The Silver Witch (31 page)

‘There is
ever
danger near.'

At this, Rhodri rolls his eyes. ‘Alas, I fear our venerable Seer, for all her gifts, has not the art of relaxation, my prince.'

Wenna smiles. ‘But brother, it is her role, to warn us of the darkening skies that herald the thunder, of the departing geese that foretell famine, of the sickening mouse that speaks surely of broad disaster.' She keeps her words gentle, but the mockery is plain for all to hear. That I failed to help her conceive a child of her own is not a matter she will forgive. That I have since provided her husband with a daughter is more than sufficient cause for her to loathe me forever.

Nesta laughs loudly, even though her mouth is stuffed with bread. Si
ō
n joins in, his boyish sniggering and red cheeks making him appear younger and sillier than ever.

Hywel bangs his tankard on the table. ‘Page! My vessel is empty, and the prophet has been offered neither seat nor refreshment. See to it!'

There is a deal of scurrying as a chair is brought and a boy hastens to fetch victuals for me. I shake my head.

‘I have no need of rest or food.'

The Prince is watching me closely. ‘We are, as ever, honored by your presence, Seer, but I wonder what it is that has brought you here?' he asks, the formal way he is bound to receive me clearly causing him discomfort.

Rhodri gives a bark of laughter. ‘' Tis not for the pleasure of our company then?'

The women find this remark amusing. Si
ō
n, evidently still too green to hold his ale well, is emboldened by his parent's lack of respect for me.

‘Oh, father, I know! She has come to dance for us! A merry jig and a cheery song to brighten our day!' He laughs at his own cleverness, hiccupping as he does so.

I refuse to be baited like a bear. With one flowing movement, I throw my cape back over my shoulder to reveal Tanwen. I lift her high, holding her up and turning slowly so that all in the room may see her. There is a collective gasp. Though her birth was not a secret, this is the first time my child has been seen by any besides myself and her father. She has known no more than two moons, and has still the purity of the newborn about her. I have dressed her in a simple muslin shift, so that her plump, pink arms and legs wriggle free, her paleness—
my
paleness—clear. Young as she is, she has a head of hair soft as thistledown and white as cotton-grass. Already her stout heart and singing soul are evident, for she is not afraid, but gazes about her with interest, happy and curious. There is a tension in the room now. All eyes are upon this tiny likeness of myself.

‘Bear witness to the coming of a new Prophet of Llyn Syfaddan! Behold Tanwen! Destined to one day hold the position of Shaman, Seer, Prophet. Born in the magical waters of the lake, carrying the ancient magic in her blood. Descendent of the revered witches of Llyn Syfaddan. Blessed by the Afanc herself. Daughter of our noble ruler, Prince Brynach!'

There is a louder gasp now. For all the rumors and tittle-tattle regarding my child's parentage, to hear Brynach so boldly named as her father shocks them. Wenna's expression tightens. Rhodri scowls, not so much as attempting to mask his displeasure. There are murmurings all around, and people shift and shuffle, the better to see this strange and wonderful child. I lower her and step forward until I am standing directly opposite the prince. We are separated by the worn wooden table, and by centuries of tradition that dictates a noble man must take a noble wife. I offer Tanwen to him.

‘Will you hold your child, my Prince?'

The murmuring and fidgeting behind me stops instantly. The room is filled with such a silence as might be found in an empty tomb. I would swear an oath that Wenna is holding her breath. I can clearly see Rhodri mouthing soundless curses at me. For this is a moment heavy with meaning, and all present know it. Tanwen can never be a titled child in the royal household, but in the absence of a legitimate heir she does have a position, an unassailable place, as the only offspring of the prince. To acknowledge her now would be to underline this, would bestow a measure of status upon this little one that could never be taken from her. Were Brynach to spurn her, however, were he to lose his nerve, to falter in his deep love for her, to be swayed by the vitriol and ambition of his wife and her family, then Tanwen would never know true respect. Would never be able to claim her rightful place. Would be banished to the shadows and margins not only by her physical heritage, but by the bastardy of her birth.

