Heir of Death

Ch. 4: The Witch's Tower

Elias stared up at the fog-shrouded tower, mouth twisted in disgust. His knee hurt even contemplating ascending the stairs leading up to it. They were steep and uneven, treacherous and slick. A vicious wind ripped down them, nearly knocking him over while he was still on flat ground.

The summons burned in his pocket, though, and Elias pulled his cloak tight before beginning the dangerous trek to the top. The wind howled and twisted around him, turning the thick sea mist into a driving rain that stung every exposed bit of skin. The cloak pressed on his throat, the heavy material dragging him back and forth with each gust.

As the stairs grew steeper, he shed the cloak and bundled it against his chest. Better soaked than torn off the side of the rocky hill by an errant gust of wind.

Several times he tripped over an uneven step, barking his shins on the sharp edges and skinning his hands. The rain started to pick up, and he wondered if he'd done something to provoke Sepher's ire. The god of the fickle skies was notoriously capricious during the winter months, more prone to giving in to the fitful, vicious side of their nature than during spring or summer.

By the time he reached the last flight leading up to the large, oaken door, he was frozen to the bone. His knee was the only warm place on his body, each step sending hot pain shooting through the joint.

He lifted a hand to pound on the door, but it swung open before he could touch it.

Elias hesitated, but only for a breath. Stepping inside, he slicked wet hair back from his face. It had grown long again since he'd left the navy. His eyes drifting up to scan the balcony overlooking the hall. Shadows moved within shadows high above.

He closed the door, shutting out the storm. His breath frosted before him, and he couldn't help but think he'd been safer outside, wrapped in nature's fury. No servant came to greet him, no candles cast a glow over the entry hall. No fire awaited to dry his clothes or soothe away the cold.

Water dripped from him, pattering on the flagstones underfoot. He didn't dare move away from the door. Not until she showed herself.

"Really, Elias, I'd thought we'd be past this, you and I." Her voice sounded right behind him, and Elias failed miserably in his attempt not to flinch away.

Igraine slunk past him, wearing nothing but a black, silk chemise. Her bare feet padded silently across the stone as she crossed the entry hall, beckoning to him over her shoulder. Elias squeezed his eyes shut, cursing the prince under his breath. 

He should have refused.

"Elias!" the witch trilled. Her voice echoed off the stone, bleeding into his ears and making his nerves go numb. The taste of copper sheeted over his tongue. He spat into his hand, horrified by the splash of red he found.

Nearly slipping in the puddle he'd created, Elias dashed across the hall, flinging open the same door Igraine had disappeared behind. There was no sign of her when he stepped into the dark room.

A dim library was revealed, windows shrouded by thick curtains, books lined from floor to ceiling high above. The witch had wasted no time in renovating the old, abandoned guard tower and turning it into something like a proper home. It had all been accomplished in a matter of days, the workers eager to complete their work and never return.

Shivering, Elias moved to the empty grate. "May I?" he asked carefully.

Igraine disliked fire. He had watched one of her slaves learn that the hard way.

"If you must," her voice sighed from somewhere above him. He knelt before the spotless fireplace, knee screaming in protest as it flexed. Elias began to build a fire as quickly as his shaking hands would allow. Water dripped from his hair, beading down his face as he struck the flint, swearing when the sparks refused to take.