Page 18 of A Touch of Stars and Stones
I watch her, a little star-struck at the potency coming from Kyra’s voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. She just… looks exactly how I’d imagine a witch to look. From fairy tales. Books. Who is Aslendrix?” I’ve heard this name more than once now.
“Why, she is our Goddess, of course.” Kyra beams, her face lighting up as if it’s a joy to speak of the Goddess. “The source of our magic, blessed may she ever be.” She touches the little pendant around her neck, similar to the one that Lyle always wears. “I will be back later. I’ll bring fresh clothes for you, too. Anything you require, I’m here to assist you with anything you may need.” She smiles and then leaves us be.
“Well—” I start, but I’m not sure what else to say, so I settle on, “will you tell me as much as you can before I have to see the Orders, whoever they are? At least to stop me from making a fool of myself? The highlights will do. I’m sure we’ll get to the details later.” I shove another of the pastries in my mouth before my tone sours their sweetness.
Kyra leads me from the apartment room with my stomach full and fresh and clean clothes on, helping me feel at least half-prepared to face whatever is coming.
Lyle did fill in the blanks for me. She explained that there are four Orders in Kirrasia, a way of grouping the magic, the heads of which I’ll be meeting. They, along with several other important members, form The Chamber, which isn’t just a building; it’s the privileged with powerful magic that climbed and took positions of power.
She also told me all Kirrians have a natural Order they belong to, often influenced by parentage. Everyone born in Kirrasia has a latent magic, gifted to them from Aslendrix.
Elemental.
Natural.
Warrior.
Guard.
This sets my mind racing as to what magic I have shown and where I’ll fit. And what is Guard power, anyway?
We climb the spiral stairs of The Tower, and Kyra practically skips out into the Great Hall at the top, her tightly braided hair swaying in her stride after pushing the heavy wooden doors open without a second thought.
The room we enter is vast and circular, with a set of large stone steps leading up onto a dais at the far edge. Behind it is a stone carving of a woman, her arms raised to the sky. Beneath her is where the members of The Chamber wait, in a half-moon arrangement of seats, all ornately decorated in a different colour depicting each Order, and all looking down towards me.
The pressure to lower my gaze has me tilting my head, but I rebel against it, mustering the courage to stare right back. I run my eyes over the four of them and then find the witch in her own chair, off to the side, with two other women standing by her.
Lyle waits for me, but Kyra simply continues her skip forward and then stands to the side at the base of the steps as if waiting for me. I can at least take comfort in her joyful and carefree nature. She doesn’t seem intimidated by being in here, and I hold on to that.
I have nothing to worry about, according to Lyle, but that message doesn’t reach my heart or my legs. They are reluctant to carry me forward.
Finally, the witch strikes her staff on the floor, echoing around the room and jolting me forward as if pulling me in. My hands clasp together in front of me as I look up, making sure I make eye contact with every one of them, secretly praying that the pain or visions that I’d experienced before won’t hit me. But as I wait, nothing happens. They don’t speak. They simply watch me.
The nerves in my stomach riot at the wait, and sweat starts to bead on my neck.
The woman in the blue chair stands, glides down the steps and comes to stand before me. Her eyes are pale, not blue, closer to grey, her skin is rich and warm in colour, creating a beautiful contrast. She looks kind. And I’m relieved that I’m not facing another haggard old lady.
She raises her hand towards my cheek, and I feel the scowl of my brows pulling together at what she’s doing. My reaction seems to make her pause, and a cold chill falls over the room, but her hand continues until it rests against my skin.
A crack of thunder booms around our heads, but I seem stuck, unable to move from where I stand, locked in a connection with the woman in front of me.
Her eyes mist over with a pearly white sheen, and the fear I had managed to push down inside of me now threatens to burst from my chest. The crackle, like charged particles, is heavy in the air, suffocating and pressing inward—around me—but it’s not unbearable, and I endure, forcing my legs to lock still.
I will not end up on the ground again.
The witch’s stick breaks our moment, and the woman steps back, clutching the hand that had just been on my cheek to her chest. My initial assessment that she looked kind vanishes as I see her face now.
It isn’t just me who is scared. Her eyes return to their grey colour, but they are far shrewder now.
My feet creep back as I watch her study me with scepticism.
Movement draws my attention, and the man at the end of the chairs—the red chair—stands and marches down the steps, breaking the tension. He gives the woman a disapproving look as they pass each other on the steps. He is tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair that is almost all grey at the temples.
He approaches, already looking fed up, and snatches my hand into his. “If you’ll allow me, girl,” his voice sneers, belittling me in his action.
I immediately feel a rush of power, like heat or strength. It forces me to take a deep breath as if I’m doing something strenuous. I watch the man and see a faint flicker of something over his face. Glee, or happiness, maybe. It’s odd. And then the rush is gone, but his grip remains.
Harsh.
