Night Witch

Prologue

Karina was about to watch her mother die.

Her mother, Vasilisa Hedge, stood on a pile of kindling and wood, tied to a thick wooden stake by iron chains. Her youthful face wore a look of grim determination as she stared off into the distance towards the wooden lodges of the village and away from the grisly scene that would be left at the edge of the Forest of the Dead where they stood. As much as Karina tried to look away, she couldn't. Her mother's face would be gone forever after that day. No drawings of her existed, and Vasilisa hadn't been remembered by the villagers in stories and bard's songs. No yaga ever would be. So Karina drank in the flame-haired vision while she could and tried to ignore the growing dread in her heart and the trembling of her fingers.

Nervously tapping her fingers against her thighs, the eight-year-old hummed a tune her mother had taught her. She wished her father would come soon. They both mandated to attend so as to dissuade them from the magickal path of yagahood, and the consequences would be dire if he didn't arrive soon. She also wanted him there for support. She was about to watch fire consume three people's bodies. One of whom had always been there for her. Sung her lullabies. Told her tales. Cooked meals for her. Played with her.

That kind of person could never be evil.

Karina choked down a sob, curling her long fingers into fists. This was not Vasilisa's fault. Not her mother's fault. This was their fault.

The villagers.

No, not the villagers. Duras' fault. And as much as she wanted to hate the mob assembled to kill her mother and two others, she knew deep down that he was the reason her mother had been accused. He was the reason Vasilisa was going to die.

As if taking a cue from her thoughts, the yaga hunter stepped before the crowd. "Hello, people of Moracia!" The single statement made the villagers erupt with applause. Nearly all of the villagers had assembled. It was mandated that all excepting the sick and dying should attend, not that anyone needed any incentive. It was a holiday.

After all, they hadn't had a burning in ten years.

The Ancestors had dictated that there could only be a yaga burning every ten years so to not pollute the earth and anger the Ancestor spirits. Moracians simply approached the burning day with more zeal than any other, substituting their common iron and charms for an abundance of safesongs and fire.

Duras had hyped up the excessive enthusiasm, his charisma and experience of yaga hunting in Lisseria making him a favorite and consultant on all things magickal. Yet he accused the honorable in the village: Russell Pinkerton, the village head, was tied to the center stake, flanked by the determined midwife and healer Vasilisa and the kind mother of seven Clarissa. All held positions of stature in the village. All were respected for it.

Until Duras.

Karina let a flood of emotions wash over her body. Anger. Fear. Sadness. She wished for something to hold on to. Her favorite doll. Weaving. A game of Cat's Cradle to train her attention on. She had nothing, however, so she dug her fingers harder into her palms. Duras began to speak, his voice booming over the crowd. The deep tone of it made Karina recoil. He was oil, slick and unreliable. Dangerous. A firestarter.

"Now, my friends, we have done our best to expel the evildoers--yagas--from our village. We have hanged those guilty of it, banished yagas from our homes with witch-charms and iron. Yet evil still penetrates us."

There was a pregnant pause. Duras sighed dramatically, placing a meaty paw over his heart. Karina glared at the hand. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

"But we have not done one thing for ten years, so as to not anger the spirits, and this way of ridding a town of evil is the most effective. This method-- is to burn!"