CHAPTER FOURTEEN #5
‘We must try! Mamgi, I beg you, help me save him. I won’t let him die,’ she sobbed, her tears falling freely now as she took his face in her hands.
‘Tudor! Tudor my love, do not leave me. Come back from the darkness. I am here, my love. I am here!’ she whispered, planting kisses on his bloodstained face, feeling his skin cold beneath her lips.
Even as she held him she knew Mamgi was right.
He lay lifeless, the chill of death descending upon him.
Despair gripped her, swiftly followed by rage.
‘Nooo! she screamed. It was a terrible sound that carried even beyond the thick stone walls of the croft, chilling the bones of all those who heard it.
Rhiannon stood up, her face wild with grief and anger.
‘Am I not a witch? Can I not use my magic? Now is the time it must serve me! Show me, grandmother. Show me what I must do to bring him back!’ she demanded.
‘No, child, that cannot be done.’
‘Do not tell me no!’ she shouted, grabbing the old woman by the shoulders and shaking her roughly.
‘What use have I for witchery that cannot save the man I love? Why am I chosen and given gifts to only half do what I must? Why am I sent strength to save him on the battlefield only to have to watch his spirit dim and fade here?’
‘You are a witch, not a necromancer! Your magic is not for conquering death!’
‘You told me I would have great power one day, that I would be Queen Witch. I need that power now! Where is my coven? Where are my fellow witches in my hour of need? Why have they abandoned me now?’ More quietly then she took Mamgi’s hands in hers.
‘I have never asked anything of them until this minute. Please, grandmother, summon them. Let me speak to them and beg them for their help.’
‘It is too soon…’
‘No, Mamgi,’ she said, looking at Tudor’s pale body. ‘Soon it will be too late!’
The old woman thought for a moment longer and then nodded slowly. ‘Very well,’ she said calmly. ‘Very well.’ She leaned forwards and took Rhiannon’s knife from her belt.
Puzzled, Rhiannon took it from her. ‘What would you have me do with this?’ she asked.
‘Look closely at the hilt. Look at the twisting pattern carved there. Pay particular attention to the stone.’
‘But, this is the knife I have had for years.’
‘You know that it belonged to your mother. Your real mother. She made sure you would be given it because through this you will summon your fellow witches. The Grand Witches of the White Shadow have waited long winters to hear from you. Hold it up to the lamplight, cariad, and look deep into the stone in its handle.’
Rhiannon did as she was bid, staring at the night blue stone, with its distinctive uneven shape, as if a thin shard of it had been lost, searching for some sign, some revelation there, even though she had no notion of what form it might take.
For a long moment there was nothing, save the sound of activity outside the croft, and a ringing in her ears from her own, overwrought mind. She began to despair.
‘It does not work,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘We have to try something else. Should I not speak? Are there not special words I must use?’
‘It is in harmony with your heart and soul. You have only to turn your thoughts and wishes to it to be heard. Have patience, child.’
‘We have not time! Tudor…’ but then she saw it.
The centre of the stone began to change colour, lightening so that it moved from dark to milky pale blue, and at the heart of this new lightness was a point of brightness like that of a star in a clear night sky, or the glint of sunlight on a dew drop.
‘Should I speak?’ she asked. ‘What should I say?’
‘Only wait and watch and listen.’
To do nothing was torment. Every moment that passed was another breath Tudor did not take, another heartbeat that did not stir his cooling blood.
But she waited. And watched. And listened.
At last she began to hear voices. There was nothing clear, more a chorus of whispers, high and urgent.
And then the point of brightness on the knife seemed to grow and pulsate until it broke free of the jewel and floated up, expanding and swirling until it filled half the room.
Rhiannon took a step back, searching the unnatural miasma for a person’s face, or perhaps a signal she could make sense of.
Instead the voices grew louder, but no more discernible.
Each seemed to be speaking in a different language.
Next she glimpsed mouths moving as they spoke, or eyes, flashing and searching, or a hand reaching out as if to touch her.
Slowly, as if she had learned in that moment to speak in tongues, the words began to make sense to her.
Husky and sibilant, sentences formed from the multiple voices.
It can not be.
She should not demand it, she has not the right.
