The Silver Witch

Another winter has come and gone and life around the lake feels as settled and timeless as ever it was. It is hard to imagine we lived on the edge of fear for so long, anticipating disaster, awaiting danger. Is this a trick played on us all by fate? She can be a cruel mistress. Are we lulled to softness, our sword arms weakened, our vigilance dulled, only so that we may be easier prey at some future date? I am still assailed by visions of my prince’s descent into the water, but it has become impossible for him to believe the threat is real. And how can I argue otherwise? As the weeks turned into months, and the seasons swing full circle once more, and life continues undisturbed, my prophecies lose their weight. Other smaller seeings have come to pass, and I continue to work my minor magic as is required of me, but on this one matter my opinion no longer holds sway. I see Rhodri plumping himself up with each passing moon, never missing an opportunity to remind Prince Brynach that it was he who brokered the deal with the Mercian Queen, he who helped him bring about this time of peace. He is ever at the prince’s side, and with him Wenna, quick to parade the family bond. It is as well for her that her brother is seen as so successful, so useful, in the prince’s eyes, for that other vision of mine has proven true. She has given him no heir, nor will she.

And yet, of course, her husband has a child.

Our child.

Today I have taken my daughter out fishing on the lake. She is nearly a year now, well-grown, with a head of spun-silver hair, eyes bright as diamonds, and already teetering on her feet. In the canoe she enjoys the feeling of swift movement as we paddle through the water, and later she will be rocked to sleep curled up in the bottom of the boat. She is at home near, on, or in the lake, and that is as it should be. This is our favored hour, with the sun dropped behind the mountains, the cool of the early evening, the softened light, the day grown lazy and yawning into twilight. Only the fish are busy now, nipping at buzzing flies that hover above the surface of the water.

‘Not too far, Tanwen,’ I tell her as she leans over the side of our little boat to dip her fingertips in the water. She smiles up at me, and I see her father in that smile. I named her White Fire, for it suits both her appearance and her nature. A tug on the line I hold in my hand alerts me to a catch. I wait until I am sure the fish has taken the bait, and then quickly pull in the line, hand over hand, holding it high at the end so that the fine young perch dangles and flips in the air. Tanwen laughs and claps as the dappled fish showers her with droplets of water. I lower it to my feet and strike its head one clean blow with the handle of my knife. It lies still. Tanwen is not distressed by this. She has witnessed the transformation from life to death, creature to food, so many times. She understands the order of things, and she is fast learning her own place within it.

A movement on the shore takes my attention. Brynach has come to find us. He stands tall, a strong, dark figure in a woodland lake of bluebells.

‘Look, little one, there is your father,’ I tell my daughter as I pick up the paddle and steer the boat across the lake. Tanwen gurgles happily as we draw closer to where he stands. He has tied his horse to a tree and waits for us, watching us closely. Or rather, watching Tanwen. Was ever a father more adoring of his child? When the boat reaches the shallows he can wait to longer, and wades into the water to greet us.

‘Here come my fisher-women! What have you caught for your supper, daughter?’ he asks her, grasping the prow of the canoe and scooping Tanwen from her seat with one strong arm.

I lift up the shining fish. ‘Enough for three,’ I tell him. The invitation to supper is as much a challenge as an offer of hospitality. I do not fight for his company only for myself now. I know that Wenna and Rhodri do their best to find ways to keep him from us.

He steadies the boat while I climb out. ‘If it can be served without a helping of rancor I will join you,’ he says. When I do not answer, he regrets his words and leans close as I tie the boat to its stake. He nuzzles my neck. ‘Time spent with you is ever more memorable than time spent elsewhere.’

I push him away, more playful than sulking. ‘Is my cooking so exceptional?’