He hesitates. The pause stretches too long and too wide. And I become aware of something else. Of another level of influence at play. At the far edge of my thoughts, where my mind melts into my ancient soul, I hear whispering. Whispered words that are urgent. No,
vehement
. I pay heed to them, straining to catch their meaning and to discern their origin. And now I have it! A hex! Clear as a full moon in a summer night's sky. Dark magic, sent to turn my prince from the path of truth, to bend his will and plant black-hearted notions in his mind. Nesta! This is her wicked work!

I put my eyes on her. My eyes and my own sharp-edged will. She does her best to look away, to evade me, but she cannot. Her wavering gaze is locked into mine, and I send to her—
into
her—such a shock of magic, lake born and nourished, fierce with the ancient enchantments I have been blessed with, that she cannot continue with her loathsome efforts. The whispers cease.

Prince Brynach blinks away his confusion. He smiles. He reaches across the table and takes Tanwen in his arms and the two exchange the sweetest of glances. He bends over her and kisses her tenderly.

‘Hurrah for Tanwen!' The cheer goes up and others join in the cry. More ale is called for, as Hywel demands a toast to the new babe, and the room is filled with good wishes and merriment. Amid it all Wenna remains still as a standing stone. I pity her. I admire her quiet dignity. Nesta's face blackens with fury. Rhodri gets to his feet, muttering his refusal to be a part of such outrage. But Brynach notices none of this, for he has eyes only for his beautiful baby daughter.

 

17

TILDA

For Tilda, the garden feels like the best place to try out the bracelet again. Being outdoors makes sense, feels curiously safer. As if the energy the thing unleashes is too much to manage when confined. Better not to have heavy stone walls boxing her, and it, in. She has kept it with her, in her pocket, or sitting on the worktop in the studio while she works, but has resisted putting it on again. Until now. She feels as if she has been holding back from indulging in a delicious treat, but at the same time she is more than a little apprehensive. Her memory of the strange visions and sensations wearing the bracelet caused is a powerful one; her belief in her own ability to control such a force and stay safe has dwindled somewhat. The recollection of the first time she wore it, of the fire, of Dylan being flung against the wall, of the giddying chaos, lingers in her mind still.

I'm alone up here. If something went wrong … But then, at least I won't be putting anyone else in danger. Not risking someone I care about. Better this way.

Tilda has also been surprised that there have been no further scary visitations from the ghost from the grave at the dig. At first she thought it might be because the stone had been firmly put back in place, but then she remembered the earlier apparitions happened before it had been moved. Thinking about it, she feels certain now that the bracelet has something to do with it. Or rather, what happens when she puts the bracelet on. And if that is the case, then she needs to learn how to withstand the disturbing force it unleashes. Needs to see if there is some way she can harness it to protect herself and Dylan.

The snow still lies thick and frozen. Everything in the little garden, from the low stone wall, the wooden gate, the flagstoned path, the small lawn and the slumbering flower beds, to the frozen birdbath, is coated in a crisp layer of icing white. The valley below, and even the lake itself, sit snugly beneath their sparkling new coat of frosting. The distant mountains appear almost Alpine. Tilda tugs her beanie lower on her head, does up the toggles of her duffle coat, and moves to stand in the center of the lawn with her back to the house. Thistle watches her quizzically. Under the holly bush, a robin searches for something to eat. In the meadow farther down the hill, sheep bleat as they follow the farmer on his quad bike, eager for the sugar beets he is doling out of sacks into long dark lines on the snow. All is as lovely and as normal and as typical a scene of the countryside in winter as could be. All except for the shiver that travels down Tilda's spine as she takes the bracelet from her pocket. A shiver not brought about by the cold, but by a thrilling blend of anticipation, excitement, wonder and fear.

She wriggles the bracelet over her hand, her fingertips showing blue-tinged cold out of her fingerless gloves. With awkwardness, she pushes the gold band up under the sleeve of her duffle coat, beneath her fleece and thermal T-shirt, until she feels the metal's now-familiar warmth against her flesh. The transformation is immediate. Straightaway, the bracelet's charge, its energy, courses through her body, banishing the chill of the December day, filling her with a warm strength. Where the gold sits against her bare skin she feels as if she is being burned, feels certain that this time there will be a mark, a scarring from such heat. And yet she has no wish to stop it, to remove the bracelet. The pain is a price she is more than willing to pay.

