Page 111 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

“A phenomenon wherein the sun does not show its face for months on end. Not because of the clouds, like one might expect in Valnar, but because it simply does not rise.”

My eyes widened. “That sounds awful.”

He blinked. “It was a harsh existence, surely, for Celene and her ilk. They faced a near-endless cycle of disease, famine, and violence, and so she turned to the gods for help. Kneeling alone in the isle’s only temple, she took an athame—a double-edged dagger—to her flesh. As her blood spilled onto the altar before her, the gods, who usually paid little attention to mere mortals, were intrigued. Appearing before her, they allowed her to make her request. And so, she beseeched them to bestow upon her the power to save her people from the ongoing famine. She promised to use her gifts sparingly—only for survival, only when her people were in need. The gods, being in a benevolent mood, relented.

“With their blessing, Celene became keeper of a new power. She used it wisely, caring for her people and helping their society flourish. The earth became fertile beneath her touch, the oceans swarmed with enough fish to feed armies. It didn’t solve everything, of course—magic never does—but it made a difference. And so, the first witch came to be revered by many. Some even erected monuments in her image, honoring her as a lesser deity. The gods, for their part, were particularly proud of what they had created, and so they gifted her with the power to bestow her gifts upon others. Her acolytes formed the very first coven.

“After some time, Celene summoned the Ealdorfyre to protect her people during the polar night. It is said that the unrelenting darkness cast more than shadows upon the land. It roused malevolent spirits of the dead from the underworld that would swarm human settlements and feast upon the old and sick. The spirits feared the Ealdorfyre, though, much to the relief of Celene and her people. Celebrations were held for many days in her honor, and the leaders of the time bestowed upon her the title of Flamebearer. The gods, however, were wary of this new magic. They warned her that to misuse the Ealdorfyre was to release a curse upon her kind. She swore to keep secret the spell that had summoned it, upon pain of death at their hands.

“Although her people flourished for many years, there were, of course, a small few who resented Celene for her power. Some who wished to abuse the flame. A new sect formed, claiming that she had upset the natural order by wielding these gifts from the gods. It was rumored that they were encouraged by the Goddess of Chaos, Samarin, who had grown bored with so little misery in the world. Rage burned in the eyes of one man in particular: Alastair. He stalked Celene’s every move like a shadow, determined to defy her.

“One night, while Celene practiced her craft, Alastair stole the Ealdorfyre. He raced to bring it to the people, but they could not contain it. The gods grew angry as the fire claimed their forest, leaving the wilderness naked and vulnerable. Though Celene fell to her knees and begged them for mercy, they saw fit to punish her. They unleashed a curse, damning her coven and their descendants for all eternity.”

Ivor yawned, scratching the tip of his nose with a long fingernail. I glanced at Enhart who remained sprawled on the divan, eyes shut.

“Is that it?” I asked.

“That’s the short of it, yes,” Ivor replied.

“Well, is it true?” I asked.

“All legends have some roots in the truth.”

I frowned, leaning back in my chair. “Those monuments you mentioned, I’ve read about them. They exist, don’t they?”

“One does,” Enhart piped up. “On the Obscure Isle. They call it the False Goddess.”

“False Goddess?” I scoffed. “If anyone’s false it’s Alastair.”

“Some might praise him,” countered Enhart. “He sought to bring the power to his people while Celene meant to keep it to herself and her followers.”

“He damned them, you mean.”

A snore interrupted us as Ivor’s head slumped against his chest. His steady breathing filled the room. I wondered briefly if Mordric had sent me here as some kind of joke. Enhart grinned. “You’ve done it now. You’ve bored Ivor to death.”

I rolled my eyes. “Why are you defending him?”

“He’s old!”

“Not Ivor,” I groaned. “Alistair.”

“Perhaps I just like to irritate you.”

“And what an excellent job you do.”

“Or perhaps being king’s adviser means you need to see the story from the point of view of the non-magical folk or you risk getting a big head.”

I bit back a retort. Glancing at Ivor, I lowered my voice. “Is this story supposed to put me at ease about the Ealdorfyre? Because I can assure you it’s doing the opposite.”

Enhart swung his legs around, planting his boots on the floor. “Ivor is a historian. He probably thinks that this is integral to your learning.”

“It is,” said the Chancellor, his eyes fluttering open. I scowled. “One must always arm oneself with knowledge before embarking on a new adventure.” He stood slowly, reaching an arm out to me, which I accepted reluctantly. “Now, let us put our understanding to the test.”

My fingers curled around the damp wood of a rowboat. At Ivor’s insistence, I had enchanted it to ferry us across the lake as a precaution. I held my tongue, unconvinced that water would do anything to stop the Ealdorfyre. The vessel jerked as the bow hit the muddy bank in the center of the lake. I clambered out with Ivor in tow, the mud squelching beneath our boots.

Fiddling with the end of my braid, I glanced across the water at Enhart, who stood stiffly beside the Vice-Chancellor on the opposite shore.

“Are you ready to begin?” asked Ivor.