Witch of the Lake: The Complete Trilogy

By Miranda Honfleur and Nicolette Andrews

★★★★★ "It's full of betrayal, love, revenge, crazed villagers, and a dang cult......It was an exciting read all the way up to the end." ~Reviewer
In a struggle between gods, a young witch and the village she protects are caught in the crossfire.
The dark god's cult aims to sweep up not just the village but the entire country. An unlikely force must stand against the onslaught.

Brygida, who comes from a long line of water witches serving their goddess, now challenged with a gift of dark power.
Kaspian, a second-born son who thought he'd spend his life painting instead of tending the rulership... until the murder of someone very dear to him.
And the Madwood, a slumbering forest full of apparitions, whose strength or madness could change the world forever...
Can Brygida and Kaspian stem the dark tide of the cult together?Or will they, their people, their lands, and everything drown in the mortal inevitability of blood, demons, and a waking wood with an insatiable hunger...?

Fans of Juliet Marillier and Naomi Novik will love this beautifully dark mythic tale set in pre-medieval Eastern Europe with magic, mystery, and romance, blending folklore with history, all beneath the looming threat of brutal witch hunts and a cataclysmic demonic onslaught…
Grab your copy of Witch of the Lake and begin this mythic dark fantasy today!
Praise for the Witch of the Lake trilogy:
★★★★★ "FEAST OF THE MOTHER is a delightfully magical old-world fantasy. With a heroine who is both grave and valiant, a world full of mystery and haunting magic, and a mystery that will keep you riveted, you won’t be able to put down this delightful tale. Recommended for fans of AN ENCHANTMENT OF RAVENS. Don’t miss this triumphant first-in-series by authors Miranda Honfleur and Nicolette Andrews." ~Sarah K. L. Wilson, bestselling author of the Dragon School series
★★★★★ "Steeped in rich and dark folklore, FEAST OF THE MOTHER is young-adult fantasy at its best. Honfleur and Andrews take witches, murder, and romance, twist and weave them together with an imaginative and mysterious backdrop of medieval grievances. The result is a page-turning tale that will keep you riveted from the first page until the very last." ~Raye Wagner, USA Today bestselling author of Magi Rising series
★★★★★ "If you love Naomi Novik's books, FEAST OF THE MOTHER is the dark, romantic story you've been waiting for! The mythos is vibrant and multi-layered. This fantasy satisfied to the fullest degree!" ~Alisha Klapheke, USA Today bestselling author of the Uncommon World series
The complete Witch of the Lake trilogy includes:
1. Feast of the Mother
2. Fate of the Demon
​​​​​​​3. Fall of the Reaper

• Language: English
• Publisher: Holabird House LLC
• Release date: Feb 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781949932119

Book preview

Witch of the Lake

WITCH OF THE LAKE

The Complete Trilogy

MIRANDA HONFLEUR

NICOLETTE ANDREWS

Copyright © 2020 by Miranda Honfleur and Nicolette Andrews

All rights reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the authors, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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

Cover design by KD Ritchie at Storywrappers

Cover art by Doris Mantair

Map by Rela Kellerica Similä

Editing by Deborah Nemeth

Proofreading by Patrycja Pakula, Charity Chimni, Lea Vickery, and Anthony S. Holabird

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-949932-11-9

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ALSO BY MIRANDA HONFLEUR

The Blade and Rose Series

Winter Wren (available on www.mirandahonfleur.com)

Blade & Rose (Book 1)

By Dark Deeds (Book 2)

Court of Shadows (Book 3)

Blade and Rose: Books 1-3 Digital Boxed Set

Queen of the Shining Sea (Book 4)

The Dragon King (Book 5)* upcoming

Immortelle (Book 6)* upcoming

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The Dark-Elves of Nightbloom Series

No Man Can Tame

Bright of the Moon

An Ember in the Dark

Crown To Ashes* upcoming

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The Witch of the Lake Series with Nicolette Andrews

Feast of the Mother (Book 1)

Fate of the Demon (Book 2)

Fall of the Reaper (Book 3)

Witch of the Lake: The Complete Trilogy

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Boxed Sets

Realm of Darkness: A Limited Edition Fantasy and Paranormal Collection

Of Beasts and Beauties

ALSO BY NICOLETTE ANDREWS

WORLD OF AKATSUKI

The Tales of Akatsuki Series

Kitsune:  A Little Mermaid Retelling

Yuki: A Snow White Retelling

Okami: A Little Red Riding Hood Retelling

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The Dragon Saga

The Priestess and the Dragon (Book 1)

The Sea Stone (Book 2)

The Song of the Wind (Book 3)

The Fractured Soul (Book 4)

DIVINER’S WORLD

The Reign of Prophecy Series

Duchess

Sorcerer (available at www.nicoletteandrews.com)

Diviner’s Prophecy (Book 1)

Diviner’s Curse (Book 2)

Diviner’s Fate (Book 3)

Princess

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The Thornwood Series

Fairy Ring

Pricked by Thorns

Heart of Thorns (Book 1)

Tangled in Thorns (Book 2)

Blood and Thorns (Book 3)

