Page 12 of The Shadowed Throne (Midlife Fairy Tale #4)
A nyka picked her way across the uneven ground of the cemetery, past numerous monuments to kings and queens of old, to where Wyett was standing. Just in front of him was the troll stonecaller.
Anyka took a spot near Wyett as the stonecaller worked her magic. Trog stayed some distance away, watching the surrounding area.
“How long has she been at this?” Anyka whispered.
“She’s only just begun,” he whispered back.
Brentha stood in one of the few flat areas of the cemetery, the mountains to her back, the sea before her. She’d laid out a circle in the grass marked with shards of obsidian that she must have brought with her. The shards glinted like black diamonds in the sun.
She chanted softly to herself, words in the troll tongue Anyka didn’t understand.
With small steps, Brentha made her way around the circle, sprinkling the ashes and black thistle seed as she went.
There seemed to be something else in the mix, something pale that caught the light.
Tiny crystals of some kind. Perhaps salt.
Anyka waited, knowing Brentha would need her at some point. She’d said she’d need blood to cast this spell, and Anyka, so Anyka took that to mean the woman wanted her blood.
As Brentha completed the third pass around the circle, the shadows disappeared. Clouds had moved in off the sea, covering the sun and leaving only a few traces of blue sky.
Was that the stonecaller’s doing or a happy coincidence?
Anyka didn’t know, but the darkness grew curious, increasing her own curiosity as well.
She moved closer as Brentha positioned herself in the center of the circle.
She pulled a bone-handled dagger from under her cloak, the obsidian blade gleaming even in the gray light.
She nodded at Anyka. “Your highness. Step carefully over the line of the circle and please join me.”
Feeling a slight bit of trepidation over what was coming next, Anyka moved forward carefully, lifting her gown as she stepped into the circle.
As soon as she crossed over the line, the small hairs on the back of her neck stood up for a reason that had nothing to do with her part in this spell or the darkness she carried.
A malicious energy coursed over her, eager, hungry, searching for anything she had to offer it. She shivered. Whatever this circle contained, it reminded her of when Nazyr had contacted the Beyond and summoned her mother’s spirit.
The darkness inside her took notice, rising up to greet whatever Brentha had called.
Anyka didn’t like it, but she swallowed and did her best to ignore what she was feeling. To not let the darkness take over. This would finish soon, and she would not look weak in front of this woman.
Brentha held out her hand, palm up. “Hold your hand like this and keep it there. Your blood will be the final part of this. The key that sets it all in motion.”
With a short nod, Anyka did as she was asked.
Brentha then lifted both her hands toward the sky and began to speak in a language Anyka knew.
“By bone that burns and blood that weeps, by stone that lies and grief that creeps, I call the ancient mourning fog. I summon the dead to drown the light and darkness spread. Let sorrow hunt, let silence bind, let mourning come to claim its kind.”
Brentha brought her hands down and swiftly pieced Anyka’s palm with the tip of the obsidian dagger.
Anyka gasped at the pain and the surprise.
Brentha grabbed her hand and turned it over so that the blood fell to the ground.
Even when Anyka clenched her fist, the blood continued to drip.
The wound burned. Brentha had gone too deep.
Anger spiraled through Anyka, but then a sound caught her attention.
She looked up at the sound of footsteps.
Wyett was at the edge of the circle, concern blackening his gaze.
She shook her head, refusing to be bested by a troll. “I am fine.”
Brentha let go. “It is done.”
Anyka snatched her hand back, opening her fingers to look at her palm. She whispered a simple healing spell over the wound, concentrating on it until the cut disappeared. She bent and wiped the blood on the grass.
When she stood, her mouth opened in disbelief. Fog had formed in low puddles around the ancient tombstones. It had begun to spill down toward the village and out across the land.
She looked at the stonecaller. “Is that your doing?”
Brentha nodded. “Mourning Fog. Won’t take long to do its work. You’ll have the first results by nightfall. By daybreak, the entire kingdom will feel it.” She frowned at the mist rising up from the earth. “It seems to be moving much more rapidly than it should.”
