The Ragwitch Read online

  “They were good soldiers, and despite their fear, they waited and searched about the place.

  “Anhyvar returned in the dark of early morning. The soldier who told me the tale said she came upon the camp without warning, and struck them with a spell that held them fast. He was on watch, a little way from the camp, and so escaped—after he saw that she was no longer the kindly Healer-Witch they had escorted. For she Glazed those soldiers into mindless servants, and laughed as she worked. It was the laugh that made the soldier run.

  “And the rest, I think, you know. She woke the Angarling, and perverted them to the service of evil, during which time I did not move against her, much to my later sorrow. Then, she went north, subjected the Gwarulch Elders and Meepers to her rule, and declared herself to be the North-Queen.

  “So, if it is Anhyvar we shall find atop this Hill of Bones, it should be a human woman, whose major failing was a blindness to the faults of anything that could bring an end to the war.”

  “She doesn’t sound too scary,” whispered Julia, wiping her nose with a muddy handkerchief. “I hope you’re right.”

  “I hope so too,” said Mirran. “My memories of Anhyvar were befouled and tainted by what she became and my own bitterness. I would like to see even a memory of her true self again.”

  He paused, and helped Julia up, before adding, in a voice so soft it almost passed Julia by, “We were to be married—when there was peace. We both wanted the war to end too much…and not just for the people…”

  Paul trod water again, his tired arms feebly moving beside him. His whole body felt strained and stretched from his efforts to swim up and out of the black depths.

  But no matter how far he swam, and how far up, there seemed no end to the awful darkness. Paul had begun to think that it moved with him, and he could swim a thousand kilometers and it would still be there.

  Worse, every time he could swim no farther and even treading water was too much, he sank down for what seemed an eternity. It was rather a nice feeling, slowly sinking. It made Paul sleepy, and it would be very easy for him to give up and go to sleep.

  He would have too, except for one thing: the water-breathing spell. Paul couldn’t remember exactly what Sevaun had said, but he thought the spell would only last for the Festival day—and that day must be nearly over.

  Drifting ever downwards, Paul asked himself what Julia would do, or Aleyne…or even Quigin. But it was no use. He was sure that they would find some way out, but he couldn’t think of what they might do. After all, he was up against Magic, as well as being on the very bottom of the sea.

  Magic…thought Paul suddenly. I’ve got Magic too…

  He carefully opened his pouch, thrusting in a hand to make sure nothing would fall and be whisked away by currents. The Blood, still a ball of warmish jelly, met his fingers first, but he pushed it aside to grab the feather that was the Breath. It was of the Air—perhaps it could help him get back to the surface.

  From the moment it left his pouch, Paul knew it was a good idea. The feather radiated a soft blue light that relieved the darkness of much of its terror. And it felt buoyant, and seemed somehow to be bigger than it used to be.

  In fact, it was bigger, Paul realized—and growing—stretching out tremendously, and with every surge of growth, Paul felt it rising up, carrying him with it. Within a few minutes, it was a meter long, and speeding up like a bubble in a glass of soft drink, Paul hanging on with all his remaining strength.

  Seconds later, they burst out into the cavern of the light-fishes, but the feather didn’t stop. For an awful moment, Paul thought they were going to rise to the roof of the cavern and be trapped there like a real bubble, but the feather changed direction, and sped for the weed-strewn gateway.

  Then, like a giant’s shout, a voice boomed through the water, its rage and anger shaking Paul right through to his bones. Looking back, he saw the black whirlpool spinning and whirling at great speed—and out of it came finned shapes, all over ten meters long, with skins of dusty white. Paul knew at once that those were no dolphins, but great white sharks.

  The sharks snapped at the light-fish, and wove back and forth like hounds sniffing out a scent. Then they swung their long heads towards Paul, and he imagined their hungry, single-minded eyes focusing on him—for in unison, they all curved around to charge directly at the racing feather and the boy.

