Interview with the Witches

A tell-all exclusive. First of its kind. Not one of them had ever given a proper interview, let alone all three. And she was going to get the scoop.

Interviewing the Daughters of Sora Kell was not for the faint of heart. Especially given the context. They'd reassured her that, despite everything, this was a perfectly acceptable time.

Shortly before an incredibly difficult ritual the likes of which Ariadne had never attempted, the only hope of the survival of their daughter, Selina. Her status had been something of a surprise, but she was apparently in good hands with her sisters.

"Preparations are being made," said Katra, the voice of Droaam, the Peacemaker, the Guile. Her manner was impeccable, as was her appearance, as ever, both carefully crafted for the eyes of observers. "She will be ready, as will we. But there is ample time."

Somewhat uncomfortable with this arrangement, the tallest of the three all but paced the room, pushing down her anxiety and her obvious disagreement about the timing of it all. Maenya, the Warbringer, former Warchief and Warlord of the clan of Sora Kell, the Might of Droaam. Ariadne had fought with her in the war, and hopefully proven herself along those lines, though she'd hardly proven herself as a healer--she wouldn't have even billed herself as one. And of the three, it was clear that this one would offer the most to reckon with if anything went wrong.

"Indeed, now is the only time. Must be quick about it," came the gravelly voice of Teraza, the Keeper of Secrets, eldest of the Daughters of Sora Kell, the Vision of Droaam. The crone was busy with her needlework--no doubt a fairly standard power move on her part, and Ariadne was certain she had needle-sharp intent for every inch of this proceeding.

"Very well," Ariadne began, her notepad handy. They'd refused to have their images or voices captured for this interview, which was more the pity--how can one prove that any of this happened, after all? But she was happy to comply, as she was lucky to have the opportunity. They hadn't exactly been freely offering their secrets to the world these last some decades, but they'd offered total access and honesty, within, presumably, the reasonable bounds of journalistic integrity, common decency, and plain old common sense.

Time to put it to the test.

"Are you sisters?"

If she hadn't just faced a Nightmare God, nor been intimately mindlinked with an inscrutable metaphysical being with a mind the size of a planet her whole life, she doubted she could conjure the will to sit straight up, with a neutral affect, her eyes scanning between the three at appropriate intervals.

"Yes," Katra returned, unflapped, "we are sisters by blood, to different fathers. Teraza raised us as a mother, and we give her due courtesy and respect. Maenya is younger than I, but not so much that we did not have a certain sisterly bond."

The big one shifted in secret thought, not disagreeing, but hardly agreeing.

"Do you have any others?" she followed up. Katra's eye twitched ever so slightly, almost betraying a micro-expression. Maenya's head snapped to the elder, alert, the hairs on her neck and ample shoulders standing on end.

Teraza didn't look up, but her needlework paused. Touche. At some silent assent, Katra responded for the three. "None who remain," she answered tersely, with careful words, as ever.

Not wanting to bring up any unpleasant memories, she soldier on. "Many have wondered who the Warchief's siblings are yours. Some even imagine they're all equally so. Do you wish to set the record straight?"

Back in somewhat friendly territory, Katra didn't bat an eye. "All you've met are mine, by blood," she confided. "There were others--are others--" not a mistake, but a duality. "But it isn't my place. I carried them all, and delivered them in the usual way."

"Creative, what some people imagine, isn't it? When the truth is so simple, yet beautiful. For the record, I have met seven of your children, and they were all an absolute delight, a credit to your realm." Oops. Not time to scratch that itch yet. I mean technically, it can be "hers" and not "hers", but, hmm. No sign of any negative reaction, so that's fine, hopefully.

"Do you approve of the ruling of the Warlords' Council, Maenya?" There was nothing for it. It would have been impolite not to address her directly, nor to use her name. Yet she sensed few dare to speak them aloud, fewer still to their face. Maenya was obviously unused to it, and seemed to wrestle with herself at how to respond. Katra was a statue of ice, although she very well may have had the same reaction.

