Sightwitch

by Susan Dennard

  And if I lose myself before my time for sleeping, then all my plans will fail. All our plans will fail.

  The Six and I balance beneath a knife’s edge. Which side will cut us, though, is yet to be seen.

  Eridysi Gochienka

  Y2786 D132

  MEMORIES

  Head Sister Nadya made me go outside today.

  “When was the last time you saw sunlight?” she demanded, having cornered me in my workshop. She scuttled around the room, clucking her tongue at my piles upon piles of notes. And my piles upon piles of rocks.

  “What are these even for?” She scooped up a handful of coastal limestone. “They leave dust everywhere, Dysi.”

  “Don’t touch them, Nadya.” I rubbed at my temples. By the Sleeper, this headache was getting worse. “Please. Everything is where it is meant to be.”

  “Except for you.” She dropped the stones clack, clack, clack atop their brethren and turned sharply toward me. “You do realize that you were supposed to take Sorrow duty three weeks ago.”

  My forehead wrinkled. “That sounds … vaguely … Maybe?” My frown shifted to a scowl. “You know I do not have the Sight like you. ’Tis hard to remember.”

  “Which is why I covered for you, Dysi, though I have a thousand other things to do.” Her expression softened. “And I covered the time before that too. And the time before that as well. Even though you lack the Sight the rest of us have, that does not excuse you from all Convent duties.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, though truth be told, I was not sorry. My inventions and my workshop—this was my world, and right now, I was stuck on this blighted Vergedi Knot. Everything beyond seemed trivial.

  “Well,” said Nadya, “you can pay me back by going to the Sorrow today.”

  It took half a beat for those words to settle in my mind. Then I was on my feet in an instant. “I cannot go to the Sorrow!” I opened my arms. “I am right in the middle of this—I think I have figured out the Knot, and if I can do that, we can finally open the doorways. No more Exalted Ones to enslave the people—”

  “ENOUGH.” Nadya drew herself up to her fullest height. “You make this excuse each and every time, and though ’tis a noble one, I am sick of it. When was the last time you bathed? Your blond hair has turned black with grime. A single day outside of this cave will not affect the Exalted Ones’ grip on the land.” She thrust a pointed finger at the door. “Besides, a change might shake things loose. Now, go.”

  I cringed.

  “Go, Dysi.”

  I went, and it was easily the longest ascent I’ve ever made. Or at least it felt that way. My thighs burned and my lungs ached, and I realized—with some horror—that it had been several days since I’d actually left my workshop in the mountain’s heart.

  I will say, though, now that I have bathed and sit at the Supplicant’s Sorrow to await any visitors to the Convent, Head Sister Nadya was right. It was good to step away. I needed the exercise, I needed the sunshine, and I needed the spring breeze against my cheeks.

  The scent of lilac is thick on the air.

  LATER

  Someone came to the Sorrow today. A man with sadness in his eyes and two daughters he could not raise.

  “Their mother … died.” He struggled to get those words out, speaking in the mountain tongue, though he looked No’Amatsi.

  “Can your tribe not help?” I asked. Afternoon fog curled around us, wispy vines to caress the bridge and the island.

  “I am amalej.” He shifted his weight, and his eyes briefly met mine. The first time since he and his daughters had joined me on the island. “I am a soldier in the Rook King’s army,” he continued, “and I’m often away. Please, can you not take them?”

  Lisbet, a girl of eight, stared at me, unflinching, with huge hazel eyes. I liked the stern set of her jaw; she would fit in well here. The younger girl, Cora, hid behind her father’s legs.

  “We can take them,” I said slowly, choosing my words with care. “But you must tell no one we have done so. The war brings too many orphans to our doors, and we struggle to find space—much less food.”

  His shoulders relaxed slightly. Relief…and loss too. No man wishes to be parted from his children, especially if they are all he has left of his wife.

  Lisbet, to her credit, gave no reaction at all.

  The man then twisted to reach for Cora, ready to pull her around. Yet he paused, his hand upon her dark head.

  “May I visit them?”

