Witch Born (11 page)

Senna asked every Witch she passed. Called out to Guardians. No one had seen Arianis.

If the girl was hurt, Senna would never forgive herself.

Just when she’d truly started to panic, she heard someone sniffling. She tipped her ear toward the sound, trying to figure out where it came from. Behind her was the onion-shaped tree house. The noise came from inside. Afraid of what she might find, Senna started up the steps. Arianis was inside, her arms wrapped around her knees.

Senna glanced behind her, looking for another Witch who could help. There were none to be seen. Cautiously, she stepped into the room. “Are you hurt?”

Arianis’ head jerked up. Her eyes were swollen from crying. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and looked away. “No.”

Stopping in the center of the room, Senna swallowed. “Arianis…I’m sorry.”

Arianis chuckled bitterly. “I have always been the best singer, the fastest learner. Trained from childhood to defeat Espen. And then you came along.” She pulled her sleeve over her palm and wiped her cheeks. “And now I’m the one thing I’ve always been afraid of—average.”

Senna was rooted to the spot. She wanted to be anywhere but here. “You’ll never be average.”

“Average, above average. It’s still not the best.” Arianis pushed herself up and strode toward the door, but she stopped when she drew level with Senna. “Just remember it’s harder to stay at the top than it is to get there.”

Senna listened as the other girl’s footsteps slowly faded behind her. She closed her eyes. She didn’t want the responsibility, the attention. But somehow it wanted her. Shaking her head, she stumbled backwards. Something cracked beneath her weight. She’d stepped on a framed map that had tipped over during the earth tremor.

Absently, she picked it up. It was the desert nation they’d been learning about, Harshen. The frame had broken in the fall. The corner was crushed and part of the canvas ripped. Rain had stolen through the smashed windows and made the parchment swell and the ink run. It was ruined. Discarding the frame, Senna carefully picked up the board the canvas was attached to and set it on the table to keep anyone else from stepping on it.

As she turned to leave, a bit of color caught her eye. Peeking behind the dirty brown of the desert was a splash of faded blue. Carefully, she peeled back the map. There was another canvas beneath this one.

Curiosity suddenly seizing her, Senna tugged back the corner of the top canvas. Sepia had stained the canvas below with age, and the ink had faded. The shores were bound in what must have once been emerald green. Lakes and rivers dotted the land. Senna studied the coastline—one that looked hauntingly familiar.

Horror clutched her throat in an icy fist as Senna laid the newer map over the older one. She folded the desert canvas back to follow the outline of the newer coast. They were the same shoreline. But the rivers, lakes, and green were gone.

Her breathing came fast and hard. With Witch song to control nature, this kind of destruction didn’t happen unless Haven
made
it happen.

Suddenly not caring, Senna ripped the newer canvas off and threw it. It spun before settling on the floor. She stared at the map before her. Rolling hills of green, with high mountain peaks capped in white. Rivers and lakes. Cities and rich fields. And in the far right corner, “Harshen” was written in fine calligraphy. Senna reached toward the ornate lettering, but stopped as if touching it might burn her.

Cities dotted the canvas, their buildings enlarged to show strange architecture—roofs with turned up corners and wide porches. She scanned the names of cities written in smaller script. Pennil, Upton, Webick…she froze. In the center of the snow-capped mountains was a city with the most ornate buildings yet, Rinnish—the Sacred City.

“Tarten was not the first.” Her gaze darted around the walls of the room, at all the other maps, all the other nations. And she wondered what horrors were hidden beneath fresh canvas—how many dead the Witches had heaped upon the world. “No wonder they hate us.”

Filled with a sudden rage, she pulled down another map. Ignoring the pain in her hand, she dug her fingers into the gap between wood backing and frame. It pulled apart with a screech of protesting nails. She peeled back the top canvas. There was nothing behind it.

Senna pulled down another and separated the frame. Nothing. She took down a third map—another desert. The frame gave with a crack, leaving a jagged edge of wood that left splinters in her fingers. Blood dripped onto the maps, leaving garish rivers of red.

She barely felt the pain. There was another map beneath, a verdant land bustling with cities that had been transformed into a desert. Her bloody fingerprints left tracks across it.

