5 Otto

5

Otto

Fortunately, after the mock battle with the Grenzwache, being dunked in an ice-cold pond and then climbing up the rocky side of a waterfall was nothing , and the freezing water actually helped revitalize me despite my exhaustion at the trial. By the end, beer and laughter and a lot of back-clapping hugs assured me I passed. I am now both a member of the guard and a citizen of the Well.

All around me, the celebrations roar just as loudly as the flames.

A heavy arm falls over my shoulder as Alois pulls me closer. "We should absolutely be doing this more often!"

"The trial, or the party after?" I ask, grinning at him.

"Both, as long as it's not me scaling rocks." He laughs loudly, even though his joke wasn't that funny, and I smell the beer on his breath. Before I can say anything, Alois seems to sober. "It's a little intimidating, isn't it? To bond with someone else? To irrevocably declare yourself as the warrior of a witch?"

I blink, surprised. I hadn't considered that. I had only ever thought of Fritzi, and how I could best help her.

"You're going to be her shield," Alois continues, his eyes growing distant. "If there's a battle, you'll be in front of her."

I push his arm off my shoulder. "No," I say. "If there's a fight to be had, I'll be beside her. That's the point."

Alois opens his mouth to say something, but then his face goes slack. I follow his eyes. Cornelia is in front of a procession of women, and I have no doubt whatsoever that she's the cause of Alois's sudden awkwardness as he scurries away, too shy to actually approach the priestess.

But then I see Fritzi.

She walks through the darkness toward me. A different sort of heat washes over me at her scorching gaze, stronger than the bonfire at my back.

"What are you wearing?" I ask, the words barely clawing through my tight throat. There's cloth—some sort of gauzy material draped in panels over her kirtle—but there's also skin, so much of Fritzi's skin visible it's decadent, and—

"You like it?" she asks, twirling, knowing exactly what she's doing to me.

"Love it." The words come out strangled, barely audible.

She slows, the cloth drifting over her legs and arms, a cloud of beauty, then stops, raking her eyes over me. "And look at you."

I glance down at the green tunic and brown leather leggings I got after my pond-dunking. At the time, I'd just been grateful I didn't have to climb the waterfall nude, but after that and fire-jumping, I realized this wasn't just the standard fare of what the Grenzwache wear on patrols, but magically enhanced garments. The tunic is thin as cotton but sturdy as leather; the leggings are supple, easy to move in but impervious—so far, at least—to fire or sharp rocks. The boots Alois laced for me make my movements in the forest silent.

I don't know if there is anything magic about Fritzi's dress, other than the way it makes my body flush at the sight of her in it.

"So, you survived your trials," she says, oblivious to the way I cannot rip my eyes from her.

Although I felt that the Grenzwache had come to accept me already, the tasks had not been easy, and I dread to think of what failure might have meant. The witches bandaged me up after, giving me a potion for healing, tinctures for the cuts and burns on my body. But hard as the trial was, I'm grateful. If I could not have passed this test among friends, how could I even be close to worthy as Fritzi's protector?

"You survived your bath," I say, giving her a smile I hope doesn't reflect how grueling my day was.

Fritzi pauses, and my stomach tightens at the dark look that flickers over her face. But then she glances at me, her smile cutting across my worries.

"Well, it was pretty questionable there at the end," she says, a mischievous glint in her eye. "I'm fairly certain Hilde tried to drown me."

I cast my glance over Fritzi's shoulder and spot my sister, her arms draped around Brigitta.

"Oh yes," I say dryly. "She's a burgeoning murderess. I'll have a talk with her. If I can muster up the courage to face someone so vicious."

"Please do. It was a very trying day for me. My fingers got pruney, Otto. Pruney . While you were making merry in the forest, I'm sure."

She holds her fingers up for me to see, and it's all I can do not to grab them, to pull her to me, to claim not just the tips of her fingers but her whole body.

But there's something she's not telling me. Even though she speaks lightly, I think there must have been something more to her bath than scented soaps and warm water. I recall last night, the strange way that she crept to the council's library.

"Fritzi—you know you can trust me, right?" I ask.