It wasn't that Ariadne was muting her psychic senses. She certainly wasn't prying at all--that strained politeness and entered the realm of suicide--but it seemed almost an insult to actively suppress her passive senses, as if they couldn't keep their secrets exactly as much as they wished to. And clearly, they did. Of the three, only Maenya had the slightest psychic signature. They might have all been animated statues, programmed with responses--in fact, even those might betray more psychic resonance. But it was all to be expected, and only authenticated the experience.

"It was done according to tradition. They had no way of knowing I lived, and quite frankly, I may not have been technically alive at the time. I do not challenge my...the Warchief. In fact, I might just take a vacation!" she attempted levity, and clearly without much practice. It was cruel to take this shot, but she owed it to journalists everywhere. Even if it got her head split open.

"Who defeated you?"

Ariadne hoped she didn't visibly flinch, but she is only mortal after all. She can be forgiven.

Maenya either didn't try to contain herself, or this is what happened when she did try, but was truly angry. With a single stride, she loomed above the slender siren, every one of her six hundred-odd pounds seemingly enough to throttle the lesser woman. And her eyes showed intent, even if she made no immediate vocalization, nor did she raise a hand. Ariade had struck a nerve, it seemed, but she suspected it had less to do with Maenya's ego, and more to do with whether or not she got an answer.

The ex-warchief looked to the others for guidance. Katra arched an eyebrow, as if to remind her of words already spoken. Teraza just nodded sagely without meeting her gaze. Maenya sighed, readying herself, clearly unconvinced of the wisdom of giving an honest answer. But she did.

"A man. A wizard. Quintus Travelyan, of the Black Blood."

Oh.

I don't know what I was expecting, Ariadne admitted to herself. Maybe an army of warforged titans, a fleet of airships, at least some legendary warrior? Not that lanky fuck!

As if she were the mind-reader, Maenya seemed to key to her words, and explained, "He took the field, after his fashion. A proxy, or rather several. His cultists attacked in force, perhaps enough to entertain me for a minute or two by themselves, but his mind jumped between them, sowing his poison and sapping my strength. I'm quite certain he made the difference, more so than they."

"Was he...augmented in some way?" It sounded like a conciliation, but Ariadne didn't dare to hope it wouldn't be taken as pity. But, if there were gods, they were kind today, as apparently she'd stumbled upon the truth.

"He is not wielding mortal magic," came Katra's explanation. "Nor do I think he's taken the Blood himself. It doesn't have the whiff of anyone else's intent, but his magic stinks of Khyber."

"I don't suppose we should be so lucky that he finds himself indebted to some demon prince," Ariadne appeased. "He's proven clever, in my experience."

"You beat him once!" Teraza chimed in, and for an instant, Ariadne was sure she was about to get flattened. She stammered for a moment, scattering to set the record straight. Is she always like this? some part of her wondered, sensing the elder's delight in provoking her emotional sister-daughter.

"Well, I--that is--I wouldn't say I did. If anything, Selina outmaneuvered him, and I...lost." A fresh wave of loss flowed from her old wound, her life's companion taken from her, in a sacrifical act to which she owed her life. She dared a glance at Maenya, and far from a glower of fury, she found a sympathetic eye. We may just be the only two living people who've fought him and lost.

"We can but learn," the elder offered, an olive branch to both of them, and returned to her needles.

Ariadne centered herself quickly, a long-practiced discipline of her psionic mind. Which reminded her, in this urgent time, that her psychic battery, the thing keeping her sane and sentient in the Quori's absence, was all but depleted after her run-in with the Nightmare. The idea of levitating a small rock, let along conducting a grand psychic healing ritual she hadn't known was possible a day ago, was beyond daunting, as to seem impossible. She was certain she'd have to break the news to the witches at some point, and with each passing moment, that seemed like a worse idea.

"Speaking of learning," she pressed on, eager to take some measure of control of this interview, "While I've not known the warchief for the smallest fraction of the time you have, I have fought alongside her quite a few times, and I've gotten a decent sense of her capabilities. I wasn't surprised to see her persevere in this war, or her trials, but..." oh gods, what am I doing? They promised to bear the7ir secrets, and that's deadly enough, but they didn't say anything about bearing their daughter's. It was as if the words came not from her own mind, but from the collective spirit of journalists everywhere.

