If I thought at all about the florals I’m collecting, each one would remind me that I will never have such a ceremony. I will never have a mate, and I will never have that connection which is stronger and more elemental than love.
I don’t think of such things at all as I use my athame to cut this stem, then that one, just below the first leaf. I don’t leave a path of destruction behind me. Each flower will have ample time to grow back and bloom again. That, too, is important to this ritual. The florals cannot have been gathered carelessly, with their roots pulled from the dirt. Their flowerings must be the only part taken so that life still dwells in them. The princess was as specific as she was excited.
It is gentler work than I am used to, of course, but I do it with a soldier’s precision. The florals are fragile, in their way. It does not take much force to slice the blade of the athame through the thin stalks. The athame has a handsome silver hilt, warm from being held in my hand for so many hours. It was carved and blessed to be true in its aim and strike as it must. It does not take a strike to gather a floral. Only a soft press, and the first leaves and the flowering come away without a fight.
The poison I have carried with me every day since the curse flourishes the longer I stay in this forest. It burns hotter when there are no other voices to distract me and when every plant I touch reminds me of the wedding.
A growl escapes my throat as I bend to collect the next floral, but I shake off the feeling of resentment and continue, listening for anything that may be approaching.
This territory, called Athica, is a long one, stretching from east to west and touching the ocean. There is only one being who is known to dwell here—the one solitary witch.
In Abrakearth to the south, however, there are shadow walkers. To the north, there are shadow fae. There is very little to prevent either of those from crossing this territory. Except for the threat of the witch of course. But how powerful could she really be against so many others? I’ve found no sign that either shadow fae or shadow walkers have ventured here, at least in recent days. I stay alert nonetheless, growing more and more curious about the witch.
In the back of my mind, I wonder if she knows I’m here.
I follow the path to the edge of the forest and finally emerge into a large clearing. It stretches away from the trees far enough that it could be a field or a valley. I tip my face toward the sky and drink in the sight of the stars. The dark night is littered with beauty. I don’t mind being in the woods, but I can breathe easier under the open sky.
Keeping close to the trees, I move around the outside of the field, following the shallow dips in the land until I find a space that is not so visible. It is only a few steps down, but that will do for opening the portal. I do not need secrecy, but the shape of the land will focus the energy into its curve, gathering it closer and making it easier to send the florals through.
I pause on the low rise and look across the field. Its colors are pale in the moonlight, but as the dawn comes closer, the colors deepen.
A new day is beginning. A huff leaves me. Perhaps that is why the heaviness under my eyes begs me to sleep.
I feel a strange ache in my chest. This land is beautiful. I’ve spent these last days in peace as I gathered the flowers, and despite my feelings about the wedding, I’m grateful that the mission was easy. A soldier cannot hope for better. I did not risk life or limb, was not injured, and gathered all that the royal house asked of me and more.
The pang I feel has nothing to do with a sense of failure.
It is more a sense of…curiosity. A longing I’ve not hoped for or even acknowledged in so long. The quiet thoughts of my mind are my enemy.
Again, I think back to the witch of Athica, wondering where she resides, as I’ve searched this land thoroughly.
Dropping the bag to the ground and ready to form the portal, I find myself wishing I had more time. The irony and hypocrisy, not wanting to be alone with my thoughts and yet not wanting to return, is not lost on me. It is a torture of my own doing.
I would have liked to see the witch’s home. I would have liked to see the witch herself. Some rumors say she lives in a cottage. Others say she lives in a fortress underground. Still others say her house is invisible, and the sight of it can kill a man.
There is a curiosity that tugs me to her. It’s unsettling.
The sun peeks through the tree trunks, gracing my arm with the first rays of dawn. The tiny cuts have all gone. I think sarcastically, alas I can tell the prince I was not harmed in the errand. A huff of a laugh bristles up my chest and a smirk tilts my lips up.
A breeze gusts through my hair, and—I smell something on it.
My body stills and a seriousness takes over. The scent is sweet and has the tone of magic to it, but not any magic I have confronted before. It is heady and enticing, like it is calling me to hunt. To find it. To give in to my own curiosity and forget the florals. To find whoever it is that causes such a scent to be in the world and press my nose closer to know her better.
Her? What thoughts plague me?
I shake my head, turning my face away from the breeze. I do not often have flights of fancy like that. It is not the kind of thing for a seasoned soldier to get the better of him. I will not let it get the better of me. The light grows and I stay focused on my task, although the scent is like nothing I’ve felt before and yet it is so familiar.
The portal, I command myself. At least to send the flowers through.
Birds fly out of the trees by my side, their calls echoing across the fields. I step down into the dip in the land, readjust my pack, and set about opening the portal.
The first step is to place the stone anchor on the ground. The anchor itself is not very large so that it can be carried long distances if necessary. I place a charged crystal into the space carved for it in the anchor. Energy hums all around me. I speak the words in a low voice, “Now you open, now I enter,” and the portal opens.
It is small, perhaps the size of a mirror, to start with, but that is large enough for my purposes. I have gathered the florals and put them into bundles that can be rolled up and tied off. With a length of rope, I secure them together and find that they will not fit.
The magic gets louder as I press the portal farther open. It should not take much. An inch or two. I slot the bundle into the portal, lean my entire weight against it, and push.
With a final heave, the florals pop into the portal and disappear, the surface shimmering like water on the surface of a pond. My shoulder hits the rippling barrier, and I pull back.
