The candles were nearly burned out as she sat behind her table in her tent. It was a few minutes until dawn and the customers had long since petered out. Still, until the sun rose she was to sit here, waiting and ready for a carnival goer to walk through the tent flaps looking for a fortune. Everything was fake of course. She would never dare do real magic in front of humans, and they knew just as well as her that it was fake. They came here to be fooled, to delight in the unknown and trickery. 

They had been in this town only a week or so. The carnival would only stay another night or two before departing across the plains for another village. They had been traveling through forested roads for months now but Ondine was still not ready to return to the open lands of the plains. It always made her feel exposed. Having grown up hidden in the deepest part of the forest bordering the mountains, she was uncomfortable and unused to the wide open expanse of the prairie land. In the nearly three years she’s traveled with the carnival she still hadn’t become accustomed to living on the large stretches of flat land, she always felt so exposed. The nearest villages was a half a fortnight’s journey across the plains and the nearest forest was about two fortnights beyond that, with about half a dozen towns between them. In all it would likely be three fortnights before she next felt the cover of trees.

The sky was just lightening, turning gray with the promise of a golden dawn when a cloaked figure entered her tent. She could barely see beyond the shadow’s of their hood. The cloak was a stained and fraying cloth, it looked like it did little to shield the wearer from the cold, though as over sized as it was it did well to disguise their identiy. They sat before her on the cushion placed before her low table. 

The table, if you could call it that, was barely a foot above the floor of the tent, which was thankfully covered in cloth. Olly didn't like washing the delicate costume she wore and thus did all she could to avoid dirtying the garment unnecessarily. Draping fancy looking fabrics over the floors and table helped disguise the cheap wool and had the added benefit of making the atmosphere more convincing. The fabrics weren't expensive of course, Will, the carnival’s owner and the handler of the finances and budget, never approved any unnecessary spending. No, She had stitched every bit of “golden” embroidery herself and thus knew very well that it was only thin bits of yellow dyed thread. Admittedly the base swaths of deeply colored fabric had been a few gold coins but she had used her own money. 

“Greeting traveler, I foresaw your arrival, do you wish to draw a card from my enchanted deck and see into your fate.” She hadn’t foreseen this stranger’s arrival, in fact she had just been about to pack up when they had entered. It was one of her well rehearsed speeches. She had many, if she said the same thing over and over the customers would get bored and it would break the illusion to have the same thing said when they entered as what their friend had recounted to them of their time in the tent. 

The stranger whispered in a raspy voice that was neither male nor female, “Rhianon daughter of Endora, I have a message from Hilda.” If she had not gone still as stone from the voice alone she would have already moved to slit the throat of the stranger at the names they spoke. The voice of the untouched, the name she hadn’t dared speak, hadn't been heard in nearly three years. 

“I’m not who you think-” she barely manages to get the words out and it’s only a breath of air as it but the voice continues.

“She sends her wishes for good health and safety, along with this.” the stranger pulls something from inside it’s cloak. An old tome. She sees it for what it is in a second. The Book of Earth’s Blood. She takes a sharp inhale at the sight. Its worn brown leather cover rimmed and the words engraved in long faded golden blood. An ancient mixture of a witch’s black blood and gold from deep in the sacred mountain. She had only ever heard of the near mythical text, no one had seen it for milenia and yet here it was before her, held in the withered hands of an untouched. 

“What-”

“Sybil searches for you both, you must run far from here, hide deep within the forest and never come out.” She was a little annoyed when they said that. She had already been hiding, even if the fact that she had been found by them didn’t speak well of her secrecy. Still she thought is was stupid to have brought the book to her, it would have been smarter to leave it in it’s ancient home, guarded by wards so old that the spells had been lost to time. “You must guard the book, hide it where no one will find it or you.” 

“I can’t-” before she could finish the stranger shoved the tome into her hands and stood rushing out of the tent. She was left in a state of stunned shock holding the book and staring at the tent flaps rippling in the wake of the stranger’s swift exit. A few moments later Jess’s slim but athletic frame had strode through the tent flaps looking back at something, likely the stranger walking quickly away. Jess was the niece of the owner of the carnival and one of the unofficial leaders, her position was more social than anything but a lot of the workers often defered to her on decisions, no one seemed to mind that she was only twenty. Jess had been the one to offer her a position in the company and she had never stopped being grateful for it, even if she didn’t fully trust the women, she trusted her more than she trusted anyone else right now. 

