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HUNGRY FOR HEAVEN

Politics of Witches

By Kristen TejeraPublished about a year ago 22 min read
5

PROLOGUE: HUNGRY FOR HEAVEN

The Night, Sun, Moon, and Star Witches lived together and were bound as family while they walked this land. Four sibling casters who contained the universe in their spells and in their souls.

Until one day the Moon grew jealous of her family. Each day she watched them rise—searing the world with indelibly bright power—her own simple, silvery magic far too delicate in comparison. She didn’t want to be fragile—she wanted to burn.

Her envy was a hunger that she could not ignore, and would do anything to satiate. She eclipsed the Sun’s brightness with shadow. The Moon ate the Sun.

Enraged, the Night Witch attacked the sister who had become a huntress. For several nights, the Moon Witch’s powers were subdued, and she could not hunt. Eventually though, the Moon Witch broke through the magic, and ate Night’s soul.

Fueled by Sun’s and Night’s powers, Moon searched for her celestial sister. Knowing what had happened to her consumed family, the Star Witch tried to trick the Moon and transformed herself into a dragon. With a few whispered words, scales enveloped the Star Witch’s skin, eating away at the weak flesh of her human form. She was a beast that could not be mistaken for prey. Blue tinted her new armor—dark—like the night sky she soared into. Bright pinpricks of skyfire in the upper reaches of the heavens bled onto her skin, a natural camouflage from the searching eyes of Moon. The Star Witch longed to breathe fire of her own—to allow magma to drip from her large, gleaming, dagger-like fangs. She wanted to taste its ash, and roar her fury and loss into the open air. Instead, she remained quiet, soaring across the land.

For years, the Star Witch lived as a serpent that could hide in the clouds, and dive beneath the great waters. Her scales altered like the leaves of trees changing season, blending into the world around her, and hiding from the Moon Witch, who continued her hunt. The Star Witch hid: alone, but for the memories she kept of Sun and Night.

It wasn’t until one day when the Star Witch heard the soft cries of a child that she gave a thought to any other living creature but herself. She soared into the forest to investigate. Dusky green blossomed across her scales, burnished by the exact shade of golden sunlight that broke through the sea of trees in piercing shafts.

The Star Witch landed, curling her claws into the soft, loamy dirt. It had just rained, and she slid slightly with the muddy ground as she shifted her head, scouring for the source of the crying.

Her gaze snagged on the bright face of a little girl. Tears fell from her red-rimmed, golden eyes. Eyes that the Star Witch failed to notice were precisely like her own, and precisely like each of her sisters’.

The toddler sniffed once, and smiled. Small teeth gleamed as she giggled, her small mouth the instrument of forced humor that she quickly honed into a sharp, cutting sound. The Star Witch watched, choking on a terrified roar while the toddler’s bones snapped like dry winter twigs against an oncoming winter storm. Only the little being’s eyes remained—golden, and hungry—while her skin stretched, elongating, reaching.

An illusion.

The Moon Witch had spelled herself to appear as a toddler, and the Star Witch had fallen for the bait.

To punish her for hiding, the Moon Witch broke the Star Witch’s body into uncountable pieces. Fragments strewn across the night. As the vestiges of life expanded from the Star Witch’s broken galaxy of self, the Moon Witch devoured her sister’s soul, her tongue cutting itself as she licked the scraps clean from the green scales of the changeling Witch’s corpse. A satisfied sigh fell from the Moon Witch’s maw. Then the huntress’s skin began to burn, bubbling like it had been exposed to a fire inside of her blood.

A witch who had ascended. The ravenous Moon Witch ate her siblings’ souls and became a goddess using their raw power.

When the Moon’s daughters became queens, they ruled with her might and with her permission.

When they died she consumed their souls too.

POLITICS

An assassin. Spy. A princess, crouched, watching a burning room. Hanging, actually, upside down, from a chain secured to the inside paneling of the ceiling.

Bledri frowned as a small strand of sweat-soaked dark hair escaped her intricate and otherwise immaculate braided crown of hair, and blew it out of her face. It hung in front of her watering green eyes for a few moments before sticking itself to her dripping forehead.

Her arms strained, as she held her position above flames that rippled like a living being—watching her, ravenously tasting at the air just mere feet away from the chain links which slipped between Bledri’s clammy fingers. She gripped the metal more tightly, silently, while she examined her targets. The Fýryn witches below her slept with no weapons. She supposed the flames they could conjure up at will were dangerous enough, although Bledri herself never went to sleep with anything less than a full belt of daggers, even with her own magic at hand. Then again, Bledri didn’t normally keep her bedroom floor on fire, as the Fýryn lord and lady did.

