Witch Born (29 page)

The Guardians untied their boat and settled back. The Witches around Senna sang again, and a wind so perfect and precise it only affected their sails drove them forward until they seemed to bounce across the river like a skipping stone.

The first light of day brought men to the river. They paid no attention to the Witches or their songs as they cast nets over the sides of their small boats again and again. Intricate irrigation systems fed the groves and fields of viny plants. Senna watched them in wonder.

Krissin caught her studying the irrigation system. “Though the Tarten jungle is less than a hundred leagues away, our weather is vastly different. Another gift from your Witches. As you can see, we have adapted.”

“So this is Calden.” The nation the Witches had burned to a crisp and then denied the rains had found a way to survive. Relief swelled in Senna. Even through all the damage the Keepers had repeatedly caused, people found a way to survive. They always did.

“No longer. We renamed ourselves Caldash when we rose from Calden’s ashes.”

A dozen questions formed in Senna’s mind, questions about the Witches’ numbers, the barrier, or the songs they sang. “We’ve been traveling by river for hours now. How could anyone move an island this big? It would have taken thousands of Witches.”

Krissin stared across the fields. “Logic would agree with you.”

What kind of answer was that? But Senna didn’t ask any more questions because asking felt too close to defeat.

With the sun came heat that sapped the moisture from her body. Feeling her skin start to burn, she pulled her cloak over her head. Though it was made of dark material, the shade it offered more than compensated for the added insulation.

Krissin handed out some food—a nutty bread and some sheep cheese that made Senna thirsty. Exhaustion taking hold, she slept.

When she awoke, the air was decidedly cooler. Her muscles were stiff from sleeping on the hard boat. Rubbing her numb shoulder, she sat up and froze. The arid hills were gone. Instead, great mountains towered over her like wizened old men with crops of snow ringing their bald heads.

Shivering, Senna pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and looked beyond the press of Guardians partially blocking her view of what lay ahead. What she saw shocked her far more than the sudden change in landscape. A city bloomed between two peaks. A city made of tree houses.

“Where are we?” Senna asked in a daze.

“The city of Lilette—our sacred city,” Krissin said softly. She pointed to enormous sentry trees flanking the river. “The only way in is by river, which is heavily guarded by the younger Guardians. If you don’t have one of our boats, you don’t get in. If you aren’t recognized at the city docks, you are promptly taken captive. Most are never allowed to leave.”

Never allowed to leave.
Senna wet her lips. “Why have you brought me here? What do you want?”

“That isn’t for me to decide.”

Senna shook her head. “I don’t understand. You’re the Head of Sunlight.”

Krissin grunted. “We run things a little differently here. As Discipline Heads, we control Caldash’s weather and preside over our Disciplines, but the Composer presides over the law.”

The Witches stopped singing and the boat coasted forward before bumping gently into the dock. Some of the Guardians leapt out to tie it off, while others helped the Witches from the craft.

A man from the city met with Krissin. As they spoke, he peered down at Senna, curiosity and wonder plain on his face, before he turned on his heel and trotted back the way he’d come.

A flock of women were coming down the dock. They wore a less ornate version of the same tunic and loose trousers as Krissin. Senna slowly realized these women were waiting for her.
Had been
waiting for her. As if they’d known she was coming and had been prepared for it. “What do you want from me?”

Krissin nodded toward the city. “The Composer wishes to speak with you.”

Senna was ushered out of the boat, down the pier, and into the city. People bustled in and out of tree houses. Guardians, children, Witches—lots and lots of Witches. “There are so many Keepers.”

“This isn’t even half our number. We live among our people.”

“I thought no one could leave the city of Lilette?”

Krissin chuckled. “Only Witches and Guardians. If anyone else comes, they are obliged to stay.”

Senna studied the Witches all around her. None of them wore fear on their faces—in fact, they looked peaceful, happy, and prosperous All things Haven scrambled for and fell short.

This was how Haven had been once. Before its numbers were decimated by war and fear. Before Espen had smashed through glass and doors, shattering the fragile remnants of the Witches’ already faltering society. Senna wanted to weep for everything they had lost.