This book is for…

Alisha Klapheke, Alistair North, Andrea Peel, Anthony Holabird, Ashley Martinez, Barbara Harrison, Charity Chimni, Charley Curry, Chloe Bratt-Lewis, Clare Sager, Cyndy Shubert-Jett, Dana S. Jackson Lange, Darlene Kunst Rooney, Deb Barringer, Deborah Dunson, Donna Adamek, Donna Levett, Donna Swenson, Emily Allen West, Emily Wiebe, Erin McDonough, Erin Miller, Eugenia Kollia, Fanny Comas, Fiona Andrew, J.M. Butler, Jackie Tansky, Janel Iverson, Jennifer Hoblitt Kaser, Jennifer Moriarity, Jennifer Robertson, Judith Cohen, Karen Borges, Katherine Bennet, Kathy Brown, Kelly Scott, Kimberly, Kris Walls, Kristen White, Krys Baxter-Ragsdale, Lea Vickery, Linda Adams, Linda Levine, Linda Romer, Lyn Andreasen, Maggie Borges, Marilyn Smith, Marla Ramsey, Mary Nguyen, Michelle Ferreira, Nicole Page, Patrycja Pakula, Rachel Cass, Roger Fauble, Samantha Mikals, Scarolet Ellis, Seraphia Sparks, Shannon Childress, Shauna Joesten, Shelby Palmer, Shivani Kitson, Spring Runyon, Stan Hutchings, Susanne Huxhorn, Tanya Wheeler, Teri Ruscak, Tina Carter, Tony Sommer, Tricia Wright, Vicki Michelle, Wanda Wozniczka…

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…and everyone else who’s supported us and spread the word about our books from the start. We couldn’t do this without you, and you being in our corner has meant the world to us.

A LETTER FROM THE AUTHORS

Thank you very much for reading Witch of the Lake! We really appreciate it. Because of your support, we’re able to keep writing, which means more stories for you and continuing this career for us.

Did you know that oftentimes authors and publishers decide whether to continue or cancel a series based on how many units it’s selling? That could mean ending a three-book series at book one. Piracy affects both authors and readers. It’s also against the law, even when distributed without monetary gain, and can lead to investigation by the FBI, fines of up to $250,000 per offense, and federal imprisonment of up to five years.

If you want your favorite authors to keep writing the stories you love, you can help by making sure you get your books from a verified retailer, the publisher, or the author, and not from an illegal download site. To see where you can get a print or ebook copy of this book legally, visit this website: http://www.mirandahonfleur.com/book/witch-of-the-lake

CONTENTS

Preface

Feast of the Mother

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Fate of the Demon

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Fall of the Reaper

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Authors’ Note

Pronunciation Guide

About Miranda Honfleur

About Nicolette Andrews

Bibliography

PREFACE

There is no end to the number of stories waiting to be told. Between Nicolette and me, we already have dozens competing for their place in the sun, with her continuing Dragon Saga and Thornwood and my ongoing Blade and Rose series and the Dark-Elves of Nightbloom. Our characters claim greedy spots in our creative minds, always giving their two cents (whether we want them to or not) and continually reigniting our passion to write them. And with so many of them, and only two of us, it came as a complete surprise that when we met, new—co-written—stories demanded to be told. And now!

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Sometime during one of our madcap daydreaming sessions, Jin and her world in the Celestial War series came into being, and we contractually agreed to set out to work on that. And then, an invitation to write for an anthology centered around witches and the autumn equinox put a pin in that, and we each got to work on brainstorming a short story. I had long crafted a world based in my Polish heritage, wrapped in Slavic mythology, tradition, and superstition. Nicolette had imagined a cabin in the woods, where a young witch lived with her mothers. As we shared our ideas with one another, they converged as if it were meant to be, and the witches moved into an Eastern European forest, serving gods of the Slavic pantheon. Tada!

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In a flurry of feverish drafting, we quickly reached—and overshot—the word count for the short story, and it sprawled into a novel… and into a trilogy. We had planned to release Celestial War this summer, but Brygida, her mothers, and Kaspian gave far more than a character’s usual two cents and would not pipe down… so here we are, and Jin has gracefully agreed to hold her peace until next summer.

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That was the spark that set us on this book’s path, but several steps followed. Nicolette dove into art research while I studied books on Slavic mythology written in Polish to round out and confirm what I already knew. We gathered notes and fleshed out the characters, the story, and let them speak to us. We were extremely fortunate to have the help of our author friends to critique the story and see if it worked, thanks to Alisha Klapheke, Katherine Bennet, J.M. Butler, Clare Sager, and Emily Allen West, and our editor, Deborah Nemeth. Their tireless help was critical to bringing our vision of Brygida, Kaspian, and Czarnobrzeg to life. And our assistants, Charity Chimney and Lea Vickery, worked constantly to make sure everything ran smoothly, and our proofreaders Patrycja Pakula and Anthony S. Holabird helped us deliver cleaner books.

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And most of all, we had each other, not just co-authors but the closest of friends. In bringing this story to its place in the sun, we have not only strengthened ourselves as writers, but the growing friendship we have with each other. And we’re overjoyed to share with you Brygida’s story, Feast of the Mother.

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Sincerely,

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Miranda Honfleur & Nicolette Andrews

July 2019

Map of Czarnobrzeg

FEAST OF THE MOTHER

To our mothers and our biggest supporters,

Wanda and Cheryl,

who have always inspired us to be stronger women and lead us by their fierce example.

Pray why are you so bare, so bare,

Oh, bough of the old oak-tree;

And why, when I go through the shade you throw,

Runs a shudder over me?

PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR, THE HAUNTED OAK (1913)

CHAPTER 1

Hiding was always more difficult at this time of year. The tall golden fields of wheat, oats, and rye had been reaped, and their barren starkness offered no concealment—to her especially. To her great misfortune, otherness crowned her as conspicuously as a wedding wreath, if not the least bit as happily.

But at least she had this, from between the leaves a view of the world outside—or a glimpse, anyway. If she wasn’t home by dark, Mama would take the woven willow switch to her again, but she’d be home with time to spare. Just a little detour from gathering ingredients wouldn’t hurt.

Careful not to step on the pots of honey or aged loaves of bread, Brygida leaned out from behind the enormous border oak, its living tree flesh struck and sundered by almighty Perun’s bright lightning. In the distance, a bearish man crept beside his house, plunging a brush none too gently into a bucket of whitewash. Beneath the blue-painted frame of a window, he stained the side of the oaken wall with dots, flashes of precious gems and metals glinting on his fingers in the high-noon sun like blades.

One of their customs—she’d seen it before. It was late in the season to announce a marriageable daughter to the village, so close as it was to the Feast of the Mother, but at least this man’s daughter would have a chance at her fall, a chance to choose someone to share in her life. She’d dance tomorrow night at the feast, plait the wreath of rue, make offerings at the shrine, and celebrate with other young women and the entire village. Together.

No chance of that in the wood.

The wind plowed along the harvested grassland, bending the stubbled fields toward the trees. Clutching the vial of Mroczne lake water at her neck, Brygida turned away, leaning against the Perun-struck oak with a wistful sigh. Such was not the destiny of Mrok witches like her, the women of the lake, who did not want the village and whom the village did not want. The oaks were their villagers and the craft their bridegroom, the lake their shrine and their offerings beneath the moon.

Mama and Mamusia had each other, of course, and liked it that way, but who was there for her?

No one lived in the wood other than her and her mothers, the Mrok witches. For the rest of her life, there would probably be no one else, and her mothers had made it as clear as Skawa river water that not only was she not allowed in the village, but no one would ever want her there.

With a deep breath, she pushed off from the oak and receded into the wood. In the village of Czarnobrzeg, the reaping was ending, and tomorrow a well-earned rest and celebration would follow, but at the Mrok cottage, there was always work to be done.

There was time enough to pick the honeysuckle and the ramsthorn as Mama had told her to, but she’d already spent too long at the border. Neither of her mothers would approve, and there was the switch to consider. She flinched.

The luscious twilight-blooming flowers of the honeysuckle grew along the outskirts of the wood, but their sweet fragrance greeted her long before the contrast of light-colored petals showed among the trinities of deep-green leaves. That enticing scent was but a taste of the delight honeysuckle offered, something Mamusia had shown her long, long ago… and now probably regretted she had.

Only a moment. It would take only a moment and no longer, wouldn’t it? Where was the harm?

With an impish grin to herself, Brygida picked a flower off the vine and pinched hard enough to break through the smooth petal. Slowly, she pulled on the end of the flower and guided all the delicious nectar to collect in a droplet at the end. Her mouth watered as she brought it to her lips and savored the sweet treat on her tongue. She helped herself to a few more, and only stopped to leave some for the hummingbirds.

With no one but her mothers to talk to, these simple pleasures had been the rays of sunshine in her day-to-day life. As a little girl, she’d spent hours with Mamusia at these shrubs, laughing and playing and suckling the honey-sweet nectar of these flowers. But around the Feast of the Mother, when all of Czarnobrzeg celebrated, Mamusia always became uncharacteristically sullen, no matter the forced smiles she wore.

Brygida gathered some of the flowers, just enough, and tucked them into her apron. She would be seventeen tomorrow on the autumnal equinox, and considering Mamusia never spoke of Brygida’s father, there was little doubt as to why her demeanor darkened at this time every year. Something had happened to him, or to her, or perhaps to them both, but it had to have been a long time ago, for there wasn’t a single memory Brygida had of him.

Perhaps these herbs were for Mamusia. An elegant water distilled from the blooms made an effective remedy for nervous headaches, and with enough to see her through this moon, at least she’d have an easier time of it.

The honeyed high-noon sunlight had long faded, and she had to return to the cottage before dark. Little time remained, so she needed to hurry.

Deeper into the wood, the myrtle shrubs, quatrefoil, and wild currant sprawled through the undergrowth, with the quatrefoil’s black crow’s-eye berries abundant. Poisonous as the worst of snakes. Everyone avoided touching them or the black currant for fear of mistaking the two. But she was a Mrok witch on her witchlands; every bit of this place was home to her, and its secrets spoke to her. She plucked the black currant as she passed, the tartness cutting the sugary honeysuckle nectar in her mouth.

A hedgehog greeted her shyly among the ferns, and as she flowed carefully around him, a ladybug landed on her hand. It was late in the year to see one, but it was always a merry meeting. Tiny fairies glowed not far away, flitting and fussing amongst the rare prickly gooseberry shrubs. Perhaps there would’ve been a fruit or two left if she hadn’t picked this one clean days ago.

With an apologetic wince, she approached with currant berries in her outstretched hand. In a flurry, the fairies flew in, each group gathering a single berry together. Let it never be said family didn’t help each other. They dug in, and hopefully all was forgiven about the gooseberries.

