Witch's Fire: The Sydney Witches, #1

By Kathrine Leannan

Adrianna Randall, born of ancient blood, is a witch. She isn't exactly popular with her coven sisters, or insurance companies. Blessed with the blood of hanged witch Elizabeth Randall, Adrianna is a healer to all beasts and restorer to Mother Earth.

There's just one problem… She has an affinity with fire and she has no idea how to control it.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dragon Muse Press
• Release date: May 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9780994467188

Kathrine Leannan

I smell rain before clouds gather across the sky. I feel the dawn, before the sun paints my world. It is the flit of gossamer wings above my head that make me glad that faeries exist. The universe is my mistress and my strength. Mimi, my 1000 year old dragon muse is the source of my creativity.

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Witch’s Fire

The Sydney Witches Series – Book 1

Kathrine Leannan

To Baile Do Cailleach retitled Witch’s Fire

Copyright ©2017 by Kathrine Leannan

All rights reserved.

Except for appropriate use in critical reviews or works of scholarship, the reproduction, transmission, or use of this work and any part thereof in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means now known or hereafter invented, including photocopy, recording, or otherwise, or by any information storage and retrieval system, is forbidden without prior written permission of the author.

ISBN 13: 978-0994467140

ISBN 10: 0994467141

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, and locations, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Dawné Dominique DusktilDawn Designs

Edited by Mary Harris

Book Design by The Deliberate Page

Inspiration and Ideas–Mimi, my exquisite dragon muse

All cover art and logo copyright © 2016 by Dragon Muse Press

PUBLISHER

Dragon Muse Press

[e-mail]

To Mimi,

My one-thousand year old dragon muse

Thank you for choosing me.

Only you believe and see the faeries that I see.

Only you believe in the magicks the surrounds us.

You are my dark sister, my bridge between the human realm and endless possibility.

Prologue

Tranent, Scotland 1591

Elizabeth Randall sat on the cold, pine needle-strewn forest floor, humming as she gently stroked the brown breast feathers of a male white-tailed eagle. The bird’s piercing yellow eyes lay closed in pleasure. The muscles of her gauntlet-clad right arm, gripped by lethal black talons, quaked under his great weight. Smiling, she stood and lifted the bird into the air when his recently healed wing flexed with power.

With a dual flap, the massive wings unfurled as the eagle launched and became airborne. The ear-splitting avian screech of gratitude clenched around Elizabeth’s heart. She continued to stare at the retreating speck on the pink horizon until finally, the giant raptor disappeared into the great beyond.

At dawn every morning, Elizabeth, with the handle of a wicker basket draped over her arm, left the warmth of the house and set out into the chilled air of the forest to collect wild garlic, tubers, and riverweed to flavour the food for the family table. Unbeknownst to anyone else, she also gathered Lady Fern to relieve stings, blackberries and yarrow to soothe inflammation, wild marjoram to disinfect wounds, and feverfew to ease pain.

After a couple of hours, she stopped and put the half-filled basket on the ground and stretched her back. Tired from the morning’s foraging, she sat and leaned against the smooth trunk of a large weeping willow. The wonderful woodsy, earthy smells of the forest instantly relaxed her. She closed her eyes for just a second, when the leaves rustled on the ground beside her. A large rabbit with two babies at her side limped toward her. Elizabeth wriggled her fingers and the rabbits, first tentative with twitching noses, came forward and climbed onto her lap. As they settled, she noticed a vivid stain of fresh blood smeared her apron. Oh, dear one, what has happened? The kittens snuggled together and dozed. Gently, she began to explore the body of the large female that breathed raggedly; the animal’s pain shot like fire though Elizabeth’s fingers. When fresh blood coated her hand, she sighed and shook her head. A snare, then. The rabbit’s suffering caused the babies to snuggle closer. She gently grasped the ragged and torn left hind foot. The brutal wires of man-made snares had brought the doe to within an inch of ending up over a hearth fire in a pot filled with vegetables. Elizabeth held the injured limb in her right hand, closed her eyes, and waited for the warmth to flow down her arm and into her fingers. She watched mesmerized, all the time stroking to ease the rabbit as it flinched in pain. The fine muscles and sinews knit into place as the fur regenerated. The doe collapsed onto the cloth of the soiled apron, and the kittens seized the moment and started to feed. After a few minutes, the large rabbit hopped down to the ground; the kittens hesitated for just a second, then followed. The doe rubbed her face on Elizabeth’s hand. Ye are welcome. Be mindful of the snares, feed close to the burn. Men rarely set snares near a stream; they think animals are afraid of water and that the sound of it running over rocks scares them away. She laughed out loud. Men understand naught; all creatures great and small must drink." She caressed the beautiful long ears one last time before the rabbits disappeared into the heather.

