---

She hated it here. She hated the sweltering sun and the sand that seemed to fester in every fold of her robes. She hated the awnings that blocked out the sky and the sullen faces of her Kindred as they resumed their lives, pretending this place was always home. But most of all, she hated the stigma of being a refugee.

Birgitta shielded her eyes against the brightness of the Audraputi sun and looked out into the wasteland. There was no escape. Only more sand. If she made her way to the Svaarda River and into the Deepa, she would have to deal with the Aevi’s nonsense. The Time Mages didn’t know how to get back to Evirdahl either—not that any of them were trying—they seemed to prefer their airy dwellings to the curled and bent branches of the Hazelfer. No, she was alone with her anger.

Like so many others, Birgitta and her family raced towards the time rift under the hail of Rimevar arrows, battling those once considered friends and allies to keep their home. She lost everything—her husband, her parents… her children. And for what? Fear? Hatred?

She pulled the awning back over her garden patio on the southern edge of Udapat, tying the rope tightly over the young willow tree beside her. It wouldn’t survive under the blazing heat of the desert. Birgitta adjusted the spray of cool water trickling down from the stream weaving through her patio. The only good part of this dreadful place was the glacial spring beneath them. Without it, they would perish under the sun’s fiery gaze. A hollow laugh escaped her. Would that be so bad? Death? They had nothing left, begging the Valokur to take them in was the final blow to their pride.

And yet the Jadu seemed to adapt well to their new surroundings, Birgitta begrudgingly admitted—all but her. Her Astir Kindred made good use of the gardens, expanding their herbal collection with the flora of this horrible land. They traded with the other Kindreds; the Aevi discovered a cotton-like weed growing at the base of the colossal Sequoia trees they called home. The weed, Quoia Root, they called it, was an amplifier. When combined with the healing properties of Yarrow or Thistle, it elevated the potency. The Aldrnari brought a thickly grained amber found in the forests of the Agni Mount to market. The Astir loved the porous resin—its ability to absorb pain and anguish brought physicians to the market squares; midwives used it to abate the pain of childbirth, while surgeons added its crystals to their medicines.

For ten seeds, Birgitta could attain her own Quoia spores. The amplifier would make a pleasant addition to her garden. She wondered if it only worked with other plant life. Could it also magnify her own magic? Perhaps this root could reopen the rift? She needed to test her theory.

Birgitta moved to the cabinets lining the southern wall of her workshop. The air in her sandstone dwelling was cool on her skin, pleasing after the scorching rays of the Audraputi sun. She pulled a small wooden box, flipping the lid up, and counted out ten seeds. Her savings dwindled. After securing her dwelling and the herbs needed to begin her garden, she had little left. Birgitta groaned. She would have to bring her concoctions to market soon. The stipend given to them by the Elder Council when they arrived was meager. She could turn a profit selling her potions at Brir Torg, rather than the provincial Udapat Market. Brir Torg, the market town at the base of the Agni Mount, where the Deepa met the Audraputi, was the largest city in Saphedvaar, home to the Jadu-Valokur Council and the High Priestess. Birgitta had only heard stories of its diversity and vastness. She was sure her particular brand of magic would do well there.

Birgitta’s magic was unlike the rest of her Kindred. The Astir were healers, their power stemmed from the earth and the roots that flowed within. Root Magic was powerful, in Evirdahl it rivaled the Skapelse Mams, the Mothers of Creation. The Earth Disir kept a watchful eye on them, knowing a flick of an Astir wrist could undo the earth the Sprites nurtured. The Astir were a peaceful Kindred, unlike the fiery warrior Aldrnari who’s tempers were as scorching as the fire in their blood, or the wise and mischievous Aevi. Their time magic was unparalleled and could cause both madness and calm.

Birgitta’s abilities were not peaceful—her Root magic spawned from the human soul, the roots that give way after death. She was a Summoner. A rare witch, especially in the Astir Kindred. There were only two other Summoners she knew of, both Elders living in Brir Torg, and neither were of Astir influence. Henk, the Council head, was Aldrnari and could cast a fire of souls if he wished to. He was one of the revered—having lived almost as long as the Skapelse Disir. The other, Sadiya—the High Priestess of the Goddess Trinity, Hemsut, Oya and Gula-Bau—was Aevi. No one knew much about her. She was a vessel. Ageless some say, and magnanimous.