The wood had slept well for as long as she could remember; its manifestations were dreams and not nightmares as the Mrok grimoire warned, and Holy Mokosza willing, it would so remain. Quiet, undisturbed, dreaming. Fairies, too, thrived in a healthy wood but feared the village folk, who feared them as much in turn. At the slightest proximity, they’d hide, just as she did.

But no villagers wandered the wood, especially not when there was a harvest wreath to be crafted, a last sheaf of grain to be gathered, preparations for tomorrow’s feast to be made. If there was but a moment in Czarnobrzeg tonight to take a breath, even Great Mother Mokosza herself would topple her loom in surprise.

The ramsthorn yet awaited—another poisonous plant, and odorous to be sure. Mamusia sometimes used it to make a marshy-green pigment for writing in her grimoire.

Past a cloud of ephemeral dream-ghosts, Brygida moved toward the lake, the group of fairies flying alongside her as they usually did when it was just her, Mama, or Mamusia.

Not far from the shore, the fairies chimed in tune around Brygida’s shoulders, but a familiar song gave her pause, one the village girls sang when no suitors approached their fathers.

And... beneath their chime was her own voice. She’d been singing it to herself. My fall has not yet arrived.

Silliness. Her fall would never arrive, as every Mrok witch well knew. Witches never married. There would never be anyone for her, and nothing but the wood. She loved her home, so… she would have to make peace with it. The village was too dangerous anyway and, as Mama had said many times, didn’t want her there.

Please don’t stop on my account, a masculine voice offered.

CHAPTER 2

The fairies fled, bolted in myriad directions among leaves and trees. Brygida spun toward the voice, which carried across lilac bushes and ramsthorn shrubs before the black glass surface of the lake.

A young man stood before a wooden stand of some kind. His light-blond hair was disheveled, tousled by either his paint-speckled hand or that of the wind. His broad shoulders tapered down a long, lean frame to narrow hips.

Her gaze dropped to the sword belted at his waist. A warrior? Who else would dare venture here, to her lake, to her witchlands, to ancient Iga Mrok’s grave and home, where worship and vengeance slumbered beneath the water?

None but witches and the occasional monster hunter walked here, or warriors who did not yet understand whom they pursued.

Was this—was this a village man? The danger Mama had always warned her about?

Her fingers clutched the vial of lake water at her neck. If he posed a risk, she had but to venture into the Mroczne waters to be at her full power.

As his gaze followed her line of sight all the way to his sword, his eyes widened. Slow as moonrise, he reached for the weapon, untied it from his belt, and set the sheathed blade on the ground.

Friend, he enunciated slowly and loudly, holding his hands palm up. Not here to—he shook his head—hurt you. He indicated the sword upon the ground and pushed it farther away with his booted foot.

With an exasperated breath, she crossed her arms. I’m not deaf. Nor am I ignorant of the common tongue.

His mouth curved in a half-smile. He tilted his head and raised a pale eyebrow. My mistake. Forgive me.

Mama had warned her about the manipulations of men, most especially village men, and she wasn’t about to trust his honeyed voice or exaggerated gestures just because he had a handsome face.

What are you doing here? she demanded.

He tipped his head toward the wooden frame, upon which sat a board of some kind.

Squinting, she could discern a few splotches of color… No, the silvery glass-like surface of the lake, the greenery of the ramsthorn, grasses, and hints of lilac blooms beneath a blue-gray sky.

Foliage crunched beneath her boots as she neared, the image coming into focus. It was vibrant, more beautiful than any drawing she’d ever seen.

Mamusia had taught her to make pigments and paints, and together, they’d painted flowers inside the cottage, on the walls, on the doors, even on the shelves in the cellar. But never anything like this.

It’s not finished, he said abruptly, eyeing her with a sparkling blue gaze, but I’m to receive more paints tomorrow, so it won’t be much longer.

More paints? The ramsthorn, she whispered under her breath.

Hm? The low hush of his voice was close, and as she glanced over to him, he was only a couple feet away. Like an enchanted fool, she’d come right up to him. Or rather, his painting.

With a few steps back, she looked him over. It was not often a man sought the wares of the Mrok witches, and certainly never in her presence, but this man’s cloth was finely woven, his coat a rich celandine yellow, many shades deeper than his golden hair. And around his neck, a silver chain dropped to a large stone of dark amber, a ward against the evil eye and other dark forces. Well to do, and a believer in the craft. And most certainly from the village.

Your song, he said softly, pensively. It was lovely. His blue eyes equally soft, he met her gaze. If you keep singing, I’ll keep painting. He winked.

What was—? Did all strangers speak so freely upon first meeting? Most of the villagers never saw her, and those who did either pretended they hadn’t or fled. The only time any Mrok witch walked among their kind was in service of Iga Mrok, first of her name, hand of Mokosza, mistress of Mroczne Lake, and lady of the rusałki on these witchlands… when a woman died at the hands of injustice, and vengeance would have her say.

Holy Mokosza was the protector of all women, and since the first Mrok witch had called this lake home, the entire line had served Mokosza in Her aspect as the goddess of death. Although Czarnobrzeg worshipped Her as any pious settlement did, most people were doubtless disturbed by the hermit witches who were tasked with sacrificing murderers to the lake. This painter included.

Fortunately, no women had been murdered in her lifetime, by the grace of the Mother.

The sky clouded over the early evening grayness, and Brygida swallowed over the lump in her throat. No one but Mama and Mamusia had ever heard her singing, much less deemed it lovely. But it didn’t take all day to gather honeysuckle and ramsthorn… the latter of which she’d already forgotten.

