href="#u5fc0b8f0-c397-53ac-986e-c0fd5c561c96"> Acknowledgments
I’ve gotten used to the names they call us.
Crows. Roaches. Hedgewitches.
I no longer cry when I’m shoved in the market or spat on in the streets. I endure their mocking, hateful glares and the signs of protection they make against me to ward off my perceived evil.
I am Gardnerian.
As such, I’m barely tolerated here, stranded in a sea of Kelts, allowed to exist only because my aptitude for healing brews is considered useful in this tiny, remote village.
It would be easier, perhaps, if my appearance didn’t set me apart so much. My forest-green eyes and dark hair might seem unremarkable, but the black tunic and long skirt I wear, paired with a silver Erthia orb necklace, mark me as one of the First Children. And the way my skin shimmers a faint emerald in the dark—perhaps the most undeniable sign of all—makes it impossible for me to hide what I am.
A Gardnerian Mage.
Hated by all but my own people.
When they painted Heretics on our barn and set fire to it, I thought that was the worst it could get.
Until they sent the dragons.
But they didn’t count on us having dragons of our own. And they certainly didn’t count on Her.
Our Great Mage. The Bringer of Fire. The Storm of Death. The Crow Sorceress.
Our Deliverance.
The Black Witch.
“We’re not doing business with Crows,” Mistress Darrow states. “Not anymore.”
She stands with one fist propped on a broad hip, her apple-cheeked face twisted up into a triumphant sneer, strands of her blond hair escaping her crimson kerchief. The flag of Keltania is pinned above her ample bosom—an iron-black X on a rectangle of bloodred linen.
Her husband, Merchant Darrow, seems embarrassed, his own Keltanian flag haphazardly pinned up near his shoulder. He looks down at the wooden counter in front of him, toying with the smooth abacus and deliberately avoiding my gaze.
Panic rears inside me. My grip tightens on the apothecary crate I’ve set down before them, tidy medicine bottles lined up in the segmented box. I think of the money we need for our journey east to Verpacia. Of the red tinge to the leaves, winter close on our heels. My elderly grandfather, my young brother.
Doveshire has become too dangerous for Gardnerians. It took ages for my brother, Wren, and me to convince our stubborn grandfather that we needed to leave, but now, everything is ready for our departure—the wagon is packed, the horses already hitched, the house closed up.
All we need is the money for these medicines I’ve spent weeks brewing. The money we’ve been counting on to buy supplies—supplies we’ll need to survive.
I straighten my shoulders, trying not to shrink under Mistress Darrow’s glare. “I don’t understand. The last time I came in, you were happy to buy my medicines.”
She blows out a disgusted breath. “Dark witches with dark magic, that’s what your lot is. First you twist the faith that belongs to us. Then you use your dark magic to steal a nice big chunk of our land.” She gives her chin a defiant lift, her smile full of venom. “Well, the tide is turning. Your magic’s faded.”
Some of what she’s saying is true, to the sadness of many Gardnerians. Most of my people have no magic or weak magic at best. And we haven’t had a Great Mage in generations. But our magic isn’t dark, and I’ve never done a thing to harm her or anyone else—though I’m sorely tempted to in this moment.
I can feel her angry gaze on me as I turn to her husband. “Please, Merchant Darrow,” I plead, the forced politeness of my tone ringing false in my own ears. “I’ve spent weeks preparing these healing brews for your shop. My family is counting on me to sell them.”
Conscience seems to get the better of Merchant Darrow, his lined face tensing in discomfort. “Just this last time, Tessla,” he forces out gruffly, still not looking at me as he pulls the vials of medicines closer to inspect them.
Mistress Darrow throws him a tight look of fury before grabbing the crate and jerking it away from the both of us.
“We’ll take them, then.” She smiles malevolently. “Just like you Crows took our land.” She sets a hard gaze on her husband. “No payment.”
I’m not sure I’ve heard her right. “What?”
She skewers me with her glare. “Oh, we’re onto the lot of you. Figuring you’ll wave your wands around and take everything we’ve got right from under us. Well, not this time. We’re going to fight, and we’ll stamp you all out before you have a chance to raise up another Dark Mage. And we’re taking our land back.”
My heart pounds like a hammer. I lunge for the crate, but she’s anticipated me, pulling it quickly out of reach just as Brandon and two other burly blacksmith apprentices lumber into the Guildmarket.
“You can’t,” I protest, full of righteous fury and mounting desperation as she sets the crate on a high shelf behind her. “That’s a whole month’s work. We’ve nothing else to trade. You’re stealing.”
“Got a Roach in here? Causing trouble?” Brandon saunters toward me, smelling of sweat and smoke. His blond hair is greasy, and the flag of Keltania is securely pinned over his heart.
I glare up at him with undisguised loathing. Undaunted, Brandon reaches out with a broad, dirty hand to paw at my hair. I flinch away, and he laughs, a cruel gleam in his eyes. “At least she’s a pretty Roach.”
“Is she?” Gerrig sidles up and gives me a slow once-over, Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny, chicken-like neck. He flicks up the edge of my tunic with his finger.
“You’d never know it, with all this black fabric they wear. Could have three titties, for all we know.”
I recoil and slap my tunic hem down flat, flushing with embarrassment and horror as the young men and Mistress Darrow break into laughter. I’m stunned by their brazen cruelty and find myself blinking back tears.
“We could check that,” stocky Colton offers, mischief lighting his eyes.
Their chortling quickly turns to an open leer. I shrink back, my gaze darting toward the door, then desperately back to my medicines.
Merchant Darrow won’t let them hurt me, I reason, trying to calm myself. He’s never been unkind. And surely he’ll pay me.
Out of the corner of my eye, through the store’s large front windows, I see young Keltic men running down the street armed with bows and swords, the flag of Keltania pinned to their arms. My mind is cast into confusion and mounting alarm.
“What’s happening?” I ask nervously. “Where are they going?”
Brandon leans in close and I know what his answer will be before he speaks.
“To get rid of all of you.”
A Purging.
The villagers have murmured about it for months as the border hostilities heated up, hissing their threats as I passed by. Grandfather kept dismissing it all as overinflated bravado, so we stupidly remained here.