Sightwitch

by Susan Dennard

  The numbers were bookcases and shelves, I realized. Then I put it all together: this was an inventory of sorts. A crude, disorganized one, but the system covered almost every paper that my eyes scraped over.

  If there were rocks, jewels, drinks, and weapons in here, perhaps there were other things too.

  In a single movement, I snatched up the page and fixed my hardest frown on the Rook. “You’re telling me there’s a healer kit somewhere in this place?”

  Another purr, and this time, his wings lowered half an inch.

  I gulped and glanced at the paper now clenched in my fist. I’d broken the hourglass with likely half of the quicksilver in the top. Surely no more than another half hour had passed since then.

  Surely, surely I could save this man’s life and save Tanzi’s too.

  It was, if nothing else, my only option. The Rook would never let me leave otherwise.

  So with a prayer to Sirmaya—a frantic plea, really, that she keep my Thread-family safe—I smacked the paper on a table and set off to find a healer kit.

  5(?) hours left to find Tanzi—

  I wish I had more time. The workshop begged to be explored, with its three floors and running water—not Waterwitched, but with actual pumps and a spigot.

  It was an absolute marvel of inventions. Some magical, some mechanical. Some theoretical and scrawled upon paper. Some assembled and ready to be used.

  No dust coated the surfaces, no cobwebs clustered in the corners, and no moths had left holes behind. It meant a preservation spell rested over this space, like the ones that protected the records in the Crypts.

  It also meant this place was old.

  Old old. Judging by the spellings and grammar on each loose page, I would guess at least a thousand years old.

  But there was no time to dawdle. No time to explore.

  I found what I needed on the third floor. Not that I would have recognized it without the Rook to help.

  A shrill caw as I stepped off the stairs, then he arrowed over to a rolled red leather pouch. It hung on a hook above a spigot (the fourth I’d seen thus far). A quick peek inside showed salves, creams, tinctures with familiar names, and even a handful of tinder with a strip of flint.

  Another clever invention, for a small diagram sewn on an inside pocket showed how to start a fire by striking the flint against the pouch’s metal clasp.

  Whoever had crafted this place, she—or they—had been a true genius.

  I didn’t bother to roll up the kit before I rushed back down the spiraling flights of stairs and over to the Nubrevnan’s side.

  He still lay flat on his stomach, his face crooked awkwardly to one side. Goddess, he was massive, and there would be no avoiding his blood while I flipped him over.

  Yet he had to be flipped over. It took three tries and a full, groaning shout to manage it. Once on his back, though—once I was mere inches away and able to see beneath the grime that coated his skin and uniform—it hit me: I knew this young man.

  He was the officer from the Nubrevnan camp. The one I’d watched bellowing orders and building a watchtower.

  Perhaps it was the black oil that coated him, or perhaps it was simply the lack of a glass lens and distance to distort him, but either way, he looked different this close. For one, he was younger than I’d thought from afar. My age or near to it.

  Plus, the bones that made up his gangly limbs were surprisingly slender, surprisingly soft. Elegant, even, like the marble statues stowed away in the Convent cellar.

  Although marble didn’t bleed, this man most assuredly did. One of the shadow wyrms had slashed him from right shoulder to left hip, and though the clothing had sliced neatly, the skin had not. The edges were frayed and puckered, as if burned.

  Or as if frozen.

  He was lucky, actually, for the wyrm’s intense cold had cauterized most of the wound. Only the topmost quarter hung open and oozed.

  I gulped, then turned briefly away. While I’d gone through the same healing classes as every other Serving Sister, I’d never been adept at them—and I’d never grown comfortable with the sight of blood.

  On top of that, I’d never ever worked on a man before.

  I huffed an exhale. “Firmly gripped upon it,” I whispered. Then l turned to the healer kit and got to work.

  The minutes slid past, and without my hourglass to drip-drip, I had no concept of how many. I lost myself in the focus, and I swear by the Sleeper that I did not rush.