She’d definitely get the switch tonight.

With a furrowed brow, the painter tilted his head, watching her.

Her breath quickened. Mroczne Lake was home to the water-dwelling and deadly rusałki, but far more dangerous things walked these lands in the dark, and apparitions of the wood’s dream, leading wanderers astray or worse. It would be a pity for this young man to encounter them—if only because naive villagers had an unfortunate habit of pointing fingers at forces they did not comprehend.

If the wood’s dreams found him here, he’d be in trouble. But if her mothers found him, he’d be in even worse trouble...

Don’t linger by the lake after dusk, she said, by way of good-bye to the painter, and departed for the cottage.

Will you be at the feast tomorrow night? he called, turning from the painting. You should come.

She opened her mouth but did not answer. Both of her mothers forbade her approaching the village, let alone joining in their events. Ignoring him, she headed back for the cottage.

Two years ago, in a fit of foolishness, she’d sewn a linen dress of the Mrok violet but lined with a drab village brown lent by ramsthorn bark, along with a matching headscarf for her auburn hair. She had but to turn the dress inside out to blend in, or so she hoped, although there was no article of clothing that could hide her violet eyes.

Once, she had entertained the idiotic notion of venturing into Czarnobrzeg in disguise, but Mama and Mamusia had taught her better. That, and there wouldn’t be enough switches to deliver the punishment Mama would want to hand down. Mama loved her, but sometimes her protection could be stifling. The switch didn’t hurt anymore, not since years ago, but disappointing Mama always stung.

As Brygida traced the rim of the lake toward the cottage, she hastily plucked any ramsthorn in her path. Mokosza willing, it would be enough to content Mama.

A tiny flame winked in the distance, a candle set in the window to guide her home, and she followed it through myrtle leaves and overgrown grasses. All was quiet outside the ash-wood cottage.

Brygida froze. Mamusia always hummed or sang and Mama constantly murmured under her breath as she worked. Mokosza’s loom, they were already waiting for her. Had to be.

Brygida took three deep breaths, raised her head, and smiled. All was well. All would be well. She would just have to explain why she’d lost track of time… and not mention that she’d run into a man from the village that they’d warned her was dangerous and she should stay away from. Or that she’d been watching the village again… Or anything other than gathering ingredients.

With a brightness she didn’t feel, she opened the door and quickly turned to shut it. The sun certainly set early today, didn’t it? One moment I was enjoying some honeysuckle, and the next, it was almost dark.

Untying her apron, she faced the table, where Mama sat unamused with the switch on her lap, her frown and green-stained fingers in stark relief to her perfect posture and dark-red braid, with nary a single hair out of place.

And while you spent the day dallying, guess who had to gather the ramsthorn? Mama raised her eyebrows.

I—

And prepare it?

Well—

And make the pigment?

Mama did so much of the work around the cottage, and she should have been the last person tasked to finish additional chores. Although Mamusia tended the garden and animals herself, it was Mama who gathered and split the firewood, repaired anything and everything, dried the herbs, did the cooking and cleaning. It was Mama who spoke to any villagers seeking remedies, midwifery, or last rites.

I’m sorry, Brygida offered. I got carried away.

Mama shook her head. Did you get carried away with the plants, or with the village?

Brygida’s mouth dropped open. Shutting it quickly, she took the honeysuckle and ramsthorn she’d gathered to their workspace. I would never set foot in the village.

It was completely true, if not exactly the answer to Mama’s question.

Mama huffed under her breath.

Next to the workspace, the altar boasted all manner of offerings to Mokosza, from fine needlework to spools of woolen thread and clumps of rye. And above it were some of the many things that made the Mrok witches outsiders. The Scythe of the Mother and the Belt of the Golden Spider, with its long red linen yarns hanging loose, part of the regalia used for their duties as Mokosza’s Reapers of Death. In all her years, she had never seen their purpose bloom, but being a Mrok witch was isolating enough without walking through the village wielding a giant scythe and wearing a spider belt of red yarns.

Oh, leave her be, Ewa, Mamusia chided gently from her loom, her voice airy and light as always. Tonight her attention swayed in the webs of her threads, leaving only a wisp of her to chime into the discussion. We’ve taught her well. Now we must trust her.

I’ll trust her when I know she’s not ogling young men from the village, Mama shot back, receiving an ephemeral, exasperated smile from Mamusia before she returned to her weaving.

Mama knew about the man at the lake?

Brygida’s breath caught in her throat, and her gaze darted to the switch on Mama’s lap. Mokosza’s golden spider save her. I wasn’t ‘ogling’ him, Mama. I didn’t think any villager would dare linger by the lake, but he heard me singing and—

Linen swished as Mama rose from her chair. The switch fell to the floor. You did what?

Brygida raised her eyebrows as she met Mama’s wide green eyes. I—I…

You spoke with a village man? What was he doing here? What did he say to you? The color drained from Mama’s face. He could have hurt you!

No, Mama, he immediately put his sword down—

He had a sword? Here? Mama took a couple steps closer to her, blinking over those wide eyes.

Brygida swung her head from side to side. No, it wasn’t like that. He was only painting the lake, and—

Him. Shutting her eyes, Mama took a deep breath and forced out a sharp exhalation. I told you he was trouble, Liliana, she called over her shoulder to Mamusia, who shrugged happily.

