The Silver Witch (23 page)

‘Who comes there?' I call out, sensing that the danger is very real. I am trapped against the lake. I cannot run from them, and even if I attempted to do so, their mounts look fast and strong and would soon be upon me. ‘Give your names, if you are not afraid to do so,' I demand, hoping to goad them into revealing their identities.

But they do not speak. They urge their horses on until they circle me so close I am flecked by foam from the mouths of the destriers as they champ their iron bits. The silence of the men is menacing. It is clear by the way they watch me, drawing nearer and nearer, that they are not on some night hunt, nor making a journey, but they have come in search of me. And now I am found. I take my blade from my belt and turn as they circle me, trying to watch both riders, but they dig their spurred heels into the flanks of their increasingly agitated horses, spinning about me, faster and faster. Had I time to prepare, I might have cast a spell to protect myself. I could have transfixed their horses, or sent an apparition to confuse my assailants, or disguised myself. But I am caught unawares, alone, away from my home, my back to the water.

‘What do you want from me? Who sent you?' I shout, for it is plain they are here on the instructions of another. These are not schemers or planners, not men of thought and guile. These are brute weapons, wielded by one who hides in safety while they go about his or her work. These are nothing more or less than instruments of death.

The first blow misses me only because I hear the sound of the sword cutting through the air as it descends, and spring to my right. The first rider wheels his horse about, while the second charges straight at me. I time my jump poorly, and though his sword does not find its target, his horse catches me a glancing blow and I am knocked to the ground. I leap to my feet, slicing at the leg of the nearest attacker. He screams curses. I press home my advantage, raising my arms and shrieking a hex as I run at his horse's head. The animal is spooked by the combination of my voice, the harsh words and my wolf headdress, sending it skittering sideways, so that the rider momentarily loses control of the horse, distracted as he is by the blood that begins to gush from his wounded limb.

I spin about, ready to face the second man, but I am too late to avoid him this time. He is already so close that I snatch his horse's bridle, forcing the animal to twist as it slithers to a halt. The attacker has no room to swing his sword about, so instead he brings the hilt down upon my head. His aim is expert, so that he avoids my headdress, which might have afforded me some protection, striking me through only the skin of the wolf. The crunch of my own skull as the force of the metal connects with it echoes through my head, and I crumple to the ground. The snow softens my fall, but the blow has left me helpless. That I should be rendered defenseless with a single strike! I feel anger at myself. I let down my guard, and now I am paying the price. My would-be assassin looms above me, his horse's iron-clad hooves churning the snow to a filthy mush as it fidgets and stamps. He cares not if it treads upon me. My eyes start to fail, so that everything swims before them, shifting and blurring. I can discern the movements of my attackers, and I feel the thud through my body as the nearest one dismounts and strides toward me. Who is it, I wonder idly, who wants me dead? Who have I angered so? Who has most to gain? Had I time, I could seek out the answers. But my life can now be measured in seconds. Through the cloud that drifts before my eyes, that has come to claim my final vision, I see the henchman stand above me and raise his sword in both hands, high above his head.

There is a cry. From the second rider. The swordsman hesitates. He looks away from me, first toward his fellow, then forward. He does not bring down his mighty sword. He does not deliver the fatal blow. Instead he staggers backward, in such haste that he stumbles, dropping his weapon and falling onto the snow, only to scramble as quickly to his feet once more. Both men are shouting now. As my attacker hauls himself onto his whinnying horse and whips it into a gallop, I hear a low rumble behind me. With failing strength, I roll to my side and push myself up onto my elbow, raising my shattered head as best I can. Now I see what has driven terror into their black hearts—the Afanc! She has returned to save me! She rears up, high above the water, lifting her head and letting loose a blast of sound unlike any that exists apart from within her. Her noble face is the last thing I see before I slump into the snow and drift into the comfort of the beckoning darkness.

