Told In Stone Chapter 9: Black Boughs

Deacon tilted her head to let the cold rain sting her face, the water seeping into her dry skin. After two years in the blighted land of the Faelen Echo, she had almost forgotten the delight of the falling rain.

Whatever happened tonight, she would not go back there. The Echo was open now and a river of humanity already rallied to flood inside, hoping to scratch their fortune from the golden bones of the Faelen prison. Let them send others to spy and scheme, her exile was ended and now they would have to admit her to the ranks of the Warcasters.

She resumed her stony expression. She would need to be as a stone for this meeting. Immovable.

The dark spires of the large house were hung with gargoyles choking on gushing streams of rainwater. Her mother had cleaned houses like this. Back breaking work each day, bowing and scraping to lords and ladies. Her father’s house had been as grand, but now it lay in ruin. The corners of her mouth turned up very slightly at the memory.

Deacon's footfalls echoed on the elaborate marble floor. The bust of a stern-faced woman with a hooked nose glared from its alcove. A lanky teenage boy hurried over. His stockings were ermine white and the green and gold coat he wore was better tailored than any garment she owned. He tried to take her cloak and she refused with a curt gesture. Undeterred, he proffered a soft hand towel and she spared it a scornful glance.

“Where is the Wikkan Seat?” She demanded.

“In the southern atrium, Wikkan,” the boy said, skipping along to match her strides. “She left instructions for you to wait in the drawing room, I can take you there?”

“Is Wikken Kerne here?” Deacon asked without slowing down.

“Ah, no, ma’am. The drawing room is just–”

“Leave me,” Deacon ordered.

She strode alone through hallways filled with priceless antiques, past doorways that gave glimpses into rooms hung with great works of art. It was one of the finest houses in Gravetree and still the meanest of the Wikkan’s holdings. Wealth untold, and they sit on it like wrinkled old dragons. She should burn it to the ground. Wikkan belonged to the wilds.

The atrium was a towering conservatory of metal and glass that rose to a great dome. Rain hammered against the panes transforming the world beyond into a dreary blur. Inside the air was warm and buzzed with the hum of insects. Tall fronds, palms and deep green plants from the tropics reached up to touch the glass ceiling. A fortune to import and keep alive. More needless indulgence.

In the centre stood a twisted, blackened tree without leaf or flower, unlike any  tree Deacon had ever seen. The Wikkan Seat stood before it, a pair of gleaming metal clippers in her hand. Two younger girls in black robes tended to plants nearby.

“Mistress,” Deacon said, bending her knee before the old woman.

Arabella Stoke offered her bony hand, the veins soft and blue under the baggy skin. It felt like holding hands with death. “Wikkan Deacon, welcome back to the fold. It has been a long time.”

“Two years in the Faelen Echo, mistress.”

“You have done well during your time there, thwarting the plans of our rivals, mapping the factions of the Faelen. The Wikkan Seat thanks you.”

“The Cove still operates, despite my efforts, mistress.”

Stoke glanced toward the younger girls. “Leave us,” she snapped.

Deacon watched them scurry away. She could have been one of them, once, bowing and scraping.

“Thoughts for the opportunity you turned down, Wikkan Deacon?” 

The old woman couldn’t read minds, but she had a lifetime of reading people, their emotions, needs, desires.

“I have found solace in my own path, mistress.” Deacon could feel her knee cramping up, yet she stayed on one knee clutching the withered hand in hers.

“You should be thankful it is only mild discomfort you are feeling. You are here because of your recent actions in the battle.”

“I sought only to protect the Prince of the Faelen, our ally,” Deacon said.

The old woman made a gesture for Deacon to rise. “Anti-Wikken sentiment is higher than ever. The people distrust us, and when distrust turns to disrespect, they will once again call us witches and blame us for their ills and their misfortunes. In the midst of this, you open a Wikkan gate, when none have been used for a hundred years.”

A lie. There had not been a Wikkan gate in view of outsiders in that time. But there were always Warcasters, forced to hide in shame.

“I give myself up to your judgement, mistress.”

Stoke turned her attention to the black tree, snipping off a stray branch with a neat click of the cutters. “It is not my judgement you should be concerned with.”

The door to the atrium slammed open with such force that the glass panes around them rattled. Even the plants seemed to shrink into themselves slightly as heavy footsteps approached.

Ritta Kerne was utterly soaked through, her hair a tragic mess tangled around her head. She must have been out in the tempest all morning. The young valet hurried in after her and set down a silver tray containing a gently steaming porcelain tea set.

Kerne spared Deacon a withering glance and approached the Wikkan Seat, dropping to one knee with a grunt and taking the older woman’s hand. “Mistress,” she murmured.

“Your knees are as bad as mine Ritta, up with you,” Stoke admonished.

Kerne struggled up and fell into a seat, snatching the towel from the valet and mopped her ruddy face.

This is what the Wikkan had become, the largest society of witches on Parthanea led by two old women.