She shoved the book beneath the table just as Jess’s stare fell on her. Those hazel eyes dancing with amusement and a bit of wariness, her thick chin length dark brown hair shifting with the turn of her head.

“What sort of reading did you give that one?” she snorted, folding her arms across her chest. She took a breath trying to shake the shock from her limbs, Jess couldn’t know something had happened. Jess’s expression turned serious, seeming to have caught a moment before she had masked her unease. “Did something happen?” her tone was sharp and demanding. She straightened, tensing in preparation to chase after the fleaing customer. Jesiba Caller was surprisingly protective of the workers, though she supposed that since the girl had been raised here she saw the carnival as more of a family than a company, Ondine had always liked that. If she suspected that the stranger had harmed Ondine or had left without paying, she would chase after the person and kill them. 

“No, nothing happened Jess, just a bad reading.” she flashed a handful of coins as if to prove they’d paid, though in truth they were her own coins. “He didn’t bother to let me reassure him that the death card meant something other than that his end was soon approaching.” She rolled her eyes and gave a snort as if amused by the impatience and short sightedness of a client. Jess smirked and her posture relaxed though her arms remained folded in front of her.

“I’ve been telling you to take out that card, it freaks people out too much.” Indeed she had. At least one time in every town when the card appeared and Jess would wind up with a carnival goer complaining over a “false reading”. 

“I told you it would ruin the authenticity of the reading.” She reminded her playfully, it was a joke between them, how Ondine insisted the deck stay together despite the readings being a scam. Jess didn’t know that the real reason that Ondine kept the deck together was an old superstition among witches. Removing cards during a reading, even if the reading wasn’t made real with magic, would ruin the deck, making it unable to ever accurately foresee the future again. Ondine didn’t know if it was true, and she didn’t plan on using the deck anyway, but it was her mother’s deck, the only thing she had from her mother. It was an heirloom passed down from witch to witch and she didn’t want to be the one to ruin the deck. She had thought of getting a different deck to do these readings with but decks were hard to come by after the purge of magic. They were even harder to make now too. It would cost far more than she had or the carnival was willing to spend to purchase a deck, especially when they knew she already had one. 

“Whatever.” Jess rolled her eyes, “You ready to pack up, the last customer left the grounds just now,” this came with a pointed look behind her, “and the sun just came up so no more people should be coming around. I’m just about to go wake the day watch.” They had two sets of “guards”, the day watch and the night watch. There were only five in total, three for the day and two for the night, with Jess being an honorary third with all her daggers hidden and visible. Since the Carnival workers sleep at night it left the caravan mostly undefended, open for thieves. Thus they had the day watch who patrolled the perimeter of the camp grounds to keep any overconfident villagers from getting any ideas. The night guards were mostly just for show, in case the villagers were drunk enough to make a move on one of the female performers or for example, try to get back at a certain fortune teller for giving an unfavorable reading. During the busiest times there was normally one of them stationed a few tents away, well in hearing range in case something happened. 

“Thanks, I’ll head for the wagons in a few minutes.” All the women slept in the wagons and the men would draw straws for who slept on the ground in the tents. Somehow it was always the animal keepers that drew the short straw. She of course had nothing to do with that. 

She needed to find somewhere to hide this book before she went to sleep. Tomorrow there wouldn’t be a carnival because of the May Eve festival that the village was throwing. Since it would be over a few hours before dawn Jess said that they could go and she’d have the night watch stay and guard the camp. They would all have to be back by dawn to help pack up for the journey though. Once they packed they would journey for the rest of the day and night. Since she likely wouldn’t get to sleep for more than a day after the next time she woke up she needed to get as much rest as she could. 

“Alright then, but don’t come crying to me when you don’t get a blanket.” Jess called over her shoulder as she left the tent. There were only so many blankets and sleep rolls. The ones sleeping outside got the first pick as they didn’t get the protection of the wagons and the extra body heat of the other people, so if you slept in one of the wagon you had to be sure to get there in time to snag a blanket or sleep roll. Ondine knew that the threat was hollow, Jess always shared her blanket when Ondine didn’t get there in time to get her own. At first she had done it out of pity for the new girl unused to life on the road, but as they grew closer it became a quiet gesture of affection. Jess wasn’t one to tell you she cared, or make obvious acts of kindness, when she cared about you she did things like check on you when you were ill, or share food when you hadn’t gotten any that night, or let you sleep next to her to keep you warm in the cold. This was a very good thing for Ondine as she was almost always one of the last ones to get to the wagons. She had a nightly ritual that had to be done alone and thus needed to be done when everyone was going to sleep.

