He holds out his hand.
It’s a stranger’s hand, a traitor’s hand.
“This doesn’t change a thing,” I tell him.
As the sky breaks above us with pouring rain, Nova creates a long passage through the hedge. There, at the end of the narrow path, is the Tree of Souls.
37
Find me where the sun meets the moon.
Past the wicked trees,
past the desert dunes.
—Witchsong #2, Book of Cantos
Nova and I run through the maze. The hedges try to shift, try to trick me, but I barrel forward. I smash at the dead hands that reach from the black leaves with my mace. I can smell fire and smoke. It starts on the outer rings of the labyrinth and races toward the center.
“How did you do this?” Nova asks me.
“I have a few tricks up my sleeve.” I hope Aunt Ro and Rishi are safe out there.
I stop at the base of the Tree of Souls and land on my knees. I feel dwarfed by its grandeur. Its long, thick branches reach for the sky, barren of any foliage. Instead of leaves, the branches are filled with hundreds of cocoons. The cocoons pulse with white light, and when I touch the tree trunk, I get impressions of the powers trapped in there.
Alex! I hear Lula shout.
She made it, another voice.
Encantrix, a united whisper.
“I’m here,” I say, then a sharp pain digs into my side. The blast sends me flying back, away from the tree and crashing into Nova.
Black, sinewy smoke surrounds us, toys with us. I pick myself up and get ready for another attack. The smoke settles in front of me and materializes into the Devourer. Her eyes are a deeper red now, almost black. Dry, red lips smirk. Her neck twitches, as if something inside of her is fighting to get out.
“Nova. I’m surprised,” she says. “I thought human self-preservation was better than that. I suppose not.”
“I’m used to being a disappointment,” he says without a trace of irony.
“I’m taking my family back,” I tell her.
“How?” she asks. “Kill me? You can’t. You’re alone. You’ll always be alone. I have your power, your family. Now, I’m going to take your life.”
“Enough, Xara!”
I turn around at the sound of his voice. Agosto, the Faun King, is flanked by his people. They wear armor made of tree bark and metal, their weapons are ready to charge. Madra stands beside the faun and bows her head in my direction. The avianas flap their wings and caw a warning. There are so many of them, even creatures I don’t recognize.
The Devourer takes a step back. It’s a single step, but it’s enough to show she didn’t expect this.
“The tribes of Los Lagos,” she says, recovering easily. “We’ve been down this road before. It never ends well for any of you.”
“Maybe this time it will,” I tell her.
“Look at you,” she says. “I love it. A few days ago, you were scared of your own shadow. Now, you’re ready to lead a rebellion.”
I’m still not ready, I think. My heart pounds. My legs shake. But I have to be.
“How noble of you,” the Devourer says, turning her face to the sky. The perfect circle of the sun and the crescent of the moon eclipse each other. The symbol of La Mama and El Papa. “But I’m afraid you’re too late.”
The Devourer raises her face to the sky. The rain clears and the clouds part to reveal the coming eclipse. The crescent moon crowns the white sphere of the sun, and together they’re lined up above the tree. The cocoons of stolen power pulse faster and faster, changing from white to black.
“No!” I shout. “Keep her away from the tree!”
Madra attacks first, swooping down from the sky. Her war cry fills the air. Her talons scratch the Devourer’s face, ripping her eyes from their sockets. The witch’s scream is a terrible thing that cuts through my eardrums. Her trembling fingers touch the blood streaming down her face.
The avianas swoop down and scratch her hands, peck at her hair, her skin.
The Devourer blasts the air with crackling energy. It strikes four birds down. They land, broken and twisted, at our feet.
It’s not enough. Her power isn’t weakening.
Your magic is your anchor. I used to believe it was my burden. I used to believe it was the reason everything terrible happened to my family. But what if we were ordinary people, without this darkness surrounding us? Terrible things could happen still. That’s just the way of the worlds. Here, in Los Lagos, my magic has done good. Can do good—if I let it.
Wild magic can’t be tamed, I think, and for the first time in forever, I don’t want to hold back. This magic is mine. I can feel it calling to me.
I understand now. Magic is a living thing. It’s part of me. I summon it, call it like a snake charmer calls a snake out of its slumber. The magic answers back. It slithers from the tree. The Devourer’s face contorts when she feels what I’m doing. My power, all of it, is expelled from the cocoon and back into me. This time, I don’t fight it. This is what Mama Juanita meant. I accept you.
I remember you.
The Devourer grabs my hand, and I get a flash of something.
A young woman alone on a hill, cursing the Deos.
I don’t want to see her impression. I don’t want to know, so I pull away, leaving her staggering to the ground. I want to ask her, How does it feel?
Instead I turn to the voices of the trapped souls in the tree. They’re waiting for me. I just need blood, and I need it fast. The eclipse is happening.
Blood of my blood.
I climb the roots of the tree to get to the center of the trunk. The answer is the tree. I can’t help but think of Nova. It has to be blood. Blood is life. I cut from my wrist up, blood flowing down the trunk. I bite back the pain that burns as I cut. The tree becomes soft as human flesh.
Free us, the voices whisper.
Release me, the land screams.
I raise my dagger and drive it deep into the bark.
38
Given the gifts of the Deos, the encantrix has a choice in the worlds.
To heal it.
Or destroy it.
—The Creation of Witches, Antonietta Mortiz de la Paz
The world falls apart.
It’s the only explanation for the way fire falls from the sky. Gashes rip fresh wounds into the earth. The roots of the Tree of Souls rise up from the ground like they’re waking up from a long, long sleep. The black cocoons shatter into fractures of multicolored light.