Sightwitch (The Witchlands 0.5)

I am the model Serving Sister, adhering more strictly than ever to the Rules. I must! I’m the only one left unchosen, and all the Sightwitches are busy looking for answers. Someone must keep forty-four mouths fed and the Convent running.

Today, I cleaned the bridge at the Supplicant’s Sorrow, scraping off the algae and bird waste. It took only a few hours, though, so I then moved on to the dolmen in the Grove.

My knuckles are raw. My knees too, and my shoulders burn so sharply I can barely lift them over my head.

What does Sirmaya want from us?





Y18 D167 — 15 days

Twenty more sisters were Summoned.





Y18 D168 — 16 days

Twenty-two more Sisters were Summoned.

Hilga and I are the only ones who remain.





Y18 D171 — 19 days

I know what is coming. Soon, Hilga will be Summoned, and I will be the only Sister left.

I dare not utter these words aloud, though, and Hilga holds her tongue too. In fact, we have exchanged no words in days.

She scarcely looks at me. Her gaze, her mind—they are in another realm. Lost inside the Memory Records she combs from the Crypts. Or perhaps claimed by whatever prayers she offers, unanswered, to the scrying pool.





Y18 D174 — 22 days since Tanzi was Summoned

Hilga was Summoned today.

I knew it would come as surely as if I had the Sight.

It came. It passed.

I am alone.

Two spirit swifts swirled up from the scrying pool to Summon her. They landed on the observatory floor so close to me that my heart surged into my eyeballs.

But no—of course not. Of course they did not come for me. They skipped urgently past and dove straight for Hilga. One even nipped at her gown.

Then Hilga’s eyes focused on my face for the first time in weeks. She spoke to me too.

“You do not need to follow me to the mountain, Ryber, nor hum the Chant of Summoning.”

It was strange to hear my name on her lips. Strange to hear her voice at all, husky from underuse.

Somehow, I did not collapse to the floor at her words. In fact, my knees had locked so tightly, I barely moved at all.

“Listen to me, Ryber.” She reached for the bell-pouch at her hip and untied it in a single, practiced movement. Carefully—frightened even, as if she worried the spirit swifts might disapprove—she approached me.

The birds did indeed disapprove, for one chittered in that shrill, ghostly way of theirs. More sensation inside my skull than true sound.

But Hilga was already to me at that point and offering me the bell. “I have no answers for what is happening beneath the mountain. I do not know why Sirmaya Summons us, and I do not know what the future holds. No clues are hidden in the Crypts, and none of my prayers to the pool have been answered.

“All I can guess is that she needs us for … something. And it is our duty to protect her, just as she has protected and provided for us over all these centuries.

“You are alone now, Ryber. The last Sightwitch Sister. This bell must pass to you. Take it.”

I took it. My hands did not shake.

Inside, though, I was screaming.

“There are two kinds of Sight,” Hilga tried to say, but the swifts cut her off, fluttering their starry wings and hopping toward us.

My lungs closed up; I rocked back a step. Please—was it already time?

Quick as a fighter, Hilga grabbed my wrist and tugged me close.

Then her silver eyes bored into mine. “There are two kinds of Sight, Ryber. The kind that lets you see the future, relive the past, and catalog the world around you in a detail you never knew possible. That is the Sight that I and the other Sisters have.

“But there is another Sight, a simpler Sight—one that is rooted in clarity of purpose. An ability to see the path that matters most and stay firmly gripped upon it.

“I’m sure you can guess which one will serve you better in the long run. Which one will serve us all. Now ring the bell.”

I blinked. Then wet my lips, trying to absorb her words. To understand. But they were nonsensical sounds that knocked aimlessly in my skull. Two kinds of Sight. Gripped upon it. Which one will serve us all.

The swifts flittered toward us. One clacked its aetherial beak.

“Ring the bell,” Hilga repeated, more forcefully now.

I rang the bell.

A stuttering heartbeat passed before the answering toll sounded in the distance.

Then Sister Hilga turned away from me and walked out of the observatory, out of this world, and out of my life entirely.





Tanzi Lamanaya

Y17 D254

A man came today. I don’t know why, but Hilga let him in—and not just beyond the glamour either, but into the Convent.

I caught a glimpse of him and his two companions when they reached the Supplicant’s Sorrow. I had traded cleaning the dolmen for sheep duty today, since out in the meadows, I can pretend I’m far, far away.

The Windswept Plains, perhaps. Or even the savannas of southwest Marstok. Anywhere but here.

I’d followed the sheep down to that grassy patch that overlooks the pond. When I saw that we had visitors, I of course abandoned the sheep entirely and crept down to the glamour’s edge.

The man who led the way—the one who ultimately entered the Convent—was tall, broad of shoulder, fair of hair, and with eyes of stormy blue. At his neck, he wore a gold chain that he fidgeted with constantly.

His companions strode several paces behind. One of the men was just as tall and just as fair, though lean and slouchy. He smiled often and kept muttering things that the final man—a distinctly Marstoki-looking man, who kept his hands defensively high as he walked—chuckled at despite his best efforts not to.

At first, I thought his stance awkward. Then I spotted the triangular Witchmark on the back of his hand.

A Firewitch.

My interest, which had been piqued before, was now tenfold hooked. A hundredfold.

Hilga herself came for the men and bowed to each of them, a sight I’ve never seen. Hilga bowing! Then she led the leader through the glamour and into our home.

So much of the world has forgotten we exist, but some still remember—or still believe enough to go searching.

Like Gran-Mi.

As Sister Rose always says, “History might easily be rewritten, but someone somewhere always remembers what truly happened.”

The glamour keeps accidental visitors from wandering beyond. The magic masks us with images of forest expanse and bare mountainside; those who approach too close will abruptly find themselves lost and disoriented. Without really knowing why, they’ll turn and walk the other way.

These three men knew what to do, though. They followed the proper protocol, going to the Supplicant’s Sorrow and waiting for someone to meet them.

I couldn’t help but think of Ryber in that moment. The only child ever to find her way here on her own. To ask to be let in. No wonder the Sisters all thought she would be powerful one day.

I still think she might be too, even if she claims she has given up hope.

I wanted so badly to follow Hilga as she guided the man onto the Convent grounds, but even I won’t break a rule where Hilga might see.