“Rin, darling, that’s taking things too far…” Greya cautioned.
“Go organise our defence,” Desre said. “Now.”
Rin’s anger simmered. Wordlessly, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the hall. Desre turned to Greya. “You’ve walked him through what he’s to do?” she checked.
“Er, no. Hadn’t got to that yet. He started talking, you see. I wanted to cut out his tongue, but he claims he needs it for the spell. And then Rin insisted that we bring him straight here to get rid of my crow’s feet as soon as –”
“Do shut up,” Desre said. “Stand upright.”
Nick’s back muscles shivered in relief as the kit released the pressure on the back of his head. He found himself eye level with Desre; she stood on the middle step leading to the dais, only an arm’s length away. He met her eyes. Her terrifying anger. Every thought of his own safety vanished; he thought only of Kit as a little boy, dragged here and forced to watch as his parents were killed in front of him.
“Your nose is crooked,” Nick said.
Nick’s sternum took another blow. Same spot. Same strength. He groaned, starting to crumple, but they didn’t let him, forcing him upright. He bit into his pain, taking it by the teeth. He sneered at Desre. He wasn’t going to back down from her, not an inch; consequences be damned.
Her black eyes stared back, full of hate. Nick bet there’d never been anything in her but the poisonous emotion. He bet she was born rotten to the core.
Desre climbed the half dozen steps to the altar. “Aridia was once blessed by a god. Healthy children. Lush fields. Wealth.” She settled her hands upon the edge of the altar, looking past it to the large stained-glass window that dominated the far wall. Moonlight shone through the coloured glass in beams of gold and blue. “It was a generous blessing, but a limited one. I have been the keeper of this blessing for many years, preserving it. Sharing it. Protecting it.”
Greya carted a silver tray holding two clear glasses and a silver ladle to her side. She raised a finger, and Nick was urged up the steps towards them. The moment he reached the top step, he realised the odd circular altar was no altar at all.
It was a well.
The outer layer was constructed with pristine white stone blocks with grey veins. The inner layer was grey stone, crusted with algae and moss, patchy and crumbling. The water level came to a foot below the top stones, and the light didn’t pierce far enough for Nick to see the bottom. There was a shadow in the gloom, something golden.
Desre stared into the well, as if she could see the bottom clearly and whatever lay there captivated her. “The kits were a race of thieves before I joined their midst, hardly able to focus on any task long enough to build anything or make anything of themselves. Before me, the only stone structure in Aridia was this well… He found their race fascinating. He’d sit on thestones, and I’d tell him all about them.” She smiled as if recalling fond memories. But as she stared at the shape in the gloom of the water’s depths, the smile faded. “Not that a pack of animals was enough to keep a god’s attention… Water is given to farmers who have proven their loyalty. Newborns are baptised here, so long as their family proves their worth.”
Nick could only assume ‘loyalty’ meant total obedience to the council and nothing else. “So the crops are failing because you stopped letting them use this water. People are starving because you”—Nick reasoned it out—“didn’t know if you could find another witch to replace it, and you didn’t want to let anyone but yourselves benefit from it.”
“We’ve hardly benefited either!” Greya said, as if he’d suffered a great wrong. “The minute we realised witches weren’t as powerful as they used to be, we only took the absolute minimum of draughts. We don’t want to upset the balance of the—the concentration ratio, erm, why was it again?” He looked at Desre for an answer.
“The water level cannot drop any further,” Desire replied.
If Greya wanted her to elaborate, it didn’t show. Desre took the silver ladle and dipped it into the well water. She carefully poured it into a glass and then lifted it. Greya gazed enviously at the full glass as she walked past him. She came to stand in front of Nick.
Particles like flakes of small gold were suspended in the water, catching the light as they floated in a lazy, circular current.
“Our last witch could perform this spell once a day. You’ll do the same.”
“I can’t think of a single reason why you would think I’d obey you.” Nick smiled, and though he knew he was a bruised and wretched thing to look at, he didn’t care. “Your little trick doesn’t work on me, remember?”
Greya snapped to attention. “What do you mean it doesn’t work?”
Desre held out the glass. “Hold this.”
Greya took it with the utmost reverence, cradling it with both hands.
“Your knife.” Desre gestured to the kit at Nick’s side, and he handed over his silver blade, hilt first.
Nick raised his chin and stared her down. He wasn’t afraid, not of her. He refused the emotion outright. He wanted her to see that he thought nothing of her. Wanted her to see that she wasn’t as powerful as she thought.
“Hold out his right arm. Twist the elbow up.”
Nick’s eyes widened. He wrenched a step back but was caught, grappled onto his knees. Hard, impossibly strong hands held him still.
Desre smiled. “I waited until I was here to check our notes, but I was right in my suspicions. You don’t needallof these to do what I want. And fortunately, you left behind a broken slate telling me exactly what spell shielded you.” She pressed the blade against Nick’s skin, above the symbol that had burned whenever she tried to use her power on him. With an easy yank, razor-sharp silver parted muscle, skin, and non-permanent ink.
Nick stared in horror at the symbol, now split apart by a deep gash. He had only a second to register its destruction before blood flowed from his arm and hid the ruin. With a careless flick of her wrist, Desre threw the knife away. It skidded across the stone floor, staining the white marble with drops of blood.