  “Come on! Come on!” shrieked Paul, as he felt the feather slowing to negotiate the weeds. He swarmed farther up the feather, and started urging it along as if it were a horse. Behind him, the sharks didn’t even try to avoid the weed-barriers. They just ploughed right through, and seemed hardly slowed at all. Then the feather was out of the weed, and in the blackness of the trench. It seemed to pick up speed again, but Paul could no longer see the sharks. He kept looking back and thinking he saw a flash of white in the feather’s bluish glow, and every time his heart beat even faster, till he felt that it was shivering a thousand times a second, and not really beating at all.

  Those few minutes in the total blackness of the abyss, never knowing when a shark would catch up, were among the worst in Paul’s life—but there was also an exhilarating, exciting feeling in the sheer speed of the jetting feather; and Paul felt less afraid when he saw the first smattering of light above, and no white shapes behind.

  They broke the surface like a flying fish, Paul holding his breath as they hurtled over ten meters into the air, and then back into the water again. In that arcing flight, Paul had caught sight of two things: land, and fins breaking the water. Both were about five hundred meters away, though the fins were getting closer every second.

  As they sank below the surface again, Paul felt confident of continuing to outdistance his pursuers—until the feather began to shrink in his grasp, and he had to start kicking to keep from sinking. In a few seconds, the Breath had shrunk to its normal size, and Paul was swimming at his own slow pace. He frantically struck out towards the shore, occasionally sticking his head out of the water to check the direction—and finding he still couldn’t breathe the air. He didn’t look back—he knew the danger of slowing, even for a second. Besides, it was better not to know, he thought—better just to be taken without warning.

  Just then, something did touch his foot, and he screamed and looked back—straight at a dolphin’s snout.

  Relief flooded into him as the dolphin surged alongside. Without needing to be prompted, Paul grabbed the dolphin’s fin, and it accelerated away towards the shore—very directly, without the high-spirited jinking and leaping the dolphins had displayed before. Obviously it knew about the sharks.

  Relieved of the effort of swimming, Paul took a long look behind—and there they were. Four long, fearsome shapes bearing down towards him, minds set on eating. They seemed very fast.

  Paul clutched the dolphin even tighter, closed his eyes, and pressed his cheek against the dolphin’s comforting side—so he missed seeing its prodigious leap out of the water and onto a long green wave that was curling into the beach.

  He opened his eyes when he felt the extra burst of speed, and the foam rushing past his face, as dolphin and boy surfed onto the beach and slid three meters up the wet sand, straight to the feet of Quigin and Sevaun.

  Paul goggled at them stupidly, and made sucking fish-like motions with his mouth, choking on the air—till Sevaun touched his nose and mouth with her seashell wand, and he could breathe again, sob with relief, and lie in the sand next to the beached dolphin.

  Since Paul was obviously incapable of explaining what had happened since they parted, Quigin lay face-to-face with the dolphin, and seemed to have a lengthy and interesting conversation—obviously Quigin had learned dolphin-talk very quickly.

  Sevaun stood silently, watching the fins of the sharks circle out beyond the surf. When they left, and headed for the open water, she helped Quigin push the dolphin into deeper water, and drag Paul farther up the beach.

  “I seem to do a lot of this,” said Quigin amiably. “I mea
n, dragging you out of the water.”

  “Thanks,” mumbled Paul. “You won’t have to any more. I’m never going for another swim in my life.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Sevaun. “Of course you will.”

  “And I’ll drag you out if you need it,” added Quigin. “By the way, did you see anything interesting down that crevasse?”

  “Um, yes,” replied Paul, rather surprised to think of it like that. “I suppose I did.”

  “Let’s hear about it then,” said Quigin impatiently. “What sort of things live down there?”

  “Can’t I have a rest first?” asked Paul. “And shouldn’t we find Deamus and the others?”

  “Father’s at the castle, with…with most of the others,” said Sevaun, in a rather trembly voice. “We only came back to look for you a little while ago—and then the dolphin said you were on the way.”

  “The castle?” asked Paul. His brain felt as sodden with water as the rest of him, and he was having trouble working out just what was going on, and where it was going on at.