Covered in a glossy lacquer that was merely a pretty black when they were awake, the floor lit up the moment the two heads of the Fýryn coven had gone to sleep; the flames flickering to life, with a hunger satiated by any would-be thieves—or murderers, such as Bledri herself. It prevented most foot traffic.

Hence why Bledri had decided for this alternate route into the lord and lady’s bedroom. The fire snapped innocently below her, even as it sent curling fingers of smoke into the air, desperate to reach through Bledri’s mouth and to her lungs.

She quietly twisted the chain around one wrist, securing herself, but leaving the other hand free to adjust a damp kerchief tied around her mouth and nose; it was the only thing between her and the smoky air. She grabbed two daggers from her belt with her free hand, holding them carefully between her fingers, simultaneously tempted to spin them and play before accomplishing her task. A soft breath pulsed through her damp kerchief as she aimed for the sleeping forms of the lord and lady.

The flames surrounding their bed exposed the rising and falling silhouettes of their chests. She flung the daggers right into their exposed necks, exactly where she knew their vocal cords were strung up in their throats. Bledri didn’t want them waking up the rest of their coven. She especially didn’t want them waking up their son, Cordero Fýryn—her fiancé.

Bledri grinned, hovering just for a moment. “Breathe water, breathe silver gleam. To you I Promise: In the Lake of Souls all fear, gone. Breathe moonlight, breathe gilded eternity.” The last words of the Death Song that witches sang to their dead—the Domuta—tasted like fire on her tongue. “To you I promise: forever, anon.”

She looked around, squinting through the haze of the smoke from the still-burning floor. Her gaze landed on a solid metal chest, left open, she assumed because the late Lord and Lady Fýryn had felt confident their floor would prevent any common thief who would have absolutely been foiled by something so pedestrian as a lock needing a key. Even with the smoke streaming through the room, Bledri could see inside of their treasure hoard—a testament to their high position in the witches’ hierarchy. Only the Insansira king and queen earned more from the people’s taxes.

Bledri looked down at the chest and danced her fingers over the light reflected from the fire in the gems’ facets. She should take something to make it look like a robbery. Robberies ended in the deaths of heads of state all the time, didn’t they?

Rubies glittered up at her, and emeralds taunted her gaze made viscous by the smoky haze. She reached her hand for the largest of the treasure. A garnet necklace gifted by the Queen of Ildria herself, Velia Insanisra. A precious catch, for most thieves, certainly. Bledri wouldn’t know, being a princess herself.

The fire burned beneath her dangling body, the flames licking the air, tasting her scent like a predator waiting to feed. Her hand broke through the smoke—gray, curling tendrils wrapping themselves around her strained fingers. She inhaled a small breath through the damp fibers of her kerchief and swiped the necklace, tucking it between her teeth. With a swing made easy by muscles greased from years of use, Bledri pulled herself into an upright position, her feet skimming the tops of the orange flames. One might have called it a successful caper, but Bledri wouldn’t feel that the deed was completed until she was back home, even though she knew that she had already done her best work. She endeavored to force down the smile that was threatening to creep across her features. However, the smile broke completely, melting into a puckered frown as she realized that she would be back in time for the ball her parents were hosting, and expecting her to attend.

She swiped her two daggers sticking out of the corpses’ necks, and hovered, just for a moment, as she tucked them back into her belt.

Blood rushed from her head, and she screwed her nose against the pounding, irritating thud inside of her ears. She pinched the chain between her legs and shifted her arm out of the chain wrapped around it. Both hands freed, Bledri started climbing up and up, silvery links singing against each other in ringing shrieks as her body passed over them. Grab with one hand, hold with the other, chain links rattling every time she so much as gasped in a breath. The chain swung like a pendulum, ticking away the matter of her escapade. A wild motion that tangled up and around her legs—a twisting vine she had to kick away for fear of being eaten up by the hot death still flickering from below.

A sudden gust sucked at the air, and she exhaled involuntarily as the room’s air and subsequently the flames were drawn back into the floor, and the reflections of both the chain and Bledri gleamed back at her, the air now clear of smoke to reveal the now-empty floor—empty, that is, except for the vestiges of heat which still whispered and crackled from its surface.

The Fýryn’s tall quartz door swung open as a guard strode in. Bledri leapt up the last few feet, climbing with only glancing breaths of her skin touching the chain. She was flying, her arms like wings, gravity forgotten in the wake of muscles accustomed to soaring.