The seconds the tent flaps had stilled and Jess’s steps had faded she jumped into motion, pulling out the ancient tome from where it lay beneath the table and removing the piece of cloth she had draped over it. She paused again at the sight of it, running her hand across the cover, feeling the indent on the engraved swirls and lettering. She ran her fingers along the spine, plain brown leather nearly worn through with time. Despite the lack of a title on the spine, if she saw only the spine on a shelf of books she would know, sense it’s power. It practically poured from the book as she opened it to the first page. It was written in an ancient tongue, the marks made with ink made of witch blood, blacker than night. 

Leabhar Na Fuil Na Talmhainn

The old and Ancient language. A language of spirits and spells and midnight ritual. A language of whispered words. 

She closed the book before she could be tempted to read any further, she didn’t have the time, She still needed to renew the spell that disguised her eyes and the marks on her chest and wrists. They were faded and she could sense it. If she didn’t re-cast the spell within the next hour the spell on her eyes would fade and leave them as their natural color, darkest brown with streaks of gold. Her scars would slowly reappear, and if someone saw them they would know. Everyone knew the marks of the witch. 

Even after half a decade of the ban on magic being lifted people were still wary of witches. They were curious of course, liked the idea of playing at magic, its why people entered her tent night after night. But everyone was still terrified of witches. Though it was now illegal to burn anyone, even a witch, the royal guards and local officials tended to look the other way. So she hid her marks and her eyes. 

She looked around her tent for somewhere to hide the book. Beneath the table had worked for now but if anyone had come behind the table they’de have seen it. And if anyone managed to make it past the day guard and into her tent they wouldn't be able to find it. Normally she would quietly cast a barrier spell, one that would keep villagers out, not a wall or bubble but a veil that would convince anyone who neared it to turn around. But after the stranger had found her she needed to be more discreet. Magic could be seen, at least when the spell was first cast. A barrier spell would cause a line of magic to sweep across the border of the camp, the day guard normally wasn’t out at this point so they normally didn’t see it, and when they did it could be passed off as a trick of the light in the dawn sun and stretching shadows it cast. It was one of the reasons she didn’t like the plains, it was harder to disguise without the shadows of trees looming over the camp. The wisps of magic that ghost around her irises and scars when she casts that glamor fade by the time she leaves the tent, and she's always sure to face away from the tent flaps when she casts the spell, just incase she manages to miss the sound of approaching footsteps before they enter. But someone had found her, and if that untouched had been able to find her there was likely someone else able to find her, or at least able to follow them. She needed to be untraceable. No one would see her casting a glamor on her eyes and body, but if you were looking for it you would be able to spot the brief ring of black and gold around the camp. 

There in the corner of the tent, the end of the cloth floor. She slipped quietly across the tent, pulling back a fold of the fabric and digging a small hole in the ground beneath. When it was enough to place the book inside and cover it with a sufficient layer of dirt she placed the book inside and hurriedly padded the layer of dirt on top, brushing it lightly with her hand after to make it less apparent that the dirt had been packed tightly. She flipped the fabric back over the now buried book and returned to her spot behind the table. She would have to retrieve the book the next day before they packed up and left, would have to store it in her pack, which was of course in one of the wagons, but right now at least she couldn’t risk sneaking it over, not with everyone in the wagons. She would sneak it over during the festival, while all the workers were in the town. 

No one went into other people’s packs. It was one of the rules among their company. Jess, who was the daughter of the owner and one of the main leaders of the group, enforced the policy strictly, she said that “Everyone is here because they're running from something, if we don’t want our secrets revealed then we don’t go looking for others' '. Her rule was that if you snoop in someone else’s secrets then you have no right to keep your own, and she would spill your belongings out in front of everyone and say everything she had learned about you that you didn’t want people to know. Then a vote was held to see if you would be allowed to stay with the company, if the crew still trusted you after you had invaded their privacy and the things they had learned about you and your past. 

