The Black Witch. Laurie Forest

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       CHAPTER ONE

      Halfix

      “Take that, you stupid Icaral!”

      I glance down with amusement at my young neighbors, a basket of freshly picked vegetables and herbs balanced on my hip, a slight near-autumn chill fighting to make itself known through the warm sunlight.

      Emmet and Brennan Gaffney are six-year-old twins with the black hair, forest green eyes and faintly shimmering skin so prized by my people, the Gardnerian Mages.

      The two boys pause from their noisy game and look up at me hopefully. They sit in the cool, sunlit grass, their toys scattered about.

      All the traditional characters are there among the brightly painted wooden figures. The black-haired Gardnerian soldiers, their dark tunics marked with brilliant silver spheres, stand valiantly with wands or swords raised. The boys have lined the soldiers up on a wide, flat stone in military formation.

      There are also the usual archvillains—the evil Icaral demons with their glowing eyes, their faces contorted into wide, malicious grins, black wings stretched out to their full size in an effort to intimidate, fireballs in their fists. The boys have lined these up on a log and are attempting to launch rocks at them from the direction of the soldiers with a catapult they’ve fashioned from sticks and string.

      There are assorted side characters, too: the beautiful Gardnerian maidens with their long black hair; wicked Lupine shapeshifters—half-human, half-wolf; green-scaled Snake Elves; and the mysterious Vu Trin sorceresses. They’re characters from the storybooks and songs of my childhood, as familiar to me as the old patchwork quilt that lies on my bed.

      “Why are you here?” I ask the boys, glancing down into the valley toward the Gaffneys’ estate and sprawling plantation. Eliss Gaffney usually keeps the twins firmly near home.

      “Momma won’t stop crying.” Emmet scowls and bangs the head of a wolf-creature into the ground.

      “Don’t tell!” Brennan chastises, his voice shrill. “Poppa’ll whip you for it! He said not to tell!”

      I’m not surprised by Brennan’s fear. It’s well-known that Mage Warren Gaffney’s a hard man, feared by his fastmate and children. And the startling disappearance of his nineteen-year-old daughter, Sage, has made him even harder.

      I look to the Gaffneys’ estate again with well-worn concern.

      Where are you, Sage? I wonder unhappily. She’s been missing without a trace for well over a year. What could have possibly happened to you?

      I let out a troubled sigh and turn back to the boys. “It’s all right,” I say, trying to comfort them. “You can stay over here for a while. You can even stay for supper.”

      The boys brighten and appear more than a little relieved.

      “Come play with us, Elloren,” Brennan pleads as he playfully grabs at the edge of my tunic.

      I chuckle and reach down to ruffle Brennan’s hair. “Maybe later. I have to help make supper, you know that.”

      “We’re defeating the Icarals!” Emmet exclaims. He throws a rock at one of the Icarals to demonstrate. The rock collides with the small demon and sends it spinning into the grass. “Wanna see if we can knock their wings off?”

      I pick up the small figure and run my thumb across its unpainted base. Breathing in deep, I close my eyes and the image of a large tree with a dense crown, swooping branches and delicate white flowers fills my mind.

      Frosted Hawthorne. Such elegant wood for a child’s plaything.

      I open my eyes, dissolving the image, focusing back in on the demon toy’s orange eyes. I fight the urge to envision the tree once more, but I know better than to entertain this odd quirk of mine.

      Often, if I close my eyes while holding a piece of wood, I can get the full sense of its source tree. With startling detail. I can see the tree’s birthplace, smell the rich, loamy carpet beneath its roots, feel the sun dappling its outstretched leaves.

      Of course, I’ve learned to keep these imaginings to myself.

      A strange nature fixation like this smacks of Fae blood, and Uncle Edwin has warned me to never speak of it. We Gardnerians are a pure-blooded race, free from the stain of the heathen races that surround us. And my family line has the strongest, purest Mage blood of all.

      But I often worry. If that’s true, then why do I see these things?

      “You should be more careful with your toys,” I gently scold the boys as I shake off the lingering image of the tree and set the figure down.

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