6

Blood and Ashes

The following evening Candle hid in a convenient tree overlooking the party site before the guests arrived through the moongate. The night air was fresh and pleasant, after the cold of the night before. Bonfires were piled here and there to warm the guests as they feasted and laughed and drank mulled wine under a starry winter sky.

Musicians struck up a lively tune and soon the garden below was full of firelight, witch lights and chatter. Candle had no particular interest in watching other people eat but instead enjoyed the music as she watched the starlit clouds cascading in slow motion over the edge of the Enchantments. She wondered idly if the weather would hold. Candle could hear Ishbel laughing somewhere, but couldn't see her through the foliage. Candle was hoping to catch a glimpse of her young man, but so far had had no luck.

The highlight of the evening was a display by Lord Enys himself; a dance set to music he had composed. The orchestra played in a swell of sound and several talented dancers leap and twirled. Lord Enys deftly manipulated light and moisture around them to create a spectacle of movement and colour. Her father was a genius, Candle begrudging allowed as she watched the dancers spin and weave, their hair flowing free in the night breeze. Candle watched with awe as magic radiated out from her father in lines of power, sinking into the very stones of the village and shimmering there before disappearing into the ground. What others could create with paint on static cloth he could create in living, breathing, three dimensions. She almost forgot herself and joined in the applause, so much did the performance move her. Candle sighed, leaning against her tree trunk. Never had she so keenly felt the absence of any magical gift. What she would give to create such a feast for the senses!

A short time later the party was cut short by a cloud burst that emptied itself over the village. Candle watched with glee as her family and their guests screamed and ran for cover. The witch lights winked out one by one as they ran. Once the coast was clear Candle slipped down the trunk and swiped some soggy cake off the dessert table. She headed back to her room, humming to herself and munching as she went.

Someone was in her room. She stopped, muscles tense. Then, slowly, hesitating, she swung the door open softly with her fingertips. Rasmus was inside, cleaning his nails with his small wicked knife. Belias was at his shoulder, dark and watchful. Suddenly the danger and drama of the solstice seemed horribly real again. Rasmus lifted his head as the door creaked and strode towards her. She froze and lost precious seconds in which to escape.

"Your devotions, Candle," Rasmus growled, grabbing her elbow. He waved the knife in her face. "Why haven't you been doing them?"

"What?" she said. She didn't know what she had expected him to say, but why on Norves was he worried about her spirituality all of a sudden? "I have-"

"Liar," he snarled, eyes wild. "You haven't done any today!"

"Why do you even care?" she asked, eyes on the wicked iron blade.

"Is a brother not allowed to care for his little sister's spiritual well being?" he hissed. He pushed her away, suddenly, and she fell against the wall. "Attend to your devotions," he said, flatly. He turned on his heel and stalked down the passageway, leaving Candle staring up at Belias. The creature grinned at Candle and then dissolved into the night, like ash in the wind.

Confused, and with shaking hands Candle got out her pencils and paper and made a quick sketch of the party, of her father's display. It wasn't very good, but she burned it anyway. All the enjoyment of the evening was gone, leaving her feeling hollow and afraid. What was Rasmus becoming? She waited, as she always did, staring at the stub of her candle but nothing happened.

What's the point, she thought bitterly and went to bed.

The next morning Candle felt an uncontrollable urge to be out of the house and out of her room. But she spent the morning working on a devotion, just in case Rasmus came to check on her. Why although why this sudden interest in her spirituality... it was beyond her comprehension. She was itching to leave the estate. The hills beckoned. The rain had left the air crystal clear and she could make out every crevice and every tree on the mountain above...They were calling her, but she dared not go. She wondered if she dared sleep outdoors. That would make her feel...less constrained. But there was danger if she didn't wake before the twilight bell. She had no desire to spend another gloaming with the spirits. She had been lucky to survive the first. The walls of the house, and particularly her room were oppressive.

"I can't live like this for the rest of my life," she confided to Ishbel, later that day.

"Maybe you won't have to," said Ishbel vaguely, "if you keep working on your devotions."

"I am! Nothing is changing," said Candle, whose hands were still stained with paint from her morning's efforts. It was a particularly large canvas of the night sky which she suspected would not impress the Ancestors.

"Not with an attitude like that!" Ishbel said, threading a ribbon through her hair. She went back to talking about her new love who had kissed her behind the fire roses at the party.