She looks at me curiously.

"It's just…" I pause. She has a right to her secrets, especially when it comes to magic, something I cannot advise her on. But I want her to know that I will do anything to help her, and that she is not alone in whatever worries her. That I will be beside her, no matter what the fight entails. "Last night…"

Fritzi frowns, her gaze sliding away. "Last night, I had a nightmare." I can see the muscles in her jaw clenching, and I stroke the side of her cheek until she turns to me. "I really don't want to talk about it. Not now."

I nod. I can only imagine the sorts of terrors she dreams about. She hadn't seemed distressed, but if she woke up with dark memories, going to the library, where there are spell books… She may have been seeking a way to drive those thoughts from her head.

I curse myself. Maybe she actually did want to be alone, and I forced my presence on her. She's had nightmares before, and she'd wanted me to hold her after, but now… Her fears could have a different tenor; perhaps the only way to drive them out is through magic.

"Whatever you need from me, I will give to you," I promise her, my hands sliding down her arms to grip her hands. Even if that means you want me to leave you alone.

"Always so noble and serious." Her lips quirk up in a smile, and she lifts on her tiptoes, a swift kiss fluttering against my lips.

"As for tonight," I say, "there is one other task, no?"

Brigitta had informed me that the last part of the night would need to be the marking of my body. All the guards of the Well have black tattoos etched in their skin, each a sigil, a spell, that aids them in their defense.

Brigitta explained it to me before we left for Baden-Baden . "Typically, I would use this night to determine your weaknesses and needs as a soldier, and then I would mark you with counter sigils that would strengthen you where you need it most, infusing the tattoo with magic."

But I am a goddess-chosen warrior with a powerful witch who will bond with me tomorrow.

This ceremony is ours and ours alone. And only Fritzi will ever mark me.

Cornelia, the one member of the high council that Fritzi likes and trusts, approaches. I look over her shoulder and spot Alois watching her some distance away, as if he is entranced. "We need ash," she says, oblivious to Alois's adoration.

The raucous celebration doesn't abate as Cornelia leads us around the fire. It's good, I think, to see so many people out tonight, sharing in joy. There is a fervor surrounding us—witches from the Well mingling with the people of Baden-Baden. There's a unity here that I appreciate; the priest of the local parish may be willing to dance with Liesel at the bonfire, but I know he'll continue to hold Mass. That's fine. No one is trying to convert or change anyone; we're all simply allowing the others to exist, sharing in the joy of life, not any god or goddess.

How different life in Trier would have been, had this been the attitude from the start.

The thought makes me stop in my tracks. I have spent my whole life focused on one goal at a time. Stop my father from hurting my stepmother. Protect my sister. Infiltrate the hexenj?gers and tear apart their reign of murder from within.

But it's not until this moment, seeing the joy of shared respect and acceptance of humanity among all, that I realize my goals were always leading me to this point.

Peace.

Not a peace achieved through uniformity and control or even tolerance. One achieved through acceptance.

It's obvious not everyone approves of tonight. There are people in the houses unwilling to join us in the town square, glaring down from behind cracked shutters. And it makes me wonder how long this peace can last.

Fritzi walks with her head held high, even the blooms in her curling hair standing at attention as she looks out at the crowd. Does she fear the same things I fear? It is not yet fully spring, and the witches of the Well brought not just fire but food and beer to the townspeople. The dark night is lit; the long hunger between harvests is sated. Can this unity survive in the bright light of day when there is no night to hide behind, no need to be grateful for an extra feast?

This celebration has brought two peoples together, but such unity is fragile.

Despite all my doubts, I find that hope burns vivid. This one sparkling moment has proven a peace like this is possible. And now that I've seen it, I know I can fight to make it last.

Trier had joy too. Once. But the yule nights gave way to other fires, and in the end, terror divided the people in a way no shared love of life could withstand.

Now, though, I can't help but believe the joy of a bonfire is a greater bond than the fear of a witch burning.

