Prologue
Twenty-two years ago...
Freya huddled on the narrow bed, one arm chained to the metal post at the corner, the other resting on the swollen curve of her belly.
The birth was close.
It was the time of the witches’ moons. Through the narrow slit of window, she watched as the blood-red crescents emerged over the high wall that surrounded the Keep, casting their sullen glow over the empty courtyard below. At the sight, her hopelessness clawed its way closer to the surface, and she gasped aloud at the pain.
The baby stirred inside her, and Freya recognized the now familiar hum of magic. Moon magic. Witch’s magic that would doom her child to a life of slavery.
If her baby had been a boy, she would have gladly given him life.
But she knew what the future held for any girl child she bore.
Her daughter was restless, as though she could discern Freya’s thoughts, and she stroked her stomach soothingly. The hum of power increased, emphasizing the empty place within her where her own magic should be, and her resolve hardened.
All her eighteen years, she’d lived as a slave to the Order. She could remember little of those years; she’d moved through her life as though through a thick fog. Only when her daughter was conceived had she awoken and felt the first stirrings of despair. The moon magic was strong in her daughter, and Freya had finally understood what the Order had taken from her. She couldn’t allow them to do that to her child.
She’d been fighting the choice, praying to the Goddess for some sign of hope, some indication that they were not completely forsaken.
But the Goddess no longer listened to their prayers.
Maybe all witches were damned, as the Order claimed.
There was no one else to free her daughter, and Freya knew she had to act quickly.
The room was empty but for the bed, and she was naked, only a thin sheet drawn up over her body. The walls were bare stone, and a black metal door stood opposite where she lay. A small grill in the door allowed them to watch her, and every couple of hours a face would peer in. She stroked her stomach one last time and blinked away a tear. “I’m sorry, little one.” She’d have given anything to hold her child, to see her grow. But not in this world. Instead, she would give her own life to save her daughter from suffering the fate of the witches of Arroway.
Lifting her hand, she studied the thin skin of her wrist where she could see the tracery of blue veins and the blood so close to the surface. She raised it to her mouth and bit down. The skin was tougher than she’d thought, and a sob rose up in her throat. Ignoring the pain, she bit harder and a spurt of warm blood filled her mouth. She gagged and spat, then worried at the wound with her teeth until the flow was strong and steady.
She glanced at the door but there was no one there, and she curled on her side and lowered her hand over the far side of the bed where it wouldn’t be seen by a casual observer.
It didn’t hurt so much now, and she sang softly under her breath.
Songs she had learned from the other women, songs borne down over the generations during a thousand years of captivity.
Of a world of beauty, magic, and freedom. A world lost long ago.
The air was heavy with the sweet stench of fresh blood, and nau-sea roiled in her stomach. But her life force was growing weaker, and the baby was quiet inside her. She closed her eyes, humming low under her breath as darkness invaded the corners of her mind, draining her consciousness.
The door opened, and fear flashed through her mind. She kept her eyes closed and prayed they would see nothing remiss and would believe she was sleeping.
“Freya?” The voice was harsh with urgency. “Freya!” He spoke louder this time, his tone laced with panic.
Confusion filled her. She couldn’t remember a time when one of them had called her by name. That would have meant seeing her as a person, and they could never do that and live with what they
Twenty-two years ago...
Freya huddled on the narrow bed, one arm chained to the metal post at the corner, the other resting on the swollen curve of her belly.
The birth was close.
It was the time of the witches’ moons. Through the narrow slit of window, she watched as the blood-red crescents emerged over the high wall that surrounded the Keep, casting their sullen glow over the empty courtyard below. At the sight, her hopelessness clawed its way closer to the surface, and she gasped aloud at the pain.
The baby stirred inside her, and Freya recognized the now familiar hum of magic. Moon magic. Witch’s magic that would doom her child to a life of slavery.
If her baby had been a boy, she would have gladly given him life.
But she knew what the future held for any girl child she bore.
Her daughter was restless, as though she could discern Freya’s thoughts, and she stroked her stomach soothingly. The hum of power increased, emphasizing the empty place within her where her own magic should be, and her resolve hardened.
All her eighteen years, she’d lived as a slave to the Order. She could remember little of those years; she’d moved through her life as though through a thick fog. Only when her daughter was conceived had she awoken and felt the first stirrings of despair. The moon magic was strong in her daughter, and Freya had finally understood what the Order had taken from her. She couldn’t allow them to do that to her child.
She’d been fighting the choice, praying to the Goddess for some sign of hope, some indication that they were not completely forsaken.
But the Goddess no longer listened to their prayers.
Maybe all witches were damned, as the Order claimed.
There was no one else to free her daughter, and Freya knew she had to act quickly.
The room was empty but for the bed, and she was naked, only a thin sheet drawn up over her body. The walls were bare stone, and a black metal door stood opposite where she lay. A small grill in the door allowed them to watch her, and every couple of hours a face would peer in. She stroked her stomach one last time and blinked away a tear. “I’m sorry, little one.” She’d have given anything to hold her child, to see her grow. But not in this world. Instead, she would give her own life to save her daughter from suffering the fate of the witches of Arroway.
Lifting her hand, she studied the thin skin of her wrist where she could see the tracery of blue veins and the blood so close to the surface. She raised it to her mouth and bit down. The skin was tougher than she’d thought, and a sob rose up in her throat. Ignoring the pain, she bit harder and a spurt of warm blood filled her mouth. She gagged and spat, then worried at the wound with her teeth until the flow was strong and steady.
She glanced at the door but there was no one there, and she curled on her side and lowered her hand over the far side of the bed where it wouldn’t be seen by a casual observer.
It didn’t hurt so much now, and she sang softly under her breath.
Songs she had learned from the other women, songs borne down over the generations during a thousand years of captivity.
Of a world of beauty, magic, and freedom. A world lost long ago.
The air was heavy with the sweet stench of fresh blood, and nau-sea roiled in her stomach. But her life force was growing weaker, and the baby was quiet inside her. She closed her eyes, humming low under her breath as darkness invaded the corners of her mind, draining her consciousness.
The door opened, and fear flashed through her mind. She kept her eyes closed and prayed they would see nothing remiss and would believe she was sleeping.
“Freya?” The voice was harsh with urgency. “Freya!” He spoke louder this time, his tone laced with panic.
Confusion filled her. She couldn’t remember a time when one of them had called her by name. That would have meant seeing her as a person, and they could never do that and live with what they
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