I have never seen the chamber so full of people. Robed figures line the walls on all sides, forming many long rows. There are so many witches present that the intricate carvings in the paneling of those walls are almost entirely obscured. The silence in which my observers view me is oppressive, yet I had expected it. Secrecy and silence. How well we are drilled in these tenets. How much of a habit they become, so that people of the Outerworld often think us cold or reserved. Even though space is scarce with so many in attendance, all present respect the sacred circle at the center of the chamber, so that the crowd holds itself at a dutiful distance from the painted floor. I stop when I come to the edge of the outer ring.

Many covens, I understand, use a pentacle as their holy space, but the Lazarus Coven have always favored the circle, symbolizing as it does a continuation, a life without end. The rim is of pure gold, layer upon layer of leaf painstakingly applied to the stone floor until it gleams and shimmers, priceless and fabulous, marking the limit of where one might tread without purpose or invitation. Inside the ring of gold is a broad swath of silver, to signify the beauty of the night and the influence of the moon in a witch’s spellcasting. The main part of the circle, which is a good twenty paces across, is split into halves, the uppermost one containing an image of the sun in a cloudless sky, the lower the black of night with moon and stars. The two are separated by a winding red river, known as the Rubicon. The coven adopted this symbol some centuries after they came into existence, when they had been searching for an image to signify the narrow but crucial division between day and night. Between life and death. The ancient Roman river from which it took its name was red because of the soil beneath it. The pigment on the chamber floor, however, the dark red which is regularly and solemnly renewed and replenished, is colored by blood.

The Master of the Chalice walks past me and takes up his position beside the high altar. The instruments of magic and ceremonial objects sit in their places upon the silver-threaded silk that covers the altar, the precious gold chalice most prominent among them. There is also a beautiful statue of Hekate, queen of all witches and our guardian when we are spellcasting. The Master of the Chalice bangs his staff three times on the stone floor, the dull sound rebounding off the high ceiling.

“We come to witness to the inauguration of the new Head Witch of the Lazarus Coven. The nominee stands before us, unadorned and revealed. What is your given name?”

“Lady Lilith Montgomery, daughter of His Grace, Lord Robert Montgomery, the sixth duke of Radnor,” I answer, struggling to keep a tremor out of my voice.