She starts to hear whispering voices and to see the flitting figures and shapes once more, always moving, always on the very periphery of her vision. Beside her, Thistle begins to whimper. Tilda is aware of her dog's anxiety. She wants to say something to comfort her, to reassure her, but no words will come. Her whole being is overwhelmed by the tumultuous experience wearing the bracelet triggers. Once more, she becomes aware of a change in the quality of the light around her. Even here, outside, in the brightness of the day. There is a phosphorescence to the air that surrounds her. More movement disturbs her vision, and again the lurching giddiness threatens to take control of her stomach.

Tilda closes her eyes tightly and the shapes become instantly clearer, sharper, bolder. She sees the hares again, running, ears flat, twisting this way and that. And the hound, silent and swift. And birds again, cawing crows this time, and a buzzard casting a broad dream of a shadow with its majestic wings. Tilda searches for faces. And for the
Afanc
. She longs to find the magnificent creature. Wants to experience again its ancient, magical presence. But today it is absent, and the dancing animals move ever faster, increasing her dizziness. The ringing in her ears is building, too, quickly reaching a painful level.

It's too much. I can't control it!

Instinctively, she opens her eyes. The supernatural brightness is shocking, making her blink and gasp, her sensitive eyes smarting, her vision blurring. For a moment she fears she will fail; that all she can do is snatch off the bracelet to make it all stop. She has her hand on the gold loop, ready to wrench it from her arm, and yet she pauses.

It's not the bracelet … it's me. This is in me, somehow. And if that's true, then I must be able to handle it. I must!

Slowly she takes her hand away, holding her arms out to balance herself. No shapes appear in the blinding whiteness that reflects, dazzling, off the snow. No diamond-eyed woman. No mythical water-horse. Just glare and noise, both painful and overwhelming. Tilda can feel her heart thudding, the beat of it pounding against her eardrums, blood surging, the sensation of plummeting threatening to make her pass out.

No! Dammit, no!

She flings her arms wide and her head back.

‘Stop!' she shouts, the word echoing around the valley, rebounding off the hills again and again, repeating and insisting.
Stop! Stop! Stop!

And it does. Or at least, the unmanageable parts of it do. The deafening ringing noise ceases at once. The strobing whiteness fades to a softer glow. The swirling sensations and the bewildering giddiness abate, so that she stands steady now, stable, strong. She is aware of a powerful tingling in her hands and feet, and when she looks closer she sees that her fingertips are fizzing. Tiny blue flashes crackle from them, like the arcing of circuits shorting out. Tilda steps over to the snow-covered stone birdbath on the wall and reaches out to touch it. As her fingers get close the snow recedes, melting as quickly as if she had touched it with fire. Cautiously she brings her fingertips to her cheek. There is a zinging vibration, but no pain, no burning. She looks around the garden. Thistle stands close by, her eyes never leaving her mistress. If she is frightened she does not show it.

‘What is it?' she asks herself as much as the dog. ‘What am I supposed to do with …
this?
' She flicks her right hand outward as she speaks and a burst of something invisible yet tangible flies from it, a pulsating wobble through the bright air. It connects with the holly bush, causing every flake of snow on it to explode into a million white crystals before they melt into nothing. The little plant stands out oddly, its prickly leaves glossy and green amid the whiteness. Tilda tries again. This time she carefully waves her hand at the garden bench. Although she stands three long strides from it, it is as if she is sweeping it clear of snow with a heated broom. In seconds the worn wood is exposed, and the snow at its base recedes to reveal the yellow-green grass of the lawn.

Tilda laughs, self-consciously at first, and then joyfully; a wild, visceral sound. Thistle reacts to the break in the tension and bounds about the garden, chasing the clumps of snow Tilda now flicks off the cottage roof, leaping at the showers of ice she causes to rain down from the branches of the apple tree, biting at the dozens of snowballs she hurls through the air without moving a single step from where she stands. Using nothing but the magic that fills her to the brim. Reveling in the warmth and the joy of it. Laughing through it all, happier and more complete than she has been in a very, very long time.