Page 3 of Stolen Magic (All That Glitters #2)
I woke with a start, my heart racing as the last tendrils of my nightmare clung stubbornly to my consciousness—the flames, the screams, my mother's lifeless eyes—all burned behind my lids, vivid and relentless.
I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the images to dissolve back into the darkness, but they persisted, adding new details that haunted me with their clarity.
The suffocating blackness beneath the trapdoor where Mother had hidden me, being forced to listen to the sounds of the struggle that took place while imprisoned within my powerlessness to stop it, the destruction that awaited me when I emerged…
and worst of all the sight of Mother’s corpse in the ransacked garden that had once been filled with magical herbs.
I took several steadying breaths, struggling to emerge from the familiar prison of horror and regret.
Even with years of practice, it still took several minutes each morning to unravel the entangling threads binding me.
A nightmare, only a nightmare…yet one born from a memory that had tainted me ever since its occurrence.
With painstaking effort rendered from years of practice, I managed to suppress it, locking it away in a secluded section of my subconscious where I knew it would only remain until tonight.
The images slowly faded…save the vision of the amber flames that burst to life at my command, accompanied by the usual burning vengeance that threatened to ignite the spark of power that still existed deep within me.
On cue, the seal blocking my magic seared, immediately extinguishing it like a snuffed-out candle. I winced at the sharp, throbbing pain that over the years had become another extension of myself and glared at the inky symbol branding my palm.
It was a miserable reminder not only of what had happened to me, but to the whole kingdom of Myrona.
My loss had not been the only one; I later learned that the Eldorian army—guided by several powerful mages—had swept across our land, stealing all magic and exterminating any mages who dared to resist. Every several months, the Eldorians made a reappearance and occasionally arrested a magic user in hiding or confiscated a cache of magic, but I was apparently no threat with my sealed power, or perhaps my shabby home was too far from civilization to come to their notice.
I grimaced and squeezed my hand into a fist, concealing the heart of the cursed mark.
The eerie design manifested as a twine of thorny bramble that dug deep into my skin.
When it had first appeared it had been nothing more than dark, vein-like markings that crept across my hand, but over the years of stubbornly fighting against the curse that cut off access to my powers, each failed attempt to use them had caused it to grow, until its inky markings now extended partway up my arm.
Whenever I attempted a spell, the pain ranged from a dull ache to sharp stabs, each a constant reminder of my loss. Time hadn’t lessened my despair at being cut off from a part of myself I’d only just begun to explore before it was cruelly snatched away.
I released a frustrated sigh and forced myself to sit up, knowing that the longer I lingered within the nightmare’s reach the more it would haunt my waking hours.
The memory revisited me every night without fail, yet I never grew used to its sinister presence, as prevalent as hunger’s assaulting hold.
With an exhausted groan, I threw off my thin, patchy blanket and swung my legs over the edge of the rickety bed.
The floorboards were cold beneath my feet, a reminder of the stark reality that awaited me beyond the realm of dreams. On the crude wooden shelf beside my bed lay a cracked mirror, the only remnant of the life before my loss where such things had been commonplace and not luxuries.
I didn’t dare light a candle—wax was expensive, while daylight was free.
I glanced into the mirror, barely making out my features in the faint, pre-dawn light, my face resembling Mother’s more with each passing day…
save for the shadows beneath my eyes, a testament to ten years of endless nights frequently interrupted by horrors of the past.
The rough, hewn wood making up the thin walls did little to keep out the chill or the damp. A single window with curtains patched with fabric from a worn-out dress let in only the faintest light, offering a view of the equally bleak surrounding woods where I lived.
The meager possessions I had managed to gather since my home had burned cluttered the small room, no more than a few paces across.
My tiny abode was sparsely furnished—a table built from scavenged wood stood against one wall, surrounded by a couple of mismatched chairs that had seen better days.
Various herbs hung from the ceiling, their silhouettes like specters in the dimness, drying for the potions and remedies that now provided my meager livelihood.
Their presence offered the only hint to my past—with the absence of the spellbooks and potions that had once occupied the home Mother had cultivated, my hovel did little to testify that a witch lived here…but even without the evidence of my powers, magic had not been forgotten.
In one cramped corner lay my small cooking area, a dented pot and an old pan sitting atop a crude hearth, along with stale, week-old bread that would comprise my breakfast along with any berries I gathered en route to the village.
Ashes from last night’s fire lay scattered in the tiny hearth, cold and grey.
I would need to gather more wood, a daily chore that at least offered a reason to step outside, away from the oppressive memories that this room held.
I quickly pulled on a worn dress that had been mended too many times, its patched fabric thinning.
As I buttoned up the front, my fingers brushed against the seal on my hand, the raised skin a constant reminder of my current impotence.
It tingled, as if mocking me with the magic that had once been mine, now trapped just beneath the surface, inaccessible and distant.
Though I lived in poverty, my lack of money and basic necessities was nothing to my current lack of the power stolen from me.
I left the suffocating confines of my hovel, the cool morning air an instant relief to the choking mustiness of my dreary home.
As the first rays of morning light filtered through the leafy canopy, I set about my daily preparations with a practiced efficiency born of necessity.
A short distance away I’d constructed a makeshift workbench—little more than a plank of wood balanced on two stumps—where I organized my collection of dried herbs and vials I’d molded of clay from the nearby stream bank.
Mother’s teachings echoed in my mind as I measured and mixed, crafting the salves and tinctures that had become my lifeline.
I started with a batch of healing salve, known in the village for its efficacy against cuts and burns.
The base was simple— comprised solely of beeswax and olive oil—but the effectiveness lay in the blend of comfrey and calendula.
Each stir felt like a whisper from the past, a reminder of days spent learning at Mother’s side, her hands guiding mine until I knew the motions by heart.
Next, I prepared a series of poultices for swelling and aches, mixing clay with arnica—a powerful herb for bruising, taught to me beneath the shade of our garden’s elder tree.
The seal on my hand stretched uncomfortably as I worked, a dull reminder of the magic that once would have made these tasks not only easier, but far more potent.
Upon finishing, I packed the remedies in my worn satchel and rolled my sleeve up, smoothing a layer of concealing balm over the dark mark on my palm and wrist. I couldn’t risk anyone seeing that I’d been magically marked in a time when magic was illegal…
not to mention it would likely drive away any customers.
Upon finishing, I donned my cloak and stepped onto the well-worn path leading from my isolated hovel to the village that resided half a kilometer away. The familiar route wound through the remnants of the forest that had once witnessed my life’s greatest tragedy.
In the solitude of nature I collected wild edibles—berries to eat as well as to use for tinctures, nuts to sell or barter, and mushrooms that fetched a good price at market.
The deeper into the forest I ventured, the more valuable the herbs—such as ghost pipe and witch’s hair, rare and sought after by the few who knew their properties.
Once I’d gathered my ingredients, I walked the remaining distance to the slowly waking village, arriving by mid-morning.
I passed the usual collection of small farms, wincing at the sight of the small, yellowing crops that struggled in the fields.
The magic that had once made Myrona vibrant and fertile had been stripped away, leaving a land that suffered.
It was a relief to finally enter the village, even though evidence of magic’s loss was abundant here too—shabby homes that could not be repaired by the impoverished owners, a nearly dry well, a blighted flower garden in a futile attempt to add beauty.
Turning off of the main street to the village square, I found my fellow vendors busily setting up shop for the day.
I welcomed the noise of normalcy, anything to drown out the lingering echoes of my nightmares, distant yet as present as my shadow.
Here in the light of day I could pretend—at least for a moment—that I was just another villager rather than a witch whose very soul had been scorched by betrayal.