A young man buying paints hardly seems a threat, Mamusia answered lightly, in her singsongy voice.

So the painter had already been coming here, and her mothers had… had hidden him from her? Mama and Mamusia had been blessed with good fortune to meet one another, and yet they had made sure she couldn’t meet someone?

It was Mama’s perpetual fear that she’d meet a man and that the long years free of murder would be interrupted by the death of a Mrok witch. Brygida’s own. Mamusia had woken from a nightmare once, a vision of a man gripping Brygida’s neck, and that had been the beginning and end of the discussion.

But their protection hadn’t only isolated her from men. It had isolated her from everything.

He could’ve bought paints in the village. Or ordered them from the city of Tarnowice, but he came here of all places, Mama replied. I told you he was suspicious. Now we know what he’s after. Her face tight, Mama turned back to Brygida and pulled her into an embrace.

Brygida rested her head on Mama’s shoulder, although every protest in the world clambered like jasmine to escape. Mama wouldn’t hear it, and neither would Mamusia. They’d warned her about the villagers since she’d been a child, and even the most innocuous of encounters were considered risks and threats. They couldn’t see past Mamusia’s nightmare to acknowledge her dream, that maybe home wouldn’t be so lonely for her after all.

Maybe someday, someday, her fall would come, something beyond distant curiosities and every corner of the wood. She could never marry, of course, but… but she wouldn’t have to be alone. There could be someone for her to share her life with, the way Mama and Mamusia did.

My child, this world is a dangerous place for our kind, Mama whispered to her, hugging her tightly. I know caprice is the lifeblood of youth, but please, heed the wisdom of our years, because we have lived the words we give you. And they are for your protection, Brygida.

She loved them both, but their views would never change, even when confronted with facts to the contrary. She’d met a man from the village today, and he hadn’t been dangerous as her mothers had always claimed. That, and they’d said no one in the village would ever want her there.

The painter had invited her. If Mama and Mamusia had been wrong about those two things, couldn’t they be wrong to forbid her from going to the village? Perhaps the villagers would welcome her with open arms. Perhaps the wall of fear could finally be dismantled, and Mrok witches could pass the Perun-struck oak into the outside, to the others, to the unknown every day, not just when Mokosza’s justice had to be done.

If she did nothing, the witchlands she loved so much would someday become her cage, and the Perun-struck oaks her bars, and the ramsthorn-brown lined dress and headscarf would remain in a parcel under her bed.

Unless she proved to them the nightmare had been wrong.

By going to the feast.

CHAPTER 3

Kaspian was late. Very late.

As he stepped out of the shade of the Perun-struck oak, the fields before him weren’t animated with the tall, breeze-rustled ears of rye he always brushed his fingers over. Only bare earth, shorn close to the ground, filled the expanse. The scent of fresh-cut grass drifted on the wind. The reapers had cleared almost the entire field; only stipples of wheat stalks remained. He hefted the painting onto his back, rearranged the satchel’s strap, and picked up the pace. If he missed this year, Tata would have his head, heir or no.

The autumn light had been so beautiful this morning, the perfect time to paint the lake. He’d only meant to linger a little while. For months he’d been trying to capture the esoteric feeling that place emanated. At times it almost seemed aware of him. It was easy enough to replicate the pigment of the dark bottomless lake and the reflection of the trees on its smooth surface. If only he could portray the tingle of magic in the air, or the color of his racing heart when he’d first gazed upon the glassy water. Capturing the magic of that place was as impossible as trying to paint the notes of her song...

That young woman—had she been real or some illusion conjured by the forest, a vivid waking dream? For years his brother, Henryk, had smuggled in paints from Tarnowice, but in recent years, the whispers of villagers had led him to a cottage in the so-called Madwood. Although he’d half-hoped to run into some of the creatures of legend, he’d never snagged more than a half-glimpsed shape from the corner of his eye. It made him uneasy, and yet he couldn’t escape its allure. How many times had he braved its wilderness, seeking out the witches of the lake for their paint? By using it, he’d hoped some of their magic would infuse his canvas, and in all these long months, he’d not once seen a hint of her.

Bundles of rye leaned against one another in piles, casting long shadows reaching for the castle. The two-story building loomed over it, an imposing structure of oak and stone that reflected the might and power of his family legacy. There were few like it, even outside the region of Rubin, and some lords still lived in little more than larger huts, but in his younger, stronger years, Tata had been adamant that all of Nizina’s lords comprehend the strength of the Wolski family.

Squat wooden buildings surrounded the castle, among them the blacksmith, the smokehouse, and the silo. He crept past them to the barn, where the scents of fresh hay and horse tickled his nose. Inside, it was dark—perfectly dark—and in an empty stall, he set down his painting.

She’d liked it. Even though the trees were too muddy and the reflection on the water too bright, and worse yet it lacked emotion—she’d liked it.

If Tata saw it, he’d likely smash it to pieces.

Better to hide it more skillfully. Careful not to smudge any drying paint, Kaspian nestled it behind the golden stalks of rye. He’d have to come back for it later.

At the far end of the field, reapers joked and laughed, clad in their sun-bleached roughspun beneath hats and headscarves, as they gathered bundles of rye, putting them into upright piles to be stored away later. A single row remained, and beyond it Tata’s white hair was a paint smear against the gray clouds gathering overhead. The ceremonial sickle glinted in his hand.