Arabella Stoke was a spider. Politically ruthless and ambitious enough to rise to claim the Wikkan Seat and pacify any challengers. Even in these waning days of Wikkan power and influence, leaders of vast empires seek her approval and support, because she still holds the power to topple kings.

And Ritta Kerne. A perennial meddler of middling power. She traveled to the Erudoran court when the Faelen Echo was first broken open and followed Listor Roveran through his crusade of blood to unite the Erudoran empire. It was her that brought the Erudoran’s as allies against the rise of the self proclaimed Faelen emperor, Mazral, and the army that sprung up to carry his banners to reclaim the continent. The alliance earned her a place at the side of the Wikkan Seat, but Deacon wouldn’t be surprised if she learned that Kerne broke the Faelen out just to give herself the opportunity.

“Save your pleasantries, girl. I’ve just come back from dealing with one bone headed young fool, and now I have to deal with you.”

“Thank you, Simm, that will be all,” Stoke said, beginning to pour the tea.

Fluffy towels and tea. And they asked why the Wikkan were no longer respected? Deacon tried to excise the stray thought from her mind, but she was too late.

“You do not care for tea, Deacon?” Stoke asked, her black eyes seeming to stare at a place one inch inside Deacon's head.

“This young slip of a girl thinks we are soft, Bella,” Kerne sniped, throwing the towel to the floor and leaning back in the chair.

“It is true that my time in the Echo has reminded me of what we once were,” Deacon said.

“Lone Wikkan, wandering the wilds of the world dispensing their crooked sense of justice as they saw fit,” Kerne intoned, giving a derisive grunt. “I’ve heard some tales about your time in the red land. Some of your methods would certainly put you in good company with the witches of the past.”

“Outside of this house. We are at war,” Deacon pointed out.

“Such confidence. Confidence enough to break our rules, and open Wikkan gates? Scaring the living daylights out of half of an army?” Kerne countered.

“The Prince of the Faelen was in danger of being captured or worse. The decision to leave his protection to the Leybound abominations was a mistake,” Deacon replied.

The rain seemed to lash down harder on the glass panes of the greenhouse as Kerne gripped the arms of the chair and leaned forward, her voice a low hiss. “The problem is not why you acted, it’s how you acted. Warcasting is banned, forbidden. You know this.”

“Wikkan Kerne has been forced to arbitrate with the Arcanum and the Erudoran’s on your behalf. You should thank her,” Stoke interjected.

“I do not need you to intercede,” Deacon said.

Kerne’s voice was full of scorn. “You are a child playing with matches in a dry forest. There are things in the abyssal plane that would bend your will and leave you dribbling into your lap for the rest of eternity.”

Deacon almost laughed out loud. They thought her a child, but before she had even neared womanhood she had dealt with the darker realm.

Stoke intervened. “The battle for the gateway is won, and the Arcanum, Erudoran and Royal Faelen regiments will march through the Echo to Fallow. Now more than ever we need knowledge from the Echo. Your punishment will be postponed until you return.”

The words were uttered innocently enough, but they thudded like tombstones in Deacons consciousness. 

“I have served long in the Echo, mistress. Now I’m back, I hoped to stay.”

“And what would you do here?” Kerne asked, the question poison tipped.

“Serve.” Deacon's voice was like iron.

“Despite what you might have heard, Warcasters do not serve in the assembly. Those who walk the path are excommunicated,” Kerne said, her round farmers-wife face features twisted with angry creases.

“Lies we tell our allies. There are Warcasters who serve the assembly and I wish to join them. If the Wikkan seat would see fit.” Deacon bowed her head slightly.

“If Warcasters did serve the Wikkan Seat,” Stoke said carefully. “Then I would not yet see fit to admit you to their ranks. Your recent actions have shown that you lack judgement and your past proves that you lack restraint.”

A tidlewave of rage crashed down upon Deacon as Kerne sat back with her arms crossed, a satisfied smirk on her ruddy face. She tried to bury the rising anger, before giving up and letting it burn in her gut.

Arabella Stoke shook her head. “Such rage. You will return to the Echo, Wikkan Deacon. Gather information about our enemies and better understand the Faelen factions.”

“You can start by telling us why a hundred Cetic monks were at the battle. What do they want?” Kerne asked.

Deacon fought to regain her composure. “The Cetic want the Echo gateways closed and the Echo sealed once again. Several of their septs also want every Leybound to be summarily butchered. That is likely why they joined the conflict.”

“They hate the Leybound so much?” Stoke asked.

“The Leybound are abhorrent to them. Though their septs are scattered throughout the Echo, most of them agree on this one point.”

“You find common ground with them on this issue?” Kerne asked.

“I do not hide my contempt for the mutilations of the Arcanists. It goes against what it means to be Wikkan.”

“I decide what it means to be Wikkan,” Stoke said. For a moment the ancient Wikkan Seat didn’t seem so old, indeed the shadows darkened in the darker corners of the room. “Go child. Use your solitude to reflect on your future in the assembly, while we decide if you still have one.”