  The question was so low I scarcely heard. And though ’tis not allowed anymore—not allowed at all—I found myself reciting the old rules. “Yes. Once a month, you may come. On the day of the full moon.”

  A thoughtful nod. Even without this grief to shroud him, he seemed the sort of man who spent most of his time inside his own head. “I will return in two weeks,” he offered at last.

  Then he left.

  It hurt me to watch him say good-bye and walk away. To watch Cora weep and Lisbet grit her teeth against tears. He must be near to me in age, yet he has already lost so much.

  But this is the will of Sirmaya and the way of the Convent.

  After he had gone, I looked down at Lisbet. She held her sister’s hand and tried to keep Cora, halfheartedly, from chasing after their father.

  “First lesson of the Sightwitches,” I said, trying to mimic the authoritative way my mentor had spoken to me almost two decades ago. “There are no coincidences. If you are here, it is because you are meant to be here.”

  Lisbet’s eyes narrowed in thought, an expression almost identical to the one her father had made only minutes before.

  “What’s a coincidence?” Cora asked, and abruptly she stopped trying to pull away. In fact, she now leaned toward me with curiosity.

  “It’s when things happen that seem connected,” Lisbet answered. It was a much better definition than I could have offered. “Like when you want honey cakes and I also want honey cakes at the same time.”

  “I always want honey cakes,” Cora said softly.

  I smiled at that—a real smile, for already I knew these girls would fit in perfectly here. “Well, Cora, I happen to know we are having honey cakes at break this afternoon. And did I not just say, are there no coincidences?”

  The records tell me amalej are No’Amatsi whose tribes disbanded upon reaching the Witchlands. They do not follow the old ways from the East, and they are not bound by No’Amatsi laws nor do they even know the language.

  I find it strange, then, that the girls’ father would use the word “amalej.” How did he learn it? Who taught him?

  Ah, it matters not. I have work to do, yet for some reason, I cannot shake him from my mind …

  Ryber Fortiza

  Y18 D212 — 38 days since I became the last Sightwitch Sister

  DREAMS

  I dreamed of Tanzi last night. For the first time in all my life, I recall a dream.

  It was not a good one.

  Tanzi was trapped behind a wall of water. Screaming. But when I tried to reach her, she vanished.

  MEMORIES

  Nubrevnans have arrived in the South. In three of those long, shallow riverboats they use.

  I have spent the entire morning watching them from the telescope.

  The Rook told me they were coming. Or rather, during morning prayers, he swooped and cackled so much from the upper ledge that I finally snapped, “What, Rook?”

  Which of course earned a fresh slew of avian cursing.

  “The Rook,” I corrected the entire time I marched up to the telescope. “The Rook, the Rook, the Rook—I’m sorry!”

  I was still apologizing when my eye pressed against the looking glass … and immediately, my words died on my tongue.

  Boats were scraping ashore. Right on the spot where the river bends, slowing its rush from the falls.

  Soldiers marched onto the craggy beach, as well as women and men not in uniform but clearly as well trained.

  They intend to build something. I’m sure
of it, for half the crew turned to clearing pines with axes and saws, while the other half unloaded tents and tools from their ships.

  Two soldiers came too close to the falls. Close enough for the glamour’s magic to roll over them. But the spell did its job, as always, and they both turned away, confused.

  LATER

  The soldiers have made quick work, and their officer—an enormous man so pale that it’s as if all color has been leached out of him—is an Airwitch of some kind. He summons a wind to lift the fallen trees, and I have never seen anything like it.

  The Airwitch captain makes people smile often, though he never does. I can’t help but wonder why.

  I wish I could hear them. I wish I could join them.

  Ryber Fortiza

  Y18 D215 — 41 days since I became the last Sightwitch Sister

  DREAMS

  I dreamed of Tanzi again. She was shouting for me from behind the water. “Find me!” she cried. “Please, Ryber, before it is too late!”

  Again, I tried to grab her, but as soon as my fingers touched water, pain shot through my hands and into my skull. So fierce, it woke me up.

  Now I sit here in bed, sweating and breathing fast while the dawn birds chirrup outside as if nothing is wrong.