  Yes, I wanted to save my Sisters, but the Rook had been right: I could not leave another human to die.

  The bird watched from a nearby shelf as I washed water across the man’s wound. The oil—an almost tar-like substance—cleaned right off to reveal skin somehow even paler than the man’s face. Next, I rubbed in a Waterwitch healer cream to ward off corruption and followed with an Earthwitch salve to seal the wound and heal the skin.

  Such a massive man, all thick shoulders and wiry muscle, required almost the entire tubs of cream and salve.

  And finally, because I did not think it would hurt, I squeezed a few droplets of something called Cure-All directly atop the gash.

  Already, the man’s breath came more evenly. Already, the sheen of sweat had left his face, replaced by something that could almost be called warmth.

  As I returned the Cure-All to its pocket, I felt something else inside. Paper, waxed and folded. I slid it out—

  “You’re certain this isn’t Hell?”

  I snapped up my gaze, heart skittering, and met the man’s hooded, glassy eyes.

  “You’re … alive,” I offered eloquently. Then I looked away once more.

  He was close; I didn’t like it.

  “Thanks to you.” With a grunt, he pushed himself upright.

  Which brought him even closer.

  “Are there any Airwitched smelling herbs?” He patted his chest—not where the cut was this time. “My lungs feel … weak.”

  “No,” I answered, leaning away and towing the healer kit with me. “Also, you stink. Whatever you’re covered in, it’s disgusting.”

  He nodded. “Stinky, but at least healing! Aside from my lungs, I feel better than I have since … since I woke up inside a glacier with no clue how or why.” A smile quirked on his lips.

  It was much less scary than his previous grins.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, eyebrows bouncing. He really did look a thousand times better than he had only minutes before.

  That Cure-All must be special stuff.

  “Ryber Fortiza,” I answered before I could think better of it.

  “Ryberta Fortsa,” he murmured to himself. “Very Nubrevnan.”

  “It is not!” I smacked the pouch shut for emphasis—or tried to, but the paper inside got caught. Forcing me to yank it out and try again. “Because that is not my name!”

  He had the grace to flush.

  “My name is Illryan,” I went on. “It’s RY. BER—no ‘ta’ on the end—and then FOR. TEE. ZAH. Not … whatever it is you just said.”

  “Ry-ber,” he repeated, smiling once more. “For-tee-zah. Understood.”

  “Hmph,” was all I replied as I finished fastening the pouch and stood. The room listed; my stomach growled.

  There was nothing to be done for hunger, though. Preserving books and inventions was one thing. Food was quite another.

  “Careful now,” the young man said, reaching for me.

  I recoiled. “I’m fine.”

  He winced, hand withdrawing. “Sorry. No touching. I should know better by now.” He tried for one of his smiles, but this one was strained.

  “I don’t know your name,” I said, an attempt to change the subject.

  “Something we have in common, then,” he replied. “I don’t know what my name is either.”

  I blinked. “No idea … at all?”

  “No idea at all.”

  “I think I saw you,” I began, scooping up the healer pouch and folded paper. “You’re an officer in the Nubrevna
n navy, and you were building a watchtower.”

  “Perhaps.” He glanced down at his wound, the first time he’d shown any interest in it since waking. His forehead bunched tight, and I don’t think I imagined that the room turned suddenly colder.

  Then I remembered. “You’re an Airwitch too.”

  “Oh, right.” He lifted his left hand, where sure enough, mingled amid the oil was a diamond tattoo. “I saw that earlier, but if I have magic, I can’t seem to find it.”

  “I don’t think that’s how witcheries work.” I stepped toward him, already planning all the ways we could use his magic to navigate the rest of the mountain. “A little time, and I’m sure you’ll be able to use it again.”

  The Rook piped up then, crowing his agreement. Not that the man understood. He just nodded at the bird. “A pleasure to meet you too. And your name is … ?”

  “He’s the Rook,” I answered.

  “Very nice.” The young man saluted, fist to his heart.

  The Rook liked this, for he instantly flapped over to the man’s side and started purring.

