Wren the Fox Witch (Europa #3: A Dark Fantasy) by Joseph Robert Lewis Page B
Authors: Joseph Robert Lewis
Ads: Link
stone all the same.
Tycho led her up the steps to a many-arched entrance, and Wren saw high above the building a square tower rising behind it.
“She’s up there?” she asked.
“In the Tower of Justice? No, not usually. She’s made herself quite comfortable in the lower chamber. It’s an older hall, abandoned long ago, but still intact,” Tycho said. “It’s not very nice down there.”
“Then why does she stay there?”
“She says she likes it.” Tycho opened the door and ushered her inside a nondescript room of polished marble filled with doorways to other chambers. “When Prince Vlad agreed to defend Constantia, we had no idea he would bring someone like Koschei with him. And I think even Vlad had no idea that Koschei would bring his mother.”
“Life is full of small surprises,” Wren said.
Tycho paused at the top of a stair that led down into a well of flickering torchlight. “Listen, to be honest, I’m still not sure what sort of person she is. She spent most of her time alone even before Koschei was captured. And now, since he’s been gone, she’s been more than a little unhappy, as you can imagine. She comes out at night to harass the soldiers from time to time, but other than that, we don’t see her.”
“No one sees her, not even to bring her food?”
“The servants leave it at the bottom of the stairs for her. But she’s made it fairly clear that she’s not in the mood to take visitors unless there’s word that her son has been freed.” Tycho said, “Are you really a witch, like her?”
“I’m not a witch. I’m a vala.”
“What does that mean?”
“I make medicines from herbs, and I read the stars, and I read dreams, and I talk to ghosts,” said Wren. “Anyone can do what I do, if you learn how.” She fingered the ring inside her glove again, feeling a vague sense of guilt at her one omission.
But he doesn’t need to know about the aether-craft. Not yet, at least.
“I didn’t think you were really a witch, exactly, but the black dress, and the ears, well…” Tycho shrugged. “Are you ready?”
Wren nodded, and they descended the stairs.
The steps spiraled down and the air grew cooler, until they stepped out of an alcove into a large chamber in which their footsteps echoed far into the distant shadows. But only a few paces from the alcove, the floor was covered in Persian carpets, which were covered in dirty animal pelts, many of which had their heads and paws still attached. Three iron braziers stood in a crooked triangle around the rugs, all burning brightly and throwing off waves of heat.
In the center of the braziers there was a collection of gold and silver plates and goblets, none of the same size or design, and all with the remains of some old meal dried and crusted along their edges and bottoms. And seated amidst this chaos and debris, was a woman.
Wren wasn’t sure what she had expected. A crone, a gibbering lunatic, a vicious old mother, a lady in mourning? But not this.
The woman sitting on the pile of skins, surrounded by chewed bones and dried wine, roasting between the braziers, was…
…beautiful. She looks like an ancient queen. What sort of witch can she possibly be? And why is she down here, living like this?
Wren stared at the woman’s blood-red dress, the crow feathers tied into the braids of her snow white hair, the silver bracelets on her wrists, and the necklace of tiny animal skulls hanging around her neck. The woman looked up, tilting her face to the light, revealing a thousand fine lines of age and worry, but her skin was still firm, her eyes keen, and her lips ever so slightly pink.
“Where is my son?” she asked in a deep, commanding voice.
Wren blinked. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
“Then get out!” The witch flung up her hands and a white wind blasted across the braziers and shoved the two near the alcove.
Wren stumbled back as the aether struck her flesh, and she instinctively threw up her own hands to
Tycho led her up the steps to a many-arched entrance, and Wren saw high above the building a square tower rising behind it.
“She’s up there?” she asked.
“In the Tower of Justice? No, not usually. She’s made herself quite comfortable in the lower chamber. It’s an older hall, abandoned long ago, but still intact,” Tycho said. “It’s not very nice down there.”
“Then why does she stay there?”
“She says she likes it.” Tycho opened the door and ushered her inside a nondescript room of polished marble filled with doorways to other chambers. “When Prince Vlad agreed to defend Constantia, we had no idea he would bring someone like Koschei with him. And I think even Vlad had no idea that Koschei would bring his mother.”
“Life is full of small surprises,” Wren said.
Tycho paused at the top of a stair that led down into a well of flickering torchlight. “Listen, to be honest, I’m still not sure what sort of person she is. She spent most of her time alone even before Koschei was captured. And now, since he’s been gone, she’s been more than a little unhappy, as you can imagine. She comes out at night to harass the soldiers from time to time, but other than that, we don’t see her.”
“No one sees her, not even to bring her food?”
“The servants leave it at the bottom of the stairs for her. But she’s made it fairly clear that she’s not in the mood to take visitors unless there’s word that her son has been freed.” Tycho said, “Are you really a witch, like her?”
“I’m not a witch. I’m a vala.”
“What does that mean?”
“I make medicines from herbs, and I read the stars, and I read dreams, and I talk to ghosts,” said Wren. “Anyone can do what I do, if you learn how.” She fingered the ring inside her glove again, feeling a vague sense of guilt at her one omission.
But he doesn’t need to know about the aether-craft. Not yet, at least.
“I didn’t think you were really a witch, exactly, but the black dress, and the ears, well…” Tycho shrugged. “Are you ready?”
Wren nodded, and they descended the stairs.
The steps spiraled down and the air grew cooler, until they stepped out of an alcove into a large chamber in which their footsteps echoed far into the distant shadows. But only a few paces from the alcove, the floor was covered in Persian carpets, which were covered in dirty animal pelts, many of which had their heads and paws still attached. Three iron braziers stood in a crooked triangle around the rugs, all burning brightly and throwing off waves of heat.
In the center of the braziers there was a collection of gold and silver plates and goblets, none of the same size or design, and all with the remains of some old meal dried and crusted along their edges and bottoms. And seated amidst this chaos and debris, was a woman.
Wren wasn’t sure what she had expected. A crone, a gibbering lunatic, a vicious old mother, a lady in mourning? But not this.
The woman sitting on the pile of skins, surrounded by chewed bones and dried wine, roasting between the braziers, was…
…beautiful. She looks like an ancient queen. What sort of witch can she possibly be? And why is she down here, living like this?
Wren stared at the woman’s blood-red dress, the crow feathers tied into the braids of her snow white hair, the silver bracelets on her wrists, and the necklace of tiny animal skulls hanging around her neck. The woman looked up, tilting her face to the light, revealing a thousand fine lines of age and worry, but her skin was still firm, her eyes keen, and her lips ever so slightly pink.
“Where is my son?” she asked in a deep, commanding voice.
Wren blinked. “I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
“Then get out!” The witch flung up her hands and a white wind blasted across the braziers and shoved the two near the alcove.
Wren stumbled back as the aether struck her flesh, and she instinctively threw up her own hands to
Similar Books
