“Thank you, Madam,” he answered, proud that he kept a tremor from his voice. His heart raced with fear.
“How do you know the ballad in the original language?” she asked, pulling up a chair and sitting beside him. His fear was rivaled by surprise; Covenwitches, he had been told, were haughty and proud. The image he had in his mind was not of one sitting next to him at the entertainer’s table as if it meant nothing. Up close, she was even more beautiful than he had thought, with dark, expressive eyes and full lips. He forced himself to look away from her, heat rising to his face. He took a swig of wine before answering.
“My Ma taught me,” he managed to respond, setting down the tankard.
“You are Brate Hightower,” she said, not asking a question.
“Indeed, Madam.”
“I am Anyia.” She paused, eyeing him with interest before continuing. “Tell me, Brate Hightower, where did you learn to enchant through song?”
He blinked. The question was simple enough, yet the way she phrased it made him think she truly thought his songs were enchanted. Or did she mean it figuratively? He opened his mouth and then closed it again. Her eyes sparkled at him, and a slow smile crept across her mouth until she was laughing. He found himself grinning despite his fear and clammy hands.
“I... I learned to sing from my grandmother,” he repeated himself, unsure what else to say.
“Who was she?” Anyia asked innocently, folding her hands on her lap.
“Nobody,” he replied, his heart falling at the memory of her death just a few short days ago. Yet he didn’t want to appear feeble to the woman before him; witches were known to prey on your weakness and exploit it.
“Brate, do you not know that you truly sing an enchantment over your hearers?”
She seemed serious, and Brate found the grin sliding from his face, replaced by confusion.
She meant it literally?
“But... how?” he asked out loud.
“That’s what I’m trying to understand.” She stood to her feet. “Will you walk the grounds with me, minstrel?” She held out her hand, and for a moment, his fear threatened to keep him in his seat. But almost against his will, he found himself rising and letting her slide her hand through his arm.
They walked from the hall and to the grounds, where the lazy afternoon heat was intermingled with a light breeze. This couldn’t be happening. What would his Ma say, hearing that he was being friendly with a witch, and a pretty one at that? He knew what his father would say. You can’t trust a woman who manipulates you with the Deep, son. Creator knows if they can grasp the Deep they can grasp the Rift, too.
“Do not be alarmed,” Anyia said as they traversed the gardens of the mansion. “Contrary to popular opinion, witches don’t dabble in the Rift.”
Surprised at her forthrightness, Brate struggled to find anything to say past the knot in his throat. How had she known he was afraid of her?
“Besides,” she continued, “for one like you who can touch the Deep without even meaning to, I should be the one afraid of you, and not the other way around.”
Brate stopped dead in his tracks. “I’m not sure what you mean.” He looked at her in consternation. “Touch the Deep? You mean I’m a witch, too?”
Her laughter again rang out and for the second time Brate found himself chuckling along with her, albeit with uncertainty. What had he said this time?
“Not a witch,” she managed to answer. “Males are called warlocks, although there hasn’t been a warlock in over two centuries. However, just because you brush against the Deep when you sing doesn’t mean you can access it intentionally.”
“So you are saying that my songs somehow brush into the power that holds the sphere together?” Brate asked. “How can this be?”
Anyia let go of his arm and sat on a bench facing a vast field dotted with greenery. It ended at the edge of the forest line, leading up into the mountain. If it hadn’t been for the seriousness he felt at her words, he probably would have enjoyed the beauty before him, and his luck at gazing over the expanse with a pretty girl beside him. Instead, his heart hammered in his chest as a cold sweat tickled his shoulder blades.
“There are some people whose work is blessed,” she described. “They are so good at what they do, they rise above all others. Sometimes it comes through genuine hard work and practice, yet for others like yourself, it is simply a natural outflow of the Deep that you touch whenever you perform your work.”
“How can you tell the difference?” Brate asked.