No one stops to stare at us as we near the flames, so close that I feel a sheen of sweat on my skin. Even though we are in a crowd of people, there is some privacy here. The people around us are all celebrating their own joys, taking their own tentative steps toward linking with others of their choosing. Brigitta has swirled Hilde into a boisterous dance; Liesel is now regaling a group of children from Baden-Baden with her tales, hands splayed and arms thrown wide as she exaggerates; even stuffy Philomena accepts a sip of beer from a brown-robed monk who offers her a taste.

Cornelia starts to pull Fritzi away, but I grab her, spinning her to me, searing a kiss on her lips that would make the fire beside us wither to ice in comparison. There's a nervous tension between us. We are crossing several thresholds, each ceremony a reminder of a tie that binds, a net woven around us, drawing us closer together. I cannot ease the worry lines between Fritzi's eyes, but I want to assure her that this is what I choose.

Her. Us.

Every time.

"If you're quite done," Cornelia mutters as she kneels with Fritzi to scoop up a palm of ember-filled ash from the base of the fire, adding oil from a vial, turning the mixture into black paste in Fritzi's open hand.

"I don't know how to mark him," Fritzi says, a rare moment of vulnerability.

"Let the goddess guide you," Cornelia says. "Remember: magic is about intent. The two of you are bound in ways beyond the potion you'll drink tomorrow."

Fritzi dips her finger into the puddle of black in her palm and lifts it. A slow smirk that spells trouble smears across her face. "Lean down," she instructs me, and I almost do it, but I'm well aware of my Fritzi and instead take a step back. "I'm just going to draw a big smile on your face so that Liesel doesn't think you're so broody ."

"My face ?" I say, gaping. A tattoo is indelible. I do not need a black smile across my face permanently. Or ever, really.

"Well, where do you want the sigil?" Fritzi says, rolling her eyes but smiling regardless.

I grab the hem of my tunic and pull it off, exposing my torso. "I was thinking my arm or my chest…" I know very little about what this process would include, only that the end result will be a black mark staining my skin, imbuing me with magic.

Brigitta is marked all over her body, from her neck to her toes, various swirling designs. She has shown me some—the fox at the base of her skull to give her cleverness, the runic symbol over her heart to bolster her courage, the black line on her lip to make her inspiring in her speeches to her soldiers. " There are two limitations ," Brigitta told me earlier this night. " The marks enhance, but do not create—they will not make an evil heart good or a severed limb regrow. "

" And the second? " I asked.

"The magic must come from somewhere. Usually, it is a witch who earns the marks, and their magic focuses through the sigil."

But I have no magic of my own. I am not a witch. Whatever mark Fritzi gives me will mean that, when I need to draw power from the sigil, I will be drawing power from her. Brigitta has dozens of tattoos, not only because she needs them and earned them, but because she has the magic to focus them. They enhance her natural skill, and the power for that enhancement comes from her own resources.

Resources I do not have.

Once I understood that, I resolved to only take one mark tonight. I do not want to steal from Fritzi. She is the champion. She needs her magic more than me. But Brigitta assured me that it would not drain Fritzi's magic to divert power toward one tattoo, and such a thing may help me be strong enough to aid her. Being bonded will mean that I can work with Fritzi's magic and that we can work together.

"I don't know what to draw," Fritzi says, turning to Cornelia. "I'm not sure… What if I get the sigil wrong?"

She is so worried, but I'm not.

Cornelia shakes her head. "It's not like that. All you have to do is hold the ash to his skin and will the magic into the marking that will best enhance his own strengths."

Brigitta had explained this to me, too, showing how the more intricately woven designs created a tighter spell casting, reflecting not the skill of a tattoo artist but the magic behind it.

"It's okay," Cornelia starts to tell Fritzi, but I ignore her. I take Fritzi's trembling wrist, rubbing my thumb over the rapid firing of her pulse. I look right in her wide eyes, noting the flickering flames reflected over the cool blue.

And I press the flat of her palm against my chest, right over my own heart.

For one moment, I feel the warm black paste made of ash and oil.

The bonfire disappears.

The world disappears.