*   *   *

On my bed of snow, the winter air filling my lungs, the cold masks my pain. I do not suffer. I could slumber here, as I fade to eternal stillness, and not experience any agony of death. It is tempting to do so. To allow myself to be drawn to that place where I may at last take my ease, no longer troubled by the woes of the world, the quarrels of men, the ravages of age, the ache of my own foolish heart. Yes, it is tempting. But what of my prince, then? If he is truly in danger, and now I must believe him to be, who else but I can warn him of the treachery that will see him dead? I must tell him of my vision. I must show him what happens to those who point the finger of suspicion at his nonblood kin. I must speak to him. I must go to him.

But my senses are numbed, my limbs doubled in weight, my will draining away with my blood into the snow. Such a cumbersome thing, the body of a human. Too much reliance lies in the head. Too much. We have let our frames become frailer down generations, in favor of our seething minds and greedy hearts. Instinct has been dulled by thought. I cannot get to my feet, let alone drag myself back to the crannog. As I am, I am finished. My only hope, then, is to become other than I am.

I have none of my shaman's tools to aid me. I am away from my potions and infusions. I do not have the luxury of time to conjure or spellcast. I must act quickly, before the cold that holds me so softly hastens me to my end. I must make that leap, as I have done so many times before, but this time I make it unaided. And I must do so not in a vision, not leaving my womanly body to sit by the fire while my spirit travels where it will. Not this time. This time, my transformation must be complete. I must take my damaged body with me. I must shapeshift to my other self, my stronger, lighter, fleeter self, which will be able to withstand the wound, to carry me on lithe limbs, quickly and silently across the snow to the crannog. To my prince.

No rituals can help me now. No ancient words or incantations will work. What must effect my change is pure nature. What lies within me. What magic spark I was born with, when I was kissed with the blessing of my visions and given the name Arianaidd. I form no thoughts. I call upon no deities or forces. I merely allow myself to change. Change or die, for the two paths sit side by side, and I could with the greatest of ease slip along the wrong one, never to return. I feel my hands and feet twitching, my muscles tense and jerk. Are these the beginnings of my transformation, or of my death throes? There is a burning in my chest now, as it squeezes in upon itself, robbed of air. Am I shrinking to my other self, or have I drawn my last breath in any earthly form? I feel as if I am falling from a great height, and there is a rushing sound in my ears, as if the waters of the lake were flooding into me, into my body and my soul. The darkness presses down on me. Whatever alterations are taking place, I cannot resist nor influence them, but merely be carried by them.

And I am changed!

As I am, I can raise myself from my death-cold snow bed and stand, teetering, on four paws. My head hurts me, but my strong new body is better built to withstand such pain, better made to run than to think. The winter air has cooled my wound so that the blood does not flow from it. I am unsteady. I am still a broken thing. But I can carry myself. I can! My fur is so wonderfully warm, and that warmth revives me. My low stance means the top of the snow is level with my eye, so that I must stand up on my hind legs, using my short tufted tail to help me balance. Now I have a clear view of the land around me. I hop cautiously away from the lake, for I am not a creature of the water. How strange to move across the ground on silky paws, ears flicking to pick up sounds, to warn me of danger, of swooping owls, of hungry foxes. With every tentative step, my courage builds so that soon I am bounding toward the crannog, covering the distance in no time, the speed making my tiny heart beat like a war drum, and my spirits lift. It is a joyous thing to be so nimble. I am so reveling in my newfound strength that I am at the wooden walkway to the crannog before I notice my wound is bleeding again. I can feel the hot blood, sticky on my fur. I must go on. The watchman is pacing along the boards, blowing into his hands to keep them from freezing. He looks this way and that as he is bound to do, but his line of vision is well above even the black tips of my ears. I move swiftly across the construction that links the crannog to the shore and slip behind the smithy's workshop. I know where my prince lies sleeping, and I take the most direct path to the great hall. Everyone else is in their bed. A lazy cattle-dog in the doorway to a barn raises its head from its paws as I pass, but tonight he has no appetite for a playful chase, and a belly too full to care that a meal is walking past. The door of the hall is closed. I wonder how I will get in, but at this moment it opens. One of the villagers has come out at the urging of his bladder. While he stands facing the wall and lets loose onto the snow-white ground a stream of steaming yellow, I slip inside unnoticed. It is so very hot in the hall, though the fires have burned down to nothing. There remain several torches burning low in sconces fixed to the walls. So many men, women and babes lie packed within, snoring and filling the borrowed air with their stink. How base humans can be! I glide between their slumbering forms, taking particular care not to wake the sleeping hunting dogs by the hearth. At the far end of the hall sits the stately royal bed with its heavy drapery. I wriggle between the closed curtains. Now I see my prince, still dressed, as are most following their lengthy celebrations. He lies atop the coverlets, his princess sleeping beside him. Will he know me? How will he react to find me as I am? Will I succeed in making him understand or will he fear he is in the grip of a nightmare? I have no choice but to try. For his sake, if not my own. He sleeps with one arm flung out so that it dangles from the bed. I reach up my nose and sniff his palm, letting my whiskers tickle his skin. He flinches, the sensation stirring him. I raise my front paws up onto the bed beside him and nudge his arm. He shifts, pulling his hand in from the cold to tuck it beneath his head as he turns on his side. At least now he is facing me. I hop up beside him and for a few seconds watch him sleep. The notion of lying down next to him is an appealing one, but it would be my last act. Droplets of blood from my broken head spill onto the prince as I lean over him, dropping onto his cheek. He murmurs, and his eyes open. He peers at me through the smoky gloom, frowning. I see that he is about to swat me away and go back to sleep. How can I make him see who I am? If I cause a commotion and the hounds awake, that will be the end of me. When he tries to shoo me from the bed I do not shy away, as he might expect, but sit tight. His frown deepens as he raises his head, puzzled by my curious behavior. He puts his hand to the blood on his cheek and then sees the gaping wound between my ears.

