CHAPTER 2 : A HANDFUL OF HAVOC

“Havoc is the moment between waking and sleeping, life and death, love and hate. It is all we want and all we fear. But mostly it is choices, and goodness knows we women need more of those.” ~ Jania Herald, A History Of Havoc

THE WARDEN

Three of the girls have fallen asleep. Six are shifting, unable to find a comfortable position. And one is connected to a sliver of havoc, but can’t quite grasp it. She’s trying to use the tadpole I’ve placed in a clay-fired bowl on her lap, but lets the magic slip through her fingers, like water through sand.

I sense the oncoming recoil and snatch it from the air before it can burn her. She yelps as sparks burst from her hands and scatter around her feet harmlessly.

“Where did Nilah go wrong, class?” I ask, palms tucked behind my skirt.

Silence spreads, tensing like a coiled spring with every passing second. A girl in the back coughs.

“I lost focus,” Nilah offers in an effort to self-sacrifice. Good.

“Close. You hesitated. Havoc is unforgiving. It wants to choose a path and you must cut it off before it can. Shut the door and harness the storm behind it.” To emphasize, I snap my fingers.

Instead of the tadpole, I draw from an even smaller source this time—a spider in the rafters. She’s deciding which fly to bleed first. I direct her choice to the fattest one and steal the energy from the potential alternative.

A flower made entirely of green flame grows in my palm. I display it for the girls to see, then gently blow it out. The wisps of green curl in the air, then disappear.

A small smattering of applause sounds, but quickly dissipates. “Your task today is to find sources of havoc in Rock Valley. Don’t try any magic. Just report back your findings by the end of the day. The most unique find will be rewarded.”

Excited whispers bounce around the room. They rarely go outside the tower, and there’s a boy now to stare at.

Speaking of which...

I sense Bavetna’s wild energy, a unique trait of her species, broiling at the bottom of the tower. The havoc that swirls around her usually branches in multiples of eight, because of her eight limbs, but it’s always fleeting. Bavetna is normally decisive, but I can tell the havoc is holding on tighter than usual, waiting.

No doubt our new farmer is the cause of her trouble.

I dismiss the girls and quickly tidy up my books, candles and the tadpole, saving him for another class inside a small aquaterrium by the attic’s windowsill. You have the best view of any frog in Rock Valley.

Nilah hangs back and approaches me, her dark hair swinging behind her like a panther’s tail. “Warden, I was wondering if I could ask for extra lessons, one on one. I feel so close to understanding havoc, but classes are taking forever—”

I stop short, fingers gripping a small spell book. “So,” I arch a single brow, “you think you’re special?”

“Y-yes,” she stammers, then freezes, mortified. “No! I mean, I think I’ve advanced more than the others—”

“Do you know how old I am, Nilah?”

She shrinks back and shakes her head, lips tight.

“Three hundred and nine...and I still haven’t mastered havoc. You’ve been studying under me for two years, and you’re right. You’re doing well, but your impatience is going to get you killed.”

The girl lowers her eyes, tanned cheeks blazing burgundy. “I’m sorry.”

Sigh.

“Why do you want to be a witch?” I ask, hand on my hip

She frowns. “I...it’s better than the Tar Pools.”

My eyes flick down to Nilah's fingertips, which are stained black, a sign of toxin many Tar Pool children still have. As they get older, if they stay, eventually they're entire bodies will change color.

“No. That’s why you left home. Why did you come to study at Little Abbey, specifically?”

“Because...I read about you,” the words burst out of her mouth. “You’re the Avaris Lyonsmar! You’re amazing. You slayed a horde of fog beasts, helped rebuild the Library of the Dead, won the battle for Broken Peak practically by yourself—”

I raise my palm, and her voice falls away.

“Despite what the books say I didn’t do those things alone. You have potential, but if you don’t slow down, havoc will tear you apart.” My gaze darkens as I think back, recalling a long ago memory of a friend who made a similar mistake. “Trust me, it’s an unpleasant end.”

She nods slowly. “I understand. I’ll...try to be patient.”

I fear all she’s heard is ‘you have potential’, but there’s no use beating a dead horse. “Good. Just relax. You’ll have adventures of your own soon, trust me, they have a funny way of finding you. Now run along and do your homework.”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

She curtsies, then disappears down the stairs in a flicker of purple skirts.

I open a small container and drop shredded lettuce into the tadpole’s tank. “I think I’ve grown soft,” I grumble, “these children will be the death of me.”

The tadpole doesn't answer back.

After blowing out all the candles, I descend Little Abbey, taking the winding stairs all the way down. On the outside wall are the dorms, rooms stacked with bunk beds and privacy curtains and small wooden trunks full of belongings.

Little Abbey hosts two hundred and twelve girls to date, some as young as eight, others nearly full grown and soon to leave. They’ll return to their villages to marry or become hedge witches who offer healing tonics and good luck charms. Some will have children, some won’t. Others will set out to see the Endless.

And few, very few, will become proper witches.

