The Midnight Witch (11 page)

“Lady Lilith Montgomery, daughter of His Grace, Lord Robert Montgomery, the sixth duke of Radnor,” I answer, struggling to keep a tremor out of my voice.

“By what right do you lay claim to the title of Head Witch?”

“The right of my bloodline, being the eldest child of the last Head Witch, whose coven name was Brightstar.”

“What is to be your coven name, daughter of Brightstar?”

I hesitate. Up to this point I was too young to take a coven name, and so have used my given name, but as Head Witch this will not serve. All leaders of the Lazarus Coven must have coven names, and they are important. I have agonized over my choice for many sleepless nights since my father’s death. A witch’s name must mean something, must signify some quality or strength or aspect of that person’s nature that is important and special to them. For a Head Witch it is imperative the name fit, or it will not be respected.
I
will not be respected. I raise my chin and force my voice to ring out clear and strong.

“I will be called Morningstar,” I declare.

There is a collective intake of breath among the coven members, like the shocked gasp of a wounded giant. It is a response I understand.

The Master of the Chalice is driven to question me on my choice.

“Why have you selected such a name?” he demands. “You must have known this would be a contentious decision, child. Explain yourself.”

Slowly I turn on the spot where I stand so that my answer is directed at all of the assembled company. I must show that I am not afraid of any of them.

“I know that there are those among you who believe this name is synonymous with Lucifer, and so hold that it is another name for the devil. But I believe it stands for the star that is bright enough to shine in the daytime, to outshine even the sun. The star that in this way links the night with the day, as it is visible in both. For me this is the perfect symbol for the position of Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven, standing as I must between life and death, holding the hand of the living while communing with the dead. What could better represent my role? And if the name could be taken to refer to one who fell from the light into the darkness, might that not serve as a warning to others? A warning against pride and ambition beyond the good of the coven?”

There is a great deal of whispering among the witches, whispering that grows gradually louder and more forceful until the Master of the Chalice is compelled to strike the floor with his staff again to restore order and quiet.

“It is the prerogative of the nominee to select their own name,” he reminds the dissenters. “We will proceed. The candidate will step into the sacred circle.”

Silence falls once more as I move forward with a stride showing more confidence than I feel. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpse Iago sitting beneath the altar, watching my every move. I will him not to trot over to me. His presence is barely tolerated as it is. Such a show of disrespect would surely have him thrown out. And his presence comforts me. He reminds me of my father’s faith in me.

A female witch detaches herself from the group and comes to stand next to the Master of the Chalice. In a clear, high soprano, she begins a sweet song of worship. At the end of the verse the whole company joins in, raising their voices, which are curiously twisted through their masks, to ask the spirits to look favorably upon their potential new leader. I am not permitted to sing, but allow the music to feed my courage, to remind me that I am not alone, and that there are many present who will support me. When the piece is completed the Master of the Chalice bids a minor witch strike the heavy brass gong at the end of the altar six times, signifying the beginning of the hour of questioning.

Now I will be tested. But I am ready. For the next sixty minutes my fellow witches are permitted to question me on all aspects of leadership of the Lazarus Coven. I am asked about points of sacred law, or rituals and rites, of spellcraft and magic. I am compelled to explain how I see the role of the Head Witch and what I hope to achieve. It is an exhausting process, and by the end of it I feel drained and relieved that it is over.

The gong is struck once again, marking the finish of the questioning. The Master of the Chalice nods slowly at me, and though I cannot see his face I am certain he is smiling, pleased with how I have withstood the questioning. There remain only a few formalities before he can bestow my new title upon me.

“If there is one who would challenge the nominee’s suitability to lead the Coven of Lazarus let him voice his doubts now, or forever hold his silence,” he says.

“I challenge!”

There are shocked cries. People turn to see who it is who has spoken. The Master of the Chalice leans heavily on his staff and when he speaks his voice shakes with amazement.

“From where does the challenge come? Step forward. Show yourself!”

