Steam (Legends Saga Book 3)
Read Steam (Legends Saga Book 3) Online
Authors: Stacey Rourke
Steam
Legends Saga Book 3
Written by Stacey Rourke
Copyright Stacey Rourke 2015
Cover by Najla Qamber Designs
Edited by There For You Editing
Formatted by EK Formatting
Published by Anchor Group Publishing
PO Box 551
Flushing, MI 48433
http://anchorgrouppublishing.weebly.com/
All rights reserved. Published by Anchor Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
Preen
Watching her mother die was the most beautiful thing Preen had ever witnessed. There was no choked breath rattling from her lungs. No frothy bile bubbling past her paling lips. Nothing so vile tarnished the moment of pure peace in which Haddy Hester drew her final breath and crossed Death’s threshold with a contented smile curled across her lips.
Preen held her mother’s cold, still hand in both of hers, dotting one last kiss to the tender palm that had dried her tears so many times. Now they fell free, unchecked in this suddenly callous world. Her head tilted, the curtain of her mahogany hair sweeping over her shoulders. Gazing upon her mother’s beauty, she was relieved the sweeping stillness of death could not pilfer it.
In a slow, sweet lullaby, she sang her mother’s spirit off to the Summerland, just as her mother had sung to her when she was but a babe. “
Tom, he was a piper’s son. He learnt to play when he was young. And all the tune that he could play, was o’er the hills and far away
.”
Wiping her tears away with the back of her hand, Preen folded her mother’s hands neatly over her midsection and silently assured her own aching heart that they would meet again someday.
Behind her, a soft knock rattled the weathered cottage door. The gesture was little more than a courtesy since the High Priestess would not be made to wait at such a pivotal moment. Tituba burst in with the combined force of the elements she so humbly served. A wild mane of thick, russet hair blew behind her in her determined gait. While the perils of the short, yet troubled life she had lived thus far showed themselves in the lines and scars on her caramel face, the loveliness of her aura radiated from every pore.
“I felt the shudder of her spirit entering its new state,” she stated, a hint of an accent from her Bahamian home adding an exotic flare to her words. “We must act quickly; there isn’t much time. The goddess aided us in the kindest of ways by calling our sweet Haddy home during the Imbolc Sabbat. We mustn’t waste her generous gift.”
Preen stumbled back a step, her heart twisting in grief’s tight fist as she watched Tituba fret over her mother’s form. The High Priestess pushed the blankets aside and eased Haddy’s hands to her sides. Then, with sharp, quick steps, she retrieved the simmering water from where it hung over the fire in their modest stone hearth. The dusty floorboards creaked beneath her feet, breaking the mournful silence. Setting the basin on the floor at her feet, Tituba plunged her hand into the knapsack strung across her ample frame to retrieve a handful of rose petals and a small vial of milky luminescence. While she uncorked the vial and swirled that and the petals into the water, the rest of the coven filed in to offer aid any way they could.
Freeya, Tituba’s apprentice, rushed to the High Priestess’ side with a basket of cloth bandages slung over her arm. Her silky chestnut hair and sultry eyes made her a vision to behold, while her compassion and selfless nature made her
truly
beautiful. To the people of Salem, Tituba was Freeya’s slave, Freeya’s father having purchased the young girl nearly five years prior from a man that had been cruel to her in every way imaginable. Here, in the safety of their coven, Freeya reveled in the opportunity to drop all pretenses and bestow on her friend and teacher the esteem she so greatly deserved.
Eleanora followed her in, holding a broomstick—or besom—out before her as the reverent object it was. Her shoulders curled in, a self-conscious habit she developed from a lifetime of her father telling her that her nose was too large and her ears protruded too much for any man to ever find her appealing. Margot, the group elder and seer, slunk in behind her. Her empty eye sockets had long been sewn shut, yet the wiry-haired, slip of a woman missed nothing. Her gift of clairvoyant omnipotence could only be explained as the work of the Goddess. Alexandrian, the subject of many men’s desires with her golden hair and plentiful curves, entered last and shut the door behind her. Her discomfort at being in the cramped quarters was clearly visible.
With her closed fist pressed to her lips, Preen watched Tituba and Freeya bathe the body—as that was all it was now—in the sweet smelling concoction. Bed clothes, soiled with the sweat of her mother’s battle with the fevers, were replaced by fresh garments. Tituba finger-combed Haddy’s long, gray hair, laying it neatly around her shoulders. Her chin then dipped in a brief nod to Freeya. Together, the two wrapped the body in bandages with as much love and tenderness as they were able.
“W-wait,” Preen stuttered, her voice sounding panicked and frightened to her own ears. “I was told we could say a few words. I have yet to bid her farewell.”
“Help me, get her feet,” Tituba ordered Freeya, before offering Preen a sympathetic glance. “You have the rest of your life to say good-bye, girl. If we want to give your mother the send-off she deserves, it must be now.”
“You must understand,” Preen jumped at the sound of Margot’s raspy tremor in her ear—the woman’s talent for stealth was all the more impressive considering her advanced age and burdens, “if those Puritan tyrants had their way, your mother would be left in a pine box to rot. We will see to the matter properly, for her … and for you.”
“A pine box will appear a castle in the clouds compared to the repercussions if they catch us,” Eleanora stated. Her hands wringing over the broom handle, she nervously gnawed on her lower lip. “Salem is a stone’s throw from these woods. The atrocities they are committing to those suspected of witchcraft make souls long for the gallows.”
“We are
not
witches,” Tituba corrected, her spine straightening with indignation even as she helped shuffle Haddy’s form toward the door. “We serve the Goddess and her elements, working at the right hand of magic. We treasure the virtues of mirth, reverence, honor, humility, strength, beauty, and compassion.