She had liked that the first time she heard it, liked how openly Jess spoke of how they were all runaways and outlaws. She had liked the comradery that she had seen pass between the members of the company at the reminder that they were all the same, all had secrets of their own and pasts they were running from. Liked the idea that she wasn’t alone in this at least. 

She of course had still looked through everyone’s packs, she needed to learn everything she could about her surroundings. She didn’t steal anything, didn’t leave anything out of place and hadn’t gotten caught. She had made sure of that. 

She sat facing the back of the tent, folding her hands in her lap and spoke the rolling words of the old tongue in her mind. She didn’t need to say it out loud, only to speak the words into the aether where the Goddess would find them.

malairt ar dathan

malairt mo sgarradh

Every spell is a trade. The Goddess holds the scales of the universe, and to receive you must give something in return. The more powerful the witch the bigger trades she could make, and the more the Goddess would allow her to stretch the meaning of equal. A more powerful witch could bargain with the Goddess, trade one thing for another, even if it wasn’t a sacrifice as much as an inconvenience and not truly equal in value to what they had gained. 

Rhianon-no her name was Ondine, that stranger must have really shaken her, was a powerful witch now. She was powerful for a witch so young, she was only nineteen, most powerful witches were hundreds of years old. Witches were long lived but her aging was only starting to slow now. Still she was a child compared to most witches, far more powerful than any other witch her age. After that night, after her mother… Witches inherited power from their mothers, both when they were born and when their mother passed into the summerland. When a witch was born the mother sacrificed a fraction of her power for the newborn, and when she died her power was inherited by her daughters. That meant that just as her mothers death had empowered her, it had also empowered her sister.

These spells weren’t difficult, or the base spell wasn’t, she had learned them when she was young and flipped through her mother’s grimoire. They had been one of the few spells inside she understood. The trade the spells made was simple. The first traded the hues of her eyes for that of another. The second traded the witch's marks on her skin for other scars. The difficult parts were when she had to specify who and which scars to replace her witch's marks with. It was obvious that if her eye color changed daily people would be on to her, they likely wouldn’t notice the fact that she managed to have new scars every day. 

She pulled the silver mirror that she used both as a prop during some performances and for this from where it lay beneath the table. She looked herself over. Her heart stuttered at the sight of her eyes as it always did. She knew that the eyes that stared back at her wouldn’t be her own and yet when she looked into the mirror and saw her father’s ruddy brown eyes gazing back it never failed to take her breath away.

She had never met him of course, by the time she was born her mother had killed him as was dictated by their laws. To bring a life into this world one must be taken away. He was buried beside Cybil’s father behind the estate. The two stone columns carved with their names. Her mother hadn’t burned their bodies as was tradition, she had given them the burial that their own beliefs had demanded. She had never learned whether this was out of respect for them or if her mother did it to keep them out of the summerland. 

She had one memory of her father and it wasn’t her’s. It was Cybil’s. When they were younger and Ondine had begged her mother to tell her about her father only to meet her icy refusal, Cybil had offered to trade her. Trading memories could be done, but both people had to be willing and once a memory was traded it couldn’t be given back, it was lost to your mind forever. Because of this it was rarely done, except by foolish young witches. Cybil had given her a memory of her father and Ondine had given her, well she didn’t know. By the very nature of the trade she hadn’t a clue what she had given to her sister. It wasn’t important now, she was sure whatever it had been was well worth it. She cherished the memory of her father more than any other. The memory of his golden brown eyes.

She knew that back behind the estate tucked away in the mountains, buried in the ground, the eyes behind her father’s closed lids were now deepest ebony streaked with gold.

She angled the mirror to look at the bit of skin between her breasts displayed by the square neckline of her dress, now that she had discarded her robes, she saw no markings peaking out. She pulled down her shirt a little just to be sure and sure enough there was nothing but pale un blemished skin. When she glanced at her wrists she found the same unmarred skin. Instead she knew there would be four scratches on her outer right forearm and a few similar scratches marring her back. She easily passed them off as the result of a long ago encounter with wolves whenever anyone asked. She always made sure to put enough sadness in her eyes so that the person didn’t ask any further questions.

She let out a breath, pulling her dress back up and returning the mirror to its place beneath the table. She stood and smoothed her dress, leaving the tent, and praying to the goddess that no one found the book.