She ducked into the tiled ceiling, and pushed close the askew square she had pulled out of place to create the hole into the lord and lady’s bedchamber—soon to be hers, she supposed, once the king and queen announced the Fýryn’s deaths, and Bledri herself was wed to Cordero, who was, as of several minutes ago, the new lord of his coven.

Her mother and father were in control until Bledri herself was queen, and even beyond, Bledri suspected, until they were taken by the goddess—their souls eaten for their power.

Bledri delicately pushed herself farther down the passageway—more of a crawlspace— that she had scuttled through to get to the bedchamber, carefully keeping her feet braced against the edges of the ceiling’s passageway. She was a spider perched from above, her web one of secrets. She was “The Dagger.” The queen’s assassin. Spy and princess.

She was fast, crawling away in the night, back to the castle in Cyneham, and onward to the party. A laugh burst out of her once she made it out of the quartz castle, the garnet necklace clasped in her hand.

She would wear it tonight. A glance down and the smell of smoke wafting up reminded her that she should change first.

Or, at the very least, clean off the blood.

—————————

“Her highness, Princess Bledri of high coven Insanisra.” The footman stamped his staff against the marble floor. Bledri nodded to the crowd assembled in the Cynesele. Large enough to host the court’s feasts and celebrations, and tonight’s wedding, the throne room acted as a common gathering ground. A tall archway gaped like the maw of some beast, and Bledri entered through it like a wraith, a siren of the night. Had it not been for her hard green eyes, she could have been mistaken for a member of her mother’s coven, the Steorra.

Gold thread intertwined Bledri’s dark hair, twisting through to a braided knot at the top of her head. Only a few wisps were permitted to escape the intricate style and frame her face. The silk of her silver chiton rippled against her skin as she strode into the Cynesele, the garnet necklace she had stolen from the late Lord and Lady Fýryn set against her decolletage. Her guards trailed at an appropriate distance before splitting off to the edge of the room.

Tonight she wore a simple dagger at her waist with a small diamond set in its pommel, more for show than anything else, foregoing her typical belt of weapons. She had also replaced her preferred hunting boots with light sandals. Stygian cuffs of jet emphasized her toned arms. Something more suited to a 17 year-old witch than her usual assassin gear. She peered around the open dance floor, pausing to admire herself in the Cynesele’s mirrored walls, appreciating the effect the flickering torchlight had on her severe face structure. It was similar to her sisters’, except for the darker pink of a scar that roped from her left temple, under her eye, cutting down to the edge of her mouth; she liked how it showed, and kept her hair braided up not just for practicality’s sake, but also because she loved how people’s eyes snagged on the childhood wound when they watched her. She knew she was like a partially shattered piece of glass—beautiful, in a kind of raw way—and she reveled in the inherent danger she posed.

She heard movement, and darted her head to the side, almost caught off-guard by the arrival of one of the other princesses.

“I heard mother and father have a surprise tonight,” said Maelys. Bledri pursed her lips. Her second-oldest sister beamed as she slid a hand on Bledri’s elbow and tossed her own dark hair over her shoulder. She hadn’t bothered to tie it up, and it cascaded past her shoulders in long raven waves. At 23 years, she still looked like she could pass for half her age. A pearly gray ball gown nearly swallowed her skinny figure, making her appear even more childlike.

Maelys tucked in closer so that she could whisper more softly. “Now, they wouldn’t tell me what it is, but my guess would be that it’s a betrothal.”

Bledri’s heart stuttered. “On top of the wedding?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me whose it’ll be?” Maelys’s silver eyes danced with mirth. She wanted Bledri to ask her. A scoff escaped Bledri’s mouth as she looked away, struggling to contain a bitter retort.

“Whose?” asked Bledri, pressing her lips together into a firm line that was nowhere near a smile, but was the closest approximation she could manage in her sister’s presence. Bledri had been working negotiations for her own marriage to the heir of Fýryn coven for years, and finally—well finally, perhaps, the king and queen would give their final seal of approval. Maybe the Fýryns, in the wake of the death of their leaders, had decided to preserve power by marrying their new lord to Bledri herself. She suspected that’s what she’d been given the assignment for in the first place.

“How should I know?” Maelys laughed again, and Bledri scoffed. What had she been expecting? Her sister lived in the moment, as if it were food, and she were starving.

“Let’s go watch the dancers, shall we?” Maelys asked.

Bledri opened her mouth to protest, wanting more to alleviate her sister of one of her arms rather than face the court. Maelys didn’t wait for Bledri to answer and pulled her over to watch the aristocrats swirling in time with the musicians. Bledri went along with her sister, as she realized that Maelys’s path would lead them straight past the wedding feast.

