Anya

Dandelions for sweetness, chaga for health, and. . . let’s see. . . nettle, for pain.

Mother will need tea for her travels, and I must ensure that she’s well equipped for the journey ahead of her.

She’ll be gone for days. Gone who knows where, bolstering our stock of magical and alchemical reagents.

Our forests are lush, but there is only so much they have to offer.

I’d give anything to be allowed to travel with her, to see this wide world for myself, but she’s never reacted well when I’ve asked before.

I’ve been too young, too inexperienced to protect myself, and Mother didn’t want a liability. Now though, I’m not only a woman grown but a skilled mage in my own right. Surely, she’d be glad to have me along now.

After packaging the tea leaves and adding dried meats, bread, and hard cheese to her satchel, I clutch the leather close to my chest.

Please, please let me come with you.

A gust of wind precedes her as Mother flies into the tower, her brilliant feathers shining in the golden light of the morning sun. Magic envelopes her avian body before returning her to her human form—unassuming in stature, with a wild tangle of silvery hair falling around her shoulders like ash billowing before a volcanic eruption.

Rather apt, given her inclination toward flame magic.

“Mother.” I’m quick to greet her, quicker to set aside her satchel, next to my own, in the hopes that the sight will offer subtle influence in my favor.

Her eyes roll over the satchels, and she offers me a smile that doesn’t quite meet the sharpness of her gaze, as though she’s already well aware of what I’m about to ask.

“You’ve prepared an extra satchel,” she observes. Extra. One more than necessary. “For what purpose?”

“I thought, perhaps, that it’s time I travel with you.” It’s a fight to keep the gnawing yearning out of my voice, lest Mother mistake my desire for childish enthusiasm.

“To what end?” She dismisses my wants with the telltale raise of a disapproving brow, but I cannot allow myself to be so easily cowed, not if I want her to see me and respect me.

“I wish to see the world beyond these forests.” My back straightens, eyes narrowing on her. Each interaction with my mother is a test in one way or another, and I will not fail this one. “I am no child, Mother. You have trained me well, and I can be an excellent asset to you.”

“Oh, Anya,” she croons, stepping forward as she tucks my flaming red mane of hair behind my ears, as she has so many times before. “You are my greatest asset.”

My chest blooms with pride, and anticipation swims in my belly. This is it—I’m finally leaving these woods.

“Which is why. . . ” She sucks in a deep breath. “Which is why I need you to stay in the tower while I’m gone.”

“Mother,” I begin to protest, but she lifts a hand to silence me.

“You must remain in the tower, not for your own safety, but to protect our home, lest we return to a scorched tower set ablaze by closed-minded ignorants,” she offers. “Or worse, a trap laid to get the upper hand on us.”

My bottom lip goes between my teeth as I fight to keep my breathing steady. “You cannot expect me to remain here forever.”

She does not so much as look at me, simply slinging my carefully prepared satchel over her shoulder with the easy smile of one unbothered with the feelings of others.

“Tell me, Anya, what do you think the palace guards would do to us if they managed to capture us?” She turned her gaze upon me. “Do you think that they would show us mercy?”

“No, Mother.” My voice lowers, barely above a whisper, almost a growl in its sudden dryness.

“And what does the kingdom do to witches?” She stares at me, unblinking.

“They burn us,” I recite, like I have since I first learned to talk, “at the stake.”

“Which is why we must burn them first.” She nods. “I am glad, at least, that you remember that.”

My chest rises and falls in carefully reined in frustration.

What I want at this moment is to scream, to lash out, to set this whole damnable tower ablaze. . . but this tower is my home, and my mother has a point.

“Stop glowering, my dearest.” She runs the backs of her weathered knuckles along my cheek, and I can only grimace more deeply. “I will return in no longer than a week’s time. All I ask is that you remain in this tower until I get back.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Her lips press to my forehead, but it’s all I can do to remain calm, or at least, silent, as she steps away from me, onto the ledge of our window, before she transforms and takes flight.

“What did you do before my birth?” My voice is quiet, a shaky whisper to no one as I glare until my mother disappears onto the horizon.

My mother is a powerful witch—I can’t imagine that she got that way by sitting in this tower, never leaving.

She was tower-bound when I was small, of course, but before that. . . she must have gone out, or she’d certainly not have the extensive magical library that lines these walls. Moreover, I can’t imagine an entire life as long as hers spent here.

But, if that’s the case, what does she gain from keeping me cooped up in here?

No. She’s seen the world—and decided that I am not fit for it, without any care for my wants.

I’ve studied most of these tomes many times over, and as my fingers ghost over the bindings now, I wonder how far she had to travel to gather all of these. How many other mages has she met on her travels? How many people has she had the pleasure to speak to who don’t want to burn us at the stake?

It’s impossible not to feel bitter as I skim through the books, going through the motions of different magical drills, whetting my already sharp skills until I can tolerate the boredom no longer.

That’s when I turn to. . . less studious reading material.

It’s strange to picture my mother cozied up by the fire, engrossed in a book of romance, but I suppose I must have had a father at one point or another, whether or not he ever knew Mother had been with child.

I’m not so immature, however, as to be too disgusted by the idea of my mother’s love life to read her stash of salacious literature.

Fiction can be rather enlightening, in fact, when it shines light on worlds that have been denied to me. There’s enough about the real world written in my textbooks to ground me in what is most likely factual and what is invention in these stories. . . even if this sort of—emotional fraternization—is not in the stars for me.

Of course, as night falls, and it comes time to consider whether to stop reading, or to conjure light of my own, I wonder. . . must I really stay?

Mother spoke truly, of course. Should I leave the tower defenseless, it could be destroyed, or malcontents could find it and build the trap that becomes our doom. . . but what responsibility is that of mine?

Mother is content to leave me here, to disallow me from wandering too far from the tower, but as my fingers tenderly stroke the pages of the silly little romance novel resting in my lap, it’s clear to me that I will never have adventures of my own—carnal or otherwise—unless I slip from under her thumb.

If I leave now, nothing could stop me. I could take flight from this tower and leave while Mother is not here to talk me out of it.

Mother will be gone a week, after all. I could do a few days’ worth of exploring and be home before she ever knew I’d left.

Or, perhaps. . .

Perhaps I could leave, and never return.

The thought twists knots in my stomach, but it will not be chased away.

I could leave, but. . . I love my mother, and the thought of her returning to a trap laid while I was meant to be defending our home does not sit well with me.

Almost as bad is the thought of her setting foot in an empty home, experiencing the heartbreak of having mothered a daughter who could not muster the bravery to say goodbye.

Yet, if I stay, she will only convince me not to leave—there’s no use in pretending that I wouldn’t be swayed.

And yet, a deep need claws at the inside of my body, like my heart has become a wild animal caged within my ribs, set on gnawing its way out of my chest.

I need to start my own life.

A yawn takes me, and my limbs stretch as the heavy tiredness sets in. Rubbing my eyes, I glance longingly toward my bed.

A good night’s rest ought to help clear my head.

I’ll be better fit to travel after a good night’s rest anyhow.