There is a shuffling among those standing to the left of the altar and a slim, male figure, dressed in a robe of heavy purple velvet, plain, but beautifully cut, moves forward to stand alone.

My pulse is racing. I have never heard of anyone challenging a nominee during an inauguration. The asking for a challenger to declare him- or herself is a tradition, a formality. I doubt anyone present has ever heard of such a thing actually being done. Who is it? Who would seek to shame me like this?

“I demand to know the identity of my challenger!”

The figure in purple shakes his head. “I am not obliged to give it. My anonymity is protected, it is not forfeit simply because I challenge your suitability for the position of Head Witch. Am I not correct, Master of the Chalice?”

I try to imagine what his voice would be like without the obscuring mask. Is it familiar? Do I know this man? The coven is so large, even I do not know everyone in it, and yet it could be someone I know well. There is no way to tell.

“It is the challenger’s right to conceal his identity if he so wishes,” confirms the Master of the Chalice, his words a little breathless now.

“Coward!” comes the cry from the back of the room. “To hide behind a mask and yet publicly doubt the nominee in such a way is cowardice. He should have the courage to reveal himself!”

A murmur of agreement rolls around the room, but the witch merely gives a little bow.

“Forgive me, brother witch,” he says, “I prefer to challenge anonymously. I believe it will be fairer and more effective.”

Why? Why would that be the case? I must know who he is.

“You must give the reason for your challenge,” the Master of the Chalice tells him.

“Let us hear it!” a witch in a sage-green robe demands. I know her slender shape and erect bearing so well I am certain it is Druscilla. “Lady Lilith is a fine and rightful candidate. What possible challenge can be made?”

There are shouts of “Aye!” and “Shame!” and “Speak out!”

The challenger holds up his hands. “The nominee’s brother, the seventh duke of Radnor, is a man controlled by his desire for opium.”

“What of it?” shouts an agitated witch in the back row. “She is not responsible for the shortcomings of her brother.”

“Responsible, no. But where one family member has a significant weakness of will, is it not fair to suppose another might be similarly afflicted?”

Druscilla speaks up again. “A fondness for the milk of the poppy is not an inherited condition. The nominee’s father, Spirits keep him, showed no signs of any such predilection.”

“That may be so,” says the purple witch, clearly not in the least rattled by the vehement responses to his challenge, “but I still say there is a risk. The nominee is young. Who can say how her character will develop, or what lurking flaws may later reveal themselves? Her brother does not simply sip poppy milk to ease a malady, he frequents a nefarious opium den, a place where people go to lose their wits. His mind will become permanently enfeebled if he continues in this way. His sister is no doubt dutiful and devoted—he is a duke now, after all. Who knows in what ways his weakness might compromise the family and leave her vulnerable? And vulnerable people do desperate things to protect themselves. They are open to blackmail, to name but one possibility. How safe would the coven be with such a dangerous flaw so close to the seat of power? Does the nominee deny his habit?”

All eyes turn back to me. I keep my voice as level as I am able. How can this be happening?

“It is true, my brother is troubled, and yes, he does smoke opium on occasion.”

“On occasion!” my challenger scoffs. “You understate the case somewhat, I believe. Could it be that you do not consider such behavior reprehensible? Perhaps you are tempted, already, to try it yourself.”

There are shouts and gasps from the company, but this time not all of them seem to be dismissing the challenger’s words. Doubt has crept into the room and is worming its way into the minds of many present. I will lose their support. They must not see me try to run from his accusations. I turn squarely to face the stranger who would rob me of my inheritance.

“I will respond to the challenge,” I declare, and the room falls into uproar. Some witches shake their fists at the challenger, others shake their heads and swear oaths beneath their breath. Arguments break out for and against. One witch makes a lunge for the accuser and has to be restrained and ejected from the chamber. I understood their reaction to what I have said. By agreeing to respond to the challenge I have given the purple witch the right to observe my response, a Proof of Worth, it is called, a task I must complete to demonstrate to all my suitability for the post.

