The Hawkweed Prophecy Read Online Free PDF

fingernails clean, not lined with black earth; and she disliked it when the hair grew long onher legs and sprouted from her armpits. Ember appreciated the pretty things in life, like the delicacy of a dragonfly’s wings, the first burst of blossom on a fruit tree, and the sheen of the colors on a drake’s neck. And she knew instinctively, though she had no way to prove it, that she was pretty too.
    By all accounts, it was evident from very early on that Ember was a useless witch. It wasn’t just her looks—Ember had been told that those would have been accommodated if she wasn’t so squeamish and sentimental. The plain fact of it was Ember showed no predisposition for magic whatsoever. Never had there been a member of the coven so lacking in talent and skill. Over the years, the elders had waited for some gift, just one, to emerge. Most girls in the coven showed magical tendencies before they could even walk. Even the least able had a flair for one aspect or another. Some had “the sight.” Others had an aptitude for spells—they only had to concentrate and chant in their heads and something strangely magical would occur. And all had an affinity with nature. Every youngster could predict the weather by simply smelling the air and rubbing the earth between her fingers. Even babies could attract the birds so they’d flutter down and perch on their small hands and let their feathers be stroked. For so many years Ember had tried to master this one basic skill, and yet the birds still flapped away from her in fear, as though she were foe, not friend.
    Ember had nothing to offer the coven. Her spell chants would end up as little songs that she would hum to everyone’s annoyance. She was allergic to animal fur and would faint at the sight of blood. And she was known to puke around anything reptilian. The only lesson Ember enjoyed was history, as she loved hearing stories about the past and learning of her courageousancestors—independent women who were often cast out from society and many of whom sacrificed their lives to stay true to themselves and their calling. But then, at night, the nightmares evoked by these legends would be so vivid that she’d wake up screaming and have to take refuge in Charlock’s bed. With her head in the crook of her mother’s arm and her cheek upon her bosom, she’d listen to the rhythmic beating of Charlock’s heart and be soothed back to sleep.
    Ember turned from the river and all that it promised and headed home. Her mother would be waiting. She would have heard about the snake incident and guessed where Ember had run to. Charlock knew Ember’s habits and tolerated them, covering for her with the others. Since Ember was a baby Charlock had spent most of her time overcompensating for her daughter’s deficiencies and protecting her from criticism. Ember felt her mother’s love like a quilt, its warmth keeping the chill of scorn from icing her heart.
    Her aunt, too, was her defender, and no one dared question Raven. The elders of the clan had chosen Raven to sit at the head of the table, a position never given before to one as young as she. For Ember’s aunt was the most powerful witch in the north and not to be crossed unless you wished to suffer the consequences. She produced spells no one had heard of before, let alone believed were possible. Her reputation echoed across lands far and wide, and Ember’s cousin, Sorrel, loved to gloat about it, basking in her mother’s glory.
    Charlock kept a lower profile. She was sister to the great witch but never drew attention to the fact. Perhaps she thought she would suffer in comparison, but Ember didn’t think that was the reason. Her mother was simply humble and uninterested in thenotoriety of the family name. She was a talented healer, but while her knowledge of plants and cures was extensive, her witchcraft and sorcery were limited. The family prophecy that Raven so