Sightwitch (The Witchlands 0.5)

I wish I could say I’d forgotten the man, but that wouldn’t be true. The fact is, I didn’t care about how hurt he might be or what healing he might need.

All I could think about was time—that there was not enough of it, that I had to keep going. There had to be an exit from this workshop somewhere. There had to be a way to keep moving forward, no pauses. No looking back.

As I stumbled away from the man, my gaze sweeping over the crowded room around me, Tanzi’s face filled my mind.

Her cheeks were bunched up, her eyes lit with mischief. “Laugh, Ry!” she taunted. “It’s funny, don’t you think?”





Y2787 D105


MEMORIES

I met him on the bridge to the island, the spring forest at his back and the Sorrow at mine. His chestnut mountain horse, a sturdy beast, grazed near the shore while the morning birds chirruped and chittered in the trees.

Like always, he wore a black silk tunic over a high-necked beige shirt.

And like always, by the time I reached the Sorrow, he was already waiting for me on the bridge. I had come earlier today, hoping to beat him. Hoping to lay out a picnic of the morning’s first bread and some of Sister Xandra’s precious apricot preserves (I promised her a new cooling stone in exchange for them, though Sleeper knows when I’ll have the chance to build it). Yet still, he had arrived first.

As I approached the bridge, I couldn’t stop gulping. Or blinking. And my heart knocked against my ribs with such force, I thought surely he could hear it. It did not help that a late spring frost had come last night, so my shallow breaths puffed on each exhale.

Nor did it help that the sun had just risen over the mountains in the East, forcing me to squint to see him. I couldn’t gauge if he was happy at the sight of me, or perplexed, annoyed, elated, disappointed.

And Goddess, why were my hands shaking?

I reached him. He bowed in the mountain style: a bobbing of the knees and a hand to tap at his brow. “My lady.”

I matched his movement, and then, because I have all the poise of an agitated four-year-old, I thrust out the canvas sack of food and exclaimed, “I brought you breakfast. The girls could not come today. Lisbet has been Summoned, which is the greatest honor and we are all so proud and you should be proud too. Cora is sick, but you need not worry. ’Tis a minor cough and Sister Leigh tells me it will pass in another day. I am so sorry that they are not here, but I hope you will enjoy the bread—”

Oh, Goddess, what was I even saying?

“—It was just baked, and the apricots in the preserves are from this year’s harvest. I hope you are not too upset about the girls not being here—”

Stop talking! I shrieked inwardly. Stop talking, stop talking!

“—I know they are sad to miss you, but there is always the next full moon. You will come then, won’t you?” I clamped my mouth shut. No more words, no more blathering.

Especially since he was not smiling. The serious lines etched upon his brow had deepened, and his eyes—a rich brown with the light at his back—were hooded in confusion. Or irritation. Or perhaps even regret that he had come at all.

“Oh,” he murmured eventually, reaching for the food.

His fingers curled around the sack.

Our hands met.

It was the barest touch, his knuckles grazing against my grip. A grip that I wasn’t releasing for some inexplicable reason. Just as, for some inexplicable reason, I was staring at his hands.

I had noticed his fingers before. It was hard not to, with such long, fine bones. With such calloused knuckles and small scars to pucker the skin. A soldier’s hands. A father’s hands.

Never had they made my mouth go quite so dry, though.

He cleared his throat.

I reared back, flushing furiously, and squeaked, “I hope you enjoy the food. Safe travels home.” Then I spun on my heel and fled, all thoughts of sharing the picnic long since erased by panic.

Fool, fool, fool—what had that been? Oh, Goddess, save me, what was I doing? Hands pressed to my boiling cheeks, I half ran, half skipped to get away from any more heapings of embarrassment. But when I reached the bridge’s end and tramped onto the Sorrow’s grass, a voice skated over me.

“Stay.”

I froze.

“That is,” he went on, voice stilted, “I have come a long way. We could … share the food? Well, if you have not eaten, that is. And if you have nothing else to do, of course, since I am sure you are a busy woman. I would appreciate the company, though. Your company, I mean.”

Now he was the one to ramble on, and as I swiveled toward him, a distant calm settled over me.

He wanted me to stay. Without the girls

And he was walking toward me, strong step by strong step. He moved like a soldier, yet his gaze was downcast and his free hand kept scrubbing at his dark hair.

Hair, I noticed, that was damp. As if he’d cleaned up in the lake before my arrival.

With that realization, all my fraught nerves slid away. In fact, a confidence began to brew in my veins. A sureness that what I felt—whatever it was—he felt too.

He wanted me to stay. He wanted my company.

So when he strode onto the isle beside me and our gazes met for the second time, I did not look away.

Nor did he.

His eyes were green now, with the light to course into them, and his lips were parted, his chest still.

We stared and stared and stared.

The breeze twirled around us. The birds sang. The horse munched.

I cannot say how long we stayed that way. A man and a woman caught in a sunbeam. All I know is that eventually one of us moved and time resumed its forward beat.

Gone was the awkwardness after that. I had no trouble speaking nor holding his eyes nor enjoying every laugh and sideways smile I earned.

Hours we stayed together, until the sun overhead grew hot in its directness. Until I knew more about him than I’d ever dared ask before. How he was not amalej by choice, but that his tribe had been forcefully disbanded by the Exalted Ones. How the girls’ mother had passed away from a wasting disease. How he traveled far and wide, protecting the Rook King’s mountain people.

Only when we had to go our separate ways—he to return home, and me to check on Cora—did any of our earlier tension return. Though even that was changed now, our clumsy good-byes fueled by reluctance instead of nerves.

Or at least, so it was for me.

Goddess, I do not know how I will wait twenty-eight days for his next visit.


LATER

I found this in my workshop last night. Lisbet clearly left it for me before her Summoning, but I don’t know what to make of it.



Fissures in the ice

always follow the grain.

Unless something stops them,

something blocks them,

something forces them to change.



Then the fissures in the ice

will find new ways to travel.



There are no coincidences.



Except when there are.





5(?) hours to find Tanzi

On and on, Tanzi’s memory teased me. “Laugh, Ry!” she insisted while I searched the nearest floor for some kind of exit. “It’s funny, don’t you think?”

Then, as I moved upstairs, her voice sang in time to my steps on the winding, creaking wood.