Sightwitch (The Witchlands 0.5)

The Rook nestled on my shoulder the whole journey, and each time my teeth started chattering, he cuddled against my neck.

Like before, in the cavern with the shadow wyrms, the ice seemed lit from within. It glowed so bright I had to squint to see.

And also like before, black filaments and patches hovered deep within the frozen blue. Too far away to distinguish real shapes, but they were there all the same and impossible to ignore.

“What do you think they are?” Captain asked as we hurried past one dark expanse that was faintly human in shape. Lines radiated out from it in all directions. “It almost looks like the ice is … is cleaving.”

“You remember what cleaving is,” I said flatly, speaking to him for the first time in at least half an hour, “but not your own name?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t understand it either. I know how to hold a knife properly and I can sing all the words to ‘The Maidens North of Lovats.’ But what my name is or how I got here or why I’m covered in this foul gunk”—he swatted at his sleeves—“I cannot recall at all.”

A beat passed. Two. Then he added hastily, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you before.”

Apology number eighteen, and this time I offered a grunt in return.

Ninety-three steps later, we left the Future and reached a new spot on the map: a long, dark room labeled The Past.

“Strange names,” Captain whispered as he read the map over my shoulder. “Sort of morbid, don’t you think?”

“The Sightwitches love their symbolism,” I replied—also a whisper, for this space demanded quiet. Then, because I didn’t know what else to do, I murmured, “Ignite.”

A small puff sounded, and a lone torch burst into life on the wall beside us. It was the only one like it. So I crept over, Captain just behind, and hauled it out.

The Rook didn’t appreciate the bouncing of my shoulder, so after an ornery hiss in my ear—even he stayed quiet in this room—he hopped back to Captain’s broader roosting spot.

The torch fit perfectly in my hand. Exactly the right size for my fingers to grip comfortably, exactly the right weight for me to hold without my arm tiring.

“What do these marks mean?” Captain asked, and when I swung the light where he pointed, a stark relief came into view.

It was the same motif from the tunnels, but carved above every tenth stone was a new design.

“They’re … mason marks,” I said slowly, the memory of a lesson with Hilga unfurling. “Which means this room was built before the time of Earthwitches.”

“I didn’t know there was a time before Earthwitches.”

“Because people have forgotten. It was a time before magic existed everywhere in the Witchlands.” Keeping the wall at my side, I resumed our walk onward. This time, Captain stayed next to me and I didn’t stop him. The darkness in this room felt alive. It breathed and prowled, and the only weapon we had was the torch’s weak flicker.

If not for the map, I would have had no way to know the room’s shape was rectangular or that an exit waited at the room’s opposite end.

“When the Sightwitches hid behind the glamour,” I explained in soft tones, “all the records and memories we’d kept were soon forgotten, for history is all too easily rewritten and the past is all too easily erased.”

Just as I had done in the Way Below, I slipped into my role of teacher. Reciting lessons and sharing what I knew—something about that simple task made the endless black around us seem less threatening.

And just as I had memorized every rule word for word, I had memorized this lesson exactly as Sister Hilga had taught it to me.

“Once, there were only twelve people in all the Witchlands with magic. Known as the Paladins, they were gifted their powers by the sleeping Goddess Herself and tasked with protecting the land. When a Paladin died, his or her memories and magic were reborn in another. Over and over again, this cycle continued for as long as the Witchlands existed. Until one day, the Twelve disappeared.”

Cold whispered over me—a gust from Captain’s magic. “Where did the Paladins go?” he asked.

“They died forever. No more reincarnation.” I ran my hand over the motif as I walked, its grooves surprisingly warm to the touch. Then I recited:

“Six turned on six and made themselves kings.

One turned on five, and stole everything.”



“I’ve heard that before,” Captain murmured. He rubbed at his brow. “It’s from … something.”

I nodded. “‘Eridysi’s Lament.’ Though I’m surprised you’ve heard that part. Most people only know one tiny verse.”

“About a broken heart, isn’t it? For some reason, I remember that song too. But don’t worry. I won’t sing it.” Captain scratched at the Rook, who didn’t offer his usual croon at the attention. “But the lines that you quoted—what do they mean?”

“They mean that the Paladins turned on each other. After millennia of watching leaders rise and fall, of maintaining peace and living on the fringes of society, half of the Paladins decided they wanted power. They wanted to lead. So six killed six, and then one final Paladin betrayed them all …” I trailed off as Captain vanished from the torch’s light.

He had stopped walking.

“What is it?” I angled back. Light washed over him. “What’s wrong?”

His head was cocked to one side, his eyes thinned. A breath passed before he whispered, “Do you hear that?”

My fingers moved for my knife. “Hear what?”

He surveyed the center of the room, but there was nothing to see beyond shadows.

“Voices,” Captain said at last. “Do you hear them speaking to us?”

“No,” I said, “and you probably shouldn’t listen.” Already he’d set off, though. With no worry at all, his long legs carried him away and the darkness pulled him in.

My stomach hollowed out. My mouth went dry, but against all reason or logic, I pushed into a scamper after him.

He took one loping step for each of my three. Soon enough, though, I and my torchlight caught up. He was planted before a marble pedestal, on which a hilt rested, almost as long as my forearm but with only a jagged fragment of steel to jut above the cross-guard.

And beside the broken blade was a square frame with a long handle. It reminded me of a reading glass used to magnify small text, except that this frame was larger and most of its glass had been shattered and lost.



Before I could stop Captain, his fingers had curled around the glass’s handle. He was lifting it high. I grabbed for his arm, but I was too late. Too slow.

Then I saw him. Through the shards still clinging to the frame’s edge, I saw him. I ripped my hand back and clutched my throat.

For it was not Captain’s face that appeared through the glass. It was a scarred face, a furious face. A man with his lips curled back and teeth bared in violence.

I reeled back two steps, and the face changed to a woman’s. Then another man’s. Then too fast to tell, I saw one person blur into the next—each as vicious and wrathful as the last.