“There is a stirring in the Deep, as if a ripple through waters, that I can feel,” she explained, looking up at him. He sat beside her so she didn’t have to crane her neck. “You were doing it when you sang.”
“Was it the dark Deep?” he asked. “Or the light?”
“You have listened too much to the gossip of others,” she replied, sighing. “People simply don’t understand how it works, so they make up stories and spread it like the truth.” Her eyes gazed at him, exposing him under her scrutiny. He wished he hadn’t asked the question. Moe had always told him he was too curious, to which he had responded, Curiosity is what makes us wise, in the end. If only he had listened.
“Then...” but he stopped.
“Brate, the Deep is a life-force that is beyond comprehension. We have only skimmed the surface but have not plunged its depths. What we do know is that it is impervious to the morality of man, and it is the person who uses it that makes it good or bad.”
Her words gave him pause. Everything he had known about witches was that they couldn’t be trusted, were manipulative, and were out for their own gain. They used the Deep, and therefore were able to access the power of the darkness in its depths. The Rift. Yet Anyia didn’t seem evil, and she spoke with a candor that made him want to believe her.
“So what you are saying is that when I brush against it, it is neither good nor bad? It depends on how I use it?”
“Indeed.” She gazed at him again, this time with a quizzical expression. “What type of man are you, Brate Hightower?”
“I’m... I’m just a landworker, Madam,” he responded.
“But are you a good man, or a selfish one?” Her brow raised. “Are you like other men who lust after power and prestige? Or do you work honestly and only long for peace and tranquility?”
“I’m...” but her words gave him pause. The only reason he had taken the job the Lord had offered was the promise of riches. And he had disdained Conway when the Lord had asked to borrow Brate’s horse. Was she on to something? Was he a bad man?
“Do not fret,” she said, patting his hand and standing. “I will help you figure that out.”
Brate watched her walk away, and the pit in his stomach turned to a burning fire, eating a hole through his core. When a witch offered you her help, it was always for her own reasons. And there was little room for refusal from such a powerful accessor. Standing, he followed her through the gardens and back into the mansion.
Chapter Five
Helen Bracewood of the Far East Coven
The orb glowed red as Helen gently stroked it with her fingertips, the translucent, swirling conscience of Anyia encased within. The witch from the Rollvear Coven had reached out to her in a whispered dream, asking for her help, and Helen was only too happy to oblige. Her Sister had impressed upon her the urgency of the situation without saying it in so many words. Now, Helen waited as the orb continued to glow brighter in her hand until it was the color of deep magenta. The color coalesced into Anyia’s face, serious from behind the Deep.
The amount of strength it took to communicate in this fashion was immense, and it did her Sister credit. Anyia had always been one of the stronger ones, willing to do what was necessary for the good of the Sisterhood which spanned across all corners of the Green and Broken Lands. Helen was glad she happened to have access to the traveling witch, since the tolo-breth she held in her hand was only one of five in known existence. Dreams were hard to communicate in due
to the shifting landscapes and complexity of the consciousness you were trying to reach. The orb was much easier, if you possessed the strength you needed to manipulate the Deep enclosed in the small space.
Helen was unsure exactly how the tolo-breth, which meant “Deep Enclosure” in Common, had been created. Thousands of years ago, when the original witches had come into their powers, it was said that they created them from fallen stars. The orbs were indestructible.
“Helen,” a voice said, and she turned her attention to the face of her Sister emanating within the orb.
“It is good to see you, Anyia.” Warmth for her old friend filled Helen. “It has been many a month since we have spoken. I miss the days of catching you and Bryony in some sort of mischief.”
“Ah, the innocence of the young,” Anyia replied. “Where are you now, Sister? Are you alone?”
“I am in a carriage in the Broken Lands, headed for Vale,” Helen replied. “I’m on the trail of a Watcher.”
“Interesting indeed,” Anyia said. “A Watcher left the Dreadwood?”
“A fortnight ago. He passed the barrier and we felt the stirrings of his intent. Somehow, they must think the Reader has been identified.” Anyia was silent, and Helen took it to mean she was digesting what she had just heard.