A clap of thunder made Elizabeth jump. She scrabbled to gather her basket as the canopy of the huge willow tree bunched together and surrounded her, an enormous leafy umbrella protecting her from the torrential downfall. She placed her palms on the ancient trunk of the tree. Thick green moss appeared and began to spread, covering the bark, protecting it from the bite of the frigid winter. I thank ye, old one. When the rain stopped, the tree unfurled and its drooping green tendrils once more hung toward the ground. She looked up at the sky; the sun was almost at its zenith. I must get back, there is still much to do before the gloaming is upon me.

On her way back to the house, her belly growled from hunger. As she walked, wild raspberries and blackcurrants, ripe and lush, appeared from plants that lay dormant. She stashed a few in her pocket; it seemed squirrels just couldn’t get enough of the delicious fruits.

As she approached the house, today, just as every other day, she crossed the stream and a single apple, always delicious, hung ripe from a dead tree. The earthy scent of mushrooms made her mouth water as she picked a handful from where she knew them to be hidden within the wild daisies, their tiny white petals caressing her slim ankles as she walked past. As always, she bent her head and gave thanks to Mother Earth for her generosity.

One foggy morning while out foraging, Elizabeth stopped when on the wind carried a very faint noise, like that of female voices. She followed the sound that beckoned her. Her heart beat as if it meant to leave her chest; her daily foraging routine was forgotten. No one ever came into the forest at such an early hour. She pushed through thorny bushes that snagged her hair, scratched her skin, and stained her clothes. When she climbed over a massive fallen tree, she slipped on the lush, damp moss and landed on her bottom.

The voices, ever louder, Summoned her, a call that she must answer. Curiosity prickled her skin when the forest opened up into a clearing. Under the canopy of an ancient rowan tree, a group of women sat in a circle singing words she didn’t understand, and yet the chant was somehow familiar. The lexis welcomed her, elated her, and enveloped her in a wonderful sense of belonging.

A woman with long red hair, whose seated position was higher than the rest of the women, sat with her back toward the forest. Without turning, she spoke. ‘Welcome, Elizabeth Randall, I am Isobel Gowdie, High Priestess of the Forest Coven. We have waited a very long time for you to join us."

Elizabeth approached the circle of women tentatively when as one they rose and took turns in embracing her. Never before had she experienced the warmth or the sense of peace that these women offered.

Every day at dawn, Elizabeth hurried to the meeting place, a green-grassed area encircled with flowers and mushrooms. Carliese, a young blonde woman, told her that this was a magickal place, a Faery circle protected by the Old Ones.

One morning, nervous energy flowed through the women as they spoke of spells and healing. A huge, majestic red stag appeared and walked toward them. All of the women stood and bowed. Elizabeth frowned guardedly and stepped back. When they began to chant, dizziness overcame her. She grabbed Carliese’s arm to her to steady herself.

The stag approached her, then went down on one knee. "Mother of the epoch of magicks to come, it is time for you to perform your duty, to take your place in our history as the one who will assemble a gathering abode where witches can practice magicks in peace, without persecution."

The outline of the stag shimmered in green luminescent light as he transformed into a tall man with black hair past his shoulders and brilliant violet eyes.

He was beautiful.

Elizabeth couldn’t help but stare. When he smiled, his face lit up with joy.

Well met, Elizabeth Randall, Healer of all beasts and Daughter of Mother Earth. I am the Mage, Abramelin. He held out his hand to her.

Suddenly, her sense of vertigo became the glow of something she had never before experienced. She stepped forward and took his fingers in hers.

He stood tall and opened his other hand. A garland of beautiful Scottish thistles appeared.

Isobel stepped forward.

Abramelin bowed. High Priestess. He passed the garland to her.

She nodded, then turned to Elizabeth This circle of leaf, thorn, and flower is a symbol of beauty and of the fierceness of the Scottish Clans and of our robust ability to survive and succeed against all odds. She handed the garland back to Abramelin, and he placed it on Elizabeth’s head.

Isobel stepped back and joined the other women who, instead of chanting, sang in beautiful, choral voices the words of the Celtic Wedding Vow:

"I pledge my love to you, and everything that I own.

I promise you the first bite of my meat and the first sip from my cup.

I pledge that your name will always be the name I cry aloud in the dead