The Hawkweed Prophecy by Irena Brignull Read Free Book Online Page B

immediately she felt silly for thinking such a thing and determined not to go.

    Sorrel tripped up the steps and banged her ankle on the door-frame as her mother pulled her inside. She knew well not to complain. Raven’s eyes were burning, fire within the black. Her lips were twitching, chanting soundless words. She started pacing back and forth, lost in frantic thought. Only Sorrel got to see suchscenes of her mother’s private self. In front of the coven Raven maintained constant calm and control.
    â€œThe real magic is to make it look effortless,” she always told Sorrel when it was just the two of them, after lessons and away from the other girls.
    â€œMother?” Sorrel prompted, and Raven snapped her neck around so she faced her. “You wanted to talk with me?”
    Raven’s eyes focused and the fire dimmed. “Follow your cousin.”
    Sorrel groaned inwardly but her mother heard it—nothing escaped Raven.
    â€œI mean it. I want your eyes on her. Something doesn’t bode well.”
    â€œIt’s Ember. Nothing ever bodes well,” replied Sorrel.
    â€œShe’s happy. Listen to her step—it’s lighter. Look at her eyes—they’re brighter. Her heart is beating faster. She’s straighter, taller. Use your senses, Sorrel. All of them.”
    Sorrel nodded. Her mother was always right. “Why is she so happy?”
    â€œThat’s what you must find out. See if she ventures into the town. Check she isn’t talking to any chaffs. Who knows what the simpleton might say.”
    Sorrel nodded, though she could scarcely believe her timid cousin capable of such rebellion. Every decade or so there was a witch who would be seduced by the outside world. They would disappear into the dead of night, covering their tracks to avoid all detection. Then the inevitable betrayal would begin. They’d confess their past and admit to witchcraft, telling of the coven out inthe forest, forsaking all they had once sworn to protect. Usually they’d leave for love . . . or so they said. But then they’d come back weeping and begging to come home.
    It never worked—a witch and a chaff. However learned or open-minded, the people of the outside world lived smaller lives. They saw only what was visible and believed only what could be proven or what was preached. They were missing a sense and were so handicapped without it that the witches almost pitied them. For a witch would rather lose their sight or hearing than the sixth and most precious of senses.
    The males were the worst. For centuries they had owned their womenfolk as though they were mere belongings, not beings like them with an independent mind and voice and a right to determine their own lives. Sorrel’s ancestors had sought another way to live, but they had been persecuted for it. Men rode across the land, taking bits of idle gossip and jealous sniping and using it to put any woman they feared on trial, relishing their screams as they burned at the stake, the flesh melting from their bones. In the years after, many of these women had gathered, forming sisterhoods and covens, living separate from the rest of society and practicing their craft in hidden safety. They swore never to forget those who had been slaughtered so mercilessly. Men, they decided, were to be shunned. They needed them for daughters, but nothing more. Just one of their kind would weaken the bonds of loyalty and trust between the witches. It had been proved time and time again. Even Sorrel, in her short life, had heard one such renegade witch weeping over her broken heart, regretting her betrayal and grieving for the loss of her clan. To watch her helpless, heaving sorrow had been horrifying, and Sorrel had hiddenbehind her mother’s skirts until Raven had pulled her away and left her. For Raven had to work through the night to mop up the damage, cleaning the chaffs’ minds of what they’d heard, wiping away all