“How could they have known this?” Anyia wondered.
“Someone must have entered the Dreadwood and the Reader must have accessed them.”
“But who could have entered the Dreadwood without your Coven knowing about it?”
“Yes, that is the question indeed,” Helen replied.
“Either way, the Dreads have been awakened and will demand payment.”
Again, a long silence filled the carriage as it rumbled through the central plains. The sense of foreboding that built inside Helen as the miles passed underneath her swelled, overtaking the happiness that accompanied seeing Anyia.
“Why did you contact me?” Helen asked.
“I think I have found the Bender.” Anyia frowned, biting her lip. “But if you are on the trail of the Reader, then chances of that are slim.”
“I wouldn’t assume that, Sister. Why do you think that is so?”
“He’s a nondescript landworker who brushes the Deep when he sings. But he is strong, Sister. I can feel the pull of his will.”
“Be careful!” Helen responded, fear for her Sister rising inside of her.
“Don’t worry,” Anyia soothed. “He has no idea what he is yet. I’m on my way to find him as we speak. He lives not far from Lord Conway. Once I convince him to come with me, I will explain who he is. More than likely, he will be scared, and I hope that will help me resist him. Of course, this assumes he really is the Bender, and at this point I am less certain than I was when I first met him.”
“Be that as it may, it wouldn’t hurt to convince him to go with you to Rollvear, and let the Sisters evaluate him.”
“It will be a hard task. He is scared to death of me.”
“As are most of the common folk in those parts of the Green Lands,” Helen responded. She looked out her window as the plains passed by. It was a good thing for the most part, since the witches could use people’s fear to control them. Yet it was also risky. When people got scared enough, they tended to react in unpredictable ways.
“I will send a bird to the Lodge in Rollvear. Maybe they will have an idea of what I should do.” Anyia sounded uncertain, and Helen had a hard time remembering the last time Anyia had not been fully confident in her actions.
“You must go,” Helen said with concern. “The orb will drain your strength.”
“May the Deep speed you on your way,” Anyia replied.
“And you,” Helen said. She extinguished the orb’s light with her palms, obscuring its surface. When she removed her hand, the tolo-breth was as clear as glass, indicative of Anyia’s absence. Helen wished she had more time to speak with her friend, yet it was foolish to risk her health on mere pleasantries.
She leaned back and returned the orb to the rag that protected it in her sack. Only traveling Sisters could use it. There were four, used by Sisters in their search for the Stewards, and the fifth remained at the Lodge in Rollvear. Helen wasn’t strong enough to contact anyone herself, and Anyia would need to rest and save her strength. Birds were a useful, yet slow, way to communicate. But it was what it was, and Helen was grateful Anyia had reached out to her, if only to see her face.
The closer she got to Vale the more nervous she became. Even witches weren’t impervious to normal human emotions, contrary to popular opinion, and Helen was no exception. She had been shocked, and then subsequently delighted, when she had been chosen to follow the trail of the Reader. All the signs pointed to the Reader’s arrival. The Deep rippled and roiled in unusual patterns, gravitating in this direction. The Rollvear Coven had noted an unusual lunar eclipse, often a sign of the Deep’s unease. And more obviously, the Watcher venturing out of the Dreadwood. The creature would have no reason to, unless they thought the Reader was revealed. Hence Helen’s assignment.
Closing her eyes, Helen attempted to calm her scattered thoughts, banishing everything except the fullness of the Deep. She brushed it with the tendrils of her mind, letting the familiar feeling soothe her. Most of the time, they were trained not to use the Deep for personal reasons, yet on the trail, Helen often made an exception. The last Stewards had died three hundred years ago. In that Time, only the Seer and the Sensor had been born, and the Great Battles had stricken the entire sphere. The result had been disastrous, yet if it was true that now two Stewards were possibly alive and experiencing the first tremors of their abilities, perhaps the widening in the Rift could be stopped. Maybe even the Dreads themselves could be appeased, or even sent back to beyond the Rift where they had originated. No such creatures belonged in the land of the living.