The air smelled of savory herbs, sweet flowers, and dry mountain air. Krissin and the rest of the group wove through a forest of tree houses toward the center of the city, where a massive tree rose high above the others. They passed through a vicious-looking hedge, the entrance of which was watched by sharp-eyed Guardians. “We’ve just passed into the inner courtyard—some men have castle spires, we have our trees,” Krissin explained. “Each tree is like a room in a castle.”

More black-clad Guardians stood at quiet readiness beside the doors to the largest tree. Noticing Senna’s scrutiny, Krissin nodded toward them. “That is the Composer’s listening tree.”

For a moment, Senna worried they were going inside, but they turned aside, toward one of the adjoining trees.

“And this,” Krissin went on, “is the bathing tree.”

It looked less like a tree and more like hundreds of saplings twisting and twining their way upward. Mists rose between spaces in the branches. The Guardians took up positions outside while the women hustled Senna in. She gasped when she stepped within. The tree had been sung around a natural spring. A mosaic of tiles created swirling patterns of monochromatic blue. The pool was filled by a thin, steaming waterfall. Towels, soaps, and oils were laid out on sung tables. The walls were covered in thick green moss. The place smelled of a mix of damp earth and expensive fragrances. Senna found it intoxicating.

Much to her horror, the women gestured her to a stool and promptly began to tug at her clothes.

“No,” Senna gasped. “I can do it myself.”

When the women didn’t listen, she shoved one. They clucked their tongues at her. One brow cocked, Krissin held up the Yarves.

Her face set, Senna endured them scrubbing her with soap and pouring shockingly hot water over her head. This was a hundred times worse than her almost-bath with Ciara. Only when they’d scrubbed her skin pink did they let her soak in the pool, but not for long enough.

Far too soon, they were hauling her out again. They anointed her with an oil that smelled of sweet resin. The tangles were worked out of her hair and it was woven into a cascading braid that led to a knot at the side of her neck. She was dressed in a finely embroidered blue tunic and trousers and given sandals in place of her boots. And last, they put a delicate gold cuff of flowers and vines around her wrist.

She stood in front of a mirror, barely recognizing the woman of blue and gold.

“You look like the sun in the sky,” one of her women said with a heavy accent.

The women herded her back outside and handed her over to another group of Guardians.

Senna was surrounded in a foreign place, and Krissin still feared she would try to run for it—and that she would make it. Krissin would have been right. Escape was certain, even if Senna had to destroy half the city of Lilette in the process.

Her insides cringed as they mounted the enormous steps to the Composer’s listening tree.

Krissin whispered, “It would be very unwise to disrespect one as powerful as the Composer. And please don’t try anything foolish. You are in the center of the city of Lilette—you would not escape.”

Senna breathed out in frustration. “I could take out a few trees before you stopped me.”

Krissin blanched. “They would kill you for it.”

The Guardians posted at the ornate entrance eyed Senna warily as Krissin pulled open the door and stepped aside.

Senna wiped her sweaty palms on her tunic. Since her capture, she’d never gone anywhere by herself. And now they were allowing her to see the Composer alone?

Squaring her shoulders, Senna stepped inside.

The door shut behind Senna with a resounding thud, and she stopped short. This room was a hundred times bigger than any she’d ever seen. Windows glinted shattered rainbows all over the interior. Plants and vines grew up the walls, their colors and fragrance filling the air to bursting.

She spun in a slow circle, taking in flowers and even trees she’d never seen—not even in a book. But there was no Composer in sight. Senna wandered randomly, searching for the woman. But the plants around Senna distracted her with their mystery and variety. Their songs were different, too, more colorful and spicy than the songs of Haven. She captured a bloom in her hand and inhaled its sharp fragrance.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Senna turned at the voice that sounded worn as if it had sung a thousand songs, uttered innumerable words. It was not a voice that held any power of song. An old woman sat on a beautifully carved planter box, a trowel in her hand. Gossamer lines weaved across her skin like spider’s silk. She rooted around in the soil and came up with a rhizome. She brushed it off, scattering dirt on her already-streaked tunic. She sang softly to the plants, her voice as creaky as a new saddle.

Senna took a breath of relief. This woman was obviously just a gardener. “I’m looking for the Composer.”

“She’s often late. Have a seat and help an old woman, hmm?”