  MEMORIES

  I went to the Crypts for answers. The ghosts are lonely with no one to visit, so they cloyed and choked as soon as I passed through the chapel.

  When the Sightwitch Sisters claim the memories of the dead for their Records, some memories tug free. Snippets of soul that don’t want to be scrawled down. Wisps of glowing light that twirl and ooze, they flitter for all eternity in the Crypts, waiting to help any Sisters who ask for it. You give them a word and off they careen, searching the endless array of records and volumes and documents for any appearance of that word.

  There are so many of them, though, and they get so excited. This is why the Order of Two exists, for even with the Sight, the ghosts can quickly overwhelm the senses.

  Leaving a lone sister lost.

  But I have to understand my dreams, and the best place for answers—the best place in all the Witchlands—is the Crypts.

  Besides, the Order isn’t an official Rule of the Convent. It’s just a guideline.

  Look at you, said a voice in the back of my mind as I stood at the threshold from chapel into the Crypts. Breaking the Order of Two. What wild rebellion will you commit next?

  “Hush,” I ordered the voice. It sounded a little too much like Tanzi, and I didn’t need this hot wave of guilt building in my belly. Shoving it aside, I strode through the door.

  Where the ghosts promptly swarmed. Their cold whispers took root in my mind, growing and pressing down. Slippery, wordless voices. It felt as if I’d dived underwater. My lungs started to cave and my ears to pop.

  Thank the Sleeper I like being underwater, though. Diving with cave salamanders has always been fun to me—though Tanzi thinks it miserable. She rarely joined me in the cold pools beneath the Convent.

  She rarely went into the Crypts with me either.

  Eventually, when the ghosts grew tired of swishing and swiping against me, I was able to suck in a breath. Able to get my bearings.

  I stood on the balcony that overlooks the topmost level of the Crypts. Level 1 is like all the levels below it. (Well, at least until Level 5. I’ve never been below that, so I can only assume they look the same.)

  Row upon row of packed stone shelves spanned the roughly hewn cavern. Far, far in the shadows at the other end, a staircase spiraled into the stone and led to a new level, a new balcony.

  I picked my way down the ancient steps to Level 1, wishing all the while that my eyes would adjust faster to the dim Firewitched light of the Crypts. Though hundreds of sconces line the walls, most of the spells faded years, perhaps even centuries, ago. Now there is more shadow than light.

  And of course, more ghosts than people.

  At the foot of the stairs, they awaited my command. I’d never done this by myself before, and it took me a moment to gird myself. To make sure I was ready to follow wherever they led. At last, I puffed up my chest and declared, “Show me all Records on Sightwitch dreams!”

  I realized almost instantly, as my words passed from ghost to ghost, rustling outward, that I’d made a mistake.

  I had broken Rule 9.

  In my defense, I normally excel at using proper, precise language. But dreams were new for me. As was navigating the Crypts alone.

  And now it was too late to stop the ghosts from running wild.

  Off they went, dragging me with them. They shoved and guided, towed and chanted, “Dreams, dreams, dreams.” They swept me from one record to the next. Hide-bound, wood-bound, parchment, cloth—hundreds of Memory Records. Any and all that mentioned the word “dreams” they led me to.

  I withdrew no tomes from the shelves. I could barely remain standing. The ghosts were a tempest of cold and strength and loneliness.

  It was a feeling I knew all too well. I didn’t need more of it to scrabble over my skin or grapple down my throat.

  Yet there was no escaping that hollow cold, nor breaking out of the ghosts’ frantic pull. Until eventually, we reached the end of Level 5, and here, they all stopped at the dark mouth of a doorway that led farther into the mountain. The deeper levels of the Crypts.

  Beyond were steps. Beyond were older ghosts. Beyond were dangers that Serving Sisters could not face without the Sight.

  Yet beyond, there might also be answers …

  Panting from all the running, yet also shivering from all the ghosts, I gaped at the shadowy doorway, my feet nailed to the floor.