Skipping the lands with rich green fields and plenteous water, she pulled down every map featuring a desert. Each had a map of green beneath. Her fingers were raw and her healing hand burned by the time she was done.

There were six of them. Six times the Witches had annihilated an entire region.

Senna leaned against one of the scattered desks, her mind numb with horror. This destruction was not common knowledge. Of that, Senna was sure. The Heads would know the truth, but she had a gut feeling they’d never admit it.

But there was one woman who might. With a deep breath, Senna gathered herself and ran from the tree house. Outside, it was already past midday. The path she’d chosen was completely blocked by a felled tree. Flying past Witches and Guardians alike, she cut straight through the foliage to another path. Some called after her, wondering if she was all right, if she needed help.

She ignored them until she reached her tree house. She glanced inside. There were a dozen Witches lying on blankets in the parlor. It was well known that Sacra was a former Head of Plants—not because she excelled at potions or plants, but because of her propensity for healing.

Taking a steadying breath, Senna stepped inside. The Witches waiting for treatment didn’t look serious. Most were just banged up. A few were bleeding.

She knelt next to her mother. “Mother, I need to speak with you.”

Sacra glanced up, her eyes bleary. “Hand me the garku, will you?”

Feeling guilty, Senna studied the injured. She didn’t think the foreign Witches would risk attacking Haven again so soon. Whatever was going on with the desert countries could wait, at least a little while. She set about helping her mother with the Healing.

Before they’d finished, the Guardians had brought in another dozen Witches, and the day was tentatively approaching twilight.

Senna washed up and changed her dress before going back downstairs to speak with her mother. Another Witch had come in—this one with a twisted ankle.

Senna handed over the ointment without thought. “I need to speak with you in private.”

Sacra’s hands slowed. “Now’s not the time, Brusenna.” Her mother applied a salve for swelling.

Senna fished out the strips of cotton from her mother’s satchel. “I know they turned Harshen into a desert, just like Tarten.”

The strips of cotton stilled in her mother’s hands. “How do you know that?”

The Witch with the twisted ankle watched them with wide eyes.

Senna folded her arms across her chest. “I know of six for sure. Are there any more?”

“I’ll be right back,” her mother said to the Witch. She grabbed Senna’s arm and hauled her outside, beyond earshot. “Tarten is the first in a long time.”

“How many?” Senna whispered.

Sacra gestured back to her tree house. “She’s hurt, Senna. I think that’s a bit more important than your silly questions!”

Senna clenched her jaw. “This is important, too.”

Her mother turned to go back. Senna watched her walk away and knew she’d never give up the answers. Some impulse made her blurt, “What of Lilette and Calden?”

Sacra froze mid-stride. She whirled back and grabbed Senna’s arm, her chest heaving. “Where did you hear those names?” she said in a harsh whisper.

Her fingernails dug into Senna’s skin. She jerked free. “I want the truth, Mother.”

Sacra slowly opened her clenched hands. They were shaking. “Where did you hear those names?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Her mother squeezed her eyes shut. “Before I ever became the Head of Plants, I was sworn to never reveal the secrets of the Discipline Heads. I
can’t
tell you.”

Senna folded her hands across her chest. “Can’t or won’t?”

Her mother met her glare with one of her own. “Knowledge is a powerful thing. For once learned, certain things cannot be unlearned, no matter how much you might wish it.”

Senna stiffened. “You kept me in the dark before and it nearly cost me my life.”

Her mother sucked air through her teeth. “Lilette…Lilette and Calden were centuries ago, when all of Haven bustled with Witches. Before we were reduced to this” —she gestured toward the abandoned quarter— “pitiful existence.”

Senna waited for her mother to go on, but she didn’t. “So you would have me remain ignorant?”

Sacra shook her head. “Not ignorant—innocent.”

Senna threw her arms out. “Innocence won’t save me from what’s coming for me—what’s coming for all of Haven.”

“But it might save you from yourself,” her mother whispered. “You would have knowledge, Daughter, but what if the knowledge destroys you?”

A cold knot of fear wormed its way into Senna’s stomach. Was this what the Heads were talking about the first time she’d eavesdropped? Something beginning and Senna dying. “You’ll have to trust me to make that choice.”