The Rift. Helen had always imagined it as a trembling in the Deep, spewing dirt and filth from a hole. Most of the writings spoke of it has a crater or a crack along a vast canyon. The manuscripts that detailed the origins of the Rift had been lost behind the northern web that separated the Scrape Lands from the Broken Lands. Helen grit her teeth in frustration. It was a shame that the Brotherhood feared accessors enough to keep the web in place, hoarding all knowledge of the Deep. Still, they hadn’t managed to confiscate all of the writings, and those were kept safely at the Lodge, studied by the Sisters.
Helen’s mind wandered to the Stewards. If it was true that the Reader and the Bender, who was the most powerful of all, were here, was it too much to hope that the Seer and the Sensor could also be alive and they just didn’t know it? Could it really be true, the prophecy indicating the Seer would be of Jin’tai descent? And if so, could the Rift really be patched?
No matter. It was better to focus on the task at hand and not distract herself with musing. Taking a long breath, Helen refocused and cleared her mind of anything but the feeling of the Watcher some two miles ahead. With any luck, Swift-in-the-Trees would lead her right to the Reader.
BRATE HIGHTOWER
Brate left the mansion after the party ended, avoiding Anyia and keeping to himself. He had watched how people reacted to her. The Lords seemed to feign comfort at her presence, but most people eyed her with apprehension. Lord Conway appeared to be the only one not put off by her being there, which had made Brate wonder what exactly was her purpose in attending the party. Had she been invited? The Lords were vain, and wanted to feel they were important, so perhaps having the witch at the party was for appearance’s sake? Or, more often than not, they settled disputes between landworkers when the Lords didn’t have the time to deal with it, or were gone from their estates. None of those seemed the case with Conway, however.
Brate’s journey back to his farm seemed to fly by. Maybe it was the fact that he was so lost in thought he didn’t keep track of the time, or the fact that he had drank too much wine. Or perhaps Anyia worked some dark enchantment on him. Either way, he soon found himself on Pallow land la
te into the evening. He wished he hadn’t spent so much time in discussion with the Covenwitch, and then subsequently watching her throughout the party.
Moe and the cattle had moved on from where he had last seen them. Glancing about, Brate picked up his pace on the road. Something didn’t feel right, and whether it was just his imagination or not, he broke into a half-run, the bungle on his back bouncing in its case and striking his spine.
A rumble in the road behind him made him slide to a stop. A black carriage bore down on him, and fast. He leapt out of the way, but not before he saw the vague shape of a head poking out of the window. Even though the speed of the carriage kept him from seeing her clearly, the bun on her head was unmistakable. Why was Anyia following him?
The carriage stopped in the middle of the road, and Brate walked forward as Anyia descended. His heart quickened. Should he run? There would be no use in that, if she truly wanted to catch him.
“What is it, Madam? Is something wrong?” he asked. She looked fatigued, her face drawn and pinched.
“Forgive the intrusion. Come, I will take you to your farm.” She gestured toward the carriage, the darkness of the interior foreboding. He hesitated, and Anyia placed a hand on his arm, startling him. “Don’t worry, Brate. There is nothing to fear.”
Her touch comforted him and he climbed into the carriage, ducking his head so he wouldn’t bash it on the frame. Scooting to the far end, he removed the bungle from his back and placed it on the floor at his feet. There was nothing unique about the carriage except the color, and his shoulders relaxed as the coachman spurred the horses down the road.
“What brings you to me?” The words escaped before he could stop them. This close, he could see more clearly the dark circles under her eyes and the way she struggled to hold her head straight. “Are you okay?” he asked with concern.
“I will explain it all when we reach your dwelling,” she replied, leaning her head against the back of the seat she had taken across from him. “I am fine. Just weary from... well, sometimes when one accesses large amounts of the Deep at a time, it sucks the strength from you.”
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