If he weren’t the future lord of Rubin, the rye wouldn’t be the only thing being cut down today.

The harvest ritual was almost over. It would soon be time to hand over the ceremonial sickle.

Kaspian sprinted across the field. If only he wasn’t late, maybe Tata would hear him out, since today was his last chance. He’d left bread and honey as offerings to Perun at the Perun-struck oak. He’d brought a spool of linen yarn to Mokosza’s shrine and begged for Her blessing. And just in case, he’d even lit a candle for Weles, lord of the under, whose new cult of devotees swelled with every passing season. Anything to make Tata listen. For once.

The reapers gathered around, forming a half circle in front of Tata, who appeared healthier today than he usually did. With their backs turned outward, Kaspian could blend in among them as he approached.

Who do you think will be crowned head reaper? a farmhand asked.

Is there any doubt who he’ll choose? Julian nearly worked his hands to the bone. The second man attempted to jab Julian in the ribs but hit him just above the hip instead—Julian stood nearly a head taller than the rest. Maybe that was what made him so noticeable to the village’s young women.

Julian smiled. I worked no harder than any of you.

Not that anyone believed that lie. Not only had he helped with the reaping at Malicki Manor, his home, but he’d also come here to help harvest as well. Double the work in an already busy season.

Kaspian rubbed the flaking paint on his fingers. Julian was comfortable in his role, unlike him. The life he’d led, full of art, adventure, and enjoyment, had given him room to explore the best this world had to offer. But lately all that mattered was studying his numbers, his letters, and his swordsmanship, a futile effort to make up for lost time. For a lost heir.

Henryk’s departure had been so sudden; if Henryk had given him some sort of warning about wanting to join the priesthood, lessons would have mattered more. More than running off to paint any new place, or to make trouble with Stefan at any opportunity. It had all been so simple.

But ever since Henryk had left, nothing had been simple anymore. He wasn’t as smart as Henryk, who had soaked up lessons as fast as the tutor could teach them. He wasn’t charming like Henryk, who had been beloved by all, who had frequently spent more time in the village and at the tavern than at home. He wasn’t as well respected or admired, not compared to Henryk’s skills as a warrior. But as the second-born son, he’d never worried about any of it, especially when Henryk had taken to it like a brush to canvas. With an heir so well suited to ruling, who would expect the second-born son to even bother?

But here he was. The heir of necessity.

He’d curse Henryk for leaving this duty to him, but how could he fault Henryk for being summoned to Perun’s service? When the gods call, man must answer. He shouldn’t curse Henryk, no… but some days, he wanted to. Very, very much.

Julian raised a fist as if to playfully punch the man next to him, but he stopped, leaving his hand hanging in the air.

Kaspian. Julian stepped aside, as did the other peasants, leaving him exposed to Tata.

Tata’s coal-black eyes met his. Deep furrows lined his mouth and his brow. It was a familiar look. All too familiar these days. The best he could hope for would be for Tata’s ire to pass quickly.

Head bowed, Kaspian took his place beside his father.

You were in the Madwood again, Tata said, his words quick and heated, burning like the fire of Holy Swaróg’s forge.

Yes, Tata, he answered respectfully. He stood straight, gaze lowered, before he could be scolded for defiance, too.

Where is it?

A cold sweat broke out along his brow, but he mustered what charm could be found beneath that layer of apprehension. Where is what?

It was a good thing he’d hidden the painting away. It wasn’t perfect, not yet, but he was getting closer and didn’t want Tata to destroy this one when it was so nearly done.

Tata grumbled low in his throat and faced the reapers. Thank you all for your hard work this harvest. We have been abundantly blessed. You’ve all worked hard, but none more so than Julian. He gave a rare half-smile to Julian. Tata made it no secret he would have preferred a son like him, hardworking and charismatic. Just like Henryk.

Tata wanted him to be a leader. But how could he do that staring down from on high? Henryk had always been among the people, a part of the community. How did Tata expect the peasants to respect and trust him when he felt no confidence in himself?

The reapers clapped Julian on the back, and he stepped forward to receive the ceremonial sickle, marking him as head reaper and favored by Mokosza. In the square tomorrow, Julian would be crowned and celebrated by all the village before the feast and throughout the evening.

All propriety, Julian accepted the sickle from Tata before turning back to the other farmhands with a crooked smile and his trophy. How fortunate he was to be uninhibited by duty, to work as hard or as little as he wished, to do what he pleased, marry whomever he wanted. How indulgent it must be to have a choice.

With Julian in the lead, the reapers cut the remaining stalks of rye. The kind of respect Julian had among the peasants, and from Tata, couldn’t be expected; it had to be earned.

And it could never be earned standing here, looking down on them.

Let me join them in the final harvest, Kaspian said, before he could doubt himself.

Am I a joke to you? Tata raised a hand to strike him, but Kaspian caught his bony wrist. He’d moved without thinking; normally he wouldn’t have dared defy Tata this way. This wouldn’t help his case. He should have known Tata wasn’t done scolding him.

I can’t lead if the people won’t trust and respect me. It wasn’t as if he wanted to do back-breaking work, but he couldn’t reconcile his role as future ruler against the carefree youth he’d been not long ago. It would be the only way to earn the respect and trust he required to actually succeed Tata someday.