  Traitor. He knew I wanted to leave. After all, I had healed the Nubrevnan. Now it was time to go.

  I glared at the Rook—and at the man—but they were so wrapped up in crooning to each other, they didn’t notice.

  My glower deepened, and I slapped the leather kit onto the closest table. Yet before I could return the paper to its rightful place, I caught sight of a single word scrawled upon its edge.

  MAP.

  My mouth went dry. Could it be? Surely Sirmaya would not favor me so. In a crinkling flurry of speed, I unfolded the page.

  And sure enough, my eyes landed upon a map of the mountain.

  It was all there. This workshop, the ice pathway from before. Even the shadow wyrm nest was marked along with the all the tunnels and passageways I’d tried earlier.

  None of that interested me, though. All I cared about was what waited ahead. The massive spiral on the bottom-most corner of the map that said SUMMONING.

  That was where the Sisters must go when Summoned, so that was where I needed to be.

  My breaths turned shallow with excitement. There was a long route that would cut me all the way around, tunnel after tunnel, passage after passage, or there was a shortcut.

  A blessed shortcut through a space labeled Paladins’ Hall.

  According to the map, crevices, cliffs, and dangerous drop-offs filled the triangular cavern, but I had an Airwitch at my side. And though he might not know how to use his magic now, I was certain we could figure it out by the time we reached this Paladins’ Hall.

  Grinning, I folded the map neatly back into shape and stowed it in a pocket right above my heart. Then I pinned my gaze on the Nubrevnan.

  “I have to call you something,” I declared, marching toward him. “So what will it be?”

  His eyebrows ticked up a notch. He paused his scratching at the Rook’s neck. “How about … your hero and savior? That has a nice tone to it—”

  I smacked him on the head.

  He laughed, which I had to admit was a nice sound. Though perhaps it was simply my own excitement brightening the moment.

  “Are you always like this?” I asked as he stood, stiff yet surprisingly energetic. “Or is it the pain making you act this way? Or perhaps that tincture labeled Cure-All?”

  “You mean, am I always this charming?”

  “Ridiculous was more what I had in mind.”

  “You wound me, Ryber Fortiza.” He reached a steadying hand to a table. “As for your question, I don’t know if I’m always this way. I cannot remember a thing.”

  Again, the air turned frosty. My breath fogged.

  “How about I call you Captain, then?” I pointed to his buttons. “That’s what the silver means, isn’t it?”

  “Captain,” he repeated, his gaze turning distant. “I suppose … hye, that will work.” The faintest dusting of snow began to fall.

  It landed on my face, a welcome cool against the scratches the Rook had left behind. And despite the sting on my cheeks, I grinned and grinned and grinned—for oh, yes, Sirmaya had blessed me indeed. A map and an Airwitch. I would reach my Sisters soon.

  “Then let’s go, Captain.” I spread my arms wide. “Assuming you feel up to it, I’ve found a way out, and there’s no time to waste.”

  “You mean you’re bringing me with you?” The snow stopped in a heartbeat.

  “Of course.” I whirled around before I had to see his terrifying grin, and aiming for the stairs, I fastened the healer kit to my belt.

  “I knew it!” Captain called after me.

  I couldn’t help it. I paused at the bottom step and glanced back. “What did you know?”

  And there it was: his smile. Although … it didn’t bother me as much this time.

  “Admit it, Ryber Fortiza,” he declared with a twirling hand. “You do think I’m charming.”

  Y2787 D106

  MEMORIES

  Lisbet returned from her Summoning today.

  She appeared in the Grove as all Sisters do after meeting the Goddess, but there was something different about her. I sensed it the instant the rock slid back within the dolmen.

  Power coursed off of her. It sent waves to dance upward through the dawn light. I do not think the other Sisters sensed it, for they do not work beside Sirmaya as I do. They are not accustomed to seeing Threads of power or sifting through them to grab hold.

  Lisbet walked tranquilly toward me, her gait as smooth as that of the dancers whom the Exalted Ones so love to watch at midwinter.

