Seven Witches

one

Cythera's head bounced against the ground as she was thrown by the soldier who had been yanking her hair. She spat the dirt from her mouth, glaring at him with her unnatural eyes. She could easily fool him into thinking his hand had turned to stone, or that his skin was burning, but she couldn't do it now. Not with so many prying eyes.

She stood, taking a few steps away from the soldier, watching him leer at her with a smug smile. "Go to your room, whore. No wandering at this hour," he said.

Three soldiers around him chuckled, chugging their ale in loud slurps. Cythera swallowed the snarl creeping up her throat. It was midnight, no one was allowed to stroll after that hour around the palace, not even the commander of the Tsar's armies. But her sister was sick, and she needed to get her a few herbs soon before the fever grows.

If they found her sister sick, they would demand that she sleeps in another room to prevent the sickness from spreading, and she did not trust anyone with Hera.

Cythera launched herself at the soldier again, this time digging her sharp nails into his forearm. He hissed, slapping her across the face. Her jaw hurt, but she didn't leave. She only needed to put up a fight, to make it look like he had won, then strike from under. "Bastard, I told you I need to get something delivered from the Grand Duke!"

The soldier only snickered, looking back at his friends. "And why would the Grand Duke send an exotic dancer as a messenger?" he spat the words at her, watching as she faked a flinch.

And then she hit his mind. Cythera willed the soldier's mind to believe she was walking away, stomping her feet and cursing him colorfully. She willed him to feel pride as her figure disappeared back into the massive silver gates. But she was standing in front of him, and the rest of the soldiers were also seeing the illusion she had casted.

And Cythera, with her slender figure, walked right under their noses and into the infirmary.

The place was cold and utterly empty, not even rats dared be heard dwelling. Cythera opened the cabinet where the nurses keep all their herbs. She studied it for a minute, trying to figure out what to get to cure Hera's sickness. Her sister's fever was severe so tea won't be an option, instead she grabbed some White Willow, Feverfew and Boneset.

She didn't know how much of which plant exactly is needed to cure the fever, so she took a handful of each herb, stuffing them into her leather bag. While she was at it, she also took some honey and lemon in case the herbs were bitter.

As Cythera snuck back into their chambers, she glamoured the guards into seeing nothing but snow and fallen leaves as she walked right past them again. She tightened her fur cloak around her, feeling her finger tremble from the cold. Since she was only a little girl with tiny palms and skinned knees, Cythera knew that she had been born unnatural—gifted. Or at least that was what Hera tried to convince her.

She was an illusionist, one of the Seven Witches. Every generation in Russia, six girls are born with abilities: an illusionist, capable of making people see, hear, and feel things of their choosing. A summoner, able to summon demons and angels from the skies and the hells. A healer, able to seal wounds and end illness with a touch. An enchantress, capable of casting countless spells. A truth teller, a girl who speaks only truths, unable to lie and has the answers to all questions. A siren, able to lure people with a death song.

The seventh witch, the immortal, is the oldest of the Seven Witches. Some rumours claim she had lived for three thousand years without anyone succeeding in killing her. The witches are bound to protect their sisters, bound to fight for each other.

For centuries, the witches were hunted in fear of their powers. Horrible things were done to the ones captured, burned, buried alive, drained of their blood and selling it in the black market for impossible prices. Some people believed that if they drank it, they would have eternal beauty or become very wealthy.

So far, the Tsar had hunted and killed three of them, the siren, the healer, and the summoner. Cythera, a truth teller, an enchantress, and the immortal are the only remaining witches in the entire land. She didn't know where the other two are, but she knows where the immortal is.

Her name is Gaia, also known as The Mother. She had been kept in a dungeon in this palace for decades now, locked in an elaborate room with only an enormous harp as her entertainment. Some foolish men tried to seduce her and went into her room. They never got out.

Cythera climbed the stairs on the tips of her toes, careful to be as silent as a wraith. All witches had a weakness, an exception for their powers. A truth teller is mute after midnight, her tongue would knot and she'd be silent all night.

A siren cannot sing to her true love, cannot lure them into her. An immortal cannot bear children, bound to remain alone for all of eternity. A healer cannot help sinners; those who have blood staining their hands, those with crimes blackening their souls.

An enchantress is forbidden from having any skin to skin touch, or else she will be turned into stone. A summoner is to repay those she summons, with blood and a confession.

And Cythera, an illusionist, cannot hide her silver eyes. She is able to change every inch of her, every bone and muscle, except the colour of her eyes. For generations, illusionists have been found by their unchanging features. Illusionists survived most since they could all alter their looks.

Even as she snuck into her room, she kept the hood above her head, the shadows concealing her eyes and her golden brown hair. The Seven Witches all have a tattoo of triangle with three crossed swords inked onto their skin somewhere. She had it on her chest, right between her breasts where she kept it glamoured constantly.

Her sister was sleeping on her bed, her short golden brown hair soaked with sweat and clinging to her pillow. "Hera," she whispered, taking a wet cloth and wiping the sweat from her burning sister's forehead. Her breaths were ragged and she had her brows pinched.

Without another word, Cythera lit a few candles and held them together, placing a bowl of water above them to warm it. She pulled out the herbs and ground them, stirring them into the water as it warmed. She added generous spoonfuls of honey and three pinches of lemon into the mixture. It had an awful odor that indicated whatever sweetness she'd added wasn't going to help much.

In another cup, she made her a drink of lemonade and honey to drink after the medicine. She helped her sister sit up straight and gave her the medicine. Hera cringed and refused to sip anymore of it, angling her face away. "Drink." Her sister demanded. "Drink or you will be locked into a room with a miserable nurse who would not care if you died or not." Hera opened her eyes slightly, two brown slits that stared at her.

With shaking hands, she took the bowl and gulped it all in one swung. She coughed softly as her face pinched at the bitter taste. Cythera gave her the drink and watched as her throat bobbed with each sip.

After a few minutes, Hera's breathing was still heavy but her hands had stopped shaking. "Thank you," she muttered, tucking herself under the warm covers. "How did you—"

"You should sleep, I'll tell you in the morning." Cythera insisted, taking the cloth from her forehead and washing it in cold water before putting it back. Her sister didn't have the energy to object, only closed her lids and tried to sleep.

Cythera did not sleep until she felt Hera's skin cool, did not dare take her eyes away until the sweat stopped drenching her.