CHAPTER 11
Her bright-green eyes, much like mine, stand out even from a distance. That’s not unusual in the north of Fisa, or among powerful Magoi, but her eyes seem disturbingly vivid and intense for an old crone.
“Only the most temerarious of travelers come this way.” She opens her door farther and takes a lumbering step out onto the front stoop. “Most are afraid of the pit.”
She talks softly, pitching her words low. Shrugging off my initial unease, I move forward in order to hear her better.
“The pit’s way over there.” I nod toward the gaping hole on our right, a small but paranoid part of me wondering if she might have just threatened us. Probably not. I could take her down with one kick, and she’s way too frail to push Griffin around.
Magic, though, is a different matter. Hopefully hers is limited to potion mixing.
Griffin’s hand flexes on my lower back. Being the diplomatic one, he says, “We apologize for disturbing you. We know you like your privacy.”
The hermit narrows her eyes. “And yet you came anyway. You want something from me.”
It’s not a question, and the statement is directed at me. Of course I do. We wouldn’t be on a frosty mountainside next to the deepest crack in Thalyria otherwise.
Griffin and I stop near the opening in a stone wall that seems to be acting as a de facto gate. Flat slabs of granite form a pathway leading the rest of the way to the house.
“I’ve heard you make powerful potions,” I say. “Potions for unlocking magic.”
The witch looks me up and down. Her concentrated, almost hostile gaze penetrates me on a deep level, scraping as it goes. “Has your magic locked up, then?” she asks.
“It comes and goes,” I answer with a small shrug that’s a lot more casual than I feel. “It’s unpredictable.”
“All your magic?”
I shake my head. “Just the new magic.”
The witch laughs. It’s a cagey chuckle that sends a shiver tracking down my spine.
I ignore the icy prickle. Besides feeling some aggression from her, I can’t pinpoint what’s making my hackles rise. She’s probably testy because she’s a hermit, and we just interrupted her all-important alone time. She hasn’t told us to get lost, though, and I don’t feel I can justify turning back, even if a part of me almost wants to.
“No one has new magic. There’s only magic you don’t know how to use.” Turning, she swings her door wide open and then shuffles back inside, fading into the shadows of the entryway.
“Don’t just stand there,” she calls irritably from somewhere inside. “Come in. But leave your weapons at the wall. I don’t want them in my house.”
I don’t move. Or disarm. “What do you think?” I ask Griffin.
He shrugs.
I make a face. “That’s helpful.”
“You tell me,” he says.
“She’s creepy.”
He frowns. “And?”
“And I don’t know,” I admit. Speckled, stooped, and wrinkled certainly aren’t grounds for turning tail. Neither are power-filled green eyes. We’re here because her magic is strong. “I guess we should go in and see.”
He nods. It doesn’t sit well with either of us, but we disarm and leave our weapons in a pile behind the stone wall. We leave our cloaks there as well since the day has warmed up nicely, and we likely won’t need them inside.
Griffin enters the house first, scanning the interior before allowing me out from behind him. We both had to duck to avoid the lintel, and that’s saying something for me. The witch made it under easily, her entire upper body being almost horizontal.
Inside, the house opens up into a large, rectangular living space with a rather surprising vaulted ceiling a good two stories high. The wood is a pleasant shade of light brown, and colorful, upside-down bouquets of wildflowers and bunches of drying herbs decorate the lower parts of the walls. The air is fragrant and warm, carrying a slight medicinal tang along with the stronger scent of something delicious-smelling simmering over the fire.
Three closed doors line the north side of the room. They’re probably bedchambers and storage, since that part of the house is carved directly into the mountainside and therefore bound to be windowless. The main room is bright and unexpectedly welcoming, with comfortable-looking furniture and thick rugs scattered around. There are two enormous windows, one to the east and another to the south. The glass is barely wavy, the kind that costs a royal’s ransom, telling me that the witch either sells her potions for a mighty fortune or someone gave her a very precious gift.
The hermit’s lush, green meadow spreads out to the south, gently sloping toward the barn. A light wind ripples the grass in waves and teases the dark pine boughs at the edge of the woods. There’s nothing at all beyond the other window, except for the not-too-distant snowy pinnacles of the nearest Deskathi peaks.
My stomach dips nervously, and I know without having to go anywhere near it that the east window directly overlooks the pit.
I inwardly shudder. I could never live this close to that yawning crack. I’d be afraid my house would fall in.
The crone drifts toward the fireplace, motioning for us to follow, and I turn my back on the towering, east-facing window with relief. The kitchen is set apart from the living area by a large, liberally scarred hardwood table surrounded by four solid-looking high-backed chairs.
I cock my head to one side, taking it all in. Four chairs? You’d think she’d only need one, being a hermit and all.
Then again, people come here for her potions, traveling great distances and probably paying dearly for them. The least she can do is give them a place to sit.
Catching my lower lip between my teeth, I crane my neck for a look at what’s bubbling in her pot. And maybe something to eat?
The hermit takes a long wooden spoon from the table and then stirs what must be her dinner for a solid week. Her slow mixing sets loose even more of the mouth-watering meat and herbs aroma of whatever is stewing over the fire, and my stomach rumbles—long, low, and loud.
She slants me an unnerving, bright-green look before moving her slightly contemptuous gaze over to Griffin. “Does your man not feed you?” she asks.
I sense Griffin bristling beside me, as if his shoulders grow a foot in width.
“Of course he feeds me. More importantly, I feed myself.” Sort of. I can pick berries. And maybe catch a fish. I can definitely start a fire. Sometimes.
I glance at Griffin, and he looks back at me with a definite hint of Liar, liar, tunic on fire in his eyes.
I shrug. I guess that’s why we’re a team. I’m Elpis. He cooks.
The witch makes a small noise in the back of her throat. “Feed yourself,” she mutters, turning back to her pot and shaking her head as though I just said some kind of absurdity.
I glare at her hump as she goes back to stirring the contents of her cauldron. I don’t have much of a choice; the lump on her back is higher than her head.