Huge vats of food steamed, sitting amongst delicate tureens, a sheer gluttony stretching from one end of the throne room to the other. Bledri’s stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since before killing Lord and Lady Fýryn. A tall mint cake stenciled with the jagged outline of the Schreivrište mountains weighed down the centermost table, but Bledri found her eye drawn to the more savory offerings. Her mouth watered as her gaze landed on herby chicken thighs glimmering beneath a honey sauce speckled with red pepper flakes, and then pumpkin soup with sausage and caramelized apples and pecans, drizzled with maple syrup. Roasted vegetables with charred edges tempted, nestled closely with scalloped cheesy potatoes dotted with star anise. She swiped a slice of sourdough bread layered with a fluffy white ricotta and sliced avocado, all topped with a bright speckling of lemon pepper and red cayenne.

Bledri glanced up at the dais as they continued, looking for the two shadowy figures perched there. Bledri eyed the crowns on their heads, chewing her toast slowly as she watched them glowing with their own inner light. Sooner or later, her parents would select one of their daughters. In general, a coven’s reigning lord or lady—regol, in the old tongue—was of the same bloodline. The current king and queen had four daughters to choose from.

The crowns could only be passed from the previous bearers, and so they would choose the successor. The king favored Atla—the eldest princess—but Bledri knew that Velia didn’t. The queen was more fickle than the king with his favorite, and Bledri hoped that her mother would sponsor her bid for the witches’ crown. She looked out at the crowd, finding it a fine distraction to her cascading thoughts. Usually, the five covens were at each others’ throats; for a wedding of two of their highly-ranked nobles, however, the covens’ fighting could cease, if only for a night. They were all waiting for the ceremony to begin, and until then, the witches danced.

The covens in their natural habitat. All five, blessed by the goddess, were entrancing. The Night Coven—Coven Steorra—hovered in their dark velvets, raven’s feathers hanging off of black or simply darkened robes. Some live specimens of the Steorra’s coven symbol perched on shoulders, cawing out at passersby. Night’s offshoot, the Insanisra coven—Coven Insanity—wore light fluttering grays which slid over their bodies like water, or fog, snagging barely on their silver jewelry. More silver winked from small automatons which clung to their skins, glowing and whirring, releasing occasional puffs of steam into the air. The metal more than made up for the dulled green of the Insanisra witches’ eyes, contrasted against the silver eye color of their predecessor coven—the Steorra—and the other colors marking the rest of the covens.

Bright, rich greens glowed on the Viaţă’s clothing—the Life Coven, and so very different from Night and Nightmare witches from the Steorra and Insanisra covens. Bledri eyed the Life witches’ pet dragons that padded alongside them, docile enough under the Viaţă’s control, although she didn’t take her eyes off of their gleaming claws and serpentine mouths from which fire occasionally spilled. A queen’s ransom shone on each of their hides, matching the ever-altering shades of their masters’ changeling eyes.

A fluttering of fabric on Maelys’s dress caught Bledri’s gaze, and her mouth dropped open in a warning, but before she could utter a word, Maelys had tripped, pulling Bledri after her. They sprawled onto the floor, on which Bledri only remained for moments before she righted herself, cursing. One of the Fréorig wedding guests offered a hand to Maelys, pulling her up. Vivid blues from the darkest of midnights to the palest of ice shone from the cold Fréorig coven. The Coven of Frost—a junior coven, alongside the Fýryn—Coven of Fire—reds and oranges glittered like woven magma forced into a shining thread on their bodies. The body of one, which Bledri knew well.

She gritted her teeth, and made so as to march away from her fool of a sister, but paused to watch a group of Fýryn witches who had seen her fall to the ground. Goddess-willing, she would be their regol one day—if she wasn’t their queen first.

Cordero wouldn’t be a partner, not like Velia was for the king. Bledri's mother was an upstanding murderer and plotter, and before marrying Kemas, Velia had been the Steorra’s heir—a coven that was still very much a strong contender in this game, despite having lost the crown. Bledri’s parents’ marriage had been a political one, of course—the two strongest singular people backed by the two strongest covens. The Steorra had reigned, and the Insanisra had threatened that rule, but Bledri knew from being raised by them that they each held a love, or better yet, a respect for their counterpart. Each was a worthy opponent, and they each understood the wisdom of keeping your enemies where you could see them. Why not your bed? Or the throne beside you?

Maelys caught her watching the Fire witches, and smiled as she continued to guide Bledri through the throne room. “Surveying your future subjects, eh, Bledri?”

Bledri scoffed, and ignored the comment, pushing her gaze to scan through the rest of the crowd instead.