The Master of the Chalice bangs his staff on the stone floor repeatedly until at last the turmoil subsides. All present are familiar with the theory of a challenge and of worth being proved, but I doubt many have thought what it would be like to witness such a challenge undertaken. Formality decrees that the Master of the Chalice set out the obligations.

“There is only one way the nominee might show Proof of Worth. It is written thus: ‘Whosoever is challenged, let her summon a demon.”’

A nervous hush descends. I have heard of demonic calling being practiced, but have never seen it done, let alone done it myself. What my father told me, what my studies informed me, was that it is dangerous, unpredictable, and difficult to summon a creature of the Darkness. If a witch succeeded, they might not be able to control it, let alone return it to its rightful place again.

From somewhere deep within myself, some reserve of strength I did not know I possess, I muster a smile and a semblance of calmness. I will face the challenge. I will select a task. I will perform it to the best of my ability, and I will, once and for all, banish all doubts anyone might have about my worthiness.

“Master of the Chalice,” I say, “I will answer my challenger. I will demonstrate Proof of Worth. I will summon a demon.”

A new aroma now permeates the chamber, faint at first, but growing stronger and unmistakable: the smell of fear. There is a fidgeting of feet, and one or two witches make as if to quit the room. Another witch speaks out.

“Let no one leave! The doors must remain barred for the duration of the task. Whatever happens, we are a coven, we support a nominee in her bid for leadership. She is doing only what is required of her. We will not abandon her to suffer the consequences of a law we have all ourselves sworn oaths to. We are a part of this madness. Let us remain.”

There are generally noises of agreement, and a subtle rearranging of the positions held in the room. Those doubting my ability to successfully execute such a dangerous task melt farther into the background. My supporters come to the fore to stand firm and stalwart on the edge of the circle. I am heartened to see so many of them are willing to aid me. Or do they think they will be required to save us all from whatever dreadful being I call from the Darkness? Are they, too, convinced I will fail?

I become aware of a figure standing in the shadows to the right of the door. It is Papa! Whether or not others can see him I am unable to tell. It does not matter. What matters is that he has come. He is here, lending me the strength of his spirit presence.

“I believe I am permitted someone to assist me,” I say.

“That is correct,” the Master of the Chalice agrees. “Will a volunteer step forward?”

For a few dreadful seconds it seems no one would offer to help, but then I see Violet threading her way through the company until she stands at the edge of the circle. I smile at my dear maid, immensely grateful for her courage and loyalty.

“Are you certain you wish to do this? You know I cannot guarantee your safety.”

“Yes, my la…” Violet recalls where, and who, she is, and resists the habit of years in addressing me. “I am certain.”

Now that I am in the circle and about to spellcast I should not leave it until the task is complete, so it will fall to Violet to fetch me the things I need. I search my mind, sifting through the hours of reading and years of instruction I underwent with Father’s help.

Demon Calling: the summoning of a creature from the Darkness for use against an adversary or as Proof of Worth. But what will I need? I’m sure I can recall the words, but I must remember every item. To omit something could prove catastrophic.

“Bring me the Witch’s Coffer, a vial of bone dust, and a burning candle.”

Violet does as I ask. I sense the excitement mounting among those watching. However scared they might be, this is a rare chance to witness a piece of magic most of them have never seen before, and most would never themselves dare try.

The coffer is an ancient wooden box with a hinged lid about the size of a hamper. I set it down within the daytime half of the circle. The worn, polished wood feels cool beneath my fingers as I lift the lid. I select the Maygor’s Silver Thread, a soft, glittering rope the thickness of a plait of hair but considerably heavier. It is wound in a coil and is a little under ten paces long. I was allowed to use it in my lessons twice before, but never for Demon Calling. I loop the rope over my arm and close the box. Next, I pick up the candle and move to the center of the space where I tip it, so that hot wax drips onto the floor. I move slowly clockwise, creating a circle about two paces across, which encompasses a small area of both day and night, bisected by the red Rubicon. As I mark out this inner circle I speak the words I dredge from my memory, hearing my father’s voice as I do so, as if he were whispering them into my ear.