“At best, traditions with no meaning are wasted time,” I say. “And at worst, they kill.”
“If a tradition would kill my children, then they should kill it first.” Abnoba stares into my eyes. “It was not just Fritzi who chose you as a warrior, Otto Ernst.”
The weight of the goddess’s expectation settles on my shoulders.
“What are you saying we should do?” Fritzi asks.
I feel heat. I don’t see the flames of the Origin Tree—all I see is this misty nowhere place—but I think I’m starting to feel the fire.
“Are you saying that we should let the Origin Tree burn?” I ask.
Abnoba laughs. “I’m saying it’s going to burn now whether you want it to or not.”
“So the world will flood with magic,” Fritzi says slowly.
“Yes,” Abnoba says, tilting her face to the flames that are gradually becoming visible. “And isn’t that wonderful?”
“Are we all going to die?” I ask.
“Oh, definitely,” Abnoba says. “Eventually, anyway.”
Fear is a tightly coiled snake biting at my guts. “Will the flood of magic kill off all of humanity?” I snap. “There is an apocalypse happening currently, remember?”
Abnoba takes another step closer to me and lifts her walking stick, thunking the knotted top on my chest. Where my tattoo is. “You think this was an accident? You’re a human, boy. And you’re bonded with a witch. You’ve felt her magic now. What do you think?” She eyes me, squinting. “We designed traditions to protect, not limit. We taught the witches spells and how to access the Well because they were children then, centuries ago. Children with enemies who wanted to hurt them.”
“There are still enemies that want to hurt them,” I whisper.
“Yes, but they’re not children anymore, are they?” Abnoba’s smile turns sad. “Not even little Liesel.”
I shake my head mutely.
“Holda would free everything. Perchta would free nothing,” Abnoba says, tapping her stick against the wood. “But when you’re as old as me, you realize: the only thing left to do is let the children decide for themselves who they want to be.”
28
Fritzi
Who they want to be.
I look up at Otto, head ringing with everything he said, everything Abnoba said, all these words and possibilities swirling around me in a storm of building potential.
Who they want to be.
Who doIwant to be?
The answer has been many things. I wanted to be a good witch. I wanted to be someone my mother was proud of. I wanted to be someone worthy of my brother’s attention and love. Then I wanted to survive, to rescue my cousin from the hexenjägers, to besafe.
I wanted, and wanted, and sometimes I got what I wanted and sometimes that wanting almost killed me.
But throughout every iteration, I had access to magic in all its varying forms. I had this tool that elevated me even in the darkest, most horrific situations. It gave me a light when all was blue-black, a light that I cameto take for granted. A light that I was able to share with Otto, and we may not be the best at using this bond between us, but when I look up at him now, I see the same questions in his eyes.
“Could we…?” I pause, lick my dry lips. “Dieter broke open the Tree. The magic isn’t going into him?”
“He will try to direct it,” Abnoba says. “But what will you try to do?”
“Magic will flood out into the world,” I continue, pieces coming together, “unless we give that magic somewhere else to go.”
“Somewhere else?” Otto asks, doubt marring his face. “You? Would you survive it going into you?”
