Page 37 of Tanglewood Magic (The Three Sisters 2)
Circe had never seenan elf in person before they’d arrived in Rogos, and she was fascinated as a slender woman with long, pointed ears led her and her sisters to rooms in the east wing of the temple. The elf was tall and lithe with orange eyes that seemed lit from within, and Circe thought she’d never seen a more magical creature.
“What is this place?” she asked her.
“The Temple of the Sacred Pools. We are an order of scribes who use the goddess’s tears to record the history of Ouros in our scrolls.”
“The goddess’s tears?”
The elf nodded. “The Goddess of the Mountain was once Zeus’s lover. When Hera discovered her, she was cast out of the realm of the gods, but Zeus gave her Ouros as her own, a place Hera can never come. It is said that Aitna cried for a century in the beginning. It is her tears that fill our sacred pools.”
“I’d never heard the history,” Circe said, remembering Hera’s jealous rage in the Garden of the Hesperides. It was easy for her to believe every word was true.
“It is my pleasure to host you both and Queen Medea.”
Medea’s eyebrows rose. “You know who I am?”
“Of course,” the scribe said. “We witnessed and recorded everything that happened last night.”
Circe met her sister’s eyes. “Then you can prove Medea isn’t responsible for the massacre!”
The scribe frowned. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible.”
Medea raged. “How can you say such a thing? How can you admit you know what happened and not be willing to share it with the rest of Ouros!”
The scribe bowed her head, absorbing Medea’s anger with a grace Circe admired. “You are safe here in Rogos, Queen Medea, because our kingdom is and always has been neutral. No other kingdom has power here. None but elves may walk on our soil without our permission. But our neutrality comes at a price. Neither Paragon nor Darnuith will recognize the truth recorded in an elf’s scrolls, even if you could get permission from our High Lord for us to share them. Nochtbend and Everfield might in this case, but they have no power to influence Paragon or Darnuith. I am afraid the truth is only useful when there are those who want to hear it and who are in a position to do something about it.” She placed a long-fingered hand over her heart. “However, personally, you have my allegiance. I hope, in some small way, I can bring you comfort this day.”
It was impossible to rage at someone like this, someone who spoke the truth so calmly, who understood her limitations. Circe glanced at Medea and Isis. There was no fight left in them. Not in any of them. She said nothing to the scribe, just nodded.
Without another word, they were each led to their own rooms. Circe almost cried when she saw the hot bath and fresh clothing waiting for her. She locked the door behind her, locked out the world, then stripped down and slid into the water.
* * *
Circe didn’t realizeshe’d fallen asleep in the warm bath until she started to dream. The water lapped her skin. Her eyelids were closed and heavy on her cheeks, but at the same time, she was fully dressed and somewhere else, standing in a hazy darkness.
“Medea?” Circe sensed her sister nearby, although she couldn’t see a thing.
“I’m here.”
“So am I,” Isis said from her other side. “We’re dreaming.”
“Together, is that possible?” Circe asked.
“It’s happening,” Isis said. “I can’t see either of you, and I can’t control the shadows here.”
“Come closer. Follow my voice.” Circe held out her hands, and soon Isis and Medea stepped from the fog. “This is new.”
Medea toyed with the jewel around her neck. The grimoire. “Our powers are growing.”
Color flashed in front of her. Circe concentrated as images danced in the fog between them. “Are you seeing this?”
“Yes.” Medea’s voice sounded breathless. “Isis?”
“I see it.” Isis chewed her lip. “It’s the future, Medea.”
“Alternative futures,” Circe said. “See, it’s changing.” The images kept coming. In each, the three of them attempted to avenge Tavyss. They faced off against Eleanor and Brynhoff in an endless number of ways. And in each of them, they ended up dead. Different scenarios played out, one after the other. They watched themselves die again and again.
“Show me Eleanor’s death!” Medea shouted.
The images flashed faster, flashed into the future. Generations passed. The images slowed, became clear. Three sisters, descendants, and a baby, the child of a dragon and witch just like Medea’s lost Phineas. Circe cried as she watched them open the golden grimoire and use it to kill Eleanor. The last image was of Eleanor’s death. Before their eyes, she turned to dust and her heart was crushed under the heel of a boot.
