For some reason, I thought this day would be different. Yet from the very moment I awoke, everything was exactly as it always was, as if the world refused to acknowledge that this would be one of the most important days of my life—that everything would be decided now, that my fate would be carved into stone...

The people of Duskhall feigned indifference and ignorance perfectly, as they always did whenever magic was concerned. By noon, the lack of celebration and sympathy had unsettled me so badly that I left the girls by the stream. Let them wash on their own, with their tiny hands. We’ll see how well they manage without my power. Tonight will be the first new moon of spring. Tonight I must set out for the Trial of Witches. Many die facing the challenges that await them, yet here everyone behaves as if all is well.

Even Virelda—who lies and calls herself my grandmother—piles chores onto me just as she would on any other day, though if anyone should know what awaits me, it is her. I will not be the first witch-apprentice she has sent into the wilds. True, she never speaks of those who were lost. Only whispers remain...and there have been fewer of those with each passing year.

My mother once told me that nine candidates set out in her time. Only three returned. She was one of them. As far as I know, neither of the other two is alive anymore.

I wonder which fate frightens me more: failing the Trial and returning empty-handed to live a life as gray and simple as the villagers’? Dying in the attempt, alone and in agony, my name never spoken again? Or succeeding—returning as a witch—only to be burned one day by the Inquisition, as my mother was?

Not many witches live to Virelda’s age. Then again, I have always believed that even the Inquisition would think twice before provoking her. Perhaps I am still alive only because she took me beneath her wing.

The Church is far from here. It nests in the kingdom’s flourishing center, basking in the ruler’s favor, serving and exploiting cityfolk. Only its servants reach places like ours—and, rarely, wandering preachers who, I’ve heard, are forced to roam as penance for their sins. The last such creature was chased from the village with pitchforks after he laid hands on Elsa, the innkeeper’s daughter. We haven’t seen another since.

An Envoy passed through once, but stayed only a night before moving on. For two weeks afterward, Virelda and I didn’t dare poke our noses outside; the neighbors passed food through the window. Those Who Ask can be dangerous. As for the Black Cloaks, none have come here since my childhood—and then they came to burn my mother at the village edge.

I was six when they came for her. Raff and Donna hid me in the Lonely Willow and told me not to make a sound. When the inquisitors asked about the witch’s daughter, the people of Duskhall told them the child had died the previous winter.

Everyone told the same lie.

They didn’t search further.

After they left, Virelda moved into our house. I’ve lived with her ever since—eleven years now—and she has prepared me for this day and this day alone. Perhaps that is why it hurts that, just this once, she cannot offer comfort or sympathy. This cold distance, this stern authority—that has always been her true cloak. Sometimes I think perhaps she simply does not wish to mourn again.

I forgot my mother quickly. I was given neither time nor tools to grieve. Her ashes remained at the village edge, forbidden from consecrated ground. Virelda says that it is better, that she truly “returned home.” Sometimes I feel ashamed that I cannot remember her face or her voice. I was six when they took her. We spent every day together—and still, nothing.

By the time I finished tending the chickens, Virelda had finished cooking. I was sent to wash the dishes. No, I cannot eat yet. The morning slice of bread is only a painful memory. I must clean the house; I cannot leave it in disorder.

When I reach the kitchen, I see the old woman packing hard biscuits, walnuts, and dried meat into the satchel. Then the scent of cookies reaches me.

An unexpected kindness.

The gesture moves me. I step out into the garden, at least to gather the clothes I washed this morning.

Virelda sends me for another bucket of water from the well. It has always irritated me that though she can conjure water, she refuses to use magic for ordinary tasks.

I wonder how she’ll manage if I don’t return.

Dusk is falling when we finally sit at the table. The satchel hangs from a nail beside the door. Next to it, my spring cloak—leather, waterproof. Nights are still cold; I must change before I leave.

We eat in silence, as always. If she isn’t teaching, she doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask. And I have no wish to question her, because she doesn’t know either.

Every Trial is different.

The wilds are given, but never the same call. We don’t know—we only feel which way to go. Nothing protects us. And along the road, something changes inside us.

Forever.

I almost miss it, so lost am I in my thoughts: Virelda is casting a spell. Her aura slowly fills the house. The tea in her cup begins to ripple softly. I don’t know if I’m allowed to watch. She hates prying. It doesn’t matter now, I think, and focus on the magic. A serious incantation. A prophecy, drawn from her cup. Of course—the tea leaves.
She wants to know something. Perhaps whether I will return. She does not share the result.

I do not want to know.

When dinner is over, it is time to leave.

I dress in my forest-going clothes: a wool sweater, my best boots. A dagger at my belt—one of the few things I inherited from my mother. An amulet said to keep wild beasts away. Nothing forbids me from defending myself, though I doubt its worth. Steel and flint in my pouch, because sometimes magic must be spared. Everything else should already be in the satchel.

I don’t look inside. The warmth of the cookies presses softly against my side.

Love floods me again for the sullen old crone.