The Silver Witch

And as for company … I do not crave the companionship of other women, for I have never found one who did not judge me against herself and find me either to be envied or pitied. As for the friendship of men … well, when the day comes when one is man enough to treat me as his equal, then, only then, will I allow desire to be my guide.

And beyond all this, I have the company of my visions. When I see, when I travel to those places others cannot, I am surrounded by all manner of wondrous beings, from times past and yet to come. They welcome me, and offer me their friendship and their counsel. How then, could I be lonely? How could I feel a lack of solace and kinship? What use have I for love? I have witnessed the foolishness it engenders in the most steadfast of people. I have seen sensible women lose their wits to a handsome stranger. I have marveled at good men debased by their passion for an unsuitable woman. I would rather keep my own company than permit myself to be so unraveled by another.

My little house is cozy on these cold nights. The walls are thick wattle and daub, darkened by woodsmoke inside and weather outside. The roof is a dense thatch of reeds with low eaves to keep off rain and snow. There is a single doorway, closed by a rug in summer and a wooden door in winter, and a hole in the roof for the fire to smoke through. The floor is earth, packed and trodden to a hard, smooth surface, which I cover in rushes on one side beneath my bed of wood pallet and wool sack, covered in sheepskins. I keep a small fire in the center of the space, ringed by stones. I like to burn sweet wood or herbs to fill the room with soothing scents, and tonight an apple bough crackles in front of me, while sprigs of thyme singe slowly above it. I have a wooden stool, two padded bolsters, and a simple rug upon which to sit or recline. Above my fire stands a slender spit so that I might roast fowl or a piece of deer meat, or suspend a pot for stew, or to simmer my infusions. A roughly hewn chest to one side keeps my precious items clean and dry: my ceremonial robes, my braids, my blood letting blades, my bones for telling, my ground spices and preserved tinctures. Nearby sit two stout jars, one empty, one filled with honey, and a shallow bowl in case I have need of warm water to bathe wounds or otherwise offer treatments. All else I hang upon the walls: my wolf headdress, my staff, my drum, my axe, my hazel basket, an animal skin for water. My boots stand by the door—one soft leather pair, another sturdier against the cold. Next to them on a high peg I keep my hooded cloak of fine, dark red wool, a gift from the prince to show the gratitude of the community after a foretelling saved them from the worst of a storm. Tonight, alone and at my ease, I wear a plain woolen tunic, tied loosely at the waist with a broad twist of hide, a string of painted clay beads, and a bracelet of polished ram’s horn. When I am alone I leave my hair to hang free. I do not adorn my body greatly unless I am presenting my visions as shaman. When I am at rest, I am content to let simple jewelry and the ancient patterns worked onto my skin be my only decoration.

I am soon for my bed, but I become aware of footfalls along the path outside. I listen, head cocked. Three people. One striding bold and loud as only a young man can, rudely waking everything he passes. The others are softer. Women, I believe. I slip on my cape and step out of the hut. As I do so I am hailed by my visitors to warn me of their proximity, as if I were unaware of their approach! The youth I recognize as Siōn, the son of the princess’s brother, the family likeness marked with his green eyes and dark complexion, who is evidently accompanying his elders to afford them the enormous benefit of his protection. He steps to one side and stands feet apart, arms folded. His stance is arrogant, but his body is that of a boy, not yet hardened by years or the grit of manhood. The women come forward. Both wear deep hoods in some small effort to mask their identities, but the ruse is pointless, given the expensive fabric of the taller woman’s garb, and the stout girth of her companion. A simpleton in his cups would know them.

I stand tall. ‘Princess Wenna, good evening to you.’

‘Forgive us for disturbing you so late, Seren Arianaidd.’ Her use of my full name—not her habit—suggests she is eager to win my favor. She wants something from me, that much is plain. Her maid, Nesta—for it can be no other—stomps her feet against the cold and her mistress takes the point. ‘I would speak with you,’ the princess goes on. ‘Perhaps your house would afford us more privacy?’