  “Caer Follyn,” answered Quigin, pointing inland. “And a very good castle it is too. The towers are full of owls, and there’re dune mice in the kitchens.”

  “Oh good,” said Paul faintly, though he didn’t quite see how the presence of owls and dune mice improved a castle. “Can we go there—and get something to eat?”

  “Of course,” said Quigin, helping him up. “You can tell us what happened on the way.”

  “And you can tell me what happened to Deamus and Sir Rellen and…” Paul began to say, when he noticed Sevaun was crying, and Quigin rubbing at his nose.

  “Ah,” said Quigin, for once rather somber and quiet. “Sir Rellen…Sir Rellen…”

  “The Gwarulch killed him,” whispered Sevaun. “Sir Rellen, Tannas and Fayle, Sedreth and Horvarth…”

  She stopped talking, and sniffed back the tears, as Quigin added, “Sir Rellen stayed behind to help the wounded get away.”

  All three were silent after that, and Paul thought of Sir Rellen when he’d first seen him, calmly handling a lobster—and those other names, of people he’d never known, but had probably seen, all laughing and smiling at the Sea Festival of Donbreye. Now he could never see them again.

  Paul slid his hand into his pouch, and felt the feather of the Breath and the teardrop of the Blood, and swore fiercely to himself that he’d find out how to use them, and stop the Ragwitch and all her creatures—to rescue Julia, and to help all the people whose lives the Ragwitch would take or ruin.

  “Come on,” he said firmly. “Let’s go up to the castle.”

  15

  Anhyvar/Aleyne

  JULIA FELT STRANGELY calm as they approached the top of the midden. Having made the decision to go on, she felt a sort of acceptance of her fate—whatever it was to be.

  There’d been another memory change about fifty meters from the top of the midden—but only a small one. The sun had suddenly blinked into night, and it had become very cold and windy. But within a minute, it was dawn, and warm again. And the land hadn’t changed at all.

  Perhaps, thought Julia, there could only be very small memory shifts this close to the midden. After all, it had to be one of Her most powerful memories.

  Ahead of Julia, Mirran suddenly stopped and stared ahead. Julia moved up the last few meters, and stood level with him—and looked out onto the shell-strewn top of the midden, gleaming white in the morning sunshine.

  In the very center, a ring of blue flames danced and flickered slowly, too slowly to be real flames. They were cold, too: Julia felt their chill, despite the warming sun.

  In the middle of the ring, she could just see a woman lying among the shells, her long red hair trailing out to one side. She wore a plain black dress, stark against the whiteness of the shells, and the silver star upon her breast sparkled with the blue light of the flames.

  “That is Anhyvar,” said Mirran quietly.

  “What do we do now?” asked Julia, as she tried to get a really good look through the circling flames. As she spoke, she shivered from the cold of the flames. The fire seemed to drain all the heat out of the air, and her breath came out like fog on a frosty night.

  “We must wake her,” replied Mirran. He hadn’t taken his eyes from Anhyvar, and now he stepped forward towards the icy flames, arms outstretched.

  “Don’t!” cried Julia, grabbing at his arm. “You’ll freeze!”

  “What?” he asked, gently prising her grip loose. “Freeze? Why should I freeze?”

  “The flames…they’re ice-cold…can’t you feel it?”

  “No…” replied Mirran thoughtfully. “What do you see…and feel?”

  Julia hesitated for a second, then looked hard at the flames, and felt the cold beating against her face.

  “I can see Anhyvar sleeping,” she answered, “in a ring of cold fire. The blue flames are sort of slow—and they’re very, very cold.”

  Mirran shook his head slowly, and narrowed his eyes, as if to concentrate his sight. Then he said, “I see Anhyvar sleeping, but no ring of fire. She sleeps inside a crystal coffin…”

  “What?” asked Julia, unexpectedly giggling. “A what?”

