The Hawkweed Prophecy (33 page)

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-F
OUR

E
mber's face knocked gently against the horse's stomach, its hair soft and warm against her cheek. She had been awake for some time now but was too weary to lift herself up and nervous she would fall if she tried. She had been watching the world from upside down, the icy ground her sky, the billowing drifts of snow her clouds. They passed through endless pines, and Ember observed how the lowest of the branches were flopping and drooping just like her, the green needles pricking under the white weight of winter. And then, at last, Ember saw the glassy river and she knew she was nearing refuge. The rhythm of the horse's steps had become comforting to her and she missed it as soon as it stopped. Then there were hands around her, reaching for her and pulling her down. Ember looked up to see Sister Ada's baggy features hanging over her.

“Child, what has happened to you?”

Sister Morgan elbowed her way in. “Get her warm first, sister,” and a cup was being lifted to Ember's lips and hot liquid was slipping down her throat.

“Where are Sisters Raven and Charlock? Have you come from them?” Sister Ada persisted.

Ember tried to speak but couldn't think what to say.

“What do you remember?”

“Poppy?” she said. The sisters looked at one another confused. Then she suddenly remembered and spoke again. “The sea.”

“What were you doing there?” Ember heard another voice ask.

“Were Raven and Charlock with you?” questioned Sister Morgan gently.

The horse snorted and stamped its foot impatiently, answering on Ember's behalf.

“We must go,” said Sister Bethany.

“Quickly,” ordered Sister Ada. “Gather the clan.”

Leo's arm was aching from holding out his thumb. Not a single vehicle had stopped. He must look even worse than he felt. His jeans were stuck to his legs from the slushy spray of speeding wheels and his skin was raw from the cold. The next car to approach was smart and clean, a suited man at the wheel, no passengers. Leo didn't even bother trying to signal. The car passed him like all the others but then it slowed to a stop. Leo peered at it in astonishment. Suddenly it revved into reverse and leveled with him. Leo thought of the soft seat, the heat, the stereo. The window rolled down.

It was Poppy's father. “Get in,” he barked.

Leo thought of the warmth, then looked at the man's face and thought again.

“Get in,” Poppy's father commanded.

Leo opened the door and sat down. It was as plush and comfortable as he had predicted.

“I know you, don't I? You're Poppy's friend.” Leo nodded. “Do you know where she is?” Leo shook his head. “Do you speak?” Leo nodded again. Poppy's father gripped the steering wheel with frustration. Leo could see his knuckles turning white. “Look, you're the only kid I've ever seen her with. Ever. I've no idea why she picked you, but now she's gone and I need to find her.”

Leo looked up in surprise and his eyes met Poppy's father's for the first time.

“You didn't know? Terrific.” Poppy's father hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “I've given that girl so many chances and this is what I get for it.”

Leo reached for the door handle.

“Wait,” said Poppy's father, his voice softening slightly. “Where are you heading?”

“Away.” Leo shrugged.

Poppy's father shook his head like he was wrestling with an idea. “I'm going to see her mother. Figured Poppy might have gone there. If she has, maybe you can talk some sense into her?”

Leo's hand rested on the door handle, waiting for his brain to send the signal for what to do next. Poppy. He was supposed to be running away. He should open the door. He wanted to open the door. But his fingers released, his hand moved back to his lap, and the car started moving.

Bats and birds filled the sky above the cliffs. From their view up on high, the battle looked breathtaking. Bolts of fire, flashes of light, crackles and sparks of electricity streaking across the air like a fireworks display. Beneath that, crimson patterns were brightening the white snow like art. But down low and up close, it was an ugly picture. Trees had been felled, their stumps sizzling. Witches too lay twisted on the ground, missing limbs. The crimson was their blood, trickling from their wounds, their eyes, their noses, seeping into the snow. Many witches fought on, despite their injuries. Boils and pustules bubbled and burst on some unlucky faces. Others had lost hair, from their heads, their eyebrows, and lashes. Spells whizzed like bullets, often hitting at random. The sound of chants and curses came like a chorus so it was impossible to distinguish one from the other.

Poppy was defending, dodging, and blocking, with no time for any attack of her own. Every sense she had was magnified a thousand-fold. Her reflexes worked faster than she had ever believed possible, her limbs moving before she even had a chance to think, her body one step ahead of her brain. The magic that was usually such a silken, slippery thing now felt solid and hard. It had become a sharp-edged weapon, and Poppy felt its shadow on her, darkening her mind. The thrill and release she had felt at the fire in the dining hall and then again in the library—that was nothing compared to this. This was all-consuming.

Poppy could see it in Charlock too. The expression on her face was frightening—eyes burning, cheeks hollow, hair wired with electricity. Poppy wondered whether her own features were just as savage. But she was grateful for Charlock's transformation. Time
after time her mother would defend her, shielding her from blows both magical and physical, repelling those who tried to hurt her. As for Raven, she hardly seemed made of flesh and blood. She fought as one not born of this earth. Single-handedly she was laying waste to whole strips of the enemy. She seemed unstoppable, but Poppy feared what might happen to them if she tired.

It was merely a momentary misgiving, but with it Poppy felt her strength suddenly dwindle. She looked around her and saw only death and destruction and it felt terrifying. A witch, monstrous in her fury, ran toward Poppy, screaming, and Charlock blasted the assailant back. The witch lay on the ground with her ribs jutting out of her chest like railings, but her eyes stayed open and still she stared in hatred at Poppy and her lips kept on chanting.