Senna stepped forward, her sandaled feet slapping the floor. Careful of her new tunic, she perched on the side of the box. The woman handed her a spade. “We have to thin these flowers before they choke themselves to death.”

Senna began thinning the tightly packed rhizomes. They came out rather easily. The old woman must have loosened the soil earlier.

“These are my favorites,” she went on. “They’re tough and beautiful. Useful too, as each part is a key ingredient for one potion or another. But their great strength is also their weakness. The roots are so strong they often begin to choke out other plants—which I suppose makes the other plants hate them.”

Was this woman mad? Senna dug her hands deep in the dirt and came out with another root—one that looked like a pot-bellied little man. She tossed it into the rubbish bin. “I really should find the Composer.”

The woman went on as if Senna hadn’t spoken. “Eventually they even begin to choke themselves. The rot will begin in the middle until there’s an ugly hole. The rest of the plants will become sickly—there simply isn’t enough soil and water for all of them.” She dug out another root and held it up. “I imagine that’s not much consolation for this root, hmm? Why it and not one of the others?”

Senna’s breath hitched in her throat. “We’re not talking about flowers, are we?”

The woman tossed the root into a rubbish bin. “Truthfully, there is no answer. The gardener decides.”

Senna let out all of her breath in a rush. “You’re the Composer.”

The woman wiped a bead of sweat from her brow, leaving a streak of dirt across her forehead. “My name is Ellesh. And you’re Brusenna. Come for answers.”

Senna looked harder and saw what she’d missed before. Ellesh’s eyes were keen and sharp as a knife.

The Composer set down her trowel and brushed the dirt from her hands. “Listen and I will tell you the story of a woman who changed the course of history. Her name was Lilette.”

Senna had waited so long to hear the full story of what had happened that this didn’t feel real.

Ellesh arched her back with a grimace. “Her mother died far from home—a stranger who proved unknown and untraceable. A barren woman took Lilette and raised her. In her youth, the child discovered what she was. She came to Haven for learning, but what she found were women punishing a turnip for not being an apple.”

Senna shook her head. “I don’t—”

Ellesh’s eyes seemed to cut into her. “Some years the Heads were magnanimous women. Others they were downright tyrants, punishing the world and its people for not behaving as they thought they should. In Lilette’s day, they were tyrants.”

Senna looked out one of the windows at the darkening sky. She pictured it. Women who doled out their songs based on promises of money or power. “The world had its own rhythms, its own song to sing. I know because I’ve heard it.”

The Composer nodded. “Yes. But our voices alter those songs.”

Eager to see if Caldash’s story matched up with Haven’s, Senna leaned forward. “Why did Lilette leave?”

Ellesh sighed. “For many of the same reasons you did. One of the nations rose up against the Witches. Their rains were cut off as punishment. Lilette begged them to reconsider. They refused. So she took those who would follow her and left. She came to Calden. And Haven killed her for it.”

Senna mulled it over. “They say I am like her, and they feared me for it. Why? I’ve only ever wanted to save them.”

The Composer was silent for a time. “Because Lilette too saw the Creators.” She met Senna’s startled gaze. “And she too began to change.”

Heat flushed Senna’s skin. She stared at her hands. They were dirty from thinning the flowers and scarred from potion burns. Half-healed scabs from the jungle marred her pale skin. Though it wasn’t visible, there was blood on them, too. They weren’t the hands of some kind of hero.

Ellesh went on softly. “Lilette began to hear nature’s music. She grew more and more powerful by the day. Those in authority began to fear her strength, much as they now fear yours. She could have destroyed Haven, but she didn’t have the ruthlessness of a gardener. She couldn’t bear to thin them.”

Senna stared at the beautiful flowers, the naked roots sitting in a bucket to be ground up and used for some nameless potion.

The Composer went to a water basin and meticulously washed the dirt from her hands. “The Haven Witches were afraid of her, so they hurtled a hurricane across the ocean, regardless of ships and people in their path—people who had no experience dealing with such frightening storms, as the Witches’ songs had prevented hurricanes for centuries. Lightning bolts shot from the sky. Hail the size of large birds fell from the clouds, crushing everything in their path. Earth tremors rent deep chasms and raised high mountains.”