Ishbel never really listened, Candle thought, leaning against the wall with her arms folded. Her sister chattered on about this and that. She opened her mouth to say something about Rasmus. To ask her if she had noticed him behaving strangely. But nothing came out. Candle shrugged. Ishbel wouldn't believe her anyway, so what did it matter?

That afternoon Candle stole some material and managed to rig up a makeshift hammock high in the branches of her favourite silver tree. It was surprisingly comfortable. She took to spending long hours in it listlessly contemplating the skies. She was very tired these days, and it made her feel free, watching the ever-changing sky. She stayed up there in rain and shine, protected by a small oil skin and warmed by a stolen blanket. When she was not contemplating the sky she watched the inhabitants of the estate and envied them their purpose. She toyed with the idea of staying outside permanently but was too afraid. So she retreated back to her room only for food and twilight and when the harsh southern wind brought snow to the uppermost peaks of the Enchantments and she could no longer bear the cold.

Deep in the night Candle dreamed of a different life, a life beyond the walls of Hanternos. But she was afraid of the fell, afraid of the spirits and had nowhere to go. She was powerless and friendless. She briefly contemplated going to join the Ancestors Own, but she was afraid of them too. She did not think she deserved a life of violence. But the thought of leaving was thrilling, if not practical. She began to amuse herself by stealing items of more consequence than the odd loaf of bread. A pot, a kettle, some cutlery, a bag of flour and some blankets - all were added to her haul of paintbrushes and preserves. At night she was stricken by guilt, but the truth was she enjoyed the act of theft. It was exciting, a spot of colour in a dull existence. It allowed her to daydream of another life. Occasionally she prayed to the Ancestors for forgiveness.

One night, some weeks after the solstice, Candle lay in her hammock watching the path of the stars along the highway of souls. It was after midnight and the night was still and quiet and cloudless. If she listened very carefully she could hear music from above, an ethereal and enchanting song that resonated through her skull and soothed her soul. She didn't waste time wondering if it was real, but stared upwards, marvelling in the beauty of it.

Footsteps crunched in the garden below. Candle sat up, wondered who could be about so late. Usually, at this late hour, she had the garden to herself. A light flared below, and Candle almost fell out of her hammock trying to catch a glimpse of the midnight prowler.

It was Rasmus.

Candle sat back in her blanket blinking and looked up at the stars. Whatever he was doing she was sure he was up to no good. But no one else seemed to have noticed anything wrong with Rasmus. Everyone thought he was perfect. She stared up, gritting her teeth. She didn't want to know what he was doing. If he saw her observing what was clearly supposed to be a private moment... She couldn't help herself, she had to know. Cautiously, making sure she didn't tip herself out she leaned over the side of her hammock.

He was on his hands and knees scrabbling in the dark and making soft calling noises. What in the Night Nation was he doing? Rasmus leaned forward and grabbed. He stood up, holding Ishbel's gentle tabby cat which squirmed in his rough grasp.

"For you, Belias," she heard him mumble, and he wrung the poor cat's neck in one swift movement. His eyes blazed an unnatural blue. With a blast of flame, he set the tiny dead body alight. It was over in an instant. Candle griped the white trunk of the tree to prevent herself from falling from her perch. Her fingers felt numb. She kept very, very still. Rasmus buried the tabby cat's ashes in the earth under the trees and left, muttering to himself.

Candle sucked in a deep steadying breath of air. Belias was no Ancestor, no guardian spirit. Her brother had attracted, had courted, the attention of a demon. Life was sacred and he had wantonly and coldly taken the life of her sister's beloved pet. Where would it end? Where would the lust for power take him? How long before he took a human life? No one at Hanternos was safe. Only one path lay before her brother and he had already walked the first steps. Madness and death awaited him. The only question was how much death and destruction he would sew before he died and gifted his soul to the creature who now possessed him.

She bit back a sob, her hand on the rough bark of the tree, seeking reassurance from the solid nature of the trunk. She had to leave. She had to leave now. But she had to try and warn someone. Her breath hitched in her throat as she thought of leaving her sister, of leaving her to live under the same roof as Rasmus. Her heart felt like a small miserable lump of coal. She could feel it, shrivelled and cold within her. She had to try, she had to try and warn Ishbel, even though she would not believe her.

And then she would run away.