‘Be gone!' he whispers, batting me lightly with one hand while pushing himself up with the other. A way off, on the other side of the curtains, I hear one of the dogs stir upon hearing his master's voice. I must do something to make him understand, to make him see me, but what? A giddiness is swamping me now, my limbs losing their wild strength. Soon I shall succumb to my injury. I open my mouth, but as I am I cannot speak. There is only one path left to me. I pray my actions will not be too slow. I dare not leave the prince's side, for his dogs would surely find me now. Quickly, I stretch out beside him. He is too bemused and too sleepy to react roughly, and before he has time to push me from my place I close my gimlet eyes and let myself fall backward, away from this furry form, back to my true self. I am in darkness as my shape shifts once again, so that I am not able to witness the astonishment on my prince's face as he watches the small woodland animal at his side quiver, fade, and pulsate as it dissolves and then, miraculously, reforms.

‘Seren!' I hear him gasp. And then I feel him take me in his strong arms as the agony returns to my head and I slide back into oblivion.

*   *   *

The first of my senses to return to me as I wake is that of smell. Woodsmoke. Boughs of oak, hot and slightly bitter, with some green hazel, hastily gathered and hissing as it burns. Beyond this I detect male sweat, both sweet and sour at once. And broth of some sort, several days old. And, oddly, lavender. Such a fragrance does not seem to fit. I try to open my eyes, but this causes me such pain, any brightness as my lifted lids allow stinging my eyes and sending a bolt of heat through my head. I remember now my injury, and attempt to raise a hand to examine the wound. My limbs are leaden, my movements clumsy. The effort of such a small activity causes me to cough, spluttering at the dryness in my throat, the fire smoke irritating me further as I gulp air.

Suddenly there is someone leaning over me, grasping my wrists, preventing me from moving! I hear mumbled words and am unable to discern their meaning. I struggle, but am weak as a newborn lamb. My eyes, painful or not, spring open. A man kneels beside where I lie, holding me fast, determined I should neither raise myself up nor wriggle away from him. He speaks more loudly.

‘Be at ease, woman. You are safe. All is well,' he says.

The voice is familiar, but in my addled state I cannot place it. And I doubt the truth of his words. I want to respond, to shout at him, but can manage only a croak, whereupon my captor fetches a beaker of water and bids me drink. I discover I have a fierce thirst, and would drain the vessel if he did not stop me.