  Her eyes were more silver than I’ve ever seen. Almost transparent.

  She strutted right past Sister Nadya, who always greets new Sightwitch Sisters, and came for me instead.

  I must admit, I was frightened. I feared the power this little girl possessed, and I feared that somehow her time with Sirmaya had changed her.

  But as soon as she reached me, she flung her arms around my waist and hugged, hugged, hugged. I melted to my knees and towed her in more tightly.

  “We missed you,” I whispered to her while the other Sisters watched. No one made a move to stop us, and Nadya looked more puzzled than upset.

  “I know,” Lisbet said simply. Then she drew back until our eyes met. Hers almost hurt to stare into.

  So bright.

  “I must gather things, Dysi, and I will need your help to do it. A map, your flint pouch, and healing supplies. We must place them in your workshop. Then you must build two new tools for me. A viewing glass that will allow us to see the past lives of the Paladins.”

  “And what else?” I pressed.

  “A blade for killing them.”

  Gooseflesh prickled down my arms. I did not question for a moment that what she commanded did indeed need doing. Her words were not those of a child but of ancient, all-knowing truth.

  However, I did ask, “Why, Lisbet? What have you seen?”

  “I saw the last Sightwitch Sister go into the mountain. In a thousand years, she will pass through the halls with a Paladin at her side. We must prepare a path for her, Dysi, and we must get everything ready so she will not be lost.”

  “A thousand years.” The words tasted like fire. They seemed to dry my throat just from the uttering.

  Yes, Sightwitches lived in the future, but never—never—had I heard of a Sightwitch seeing so far ahead.

  The chill bumps on my arms spread to my neck. “Why must we do it now, Lisbet? Why not ten years from now?”

  “Because,” she said, a sudden smile flashing over her face—so at odds with the words that came next—“none of us will be here in ten years, Dysi.” She slid her hand into mine, and added, “Can we go see Cora now, please? Her throat should be all better, and she’s been asking for us.”

  3(?) hours left to find Tanzi—

  Having company made the journey much better.

  There.

  I wrote it because it’s true: having company made the journey better.
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  Yes, I was worried about Tanzi and the Sisters. Yes, I was trying to keep track of time’s passage as best I could. And yes, I constantly had to hurry Captain along. But it was nice not to be alone.

  Captain was fascinated by everything. He asked a thousand questions, like some newly arrived Serving Sister to the Convent.

  In fact, just as I had with many a new Sister, I had to explain who the Sightwitches were, what our mission was, and why I was inside the mountain at all.

  I told him everything. About our benevolent Goddess Sirmaya, about the Rules and the glamour, about how I had been the only Sister left. I told him that, despite thirteen years here, I’d never been Summoned inside the mountain.

  He was so easy to talk to, and for a man with an injured chest and no memories, he was a surprisingly good listener. His sympathetic grunts and occasional oaths sounded genuine, and the sudden snow that fluttered around us made me think he truly felt my plight.

  “How do you speak Nubrevnan so well?” he asked at one point as we tromped down a square stairwell marked on the map as simply The Way Below and with a little 34 scribbled next to it.

  Thank the Sleeper there were Firewitched lanterns to light our way since I’d lost my own when I’d lost the pack. They winked into power without any command. We would reach ten paces away and whoof! the next lantern would flash to life.

  “We learn all the languages of the Witchlands,” I explained. Step, step, step. “We begin by learning songs, so that the melodies help stick new syllables and sounds into our minds.”

  “Let me guess. You started with ‘The Maidens North of Lovats.’”

  “It was the third song, actually.” I glanced back, impressed. “How did you guess?”

  “Because ‘blighter’ isn’t a real word—and you’ve used it twice now.”

  “Not a real word? Then why is it in the song?”

  “I don’t know. For rhythm’s sake, perhaps?” And then, absolutely unbidden, he splayed a graceful hand to his chest—the unharmed part—and began to sing. “The Maidens north of Lovats, none ever looked so fair—”