Sacra’s eyes were over-bright. “Being Creator-touched isn’t a blessing—it’s a curse. You are a catalyst, Brusenna. And the change you wreak will use you up.” Her mother tipped her face up to study the sky as if it might hold the answers. “I might be able to keep you safe, if only you’ll come with me.”

Senna was in danger because she was Creator-touched? Her heart pounded with fear. She tried to imagine spending the rest of her life hiding what she was, and running every time the truth was found out. “I can’t, Mother.”

Sacra let out a shaky breath. “And I can’t force you.”

Senna shook her head. “I don’t understand the connection between me and something that happened centuries ago.”

Her mother opened her mouth then closed it again. “Tell me how you heard of Lilette, and I’ll tell you what happened between Haven and Calden.”

Senna wanted to tell her mother, wanted to share the burden all secrets become. That death and dying lands haunted her dreams. That something dark hunted Haven, something deadly. But her mother would only try harder to force her to leave. She shook her head as she backed away. “I can’t.”

“The great irony is you berate me for my secrets, Daughter, and yet you keep your own.”

Senna glanced up at the sky visible between the leaves. It would be fully dark in a couple hours. She’d wasted enough time. She marched away, feeling her mother’s gaze boring into her back. There were so many secrets swirling between them. But Senna had a good idea where to find their answers. And how to get to them.

One thing she knew for certain—secrets were sometimes necessary, but they were always dangerous.

Stumbling over broken branches, Senna checked the barracks, the sparring field, the shooting range. But Joshen was nowhere to be found. Although it seemed everyone she asked had seen him somewhere, by the time she arrived, he’d already left.

When she did finally find him, she was shocked. She heard the unmistakable sound of Joshen’s voice, followed by tinkling laughter. Heat built on her skin. She stepped slowly into Arianis’ kitchen. The smells of frying fish and lemons filled the air. He sat at the table, laughing about something. They both looked up when Senna came in.

Joshen smiled at her. “Senna, you’ve got to try this cod. Best I’ve ever had.”

Senna didn’t take her eyes from Arianis. Her rich brown hair fell in fetching waves around her shoulders. Her large eyes were the color of cinnamon. Her skin was impossibly smooth, with natural rose hues. She was a soft beauty. The more you looked at her, the more striking she became.

“Senna?”

“I’m sure it is,” Senna replied. She knew what Arianis saw in Joshen. He was handsome—tall, with broad shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist. In the lantern’s wavering light, his normally dark brown hair appeared black.

But Senna knew things Arianis didn’t. He always talked with his mouth full, stole from her plate, and often ate the best bits first. Normally, he was easygoing, but when her safety was concerned, he grew stubborn and bossy. His ears stuck out a bit, and his chin was a little soft, though his neatly trimmed beard and longer hair hid both rather nicely.

Despite knowing all his faults, she still thought he was beautiful.

He smiled and took another bite. “You want some? I’m sure there’s enough.”

Senna grunted. With Joshen, one could never be sure of enough food. “No. I’m really not hungry.”

With a disbelieving shrug, he turned back to eating.

Senna looked Arianis up and down. “Joshen, I need to speak with you.”

“I need to report back to Leader Reden anyway.” He deftly shoved the rest of his meal in his mouth, tipped back the mug, and nodded to Arianis. “Thanks again.”

Senna followed Joshen into the open. He held out her pistol. “I unloaded and cleaned it before loading it again. Try to keep it out of the rain.”

She took it silently. “Joshen, why were you at Arianis’ house?”

He looked down at her as if she were daft. “You said she was upset, so I came to check on her. She offered me dinner. I’ve hardly eaten anything all day.”

That meant he hadn’t finished off a school of fish by himself. Senna tried to cool her anger. After all, Joshen’s intentions were good, and he was oblivious to any form of subtlety. Things were what they appeared to be. Nothing more. She took a deep breath. “Joshen, Arianis is using you to hurt me.”

He was silent for a moment. “She should be angry with Coyel, not you.”

Senna shrugged. “Coyel is well beyond Arianis’ reach. I’m not. So you see why she might come after you?”