And yet, perhaps the witches possessed the power to destroy even that spirit, if they wished, let alone one woman's body and mind. And soul, I guess, if that's a thing.

"I've seen some novel and powerful magic from her in the last few days. Do you think she's been holding back? Or is this simply the spirit of one defending her homeland?" Hell, why bother trying to slow down the ball after it's left my hand, she chastised herself, but she'd seen the humanity in their eyes and softened her words at the last minute. Much good it would do.

Katra took her time. Maenya might have spoken early, but from her expression and stance, Ariadne would bet she didn't actually know. The sideways, accusatory glances at Teraza seemed to confirm it. Katra, of course, was unfazed, and seemed more concerned for her daughter than for the cost of secrets spilled.

"I have taught Selina well," she explained, "and my sisters have also. All her life, she's known the best instruction we can give. And she was an excellent student." Even the elder seemed to agree, and Maenya could hardly object.

"But our voices are not the only ones at her ear," the witch continued, and Ariadne couldn't help but notice the very specific choice of words. "Her birthright includes power that even we cannot access. Perhaps, given the pressure and urgency of the situation, she was able to unlock powers unknown to you or we."

There was a suggestion there. Psionics or not, Ariadne could read it like a book. Watch her. Be my eyes and ears. She's being guided by something dangerous. Oh gods, now she really does have to pull off this ritual.

"In any case, it's been quite impressive. She's a woman of many talents, especially at...making new friends." Gulp. This was supposed to be the softball, a nice comedown from the hard stuff. But, the timing, with everything on the line. Still, she must soldier on. "You've no doubt heard the Warchief's announcement," why did I use that word? Some sort of shield? "She and King Kaius are to marry. Do you approve? Are you...hopeful for a fruitful union?" She'd really wanted to word herself more plainly about grandchildren, but it seemed cruel now.

Katra actually chuckled. A mix of genuine emotion colored her face: a bit of derision, a spoonful of genuine delight, a dash of skepticism, and a whole cauldron of deep, motherly worry. The kind that stops your heart, that keeps you up all night. And not for worry Kaius wasn't the right man, of course. Katra's eyes rose to meet hers, and she saw the rarest of sights: a woman's eyes, a mother's, completely honest, in supplication to her.

In that moment, Ariadne knew, she truly was the only one they could trust. No doubt, had they the power, they would do it herself. Katra would trade her soul for her daughter, she would cross any line. But this ailment, this specific malady was so far out of their wheelhouse, and the exact right person--hey now, let's be fair, I'll grant the best person who happens to be in Droaam, but come on--to heal her daughter, in her stead.

And she must come through.

"I believe in the truth of her heart," Katra offered, with silent tears forming in her eyes. "I would love more than anything to watch her blessed union."

Oh. Ariadne tapped into a lifetime of psychic discipline, a career of journalistic decorum, even into the well of loss and grief that could normally swallow any emotion. And it wasn't enough, not by far. Those words were more loaded with power than any hex or blessing the witch had ever cast.

She was no psychic--okay, well, you know what I mean--but she absolutely believed the witch knew the future. She heard in those words an absolute certainty--that she already knew it would never happen.

Is this whole thing doomed? Is this a death march? I already didn't believe in myself, if she doesn't believe in me this whole thing's fucked!

She was lost in a spiral, desperately searching for some way to construct a reality where she wasn't about to kill this woman's daughter, her own friend, destroy a budding romance, negate the existence of a bunch of fat, happy babies, rip apart a family. She needed help. She needed a hero.

And her hero didn't take the form she expected.

"Tell me deary," the interviewer asked. "You speak of romance. Do you have a date set with that strapping young man?"