In Evirdahl, Birgitta was an Ond Laeknir, a soul healer. She used her Ond Seidr, or spirit magic to heal and amplify life. Her husband and their two daughters worked alongside her, administering treatment to the tribes while she administered to their Ancestors. But now… Birgitta scoffed as she pocketed the seeds and closed the box, replacing in it the cabinet. Now she was nothing—had nothing.

Judging from the colorful shadows dancing around the sandstone pathways, it had not yet hit midday. Birgitta pulled her rust-colored cotton satchel—a present from Cala, her eldest daughter, onto her back, and closed the door behind her. She followed the stream of cool water through the labyrinthine streets of Udapat, ignoring the side-glances and narrow-eyed stares aimed in her direction. Once she was respected. Once she was caretaker and friend. Before the banishment. Before she watched her family pierced by arrows as they struggled to enter the time rift—their bodies swept up in the hysteria and chaos of the splintered timelines.

The Jadu Elders did their best. Birgitta didn’t fault them. They imprisoned the Aldrnari, Orla and destroyed her. Most Jadu were pleased and thought that would be enough for the Ancient Tribal Congress. No one expected the Disir to turn on them.

 The Astir market square was in the center of town. Stalls lined and surrounded the grand statue of their Dog-headed Goddess, Gula-Bau. Wooden tables were covered with potions and trinkets, a woman in bright blue robes hung a bevy of charm necklaces from her arms; another, older woman arranging candles from their hemp wicks over a rope strung between two dowels. A young man in yellow stood behind a tall stall, begging shoppers to try his ashwagandha youth potion. Birgitta snorted as she passed. Who needed a youth potion? She was well past her fifth century and had yet to worry about the wrinkles of time. Fools, they deserved what they got.

The Aevi booth was set slightly back from the hubbub, beside the temple entrance. Birgitta dodged a few excited children munching on sweet corn sticks, skipping towards a stall of honey pies. Her daughters were like that, giggling and carefree. Bina, her youngest, loved sweets—her fingers sticky with the syrupy sap of the Caylen trees near their village… Birgitta shook the thought away. Her daughters would never be carefree again.

“Hullo, Birg,” a high lyrical voice rose over the market din. Geetika stood behind a booth selling cloth and wool rounds, her thick blonde curls braided with a mass of ribbons. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Birgitta turned, a smile pasted across her face. Geetika once lived on the farm closest to her in Raudrholt, the Astir village in Evirdahl. She was a shepherd and Dyr Laeknir, an animal healer. “Hi Geet.”

“You hate the market.”

“I needed some Quoia Spores.”

Geetika raised a brow, “Don’t tell me you’re going to try your hand at selling your potions?”

Birgitta shrugged, “Maybe.”

“Ha! I’ll believe that when I see it.” Geetika leaned in, “Did you hear about the Aldrnari?”

“Which one?”

“Orla.”

Birgitta inhaled sharply and shook her head. It was strange to hear her name spoken aloud. Orla was the reason they were here. Orla and the Tribal Congress. Her name was a curse, an abomination. No one spoke of her. “What?”

“They say she has a son. That she wasn’t destroyed, like the Congress assumed.”

“What? How?”

Geetika shrugged, “Rumors, no one knows for sure. But the word from Brir Torg is that Hamza brought a child to the Tribes. A leader to heal Evirdahl and save it from his Legacies.”

Birgitta heard stories about the factions of magic that splintered from Hamza when he summoned the sheathe and hoped to repair it. Idiot. No Aevi had that kind of power. His magic infected the Fraomadr, causing the simple tribes to rise in rebellion. The foolish Aevi only made things worse. “Where is she?”

“No one knows. But her son is to be the next Ruler of Evirdahl.”

“Is that possible?”

“I guess so?” Geetika smiled grimly, “The Tribes do what they want.”

Birgitta tuned out the rest of Geetika’s words. Her mind focused on Orla’s child—Orla and Hamza’s child. He would be Jadu—his children would be powerful beyond all others. Power Birgitta could harness to bring down the Congress—she paused. That was it. Birgitta smiled weakly at Geetika and bid her good day, her mind swirling around the fledgling plan building behind her eyes.

Birgitta moved trancelike towards the Aevi booth, handing over her ten seeds and pocketing the Quoia Spores. Her magic hummed in her veins. For the first time in the century since their banishment, she had a purpose. She needed to get back to Evirdahl.