Most girls who come have no magical ability to speak of. They’re here for an education, a safe place to sleep, and free meals to eat. Somehow we find the time and resources to keep them all, and over the years Little Abbey has grown. What once was a small school house has become a great tower.

I’m pretty proud of that.

Considering all the death I’ve cheated, it’s probably the nicest retirement a witch could ask for.

The inner half of the tower holds the bath house, the laundry room, cold storage and the kitchens. I pass them all, breathing in various scents. Lavender from the bathhouse, whale fat soap from the laundry room, and vanilla from the ovens. Yendy must be cooking muffins today.

As I descend to the entrance, it’s impossible to avoid havoc. The tower is full of it.

Possibilities are everywhere. Choices are being made constantly. Every day the girls decide what to wear, what to eat, how to style their hair...and the bigger choices, the ones that take longer to form, like who to love, or who they want to be.

The magic touches my skin, a thick vale that I’m forced to wade through. But I’m used to it by now, and ignore the temptation to pull on the threads, leaving them be.

Finally, I reach the foot of the tower. A gaggle of girls have gathered in front of the entrance.

Bavetna stands in the doorway, or, well, she more so bends under the doorway, since she’s too tall to really stand inside the frame. I wonder if that’s a hazard for her kind. Do they all walk around on eight hands hitting their foreheads on doorways?

Then again, maybe there aren’t any left of her kind. Bavetna doesn’t talk about herself much. I have a theory that she’s a lone arcanist’s experiment gone terribly wrong, but I figured it would be rude to ask.

I flash her and the pile of manure-stained clothes she has stuffed under her arm an awkward smile. I know it’s not really a pile of dirty clothes by the smattering of blonde hair poking out of them—but it’s better to ignore the child. He’s had enough attention to last a lifetime. “Good morning, Bavetna.” I nod curtly.

She mirrors it—then waves at the girls, hands to spare. They burst into giggles and hurry around her, hopping the wooden stairs two at a time.

Once they’ve all gone, Bavetna speaks. “Egg here needs a chore to do.”

My teeth creak, but I manage to hold my smile. “Oh? Is planting potatoes in time for the spring rains not occupying enough for him?”

Bavetna drops the boy, who bounces away from her, casting me a dirty look. Since arriving last week, he hasn't come into the tower once, and seems jumpy. Like a spirit is going to pop out from the shadows at any moment and eat him.

Perhaps if I pretend he doesn’t exist, he may actually cease to.

But Bavetna gives me a look.

Fine.

I shift my weight to my other foot and stick my hand on my hip. “My class will be outside today, you can be our water runner.”

“No thanks.”

My temple twitches. This child... “Would you prefer to be tilling the fields?” I ask politely.

“I’d prefer to go home.”

I exchange a sharp glance with Bavetna. You still haven’t told him yet?

She stares me down.

I’M not telling him.

She continues to stare.

Of all the stupid, starless, idiotic—!

“I don’t have to be a King,” he continues bitterly, “I just want to go back to the Clouds. I could be a scribe, or a porter, well, maybe not a porter—”

“Today you’re Little Abbey’s water runner,” I interrupt him. “If you have a problem with that you’re welcome to leave. But you do so alone. There will be no guard or escort to accompany you, and you are not welcome to take from our provisions.”

“You can’t just keep me here!” He stomps his foot. “I’m not a criminal!”

“No, you’re a farm boy, or a laundry maid, or a water runner, or whatever else I decide you should be today. Am I clear?”

His chin wobbles defiantly, but he says nothing.

Bavetna removes a rabbit-skin canteen from her hip and hands it to him. “Refill it at the well,” she orders.

He snatches it from her and stomps down the stairs.

I move through the door to stand on the highest staircase landing, overlooking the crowd of girls as they split off in groups to the wildflower garden, the animal pens, the glade, the forest, and the nearby river.

Bavetna shuffles to the side to give me room, her eyes are on the boy.

“He’s going to find out eventually,” I say, bracing the back of my elbows on the railing.

“I know.”

“You've put us all in danger by bringing him here.”

She’s silent for a moment, thinking. When she speaks, she does so slowly, deliberately. “There is a woman in the sky who loves him very much, and I owe her a great debt. This is how I repay it.”

“Honor is for the dead and dying," I snap.

“Maybe. But if you reject him, I must leave too. I am bound to protect him now.”

I gather my skirts and lift my chin. “Who do you think I am? This is Little Abbey. We don’t turn away children in need,” I pause, “even the sour ones.”

She smiles, two of her teeth are pointed, like fangs.

“Come inside for a glass of mulberry brew,” I say, nudging her hip with mine, “the potatoes can wait. Besides, Yendy is baking up a storm. If we’re nice to her we might get to taste some before the girls converge like the vultures they are.”

Bavetna chuckles and ducks under the doorway after me.

I try not to think about the King we stole from the sky. There are witches to teach, and muffins to eat, and the day is far too nice for telling boys awful truths.