“There is one thing that could make me happier.” She smiled at him in the darkness. They’d made love then, both opening themselves to the potential for a baby.
As the days rolled by, even her sisters seemed happy. Circe was dating a man from a nearby village who tended creatures raised for meat, and Isis had found a deep friendship with a team of hunters who frequented the ice forest of the west coast of Darnuith.
All was well for a time.
But then one day everything changed.
“Medea? Medea, come quickly.” Circe ran through the orchard toward her, waving her hands. Her eyes were swollen and red from crying.
“What’s wrong, sister?”
“It’s Queen Ferula. She’s passing into the next world. She’s called all witches to her side. There’s a ceremony—some ancient ritual they perform to pick her successor before she dies.”
As if he sensed her distress, Tavyss flew to Medea’s side from where he’d been harvesting fruit. “What is happening?”
Circe brought him up to speed.
Tavyss took on a far-off look. Medea had seen that expression before when he was thinking about the past or his childhood. “It’s called the Sacred Lots. The witches of Darnuith ask the Fates to bless the next queen. It is a solemn ritual. It would be rude not to attend.”
Medea tucked her wand into her sleeve and helped him ready the horses. Together with Circe, they journeyed to the temple at the heart of Mistcraven, called Maelhaven.
Red wooden pillars stretched three stories toward a clay roof. Medea had never been inside the golden doors of Maelhaven—only the queen was allowed inside the heart of the sacred space—but even in the courtyard, the place made her feel both small and significant, as if she were part of a greater magic than herself.
Today the queen lay on a settee at the center of the square, skin tinted with a gray pallor, eyes rheumy and distant. Her breath came in tiny, barely detectable sips.
Tavyss rubbed Medea’s shoulders supportively as they joined the back of the massive crowd. Every witch in Darnuith was there as far as Medea could tell. They gathered in rings around the dying woman.
A few minutes later, Isis arrived, still dressed in her hunting garb. “I heard the horns. Is it true? Ferula is dying?”
“It appears so,” Medea said. She hadn’t known the queen well and observed the proceedings with a measure of detachment.
“Has she been ill?” Circe asked.
An elderly man in front of them turned around to address Circe’s question. “She is two hundred years old, only held together by alchemy. It is her time.”
At the center of the crowd, Zelaria passed her staff over a giant cauldron in front of the settee. At her prompting, the crowd began to move, circling in front of the queen, each witch, young and old, male and female, reaching inside.
“What is this?” Medea asked. “What do we do?”
“Take a stone from the cauldron. If the Fates choose you, it will change color and Ferula will say your name with her last breath,” Tavyss explained.
“But we’re new. Only here six months. Surely we don’t participate.”
The elderly man faced them again and pointed a gnarled finger at her. “All citizens must participate. Everyone with magic. If you don’t, the spell may not work.”
Medea frowned. It seemed wrong to participate given her overall lack of experience with the kingdom.
“Don’t concern yourself,” Tavyss said. “Zelaria has trained by Ferula’s side for decades and made sacrifices to the Fates. If things go as they have in the past, she will be named. That is how it has always been. The ritual is more of a rite of passage.” He gave her a reassuring nod.
They filed in behind the other witches, shuffling patiently as stone after stone was selected from the cauldron, each only as big as her thumb and as smooth as glass. They all looked the same.
After an hour, her legs began to ache and she squeezed Tavyss’s hand. Circe exchanged glances with her and Isis, then produced a root from the pouch on her hip and split it between them. At once, Medea’s energy returned and the pain in her legs faded.
Hours more had passed before they finally reached the cauldron. She selected a smooth silver stone from the bottom and tucked its cold shape into her palm. Beside her, Ferula lay absolutely still, eyes closed, her breath barely discernible. Was she truly waiting to die until the ritual was complete?
Heart heavy, Medea followed the line away from the queen and returned to her place at the back of the crowd.
Tavyss must have noticed her exhaustion because he wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders and kissed the side of her head. “It will be over soon.”