The Steorra, Insanisra, Viaţă, Fréorig, and Fýryn. Night, Insanity, Life, Frost, and Fire. Each beautiful, as they always were, hoping to gain attention, hoping to give it to the right person. She could see Atla mingling in the crowd, her sister’s raven-haired head flashing with a rare silver circlet; Bledri’s oldest sibling hated dressing up, but Maelys had likely forced her into something other than the metal-working goggles and leather apron Atla normally wore in the forge. A flock of nobles had already swarmed her—as a princess, many witches would want her attention, even though Bledri knew that Atla tended to prefer machines to humans. Bledri quickly looked away, scouting for anything to distract her before jealousy ate away at her insides. She herself was even worse at court politics than Atla but craved any attention that came her sister’s way. Bledri would live in the shadows until she wore the crown.

One of the bards sat amid a growing crowd, strumming a tune to her tale. Maelys had noticed her as well, and gave Bledri no notice before she steered the two of them toward the bard’s song. The young woman sat on the steps leading to the raised dais where Bledri’s parents sat, though she couldn’t see more than the simple outlines of their figures.

“Maelys and Bledri, children of shadows and night, come near, and hear my story.”

Bledri’s insides soured even more as she saw Maelys grin, simpering, at the singer. “Ilyreayl Fýryn.”

The Fýryn coven, besides being the coven of fire, hosted a collection of artists, some singers, some dancers. Weavers, writers, chefs all made up their ranks. Each was marked by bright, warm clothing, to which Ilyreayl was no exception. A sumptuous saffron cloak garbed her slim figure, accented at the collar by rubies and orange gemstones—an emblem of how the court favored her.

Maelys reached into the folds of her large dress, pulled out a coin, and pressed it into the bard’s outstretched hand. “I’ll always take a story.”

“And I’ll always take your coin,” the Fýryn witch said with a wink. She laughed as she tucked the money inside her own purse, and began to play a new melody. The crowd began to swell, filling in with more people murmuring animatedly for Ilyreayl’s performance.

“Gather covens, lords and ladies, come! Welcome once more to this court of Illusions and Night!”

Applause rattled throughout the growing crowd. Bledri sighed, and looked up at the dais above the performer where the dark thrones loomed. The seats were taken by her parents, who never directly joined in on the celebrations. Maelys, however, grinned like an idiot and applauded with the rest of the onlookers.

An itch pricked Bledri’s consciousness. She quickly glanced up. A golden light flashed from the dais, small enough that any passerby would just think it torchlight reflecting off of the thrones, but large enough that Bledri could not be mistaken—it was a sign from her mother.

She is a traitor, Queen Velia whispered. Her voice echoed, as though it were being whispered down the length of an endless tunnel.

The storyteller.

Bledri straightened her back and tilted her chin up, waiting to hear her mother’s instructions.

“I have a grand tale for you, Ildria,” Ilyreayl announced, strumming to accentuate her words. “A true one, my lords and ladies. A tale of our birth and beginning. Of the great Moon Goddess, who ate the Night and Sun Witches, splintered the celestial dragon that was the Star Witch.” The melody picked up in tempo, forming a delectably light tune. “The Moon Goddess who tore apart the dragon’s corpse for defying her sister. The Moon Goddess who ascended with the power their souls provided. We give thanks to Ildri. Wé andetnesumri Ilaricenra. Tonight, I will sing of Her.” The crowd applauded, and Ilyreayl preened, pausing to bask in their admiration.

Finish the bard.

Bledri blinked, taking in her mother’s order. There will be no trial?

You’re questioning me, my dear?

Bledri looked over at Maelys, who apparently hadn’t been summoned. She looked to the knot of people formed around Atla like a wart on skin. Velia hadn’t asked her either, and Bledri felt a bite of pride sting through her as she realized that her youngest sister Randalin probably hadn’t been asked as well.

No, Bledri answered.

Good. She is an assassin.

Bledri smiled smugly. Don’t run from the enemy who wants to kill you.

Bledri heard her mother laughing from the thrones, and looked up to see the queen smiling at something the king had said. Velia hadn’t run.

The queen turned from the Cynesele as she pressed a kiss against Kemas’s cheek, tracing her bejeweled fingers across his cheek, brushing up to his ear, and lingering on his crown.

short story
5

About the Creator

Kristen Tejera

Why do we set cake on fire once a year?

Reader insights

Outstanding

Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

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  1. Excellent storytelling

    Original narrative & well developed characters

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    The story invoked strong personal emotions

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Comments (2)

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  • Vera Hoskinsabout a year ago

    Awesome story!!

  • Kaylie Stenbergabout a year ago

    Wow, such a great story!! <3

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