My mind floods with memories so vivid that I cannot see anything else. Kneeling in the parish church at Bernkastel, Hilde to one side of me, my father to the other. The priest stooping to smear ash on my forehead, the ritual reminder of Ash Wednesday, but the char reminding me of my stepmother's recent burning. My father shouting at me when I pulled away from the priest, the racket turning into hacking, blood-spattered coughs, red blending with the purple-dyed linen. But then my sister slipped her hand in mine, and we knelt, together, a prayer on both our lips, not for forgiveness, but for revenge.

Fritzi's palm burns on my chest, as if the ash were smoldering embers, not cold and dead. Although I can feel her, I cannot see her, and the enveloping smoke gives me the impression of solitude. Much like the trials in the Black Forest, the goddesses have separated us.

As I blink away that first memory, the nauseating smell of burned flesh gags me. I try to rip away, to vomit, but I can't move. I can only feel the heat of the fire—not the bonfire, but the stakes, the hundreds of stakes lining the streets of Trier—

I quit fighting it.

I pulled away from the priest when I was a child. I turned away from the stakes when I was a man.

I had not understood the chasm between my father's interpretation of his god and the God I worship. I had not been willing to see the consequences of my too-subtle rebellions, the time it took to plan, the lives lost while I did so.

I will face it now. I will stand, unflinching, before any fire.

And if Fritzi were in that fire, I would stride into it after her.

No one will burn any witch from this moment on without burning me too.

And no one will ever hurt Fritzi without answering to my unbridled wrath.

My eyes stare through the smoke.

Fritzi comes back into focus, her palm to my heart, her gaze clear. But she doesn't blink. The fire beside us burns, but the flames do not flicker. The people beyond us dance and sing and drink—all unmoving, impossibly still.

A maiden dressed in white moves behind Fritzi.

"Holda," I say.

"I speak directly to my champion," the goddess answers, touching Fritzi's frozen shoulder. "But right now, as she marks you as hers, I will speak to you as well."

She had spoken to me once before, to give me a trial. My jaw tightens. I'm tired of trials.

But I will face them all for Fritzi.

Holda smiles, as if she can guess my thoughts. "Typically, a warrior of the Well guides the mark they get. Their magic fuels the design, powers the sigil."

I bow my head, aware of my deficiency.

"What do you want, warrior?" Holda asks. She raises an eyebrow, her gaze weighing my worth. "Do you want the strength of ten men? A bear tattoo, one that will grant you the power to fight?"

I shake my head, teeth grinding. I know the legends of men who went berserk. Their strength came at too great a cost. Not even a witch mark would make me want to accept that mantle.

"Cunning, perhaps? A snake then. Coils of scales woven together like elaborate plans, careful precision."

Such a power would have helped me before, when I worked with Hilde to come up with the strategy to let the prisoners in Trier escape. But I have no need for subterfuge and heists now. I will never again wear the cloak of a hexenj?ger, not even as a disguise.

"Life. Vitality. The ability to take hits and not fall." Holda speaks softly, but her voice rises when she sees that she finally has my attention, tempting me with a mark that I want. "With a circle, you would have the ability to be within a hair's breadth of dying and yet—" She pauses, tilting her chin up, relishing the anticipation. "And yet you would not die. Your body would heal. You would be nearly impossible to defeat."

I bite my lip, considering. Holda flicks her hand toward the fire, and the flames leap to attention, twining around each other in a woven circle, unbroken. One branch of the flames reaches out to me; the other flickers to Fritzi. The fire doesn't burn, but the implication is clear.

My vitality would come at Fritzi's expense.

How can I ask for my life to be protected when such a protection would come at the expense of magic drawn from Fritzi's reserves?

I shake my head. "I don't want her to protect me," I say to the goddess. "I want to be the one to protect her."

The flames shift back to their normal shape, but they remain utterly still. Holda's gaze softens as she watches me.

"I chose my warrior well," she whispers.

The flames roar to life, and every sensation bursts at once—the bitter smell of smoke, the jarring shouts of laughter, the heat from the fire, the taste of Fritzi's kiss on my lips. My vision goes white, and I stagger back, unable to stop myself from doing so.