“Look!” shouted Charlock, and Poppy turned her head to see a new group of witches joining the fray. “Our clan!” cried Charlock.

And with these two words Poppy felt her mind re-engage and her energy surge.

Straight into the conflict the clan went, firing spells and rallying behind their leader, Raven Hawkweed. They were still massively outnumbered, but these witches were fresh and ready for the fight. The young among them bristled with excitement; the more experienced gritted their teeth in grim determination. There was no time for them to question Poppy's presence. She was with Charlock and that was enough. Besides, the air was thick with malice, droning with spells of the wickedest kind, and it would take all their effort to stay unharmed.

Close by, a girl not much older than Poppy was quickly knocked to the ground. She lay there gasping, clutching her side,
as her attacker loomed above her, lifting her arms to strike again. A bolt of light shot from Poppy's hand and pierced the witch straight through. Before she fell, the witch looked down in curious surprise at the hole where her stomach once sat. Poppy stared in horror at the damage she'd done, a perfect cauterized circle without a drop of blood.

The girl she had saved sat up and regarded Poppy with newfound admiration. “How'd you do that?”

“I don't know,” Poppy told her, reaching out a hand to pull her up.

“What do they call you?”

“Poppy. My friend, Ember, have you seen her?”

“She's safe,” said the girl, and Poppy shut her eyes in momentary relief.

“Watch your back!” cried the girl, and Poppy turned to see another witch advancing. Again she attacked and hit her target. She nodded to the girl in thanks.

“Are you Sorrel?”

The girl shook her head but not before Poppy caught the light change in her eyes. “Kyra,” she replied.

Holding her wounded side in her palm, the girl charged forward with a war cry bursting from her lips. Poppy watched her go, quickly losing sight of her in the flying hands and turning torsos of this frenetic, frantic, deadly dance that Poppy found herself a part of. The battle was far from won, but now Poppy felt they had a chance—if not at victory, at least at survival.

At the battle's raging, bloody heart was Raven. She cut a swath through the skirmish, like she was merely slashing down the brambles in the forest that got in her way. So fast she moved,
intent on reaching her destination. For a moment Poppy feared it was her that Raven was aiming for, but Raven shot past without a glance in her direction.

Then Poppy realized. There was but one witch in Raven's sights, the leader of the Eastern clan. This witch knew that Raven was coming for her and she was ready. There was no surprise on her face, no trace of panic.

Hands outstretched like claws, both witches released their magic. The Eastern witch was a match for Raven, thwarting her spells, deflecting and reflecting her powerful attacks. Enraged, Raven breathed fire upon her. The witch cried out as she fell to the ground. But instead of staying down and beaten, her body folded and curled as her back lifted up and her limbs reached down so she was on all fours and growing still. Poppy blinked, and suddenly the witch was a panther, even greater and more fearsome than the others.

“You think your sorcery scares me?” cried Raven. “You dare attack my child?”

The creature roared, displaying its huge teeth, then lunging for a bite. Raven smote it away with the back of her hand. Poppy hurried to Charlock's side as the panther raised its head again.

“Ask yourself, Raven. Why would
we
bother with your daughter when she is not the one?”

Raven flinched, but then opened her mouth and let it become a beak—long, pointed, and deadly. “You lie!” she shrieked, and her head darted forward, stabbing the cat in the eye.

The panther's paw flew to its face as it howled with pain. “Look to your sister,” it cried. “Or do you have the brains of a bird to match that beak?”

It took one look of doubt to end a lifetime's trust. Raven locked eyes with Charlock. So intense it was that Poppy could feel the beam of her stare. She could see Charlock's cheeks start to burn with the effort of holding that gaze. The seconds ticked. The battle slowed as all faces turned to watch. Raven's stare was searing, but still Charlock met it with her own.

Poppy squeezed her mother's hand, and as she did so, she saw it—Charlock slipping into the storeroom, taking a potion from a table. Sorrel stumbling through the woods, her face cut, her body trembling. Charlock scooping her up into her arms, tending to her wounds, giving her something to calm her nerves to help ease the pain. Charlock's hand cradling Sorrel's head. “Sip carefully now.”

The liquid flowing into Sorrel's mouth, dribbling down her chin. Charlock tenderly wiping it away, helping Sorrel to lie back. Sorrel whispering her thanks, asking for her mother.

Poppy let go of Charlock's hand. She couldn't help it. Her mother's hand hung there, empty and limp for all to see. Raven's eyes didn't waver, though. Her focus remained set only on Charlock's face.

And then it happened. Whether because of Poppy's hand, or Raven's stare, or simply that the truth will out, Charlock's eyelids blinked shut, and in that moment Raven knew. She saw it too, and the horror of it ravaged her. She shut her eyes in pain and bowed her neck as if waiting to receive the blow. When it came, the panther's strike caved in Raven's head like it was made of plaster and swept her body up like it was foam that lifted in the air, then floated to the ground.

Charlock cried out in anguish and clutched her head, as though she felt the blow upon her own face. She flew to her sister's side
and all made way for her. Kneeling down in penitence, she took Raven's hands. Her tears fell and washed away the blood and the hideous beak, healing the broken bones and fixing the ripped skin.