  I wanted to descend. Of course I did. I had been alone for forty-one days, and I wanted Tanzi back. I wanted all the Sisters back—especially if my dreams might actually mean something.

  You have already broken the Order of Two, said the voice like Tanzi’s. You might as well break Rule 16 and go below Level 5. No one will know you did it, Rybie-Ry.

  “No one except Sirmaya,” I muttered.

  Sure, but what good has following the Rules done so far? You’re stuck up here, and we’re all stuck down there. Besides, I still don’t think the Rules are even real.

  Such a compelling argument from my imaginary Threadsister.

  I leaned toward the doorway. The ghosts gusted up. My left foot lifted. The ghosts swirled and nudged. They wanted me to keep going. They wanted me to see what waited beyond—

  A shriek crashed through the Crypts behind me.

  I reeled about, grabbing for my knife. Someone was with me, someone was coming for me. Danger in the Crypts!

  But it was just the Rook, tangled with ghosts. Lots of them. His heat and life must have lured them close, and no matter how hard he flapped his wings, they only clustered tighter.

  Curse that bird. He had scared me. So badly I had to stand there for several ragged breaths, hand to my throat as I waited for my pulse to slow.

  And curse that bird again because now the ghosts were too addled to be helpful.

  I would have to return another time.

  Eridysi Gochienka

  Y2786 D134

  MEMORIES—

  Since yesterday, Nadya has been angling for Lisbet and Cora to be my charges. The last three meals, she has placed them directly beside me and murmured things like, “Lisbet reminds me so much of you” and “It is lovely to see how much Cora makes you smile.”

  Or, more pointedly, “You haven’t taken on any new girls in almost two years, Dysi. ’Tis time.”

  It is tempting. Cora was so sweet at the morning meal today, growing bolder with each hour she is here. And, oh, how infectious her laugh is. Meanwhile, Lisbet is sharp as a Sightwitch key. Question after question she plies at me.

  Did I mention their resilience too? I believe I spent my first week at the Convent crying. Yet the girls offered only a few mournful looks after that first bout of tears at the Sorrow. Since then, they have both been chin up and gaze forward.

&nb
sp; But I cannot take them on. The doors to each kingdom must be finished. Lady Baile and the others are depending on me—whole nations are depending on me.

  And each day that passes without a solution is one more chance for the Exalted Ones to discover us. To discover me.

  Two little girls are a distraction I simply cannot afford.

  Yet I also cannot seem to drop the notion.

  “What are those?” Lisbet asked when I pulled out my taro cards at the end of midday meal. Around us buzzed the voices of my Sisters, broken up by the clack of wooden spoons against clay bowls.

  It is such a habit. Whenever I need to make a decision, my fingers move for my pocket. I withdraw the cards, a question spinning so I can ask Sirmaya directly.

  “These are taro cards,” I told her. “You know the game?” At her nod, I explained, “I tied Sirmaya’s magic to these cards so that I may read the future.”

  “Is that the Sight?” Cora asked.

  For half a tight breath, the old shame swelled. But then it was gone. I had been a Sightless Sightwitch Sister for so long now, the claws of that truth had worn down to nubs. “No,” I said. “I don’t have visions like they have. I cannot look at something and recall it in perfect detail, and I cannot access the memories of the dead.”

  “But that is what the Sight is,” Lisbet insisted, and I found myself floundering.

  How could I explain this to a child? How could I succinctly describe the magic, the spells, and the all-knowing power of the Sleeper? This was not a Sight that I had been given but one that I had chosen to have.

  Nadya came to my rescue. “There are signs in the world all around us, girls. Clues to what Sirmaya, our sleeping Goddess, needs us to do. If you know how to look, you can find these hints without the Sight.”

  “There are no coincidences,” Cora asserted, her expression grave. A student reciting her latest lesson.

  I couldn’t help it. I smiled.

  “Precisely,” Nadya continued, offering me a smug side eye. “And the cards allow Sister Eridysi to see those portents more easily. Each card has a meaning, and the magic that binds the cards to Sirmaya dictates which card she will draw.” Nadya waved to me. “Show them.”