Such a thing is forbidden.
She asks too much!
Shame! Shame!
Rhiannon could remain silent no longer.
‘Send him back to me!’ she begged. ‘I am here to plead for the life of this honourable man, who died in the service of this community, who protected me and my home with his last drop of blood.’
A witch of the white shadow stands alone.
She should not be concerned with her heart when her soul is what matters.
The White Shadow should be all and everything to her.
Selfish! Selfish!
‘I did not choose this path! I did not ask to be one of your kind!’
Destiny is given and we accept it.
We cannot do what she asks!
To be a witch of the White Shadow is the greatest of honours.
She should be grateful. Should be humble.
Humble! Humble!
Close to despair, Rhiannon shook her head. ‘I will do whatever you ask of me. I will be the witch you say I must be and live my whole life in your service, if you will only do this thing for me. Give him back to me, to stand by my side, and I will serve you the rest of my days. I give you my oath!’
The witches whispered to one another while their faces loomed and receded in and out of the ethereal mist that now filled the croft so much Rhiannon felt she was breathing it in.
She saw a woman with golden hair. There was a man with angular features and the colouring of someone from an Arab nation.
There was another female face, too indistinct to be sure of.
Suddenly, a dark male face became visible.
She experienced a jolt of recognition and instantly remembered where she had seen this man before.
This was the same vision, the same face that had swum before her eyes, all those months ago when she had been trapped in the well, near death.
This had been the face that had given her the strength to live!
‘Will you help me, please?’ she asked, emotion breaking her voice.
The old man, who looked aged beyond all time and yet his eyes were bright and kind, spoke softly. ‘We cannot turn your man from death’s embrace. He has embarked on his final journey, and we are not able to call him back. But, there is a way we can help you, if you agree to be bound by a covenant.’
‘Anything! Yes, anything.’
‘You have already accepted your destiny as a witch of the White Shadow, but this covenant will take you beyond that. If you choose to follow this path, there will be no turning back. You will traverse the centuries to become a Grand Witch, and one day Queen Witch.’
‘Centuries?’
‘You will tread this brutal earth for a thousand years. And through that millennium you will make it your life’s work to fight the Shifting.
Your task will be to strive to rebalance the fight between good and evil, tipping the scales away from the darkness, using your power, your magic, your sister witches and your coven to fight in our name. ’
‘A thousand years! I don’t understand. How can I do that?’
‘We will grant you that life, if you agree to use it as we have ordained.’
Rhiannon’s mind was racing. She believed these mysterious creatures had the magic to do what they were proposing, so what would that mean for her?
Could she really live for so very long? Could she fight for the cause they spoke of?
She felt a touch on her arm and looked down to see Mamgi’s tiny hand laid tenderly upon her.
‘Consider well, cariad. Such a life… there are prices to be paid,’ she warned.
Rhiannon looked back up at the old man. ‘Shall I be… young and strong?’ she asked.
‘Your body and appearance will remain as they are this day. Your magic and skills will grow with the centuries of practice you will gain.’
She turned to Tudor, her heart heavy at the sight of him so stricken and still. Continuing to gaze at him, she asked. ‘If I do as you ask, will you send him back to me?’
The oldest of the grand witches explained to her with a soft voice.
‘He is already gone from you, sister witch. You must accept that. But, undertake this bargain with us, pledge us your allegiance and your life, and we will grant him the gift of being reborn. This knight who you love will be born into another time, again and again, down the years. You must listen for him. You must find him. Each time you must win his heart anew, and then he will be yours.’
She fought to make sense of what she was being told. ‘How will I know where to find him?’
‘You will be a Grand Witch of the White Shadow,’ the old man reminded her with a smile. ‘You will find him.’
‘But, he will remember nothing of… of us? Of our time together?’
‘He will not.’ The old man’s expression became serious.
‘If you give your pledge it is binding unto death. You will never be free of the work we want you to do. You will make it your vocation. But, you will not face the future alone. Your sister witches will help you when they are able. You will establish your own coven who will serve you down the years. And, in your sweet knight, you will have your guardian.’
‘I will have him by my side? Truly?’
‘Truly. Do you pledge your life to us?’