Ariadne looked up through tears, as Grandmother guided her back to safety. She sputtered a bit, searching for words, her eyes lingering on the ring on her finger. It had been a jest, a facade, they'd both agreed, but neither had removed it these past few weeks. They'd often referred to themselves as engaged; she'd even been ready to rip off that metal man's head for impugning her commitment to him.

It was so simple. Of course they had to. Although, she supposed, she'd have to pop the question first, just to make it official. Then there was that other thing.

That's what was running through her head: a long train of thoughts, gathering together on a work surface, with the intent of assembling a carefully-worded reply, which betrayed only the secrets she wished to give, with exactly the connotation she intended. So why was she already talking?

"No but he'd better settle on one, because we're pregnant!"

Her words rang like a bell, echoing in the silence. Even the younger witches seemed impressed at Teraza's command of the situation, her insight into such things. A silly thought, as who in the whole world would know better?

"I actually, um, meant to ask," Ariadne continued. "It's not really part of the interview, I don't really-"

Something about the crone's silent regard instantly put her mind to rest, reminding of her place. She felt warm, and safe, as if she'd often sat at granny's feet, listening to her wisdom, confiding her secrets. Even though she'd never known a grandmother.

"If I were you, I'd give them both your name. He's never been proud of his, and the more distance, the better." Both?

"Well, I," Ariadne stammered, trying to muster the courage. The other two, if they were enjoying watching her squirm, didn't show it. They knew this feeling too well. "I'm a bit concerned. You see, there's a certain way of things, and...I don't know if..."

"Function follows form, child." She reached forward, her bony hands somehow not as cold as they looked, although still on the stabby side. She jabbed Ariadne's abdomen, palpating it. Oh! she exclaimed to herself, certain she could feel it, those two prongs. There are two! How did she- and she didn't dare even think the rest of the sentence, foolish as it was. "You've got a womb now, and it's perfectly safe for them. Just don't transform it into anything else."

The implication was clear. In her siren form, she couldn't carry live young, she had to implant them. And in case she took on her other form--who knew if they'd even survive that? And yet, she kept her form through effort: constant, psychic effort, that was talented enough to maintain even while unconscious, but not if she ran out of psychic energy.

Which she was going to, definitely, in a matter of days. And that's if she didn't spend a hundred times what she had left over on some crazy ritual, which she was in fact going to do, in a matter of minutes.

Terror crept in, but only for a fraction of a second. Against the crone's command, it may as well have been a minor pest, fleeing for safety at the sight of her. "It's been done before," came her calming words, "and you're quite capable. I've already seen them," she confided, and Ariadne knew her words couldn't be false.

She'd never known religion. Her people had a god of sorts, but he wasn't that kind of god, and anyway, Ariadne put him in a bottle on her ship. There were no gods, only people, some stronger than others. Certainly there was cosmic forces powerful enough to build and break planets, to ignite stars, to order the heavens. But they didn't care for individual lives, they couldn't perceive time smaller than a million years, and they didn't tell your fortune.

But in this moment, she believed. There was simply no way the witch was wrong about this. Her children would be born alive. She would survive. She would somehow persevere for months. She didn't dare guess at the mechanism, didn't dare to give herself hope. Nor could she dispel her doubts about this coming ritual, but it simply must be.

In that moment, she gained a fraction of insight, a glimpse of cosmic truth. This is what it was to glimpse time in all its dimensions, to see the totality of history stretching out before as well as behind. This is how the Crone saw the world, how she knew of things before anyone else. There was certainty, yet still doubt. The future was a fact, set in stone, even if she didn't know how it got there, and couldn't believe she would make it. Perhaps the difference between herself and the witch was that confidence. Then again, maybe even she didn't have such a magical power, and simply faced the horror of eternity with the same beating heart and fearful mind of all mortals, yet somehow persevered. That seemed even more noble, even more impressive.

"Thank you, Mother," she said simply, as if repeating a mantra, a prayer she'd droned a thousand times in worship. And the mother simply nodded at the courtesy. In that moment, she had sisters.

And when it passed, she was back to only the one. Whose life she now had to save. It was impossible in six different way, but it had to happen. It was not time to Be, but to Do.