If you love Lesbia, you might enjoy reading some of what I’ve been working on for the next book, which will focus on Ayla. I would say more, but that would just get in the way of the actual story and nobody needs that.
Alone in a little cottage in the middle of a very dark forest, Ayla the witch stared into the flames, her beautiful green eyes reflecting the light of the fire as she hummed a little birthday song to herself.
“Five hundred years,” she mused to herself. “Five hundred years and so many more to go.”
The truth was she was not sure that it was her five hundredth birthday. The years had long ago begun to run into one another. She had started counting in decades, then in centuries, but still they blended. Five hundred was a good round number, so she celebrated that. She had celebrated it numerous times before, with one seven hundredth birthday thrown in for good measure somewhere along the line.
Age did not seem to touch her, aside from making her hair a lighter shade of pale gold. Long strands fell to her waist, the bulk of it tied back behind her head in a long ponytail, a few escaped locks draping over her shoulder. Her gray robe was snug about her waist and loose about her breasts, their ample swelling warmed by the heat of the fire.
She was beautiful in appearance, elven blood giving her features a slightly sharp appearance, eyes tapering to exotic almost cat like ends near ears which bore a certain pointedness. Her height, her longevity, these too were symptoms of a blood which did not quite belong in the human realm Ayla chose to inhabit.
Three small cauldrons hung over the fire, each with a different brew or concoction bubbling within. As a herbalist and healer, Ayla never wanted for work or purpose. Her potions could make the difference between life and death, suffering and pleasure. So she worked on the day of her birth. Though there was no obvious immediate need, no suffering patient at her door, intuition guided her hand in the picking of flowers and the crushing of leaves and the precise blending of various salts and minerals into the mixtures which simmered fragrantly before her.
The weather outside was bad. The wind was ferocious, blowing hard enough to make the shutters jitter against their latches and the whole cottage creak with the gusts. An unpleasant cold squall was coming from the south. Though she was warm, Ayla shivered instinctively and drew her robe more tightly about her, keeping her attention on the fire and her potions.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
A rough knocking at the door nearly made it jump from its hinges. Ayla frowned as she made her way over to the door. Who would dare come to a remote cottage and slam their fists against it so aggressively? A bandit, perhaps. Well, any bandit would soon wish they had chosen another place to rob.
Ayla opened the door and found a woman wearing a satchel filled with scrolls, barely covered by a leather lid which was flapping in the wind. Her visitor had bright red hair, as bold as the sky on a summer dawn, and blue eyes which were pale and light even on that dark day. Her features were simple, but pleasing, animated with a confidence and determination which made her lift her chin to the wind even though she was being battered by stinging droplets of rain and bits of leaf and plant matter torn from the trees.
“Delivery for Ayla,” the woman said. “Are you Ayla?”
“Come inside,” Ayla said, opening the door wide. “You are wet.”
“Oh, thank you,” the delivery woman said, stepping gratefully into the warm. “You have a very lovely home.”
Ayla looked about her simple cottage. There was little in the way of adornment, but she supposed it was better than a howling gale. Her guest was flapping the drops of water off her clothing, making grateful utterances for the warmth.
“Would you like something to drink?”Ayla offered hospitality. “Perhaps you are hungry?”
“No, no,” the woman shook her head. “I’m afraid I cannot stop for vittles. There is much work to be done. Are you Ayla? I have a delivery for Ayla.”
Ayla met the curious blue eyes with a knowing smile. “I am Ayla.”
“Good.” The woman reached into her satchel, drew out a knife and plunged it into Ayla’s belly in a swift motion so fluid and so natural the witch had no time to react whatsoever. She gasped and clutched at the dagger, her hands coming away bloody as her body crumpled toward the floor. There was a curious absence of pain which told her that she had been mortally wounded. It was not merely the cut of the knife which had assaulted her. She could feel a toxin moving swiftly through her body, a poison choking the breath from her.
She had often pondered what her death would be like when it came, but none of the scenes had been like this. None had been so short, so brutal, so utterly without warning. Lying on the floor of her cottage, Ayla could not summon so much as a word. She could only stare up into the cold blue eyes of her assassin and note how cold that gaze had become, how devoid of emotion. Not even a crime of passion. Just a simple assassination. Ayla held the woman’s gaze until the poison took her sight as well as her breath.
*****
“My poor baby.”
Ayla opened her eyes swiftly at the sound of a familiar voice. She felt much as many of her patients had, surprised to see a new day. She was not dead. Or perhaps she was dead. She was not certain one way or the other. She was certainly in pain. It felt as though a hot coal were searing her from the inside of her guts, as if she were being cooked from within. The pain was enough to make her cry out in a whimper.
“Shhh, stay still.” A calming voice accompanied a gentle hand as Erwydden, eater of worlds, ran a cool cloth over Ayla’s fevered brow. “You’re very sick.”
“Mother?” Ayla’s voice was cracked and frightened. “What are you doing here?”
“A mother knows when her child needs her,” Erwydden said in a voice dripping with maternal kindness.
Ayla stared at her mother. Erwydden’s dark hair had only become darker with the passing of time. It was raven black, so dark it seemed to pull light around it so she was cast in perpetual shadow. Her eyes were a light caramel brown, gleaming in the darkness of her presence. She was tall, like Ayla, like all elves, but her bust was not full, nor was her rump. A casual observer would not have known that Ayla was the only child of the monster. Not that there would have been time for a casual observer to make such an observation in Erwydden’s presence. A casual observer would spend far more time screaming and then being spread on toast and nibbled on over a game of cards.
“Here,” Erwydden said, pressing a small vial to Ayla’s parched lips. “Drink a little of this. It will ease the pain.”
With little in the way of options, Ayla drank and found that it did indeed dull her agony from a searing pain to a low ache.
“How did you…” She tried to formulate a question. They were not a close family. For many good reasons there was a great deal of fear and loathing between mother and offspring and Erwydden had certainly never shown anything in the way of maternal impulses. She was absolutely the last person Ayla had ever imagined would help in her hour of need. “You’ve never cared before…”
“I have always cared,” Erwydden said, her eyes flashing with something like anger. “You have never been on the brink of death before.”
“But how did you know where I was?”
“I have always known where you are, Ayla,” Erwydden replied, darkly impatient. “A mother knows these things.”
“A mother who consumes goddesses, perhaps,” Ayla replied.
“Still testy about that,” Erwydden sighed. “It was just one little goddess. A minor one at that. Really, you do like to make a fuss.”
“I loved Ariadne!”
“Liar,” Erwydden laughed. “We do not love, you and I. That is a silly little fantasy you have been playing at for far too long. And look at what has happened to you. You are soft, weak, a little girl who needs her mother to save her.” Erwydden’s look became reproachful. “Really, Ayla. You should be able to take care of yourself by now.”