaring her allegiance.
Caro hisses at her in anger, while the furious expression on Nico Perrone’s face is the first sign that all hell is about to break loose.
Without giving him a chance to speak, I blurt out, “I’ve tested for all the bloodlines, isn’t it time for the placement ceremony?” I hold my breath while I wait for Caro to get a grip on her anger and resume the ceremony. If my theory is correct, this is the part she needs the most.
Clare grips her arm, urging her to focus. “You’re quite right. It’s time for the ceremony. The bowl will test your blood, and if worthy, the rowan will capture your name on the tree. Follow me.” Her heels click hard on the marble floor as she walks over to the bowl. It’s sitting on a table in front of the tapestry.
She motions for me to step up to the table. “As you can see, the bowl has a thorn on it. Place your palm down sharply on the bowl and let your blood flow into it. Your blood will mingle with that of all the witches across time, telling us of your place within our coven. If accepted into the coven, the tapestry weaves your name into the appropriate family branch.” Her eyes cut to Nico Perrone for a brief second.
Taking a deep breath, I glance at Astor, who nods subtly. Without further thought, I slam my hand down on the thorn. The bowl seals to my hand, cementing it to the thorn, while my blood drips down to pool in the bottom. It swirls, mingling with the blood from past witches, until they become one.
The crowd moans, and Caro cackles. “Your blood is very powerful, more than I even guessed,” she moans ecstatically, clutching Nico’s shoulder, while my power courses through her and every other witch in the room.
It’s just as I thought. The bowl binds the blood of the witches. Every drop of my blood binds us closer and closer together. I can feel the thoughts and power of every witch here. While several witches, like Caro, Cassandra, Santiago, and a few others, burn bright with power, the rest are muffled, their power a splinter of mine.
Caro turns and gapes at the tapestry. A golden light appears, her fists clench, and she looks at me in disbelief. “It appears you’ve been accepted into the coven. Congratulations,” she spits out, her jaw locked tightly in anger.
The golden light whizzes across the family names, flitting between Perrone and the edge of the tapestry, until suddenly, dust flies from the edge when it picks the corner to weave my name.
Everyone stops and stares at it, unclear as to what they’re witnessing.
When the last letter of my name is woven into the tapestry, the razor thin layer over the tapestry dissolves, leaving a different, older version of the tree. Witches scramble to get closer to the tapestry to study the changes, and I subtly remove my hand from the bowl.
The family branches displayed on the tapestry have increased from six to seven, the seventh branch appearing directly in the middle, a part of the trunk tapering into a thick branch. The name MacAllister is displayed on the seventh branch for everyone to see.
Above each of the seven branches, seven races are listed. Amelie steps forward, her eyes wide with horror. Fae is written above bloodline two, her bloodline, and bloodline five, the elemental bloodline. I glance at Theron, but he’s also staring at the tapestry.
Demon is above bloodline three, Elven is listed above bloodlines one and four, shifter is listed above bloodline six, and dragon above bloodline seven. I glance at Santiago, whose look of satisfaction tells me he already knew they were descended from shifters, just like Amelie knew about her Fae ancestry.
Shouting amongst the witches in the crowd tell me they were clueless about their hybrid ancestry, and that dragons were the source of the MacAllister ancestry. I glance over at Valerian.
Valerian’s face is a picture of horror, while his eyes move rapidly from leaf to leaf.
Puzzled, I turn back to the tree to read the names of the MacAllisters, along with the dates of their births and deaths. An unexpected pattern emerges. Over half of the leaves have the same date of death. Hundreds of MacAllisters died the same day as Moira and her family.
Stunned, I double-check every leaf. While I know Valerian’s father and his dragons wiped out Moira and her family, they didn’t wipe out the entire clan. But someone or something tried. On the same day. One small MacAllister branch remains on the tapestry, a few leaves on it. Both Caro and I step closer to those leaves. The names are burned off, only holes in their place.
I back away until I can see the entire tapestry again. My eyes scan for answers.
Drawn back to the corner where my name is embroidered in glowing gold threads, I see the words “The Rowan” above my name. And pinned to the tapestry, a sheaf of papers waits for someone to pick them up.
Caro reaches to grab them, but she can’t. No matter how hard she tries, she can’t pick them up. She gestures for Nico and Cassandra to try, but the papers refuse to budge.
The papers flutter in my direction, waving softly at me. I walk over and pull them carefully away from the tapestry. The paper is thick and stiff and old, thousands of years old if I were to guess, and they’re addressed to the Rowan. Am I the Rowan?
Caro strides over to me and demands, “You’ll give me those papers. I’m the leader of the coven, and since you’re now a member, you answer to me.” She swipes a hand at the papers, but I pull them out of her reach.
“Let’s get a few things straight, shall we?” I tuck the papers under my arm, then continue, “As one of the oldest and most powerful witches here, I believe your leadership of the coven is in question.”
“Oldest?” she scoffs, amused by my words.
“Gia Perrone was my mother. She gave the Princess of the Light Fae guardianship of me when I was a baby, three hundred and twenty-eight years ago. I believe that makes me one of the oldest in this room. Not the oldest, you understand,” I explain, pointing to Daire and Astor. “Those two are much older than me.”
“If you’re that old, you’re immortal and not a pure witch,” she states gleefully. “Only pure witches can be a part of the coven. Witches with mixed heritage aren’t allowed, because their very existence weakens us, diluting our witch powers.”
It’s my turn to be smug. “According to that tapestry, neither are you. Every witch family is descended from another race. It’s the source of our magic. But for some reason, they’ve hidden this heritage from us for a long time.” I scrutinize the crowd. “Your exclusiveness is making you weaker, not stronger. I’m the perfect example. I’m powerful, with an affinity to all six bloodlines, and I’m mixed blood. I know every single witch felt my power when the thorn drank my blood. Did my powers feel diluted? Of course not. My immortality gives me the stamina to use my powers. It doesn’t detract from them. The reason you’re weak is because you haven’t infused new blood into your line in over a thousand years.” I wave at the tapestry. “It’s right there for you to read. Open your eyes. If you don’t mate with other races, your children and your children’s children will be so weak, their power will fall to human levels.”
