Otto
It should have been uncomfortable, sleeping in a meadow under the stars. Although God knows we did enough rough sleeping when fleeing Trier. But it’s peaceful, and the blooms that are here because of Fritzi’s magic wrap us in soft scents and petals.
I wake up near dawn, the sun rising over the mountains, a vivid, fiery red that seems impossibly bright. I don’t move. Fritzi is wrapped in my arms and my tunic, but soon enough she stirs and stretches luxuriously.
“I don’t remember the last time I slept so well,” she says, her eyes still closed. She nuzzles into my chest. My arm tightens around her, and she whispers, “Mine.”
“Yours?” I ask, bemused.
“This spot. Right here. This spot on your chest. It was made for my head to rest on. It is mine.”
“Yours,” I confirm, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. “Good morning, my hexe.”
Distantly, I hear a horn, the sound low and melodic but insistent all the same.
“We should go,” I say without moving.
“They can’t very well do the bonding ceremony without us.”
Horse hooves—slow and plodding—thud on the ground near us, and Fritzi and I have just enough time to make ourselves somewhat presentable before Skokse emerges from the Black Forest. The horse blows out a breath of grass-scented air from her nostrils. Atop her bare back sits Liesel, curls perfect, cloak spread out behind her.
“There you are,” she says impatiently. “Come on. Everyone’s waiting.”
“Everyone’s waiting?” Fritzi asks. “It’s barely dawn.”
“Yes, and I’ve been up for an hour. Rochus said we can’t do anything until this ceremony is over, and Hilde said she’d bake me cookies after, and I’ve run out of parchment, and I have to wait a week until I can get more, and there’s nothing left to do, and it’s time to go.”
I silently vow to never have children.
Liesel scoots up Skokse’s withers, and I use a stump to mount before holding my arm out and lifting Fritzi up. It’s awkward, but Skokse is a warhorse, trained to carry gear and armor far heavier than me and two girls.
By the time we reach the village, it’s well and truly morning, and there’s a bustle of excited activity. We separate to freshen up, and Fritzi swaps that gauzy gown for a dress embroidered with every plant imaginable, so decorated that it’s almost impossible to see the base of green wool. I find that Brigitta has delivered a week’s worth of garments similar to the ones I donned last night, all of them presumably magically enhanced. I select the darkest pair of leggings and a tunic more black than blue.
Fritzi meets me at the base of the tree with Cornelia in tow. “Whereare we going?” I ask as Cornelia leads us down a path deeper into the Forest.
“Near the Origin Tree,” the priestess says, setting a fast clip. “Something this special, well…we wanted to do it right.”
The Origin Tree. My hand goes unconsciously to my chest, feeling the new tattoo on my skin. I need to ask Brigitta what sort of power the Tree sigil on my skin may grant me, how I can use the magic without drawing too much from Fritzi. There are two types of training for me to complete in order to be a suitable warrior for my witch. I must hone my body, but I also need to explore this new magical bond.
With Dieter out of the picture, there are still enemies to face, threats that I must ensure are met. Last night’s celebration in Baden-Baden, that unity between two different groups of people who had once been deadly opposed—that’s worth fighting for. And I am certain it’s the type of peace that can be achieved widely.
How can I not believe we can change the world if Fritzi is by my side?
Cornelia slows as we go along a narrow path skirting the coven. In the Black Forest, there are plenty of trees, but I’ve yet to seetheTree. I know it’s southeast from the main coven, set off on a higher peak and, from the way the others have spoken, near a lake. I know also that few in the Well coven visit the Tree. The main priest and priestesses do; Brigitta, as captain of the guard, accompanies them. I think the others have seen the Origin Tree before, but as a special-occasion event, not regularly.
My suspicions on that are confirmed as the village comes alive, a current of excitement zinging through each person as they join us on the path.
I asked once why more didn’t visit the Tree. Brigitta tried to explain—much like the Black Forest had helped to protect the Well by keeping others out, forcing Fritzi, Liesel, and me to overcome a test set by thegoddesses before we gained entry, the Origin Tree is similarly protected, only allowing people to draw close when they are needed.
“We protect it, of course,”Brigitta added after I’d asked. She waved toward the guards who used spells as well as regular patrols.“But the Tree is sacred. It is the link between magic and mundane, between mortals and goddesses. And so it protects itself.”
I can feel a buzz of excitement as we draw nearer. Some people had already set out before Cornelia collected Fritzi and me. Their mood is infectious—I feel myself practically vibrating with anticipation. But there’s a coil of fear tightening inside my stomach as well.
Technically, bonding with Fritzi is going to be nothing more than drinking a highly powerful potion, one that could kill me and destroy her magic if she brewed it incorrectly. But no one has bonded like this in living memory, much less a goddess-chosen champion and warrior, so I guess the Origin Tree approves of a little more pomp and ceremony than usual.
Fritzi, who’d been following Cornelia’s quick pace, slows down a little until she’s side by side with me. She slips her hand in mine, and I give her fingers a squeeze.
The crowd behind us has grown. Liesel darts in and out of the people, seemingly on a first-name basis with every single witch in the coven. I take a moment to appreciate this new home I’ve found—because my home is not the room I share with Fritzi in the trees, but instead, it’s this. It’s Hartung, who wakes before everyone else in the Well to bake bread. It’s Alberta, who sharpened my blade for me when she saw me struggling with a whetstone. It’s Manegold who teaches the children spells and spelling, and it’s Volkwinna who patches their scraped knees. In Bernkastel, I had only the smoke from the fire that consumed my mother. I could never feel a sense of community among those who haddone nothing but watch her burn. And in Trier, I was surrounded by enemies. There were the orphans who I helped and who helped me. With a pang, I send a prayer up, hoping they’re okay. Trier, though, even with the few friends I could count on, had been a mission.