Witch
is a moniker given by the Puritans to describe people they feel delve into darkness to serve their own selfish desires.”
“You can make that distinction when they fit the noose ’round your neck,” Freeya countered. Her eyebrows raised, she gestured for Alexandrian to open the door she still leaned against.
Moving to open the door, the bustle beneath Alexandrian’s taupe and gold-leaf gown rustled. While the rest of the women wore the modest rags of the laboring class, Alexandrian was adorned with the finest silks and embroidered fabrics gifted by her father’s elevated station within Salem.
A blaze of determination flaring in her blue eyes, she caught Preen’s arm as the frazzled young woman tried to follow her mother’s body out. “I have secured that your mother’s accounts will transfer to you. I assured each patron, by personal visit, that your mother trained you well and that you would provide them with the same high quality tonics and salves that she did.”
Preen’s mouth opened and shut, her hands twisting her apron into knots. Her mind hunted and floundered for words, yet came up short on how such a thing could
possibly
be a priority in that moment.
“Some find reassurance in security,” Alexandrian explained with an unapologetic tone, reading the confusion on Preen’s face.
“I am sure she shall thank you when she’s able.” Margot’s arthritic hands closed around Preen’s upper arms and guided her out the door. Against her ear the old woman whispered, “That woman has all the tact of a stampeding boar.”
They trudged through the woods, following Tituba and Freeya to the clearing they had prepared. Careful as they could, the High Priestess and her student eased Haddy to the earth.
“Eleanora, cast us a circle,” Tituba commanded, delving into her bag once more.
With a resolute nod, Eleanora pushed a strand of limp brown hair behind her ear and bent to her task. She worked the broom with a fevered intensity that quickly produced a sheen of sweat across her brow.
Noticing her earth sister’s exuberance, Tituba handed the bundle of bound candles over to Freeya and rocked back with her rump resting on her feet. “Eleanora, dearest, you are meant to consecrate the ground, not create enough friction to start a forest fire. Perhaps you could try a gentler approach?”
“Apologies, Priestess.” Eleanora’s cheeks bloomed a brilliant red, her buck teeth grinding in annoyance at her own shortcomings.
“Your Puritan roots show in the way you internally flog yourself for every misstep.” Tituba shook her head, drawing flint matches from her bag. “Here there is room for error and growth. That needs no apology.”
“Again, I’m …” Eleanora trailed off at Tituba’s pointed glare. “Learning,” she corrected with a forced smile.
Accepting the matches her teacher offered, Freeya rose in a rustle of fabric and strode with measured strides around the circle Eleanora created. Every fourth step she placed a candle on the ground. The other women needed no further invitation to take their places, each moving into position directly behind a candle. Tituba remained in the center, praying a quiet blessing over Haddy’s body.
Preen hesitated for a beat. This would be her first circle, the first time she took her mother’s place to call upon the Goddess. It was an honor she could not deny, yet stepping where Haddy should be pulled the constricting binds of sorrow ever tighter.
“All five must be in place, or it shan’t work,” Alexandrian stated as fact, not judgment.
“Be gentle with her,” Freeya whispered to Alexandrian, her hand gently nudging hers.
In an act as natural as the clouds moving across the blue painted palette of the sky, their fingers laced together. Alexandrian gave a nod that she would at least
attempt
empathy.
Gulping down her trepidation, Preen assumed her place, claimed her candle, and awaited her next directive.
Margot was the first to begin. A wave of her hand over the wick of the candle and it sparked to life with flickering warmth. “The Goddess bestows the earth to us as her ultimate truth.”
Moving clockwise around the circle, Freeya ignited her candle in the same fashion. Her wick sparked and simmered before blooming into the licking orange flame. “The Goddess gives us water with its infinite wisdom.”
Alexandrian pursed her lips and concentrated. A flicker, a glint, then she, too, achieved flame. “We breathe in air and our Goddess’ love.”
“Through fire the Goddess grants us knowledge,” Eleanora squinted her eyes. Focusing. Focusing. Focusing long enough for it to begin to get awkward … then her own candle stutter-started with a faint glow.
Five sets of eyes turned to Preen. Wiping her sweaty palms against her skirt, she grasped the candle in a firm two-handed grip. She could feel her own panic setting in with threats of drowning out any abilities she
may
have. Closing her eyes, she exhaled through pursed lips and pictured the flame in her mind. It took no longer than a blink. Heat scorched against her cheeks to a chorus of awestruck gasps. Preen’s eyes fluttered open to find a torch-like blaze roaring from her candle.
“Call the spirit before all of Salem sees that flare.” Margot’s reminder dripped with awe and respect.
“Our power is awarded us through the Goddess’ most humbling gift; our spirit,” Preen muttered, tipping the candle one way and then the other in open astonishment of what she’d done. She knew she had powers, her mother had always helped her nurture them. Making a wilting flower bloom, floating feathers, even lighting candles just like this one were all commonplace practices. Yet never before did she get a result like this. Was her mother’s spirit giving her one parting gift?
Tituba glided to her feet and threw her arms out wide. “She is here. Our Mother Earth is listening. On this the Sabbat of Spring she wishes to bless us in our time of sorrow to remind us how much we have to celebrate. Eleanora, will you begin a chant for our sister that has gone before us to the Summerland?”
Eleanora shifted on her feet, her red-rimmed eyes bulging. “I do not know, ma’am, my chants have been found sorely lacking.”
“And your earth sisters are here to guide if you stumble,” Tituba encouraged with a dip of her head.
Wetting her lips, Eleanora cautiously began, “Fire, water, air, and earth, we call you here to this … girth. Uh! That is simply dreadful! The Goddess’ ears must bleed every time I attempt a rhyme.”
Margot bit the inside of her cheek, still a snort of laugher managed to escape.