"You cannot be a leader if you neglect your duties. Why can’t you be more like Julian? He knows his place and does his duty without complaint." Tata bared his teeth and yanked his hand away before erupting into violent coughs.

Kaspian clasped his father’s shoulders, raw bone beneath a tunic that once fit him well but now hung from his thin frame. As Tata bent over gasping for air, his angular collar bone showed—the weight loss wasn’t gradual anymore.

Each of Tata’s rattling breaths was a dagger to the gut. Mama had warned him to be careful, not to agitate his father, but in some fit of lunacy, he’d spoken his mind yet again. At this rate, Tata wouldn’t make it through the winter.

You should lie down, Tata. I’ll oversee the rest. He stroked circles on Tata’s back.

Tata inhaled roughly. I can die peacefully once I see you wed. Until then, I will remain on these two feet.

They’d finally brushed against the subject, but he’d have to be heartless to push Tata now. Weles’s cold hand was upon him already, eager to spirit him to the world below.

His hand paused in the center of Tata’s back. For as long as he could remember, Roksana, his callow bride-to-be, had always been tugging at the hem of his sleeve, following after him like a chick behind a hen. Their entire lives, she’d been like a sister to him, and even now, thinking about taking her to the marriage bed made him sick to his stomach. Don’t talk like that. You speak as if you’re on your deathbed. Next year—

There is no next year for me. Tata stood upright and placed his skeletal hand on Kaspian’s shoulder.

In the dying light of day, Tata’s gaunt face shadowed. The wind rustled through his long, snowy-white hair.

It was abundantly clear what Tata expected, and a good son would meet those expectations without complaint. Marry a woman of his parents’ choice to strengthen the region of Rubin and the village of Czarnobrzeg? Fine. He would do it in a heartbeat—

If it were anyone but Roksana.

Roksana, whom he’d remembered meeting when he’d been a toddler and she, a baby in her bassinet.

Who’d tugged his ears to go faster as he’d carried her around the rye-feathered fields piggyback.

Whose scraped knees he’d blown on as she’d wailed from tripping over her own feet in the barnyard.

How can I marry her, Tata? he asked, shaking his head. She’s a child.

She had her first blood years ago. It’s time. You’ve known this day would come since you were a boy.

This day had just been two meaningless words throughout his life. He’d had no vision of a future with Roksana. What he had known was Roksana’s little giggles at catching frogs together, her mewling cries when she’d dropped a fresh honeycomb from her hands, her bumbling attempts at hitting a scarecrow with his practice sword. And she was as much family to him as any blood of his blood. He could never see her as anything other than a sister, and marriage would twist everything irrevocably.

Give me one more year, Kaspian said. Henryk might come home. It was more of a wish than a likelihood, but he said it anyway. He ran his fingers through his hair and paced away from Tata.

Henryk isn’t coming back, and you know it. You are my heir, and when I die, it is up to you to protect our village.

Sickles slid through stalks of rye, each falling with a gentle thump before being gathered up by a reaper into a bundle.

I don’t need a wife to do that.

Just a few weeks ago, this place had been a rustling expanse of gold. And now it had all been cut, bundled, and counted. Except for one last bit. What made it special other than growing at the corner of the field, last to be harvested?

The reapers drew closer, the ceremony almost complete. If only Henryk hadn’t left to serve Perun. If only Tata were less rigid. If only he weren’t dying.

Walls cost coin to build, as do swords and shields to smith, and you cannot feed a militia with your paintings. Lord Granat grows stronger every day. Tata jabbed his bony finger into his chest. Our family has farmed these lands since time immemorial. You, my son, are duty bound to protect it. And Roksana’s dowry will ensure that.

The harvest’s last ears of golden rye swayed in the wind, their spikelets heavy and ripe. Sickle raised high above his head, Julian hacked down the final stalks. They crashed onto the ground.

You’re marrying her the day after tomorrow, and I won’t hear another word about it, Tata said.

Julian brought Tata the final bundle of rye, presenting it to him with an easy smile.

Kaspian grasped handfuls of fresh straw and tossed them aside. It was a fruitless search. The painting of the lake was gone.

Head slumped to his chest, he balled his hands into fists on his thighs. After escorting Tata back to the castle, he’d doubled back and come searching for it. The stalls had been recently mucked, and the entire barn smelled of new hay. There were always grooms coming in and out of the barn, so one of them must have found it.

Perhaps it was for the best. With Tata’s condition worsening, more and more had fallen on him, and as time wore on, he’d only be buried deeper. Once he succeeded Tata, there wouldn’t be time for painting anyway, so trying to perfect it would be an exercise in futility.

It had been selfish to venture into the forest this morning. All it had done was make Tata upset and exacerbate his illness. Why bother trying to capture a feeling with paint, when once Tata passed, there would be no more chances for such frivolity? Lord Granat hovered like a crow over carrion, waiting for the slightest show of weakness to sweep away the region of Rubin. And instead of strong, capable Henryk, the people had… him. It would take every drop of determination he had just to even try making up that deficit.

A man cleared his throat. Looking for something?

Stefan leaned against the doorway to the barn, sinewy arms crossed over his chest, with the dying light of day silhouetting him. Stefan liked to play pranks. Perhaps he had found it and hid it, trying to get a rise out of him.

Did you find it? Where is it?

What would the lordling of Rubin have left in my barn? Stefan teased, with a wry look in his bay-brown eyes. He strolled past Kaspian and lifted a bale of alfalfa