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“My father is a witch. His wife is a witch. Most likely a good portion of their court are witches. Who knows what wards he has cast that I could accidentally trip if I were to approach using magic. I want to appeal to him in peace, not have him descend on me like a demon. We are just outside of his territory. I want to be properly prepared before we enter it.” She plucks a black strand from my head and ignores my protest.

“Why did you do that?”

Ágota ignores me. Digging into the moist ground with her fingers, she mutters under her breath. She takes my hair and the pinch of dirt and mushes them together before adding the mess to the small pouch. Lips silently moving, she consults the book again.

I grow bored watching her and gaze over the field toward the castle in the distance. It is not very large, and the town at its base is a modest size. The walls are high and banners with a flaming tree flutter in the wind. Carts, horses, and travelers on foot wind their way along the mountain pass toward the large gate. I crane my head to peer up at the Carpathian Mountains shrouded in thick gray clouds. The air is moist and smells of coming storms. I have never been here before, yet Transylvania seems very familiar. Though my father ruled Moldavia, he was born in Transylvania. Perhaps my affinity for this new place is because of my heritage.

Ágota’s breathy chanting draws my attention back to her. Eyes rolled back into her skull, she sways as her hands hover over the small pouch. The protective circle around us glows ever brighter and her fingers twitch as arcs of white magic pulse out of the tips. There is a burst of white light from the small bag and then the world grows very still. Even the grass and wildflowers stop swaying as the breeze comes to a halt. Magic trembles in the air and pricks against my skin. There is a loud pop and the world springs back into motion.

“Did it work?” I am uncertain of what she is doing, therefore unclear as to what I should expect.

Ágota’s eyes return to normal and she plucks the pouch from the ground. With a gleeful grin, she pulls it open and upends it onto her lap. A small ring falls out.

“It worked!” Ágota plucks the ring from the folds of her skirt and stares at it with delight. “Is it not lovely?”

The ring appears to be made of bronze and is adorned with intricate carvings on the band. Peering closer, I see that the engravings depict the elements Ágota used in its creation, including a tree, a wolf, herbs, flowers, and more. The stones are fused together into a large oval, one the color of my hair. The center of the stone is engraved with a mysterious arcane symbol.

Ágota grabs my hand and thrusts the ring onto my forefinger. “Never take this off.”

I stare at the ring, a little repulsed by its appearance, for it is rather ugly. “Why not?”

“This ring will allow me to protect you. It is a channel for my power. It connects us.” Ágota kisses me on the cheek and stands. “Now I am ready to face my father.”

“Why did not you make this before?” I recall the foreboding silent forest and the strange man beside the stream.

“I had to wait until we were here. In the land where we will live. I needed earth from the soil we’ll live on, eat from, and probably die on.”

“That sounds awful, Ágota.”

With a bright laugh, she says, “Does it not? But magic is sometimes awful.”

“Can I wear it around my neck on a chain instead?”

Ágota wags her head at me. “No. On your finger. That’s what the spell says. Do not be difficult.”

“I am not! Cannot you make it prettier?” I waggle my fingers at her.

“Ugh!” My sister throws up her hands in annoyance as she scuffs out the protection circle with her toes. “It does not have to be pretty!”

A thunderous roar rumbles across the field. I jump with fright, lifting my eyes to the darkening sky. Lightning flashes through the cloud cover in a burst of vibrant, almost blinding light.

“Ágota, what is it?”

My sister does not answer me.

I turn about to see her standing between me and maybe a dozen men and women clad in long dark cloaks. Arms thrust out to her sides, she flexes her fingers, a clear warning to the newcomers. Dark hair rippling about her shoulders, she says, “

Erjy, come stand behind me.”

Warily, I obey while the strangers watch my every move.

“Announce yourself!” an enormous man, taller than I have ever seen before, barks at Ágota. He is obviously the leader, for his cloak is more ornate and he wears a simple bronze circlet on his head. Masses of dark curly hair fall to his wide shoulders, but his beard is fiery red. White scars crisscross his face beneath heavily-lidded hazel eyes. I perceive my sister in his features and deduce this is Balázs.

“Ágota, Archwitch of the Lost Witch World,” my sister answers, lifting her chin defiantly.

Standing at Balázs’s side, a middle-aged woman with blonde hair braided and looped over one shoulder snarls with contempt. “A liar.”

“There is only one Archwitch,” Balázs says, his dark eyebrows lowering over his fierce gaze.