The Witches' Game- Sacrificial Spotlights

Dirren Redd: the Queen of Autumn

The witches of Autumn gathered around the cairn as the sun began to hang low along the tree line. This area of the school was bumpy with such graves, some older, some newer, but none nearly as important as the one they now gathered around.

They were there to greet the new Queen of Autumn.

Each stone had been placed with exacting precision. Each rite had been painstakingly conducted by the Queen-to-be and other witches of the Whispering Path. While the funerary rites are common and conducted by every witch in the Land, it is only those on this Path who are allowed to conduct such rites upon themselves while they live. And they must, for they are only allowed the use of assistance when they are no longer able to conduct the rites themselves.

Any other way is Forbidden.

But while these rites are conducted in silence and secrecy, all who dwell within the School of Autumn are allowed to witness the Queen's Rise.

It had been two weeks since the half moon, when the prize jewel of the house of Redd spilled her life's blood for the first time. Her first death was a good death; she had slit her throat prettily, her blood had filled a bowl to give to Abundance so that the crops could thrive on an easier sacrifice that day. All had been appropriate.

And oh, Dirren had been so strong, the witches had whispered to each other, performing the Dead Rites upon herself long after she should have required someone to step in. How this Queen will Rise.

Pretty Dirren lay dead and dreaming for a fortnight in her tomb of stone and dust, but during that time, she learned so much.

Magic will always thank the witch for their sacrifice, and so did magic thank the Dead Queen of the Autumn School. The magic that belonged to the dead crawled to her and began to whisper.

It told her secrets that the living are not supposed to know, that they forget in the liminal space between life and death. They showed her the hidden places in the world. They made her strong.

When she opened her eyes on the night of the full moon, a harvest moon, Dirren still lay in her tomb of stone. It is the final test for the witch who walks the Whispering Path.

She must claw her way out.

The portrait of the Queen of Autumn resides in the Great Hall. It depicts her immediately after her First Rise, still seated at the lip of the tomb. Her long, heavy sable hair is dipped in moonlight. Her too thin, too pale face is tilted back, silhouetted against a large, orange moon. She wears a tattered white nightgown, as is customary.

The First Cut lays open against the length of her throat, not quite a scar. There will be other wounds, and those will heal. Her throat will not. It is an ostentatious First Cut to be sure, but it is a Queen's Cut, no one can argue.

The painter has captured everything about Dirren that matters, right down to her broken, bloody fingers, and her look of pure, utter contentment.