The rest of the community woke up shortly thereafter. The moment the first door cracked open, Devon started and stood, wiping invisible dust from his jeans and disappearing into the tent.
One by one, the Witches gathered around the fire, silent and solemn; unlike the citizens of Outer Chicago, the people didn’t look ragged or run-down. Their clothes looked secondhand, sure, but they were colorful and upcycled, a little more vibrant and bohemian than he was used to in this dismal world. The twins appeared much later, neither making eye contact. Rhiannon walked into her trailer and brought out a large brass bowl. When she returned to Tenn’s side, she struck the bowl with a mallet wrapped in leather, creating a low, ringing tone that echoed through the clearing. Immediately, the timbre of the morning changed. Silence grew, and even Tenn felt compelled to stand at attention. Rhiannon stepped forward with the bowl held before her.
“We give thanks,” she said. “Today, we give thanks for warmth and shelter, for food and family. We give thanks for new friends,” she said, glancing at him and the twins, “and we give thanks for old traditions.” She struck the bowl. “We call to the ancient ones, to the spirits of the earth and air, the gods of fire and rain, and pray for guidance as we navigate this new world. We offer our prayers and our lives. Lead us back to balance, and we shall follow willingly.” Another ring.
“We are your messengers.” Her words were echoed by the group. Strike.
“We are your workers.” Strike.
“We are your vessels.” Strike.
“So mote it be,” she whispered. The group repeated her words just as quietly, a whispered prayer.
She drew the mallet around the bowl in a slow, circular motion. At first Tenn couldn’t hear anything; everyone and everything had gone completely silent. Then, low at first, he heard the tone of the bowl, the hum of metal as it vibrated in the chill morning air. Or maybe it wasn’t the bowl. There was another sound, another pitch, as the people around him began to hum as well, matching their voices to the drone of the bowl. Devon and Dreya joined in. No magic was used, but the tone seemed to pull at his Spheres. Before he could wonder what was going on, he began to hum, as well.
In that instant, warmth spilled through him, an electric, comforting spark that made his skin tingle with life. Earth pulsed joyously in his gut; Water swirled in his stomach—for once without dredging up the horrors of his past. And even though he’d never been attuned to them, he could feel Fire and Air, the barest brush of their powers stirring in his body: a heat in his chest, a cool breath in his throat. There was even a tingle at the top of his scalp, the barest brush of energy where Maya rested in all its enigmatic power.
He couldn’t tell how long he stood like that, swirling among the elements that pulsed in his veins like lifeblood, surrounded by others who surely felt it, too. Then the sound began to die down, slow and natural, a quiet fade into silence. He could still feel the tingle of the song.
Rhiannon struck the bowl again, softer this time. The Circle was over.
“What was that?” he asked as everyone began to go about their morning chores. Despite the horrors of the last few days, something about the Circle had lightened his mood, made the burden seem a little more bearable. “I’ve never felt anything like it.”
Rhiannon smiled at him.
“That, dear Hunter, is the true magic of the Spheres.” She turned and began walking back to the trailer. “Come on in, you three. It’s time to learn.”
*
The translator, Luke, wasn’t what Tenn had expected. Somewhere along the way he figured the man who translated runes would be old, much older than him. That he’d have gray hair and wizard’s robes, or else he’d look like some knockoff Norse god, all blond and muscular and mean. So when Rhiannon answered the door and welcomed in a guy not much older than Tenn, he was a little disappointed. Luke looked like every other hipster guy he’d seen—scruffy facial hair, messy brown hair pulled back in a man-bun and even the ubiquitous black-and-red check flannel. So much for a grand old wizard.
“So,” Luke said. “You’re here to learn about the runes.”
Tenn nodded.
“Why?”
Tenn opened his mouth and realized quite quickly that he had no idea what to say. An answer to why he was being targeted. To how the runes could undo the undead. To why his magic was taking over, and the runes whispering in his head. Thankfully, Dreya chose that moment to step in.
“Our commander sent us,” she said. She didn’t meet anyone in the eye—strange, especially for her. She just stared at the table, one finger tracing nervous circles against the surface. “A jar covered in runes was found at the scene of our last battle. It’s how the necromancers have been creating Howls. We believe...” She took a deep breath and glanced up, looking Rhiannon straight in the eye. “We believe that if the runes could be understood and reversed, so could the condition.”
Silence filled the trailer. And for the first time since they’d been there, Tenn felt wholly unwelcome.
“Impossible,” Luke finally said. His word broke the tension, but it didn’t make Tenn feel any better. “We have known for years that the Howls were birthed using runes. How else could necromancers tap into such devastating power? But those runes won’t help you. Nothing can.”
“Why?”
Luke folded his hands and leaned back in his chair.
“To understand, you have to grasp the nature of magic. The runes are the language of the gods. They are, quite literally, the words that created our existence. This language is the magic that keeps the cosmos spinning, the threads and the loom on which everything is woven. The runes themselves are just markings, but they allow us to tap into that language, to harness its power.” He reached over and pushed up the sleeve of Tenn’s coat, revealing the twining Hunter’s mark. “The runes of your mark allow you to use the elements, but you aren’t really creating anything new. You’re just using the powers that have already been built into the world. You’re speaking a language spoken for centuries.
“And just as there are many races of man, there are many types of god. Each god has their own language. The language of the Dark Lady is as old as time and was spoken by countless other tainted souls before the Resurrection—the Dark Lady was merely the most recent, and perhaps the most successful. It is a language of evil gods, of forces that wish to rip the world apart. Every use of that power is another tear in the weave. You wish to reverse her work by twisting the words She used, but that will simply cause more destruction. The language of her gods is one geared entirely toward chaos. Any attempts to change it, to control or reverse it, will only unleash more evil. The repercussions could destroy the world.”