  “A crystal coffin…” replied Mirran, with a smile starting on his face as well. “Yes…that does seem unlikely. My mother used to tell me a story about a princess in a crystal coffin…”

  “Things aren’t always what they seem here,” said Julia, remembering Lyssa’s warning. “The wand shows me things as they really are.”

  “Yes…” murmured Mirran. Gingerly, he walked towards Anhyvar, one hand stretched out in front, as if he were playing blind man’s bluff.

  He was saying, “I still can’t feel anything,” when the very tip of his finger touched the ice-fire. It sparked out a cascade of icicles that jetted across his hands, and Mirran jumped back, cursing.

  “My thanks again, Julia,” he said as he retreated from the ring of flames, cradling his frozen fingers under his arms to try to recover some warmth.

  They stood in silence for a few moments, with Mirran looking at Anhyvar, and Julia staring at the flames, trying to make a decision. She thought of calling Lyssa, but somehow she knew that pointing to Anhyvar inside a ring of cold fire was not what Lyssa had meant when she’d said “when you have found Anhyvar.”

  “I’ll try,” she said, finally. “The wand should protect me…”

  The flames were like dancing icicles up close, radiating a bitter, biting cold. Julia shivered with both cold and fear, and reached out with one hand, into the outermost flame—and snatched it back, as the flames bit into her like some sort of needle-toothed beast, cold chilling deep into her bones. But the wand sent answering surges of warmth to help her; and within the ring, Anhyvar stirred and muttered, as if rising up from the deepest dream.

  For a second or two, Julia stood next to the flames, shaking and half sobbing, hands held tightly around the warmth of the golden wand. Fleetingly, she thought of turning back, but there was nothing to turn back to—except the Ragwitch, and becoming part of Her.

  “Haaaah!” Julia screamed, and leapt forward, throwing her entire body into, and through, the freezing flames. She fell onto the sharp shells on the inside of the ring, but couldn’t even feel the cuts in her cold-numbed hands. There was no sunlight here—only the cold blueness, dancing to the crackle of the icy fire.

  White and shivering, Julia went straight to Anhyvar, grasped her by the shoulders and yelled, “Wake up! Wake up! I’m so cold…please…”

  But Anhyvar only stirred slightly, and muttered into the pillow of her hair. Julia sobbed, and shook her again.

  “Wake up! Please wake up! I’m so cold…please…”

  Julia shook her again and again, and then began to cry, her tears falling and freezing as they dropped. Tears of ice fell like hail upon Anhyvar, and glistened against the black of her dress like diamonds. One tear fell on her face, and unlike the others, began to melt. Julia watched it turn back to wate
r, and trickle down the side of Anhyvar’s face, and then into the corner of her mouth.

  And as the tear disappeared, Anhyvar’s eyes flashed open. Unfocused for a moment, she seemed hardly alive. Then she shook her head, her eyes cleared, and she looked straight at Julia, who was still shaking her and crying. Without saying a word, the red-haired Witch sat up, and brought Julia close into a warming embrace. Only her silver star was cold, where it pressed against Julia’s cheek.

  Anhyvar slowly stroked Julia’s hair, and she felt the cold ebb from her limbs to be replaced by a warm, glowing feeling. But still Anhyvar said nothing, so Julia looked up at her face.

  She was staring out at the flames, and Julia saw that she was looking at Mirran, and somehow beyond him as well, and there was a great sadness in her face. Out over Julia’s head, she whispered, “So much pain…”

  Then, after a long, sighing breath, she said, “I have slept overlong it seems. And much has been done while I slept that should never have been done.”

  “Then you know,” whispered Julia. “You know that you’re not…well…not really…”

  “Alive?” replied Anhyvar. “Since that day at Sleye I have been a prisoner within myself, and my body has become, in turn, both North-Queen and Ragwitch, while my true self slept. I would rather have truly died than these things should happen. But you have woken me at last, Julia…”

  “You know my name?” asked Julia, surprised. It felt rather good to hear her name from this woman who’d taken away the deathly cold.

  “Now I am awake,” said Anhyvar, “I know all the Ragwitch knows—for I am Her, and She is me.”