She grabbed Anyka’s hand and looked at the wound, but it was already gone.
The darkness laughed.
Anyka swallowed. “How do I protect myself? And those near me?”
Brentha dipped her hand into her bag again and pulled out a handful of the ash. “Rub a little on one heel. The fog will pass you by. Any kind of ash will do so long as it was produced from a once-living thing. Wood, animal, plant matter—any of those will do.”
She glanced toward the castle and shook her head. “I thought I set a wide enough circle. It may reach the palace after all.”
Anyka quickly dipped her finger into the ash, then pulled her foot from her slipper and rubbed it on her heel. “Wyett, come. Do this.”
He stepped into the circle and did the same.
“We must get back into the palace and spread the news to the others.”
He nodded. “What do you want me to tell them? That you’ve had a premonition? That Zephynia warned you?”
She’d forgotten he’d been in her quarters when Zephynia had given her latest dire prediction. “Yes, that’s perfect.” Let the old crone have a little glory. It served Anyka’s purpose, and she knew it was the most believable answer.
She looked at Brentha. “Do you have further need of me?”
“No, my lady. I must still close the circle, but your part in it is done. Thank you for your trust in me.”
“Yes, well, see that you leave no trace of what was done here.”
“I won’t. You have my word.” Brentha was still frowning at the ground as if she couldn’t understand how her spell had taken shape so quickly.
Anyka hiked up her gown as she stepped over the line of the circle. She and Wyett made their way down to the cemetery gates where the fog was thicker, almost as if it was caught in the hollows of the garden.
They had no choice but to wade into it after going through the gate.
It whirled around them, cool where it touched her skin beneath her skirts, the dampness of it like lifeless skin.
Images of her parents drifted through her mind as the scent of woodsmoke invaded her senses.
Was that the fog? Was it because she’d just visited their graves?
Or was it because her blood had been used as a catalyst?
Sebastyn’s face appeared in her thoughts next. His cheeks were gaunt, his hair brittle and gray, nothing like what he’d looked like when he died. More like a spirit from the Beyond.
“What is this?” she whispered.
Beside her, Wyett had gone pale, his jaw tight.
“Are you seeing things in your mind?” she asked. “Images of loved ones who’ve passed on?”
He looked at her, eyes haunted by memories she couldn’t know, and nodded. “If this is being untouched by it, I pity those who fall under its full sway.”
She gave a slight nod. “Let’s get inside and spread the word.”
“Or perhaps you could ask the stonecaller to stop it.”
She hesitated at Wyett’s bold words. They might have been framed as a suggestion, but it was clear he thought she’d gone too far. “What is done is done. Take comfort in your esteemed place. Unless you no longer wish to maintain it.”
“No, my lady. I merely thought—” He shook his head. “The visions in my mind are making me unwell. I will be fine.”
“See that you are.” She hurried on to the palace and through the doors that led to one of the main corridors. It didn’t seem that the fog had penetrated this far yet. Perhaps it would take time to seep through the stone walls.
Wyett kept up with her, but the strain on his face made it evident that he was fighting to keep his composure.
A new image entered her mind. Wyett on the castle steps, blood pooling around his broken body. She sucked in a breath.
The sound brought his attention to her. “What is it, my lady?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them and diverted into the nearest room, a small lounge. She went straight to the fireplace, which was cold, but stuck her fingers into the ashes and painted both her heels.
Wyett did the same. “I did not know stonecallers had such power.”
“Nor did I,” Anyka confessed. Did he suspect her blood had altered the spell? She hoped not. “Will you be all right?”
He seemed calmer. “Yes, my lady. I will be fine. How are you?”
“I am…” She didn’t want to answer truthfully. She was shaken. And beginning to doubt the wisdom of what she’d put into motion. “I will be fine. We all will be, if you start spreading the word now .”
“Yes, my lady. With your permission?”
She nodded. “Go.”
As he left, she looked around. She found a small open box on one of the tables, filled with dried flowers and fruits. She dumped them out, filled the box with ashes, and headed for Hawke’s.