Where Fritzi's palm had been is now a black tattoo.

"The Tree," Cornelia whispers, her eyes going wide.

I glance down at my chest. The shape is circular, the top a crown of delicate leaves at the ends of twisting branches, the bottom roots that pool out to form the complete circle. The trunk is made of twisting lines—three dark strokes that weave together to form one tree trunk—but there's symmetry to the chaos, a sense of connection. The palm-sized tattoo is just a little to the left of the center of my chest, right over my heart.

"I—I didn't think of anything," Fritzi says, fear taking hold. "I didn't do that, I didn't have the intention like you talked about—"

"I did." My voice is calm and sure, and it pulls both women's attention to me. "I saw Holda," I say. "She helped me choose the tattoo."

"You chose the tree?" Cornelia asks.

I give her a noncommittal shrug. I wanted to protect Fritzi. It took the form of the tree. I suppose that's the same thing, but I don't want to explain, not to Cornelia, not before I can talk with Fritzi. From the way Cornelia speaks, I can tell that the tree is a powerful symbol, and it must be linked to the mysterious Origin Tree, the one I have yet to even see.

Fritzi's fingers are featherlight as she brushes against the marked skin. I shudder at her touch, but not in pain. I've seen tattoos outside the coven before, and I know they're made with needles and ink and come at the cost of days of pain. This one doesn't hurt. It feels a part of me, as if I'd been born with the design.

"The Tree is the deepest part of our legends," Fritzi whispers. Every witch child knows of its importance, and I feel a little inadequate that I don't.

"Our goddess chose well," Cornelia says when I don't answer, and I'm not sure if she's talking about me or the tattoo. "It's not necessary to show it off to the entire village right now, though, and I have no personal need for your rippling pectorals."

I smirk. "Rippling pectorals?" I ask the priestess. I cannot wait to tell Alois that she said that.

Cornelia rolls her eyes, thoroughly done with me. "Do something with your warrior, champion," she tells Fritzi. She picks up my tunic and tosses it to Fritzi.

"Oh, I plan to," Fritzi says, a feral glint in her eyes as she steps closer, leaning up for a kiss as Cornelia strides away.

Fritzi strokes the side of my jaw, drawing my attention back to her, us.

I don't want to think about anyone else. I don't want to feel the burden of peace upon my shoulders.

I only want to feel her.

I lean down, claiming her lips again in a devouring kiss, knowing that no feast around a fire will be enough to satisfy me.

She melts in my arms, and I pull back, sliding my lips down the soft edge of her jaw, nibbling to the shell of her ear. "Not here," I whisper. I can feel her body shiver at my low voice. I take my shirt from her and pull it over my head, looking around for an escape route.

"But this celebration is for us," Fritzi protests weakly as I pull my tunic back over my head.

"Let them celebrate how they want to," I say, biting her just enough to make her gasp. "And let us celebrate how we want to."

She nods against my chest, her arms clinging to me. My hands snake down her body, and she spins away, grabbing my wrist and drawing me away from the fire, into the night.

There is no wall around Baden-Baden, but nature creates its own borders. There is a place where the road merges into a game trail, where the cottages are replaced by trees, where the grasses shift from harvested to wild.

That is where we go.

A clear area of land, under the stars of the night sky. There's a single large oak tree, set away from the edge of the Black Forest.

"You deserve a palace," I say. New daffodils are just starting to peek up from the hard ground, a sign of life and hope. "A soft bed covered in furs. Downy pillows and sumptuous feasts and… You deserve so much more than I can give you, Fritzi."

She sits down gracefully and touches the pale green shoot of an unbloomed flower. It swirls and bursts to life, the yellow trumpet tipping toward the moon, the petals soft as spider silk.

This is the wild magic that she hides from the council, that she shows only me.

"I don't want any of that," she says, looking up, starlight spattering over her skin. "I only want you."

I kneel before her, the only goddess I worship. Over her left shoulder, I can just see the black smoke of the bonfire, orange specks fading to darkness. To the right is the Black Forest, looming trees full of magic and secrets.

But this meadow is ours. This night is ours.