The Silver Witch

But no! There! I am released. My journey is under way.

Of a sudden, I am leaping through the summer hay meadow, the flowering grasses high above my head as I crouch, tickling my belly as I spring and bound. I am not being chased. I run for joy, for the wonder of the day, for the blessing of the ripening harvest, for the warmth of the sun. As I am, my eyes are not stung by the light. As I am, my skin does not burn nor blister in the golden heat. What freedom! No longer forced to dwell in the shadows, no longer a creature of the darkness, I can run with the singing birds, dart past the grazing cattle, twist through the fragrant flowers and herbs that release their sweetness in the daytime.

I pause, sniffing the air, my keen ears alert, listening, my bold eyes watchful. A movement against the sunlight horizon. A deer, fine-legged and with a gleaming coat. My fellow traveler. It regards me for a moment, and then raises its head, ears twitching. There is something. A sound. A woman crying. I move silently toward it, keeping cover in the tall grasses, taking care not to give myself away. I come upon a figure, bent away from me, kneeling on the ground at the edge of the lake. I cannot see the woman’s face, but she is weeping pitifully, and in front of her is a baby’s crib. It rocks on wooden rockers, but there is no sound or movement from within it, for it is empty. As I creep closer, wanting to see who it is who sobs so for what is not there, another sound stops me. A shuddering of the earth. A galloping. Many horses, and approaching at speed! The deer, too, has felt their thundering through the ground and turns, leaping, running fast away. Now the horses charge into view. Fifty? One hundred? Two hundred? Too many to count. I lay flat on the ground, still as a stone, forced to trust that the charging horses will not set their great iron-clad hooves upon me. The soldiers on their backs shout and roar and wield their heavy swords as they charge, and in front of them, a lone figure. A young man, alone, upon a red horse, its neck wet with sweat, its mouth foaming. The man wears no armor, carries no shield, nor any sword. He is defenseless. I fight for breath as I see it is Prince Brynach! The soldiers close upon him. The woman lifts her head. She sees, but she does not call out to him. She does nothing. Nothing. And the attackers race on, so that the prince must turn his horse into the water. Deeper and deeper into the lake he rides until the horse must swim, and then, when it can swim no more, it sinks beneath him. And he with it. So that the waters close over his head, and the lake swallows him up.





8

TILDA

The Red Lion sits in the center of the village of Llangors, a sturdy, whitewashed building with black-painted window frames and doors, and three smoking chimneys. It appears unchanged by time, so that Tilda can easily imagine weary travelers or thirsty farmers, knocking the mud off their boots, and dipping their heads to enter through its low front door one, two, or even three hundred years ago. The only concessions to the modern age are the wide car park to one side—though this still boasts a hitching rail for horses, as the inn is a popular lunchtime halt for local treks—and, inside, the availability of free Wi-Fi. Dylan finds some tables in the low-ceilinged black-beamed lounge bar, where a fire burns cheerfully in the hearth, its flames glinting off the many brass fire irons and ornaments that surround it. There is much peeling off of outdoor gear as people move to the bar to place their orders, or take their seats on tapestry-cushioned chairs, or the high-backed wooden settle that runs along the wall from the fireplace to the small window. Tilda stands at the bar, her eyes devouring the list of food on offer. Over the bar hang two blackboards listing the day’s menu, promising hearty, home-cooked food. There is a friendly murmur and a gentle buzz about the place, with local residents leaning against the bar enjoying a lunchtime pint, or visitors tucking hungrily into their lunches after a morning’s activity in the winter cold.

Everything is so utterly normal, and welcoming, and safe, that Tilda finds herself suddenly close to tears as she reads the menu.

You are ridiculous, Tilda Fordwells. You’ve been spending too much time on your own and eating too much rubbish, if the idea of pub grub can reduce you to sniveling.

Without warning, the lights dim and flicker.

Oh no! Not here, not now.

They flicker again, and then fail completely. There is a collective groan from the pub-goers. The barmaid busies herself trying switches but nothing seems to be working. Someone goes into the cellar to check the fuse box. Tilda fights the urge to turn and run. She knows she has to do something. Has to at least try. She closes her eyes and steadies her breathing.

Focus. Still your mind. You can do this. You can.

While people around her mutter about sandwiches, stoke up the log fire, or find candles, Tilda stands without moving, keeping herself separate. Making herself picture a spark of energy, of power.