Chapter 10 #2
Niall was sitting at the table, his back to her, shoveling food into his mouth with rhythmic, jerky motions.
The witch stood bent over the hearth – a massive red-bricked cookstove, arching all the way to the ceiling, with a merciless iron door, ready and waiting to be latched shut, trapping its victim inside the fiery inferno blazing within.
She was stoking the fire with a long iron poker, humming tunelessly to herself.
Rory watched with horror as Niall scraped the last bit of barmbrack from his plate, and it filled again, piled high with fresh-baked scones and raspberry tarts and soda bread.
Without a pause, Niall grabbed for the food, shoving into his mouth without a sound, shoulders hunched as he ate with vacant intensity.
“Eat, little prince,” said the witch – unnecessarily, Rory thought, stomach rolling with nausea.
Her brother might very well eat himself to death, it seemed, based on how deep of an enchantment had been placed on him.
“Eat until you have grown fat and round for the stew to warm my belly. Eat until your skin has grown waxen and soft for the gown to deck my body. Eat until your hair is long and thick for the wreath to adorn my door.” She straightened from her crouch by the fire, a long knife with a rough, jagged blade in her hand. “Eat, for soon you die, little prince.”
Rory craned her neck and caught a glimpse of his face – ash-white with terrified eyes, tears streaming down his freckled cheeks, sobbing as he half-chewed, half-choked on the food that was forced down his throat by whatever nightmarish power controlled his hand.
She had lifted the enchantment on him, had decided to let him taste the horrors of his final moments, to marinade in the terror and the helplessness of his doom.
A storm of rage the likes of which she had never known swelled to a crest inside of Rory’s chest.
She was clawing through the poisonous vines before she could think better of it, snarling like a wild animal, as she tumbled through the window and onto the floor of the cailleach’s cottage.
Niall remained silent as a stone from where he sat at the table, his hand never pausing in its inexorable march from plate to mouth, but she saw the whites of his eyes wheel towards her, thunderstruck.
“Let him go,” she said, pushing to her feet, fists clenched.
The witch cocked her head as she smiled. “Two is better than one,” she said. “Come and have a bite, a pheata,” and then a stream of incoherent guttural sounds bellowed throughout the cottage.
Rory could feel the strength of the spell entwining its coils around her, squeezing at her chest, her throat, its phantom fangs sinking into the soft flesh of her neck, and she threw her head back and screamed, shrill and loud –
Two black-and-gray blurs swooped into the room, talons flashing, tearing at the golden locks of the witch, who shrieked as twin crimson slashes appeared on her dewy cheeks.
She let out a terrible snarl, sea-swept eyes turned black and terrible as a sunless dawn, and Rory knew, even without her shadows, what would happen next.
The witch’s mouth opened, and Rory could almost see the curse hovering on her tongue, her wrathful gaze pinned on the two kestrels soaring about the room, and without hesitating, she sank to her knees, palms flat against the floor, closed her eyes, and called for the darkness.
It came in a wild, brutal rush like never before, an inky-black fog of bone chilling cold, flooding into the room and drowning out the light – the firelight gave one feeble cry before it died away, the sunbeams slipping through the vine-encrusted window shriveling underneath its all-consuming cold.
The witch shrieked again, then let out a furious string of garbled curses, a bellow of viciousness and evil, and Rory could feel them scratching against her cheeks, her neck, the bare skin of her arms.
Scratching futilely, no blood drawn, because, she realized, she was entirely encased in ice, an impenetrable armor, a warrior of smoke and shadow forged from the mouth of death incarnate.
The fog billowed, enveloping the witch with its gaping mouth, and dimly, Rory became aware of a thunderous voice, intoning prophecies in that unearthly tongue that had taken hold of her any time she had ever let loose this shadow-power of hers, but far deeper now, rawer, a fearful and primal thing.
Her mouth moved in rhythm with the steady song of the words, and yet she could not be sure that the voice came from her, or even from this world.
From the shadows, she heard a muffled groan, the continued clatter of silver and brass, the scrape of a fork along a plate. Even now, in the absence of all light, in the midst of ice and darkness and unbearable cold, still Niall ate.
It would be funny, if it were not so horrifying, the staggering depths of the witch’s power.
But not as deep as hers, older than the most venerable of trees, the tallest of mountains, the deepest of seas.
The spell, she thought faintly as the curses hurled by the enraged cailleach continued to lash against her icy skin. She had to find a way to break the witch’s spell over Niall.
The knowing took shape before her – the empty hearth grown cold and dark, the once-bright embers frosted over with ice, and the witch falling backwards, the shadows pinning her arms, binding her mouth, as she crashed among the ash and the soot, the half-open iron door slamming shut behind her, caging her in
Burn the witch, that unnatural voice whispered. Burn her to ash.
Rory’s eyes flew open, the darkness a mantle of ice around her bloodless shoulders, and sent her shadows flying.
There was a savage crash and then a feral scream that cut off abruptly, and Rory closed her eyes, feeling the lash and the bite of the witch’s panicked magic slice against her frozen skin, a thousand tiny knives slashing at her at once.
Through the darkness, she could hear the sounds of the battle raging, the cailleach against the storm-black clouds, biting and snapping at one another, until at last she heard a final thud, followed by the hollow clang of the hearth door slamming shut.
Almost against her will, she was moving forward, ice-cold hand outstretched, that preternatural song still ringing in her ears – burn the witch, burn the witch – then pressed her palm flat against the iron door and with a sharp inhale, called her ice and shadows home.
The fire they had consumed came belching forth, and an inhuman scream erupted from inside the brick hearth. Rory leapt back, her palm singing from the sudden flare of red-hot heat come to life within its iron door and red brick walls.
Slowly, excruciatingly, the scream faded away.
Rory stumbled to her knees, her breath whooshing out of her, a strange roaring in her ears, as the darkness subsided, the fog and the shadows retreating, vanishing into nothingness.
She looked down at her trembling hands and watched in the new-emerging sunlight as their hoary armor shuddered and melted away, sliding away to pool on the floor in a slushy heap.
It was real, then. She hadn’t imagined it.
A girl of ice and shadow. A nightmare come to life.
From behind her, she heard Niall stumble to his feet, his voice thick and heavy with the lingering aftereffects of whatever sadistic spell the witch had cast upon him. “Ror,” he said. “What did you do?”
The last trace of ice vanished, and she flexed her still-cold fingers tentatively. “I saved you,” she said. “I saved your life.”
“Oh my gods.” He sank to his knees across from her, staring at her with something very like terror on his face. “You – it is true, after all. The stories about you.”
She pushed to her feet. “We should go. I don’t know how long that door will hold her.”
Niall made a strangled sound. “But you burned her. I heard – she screamed, she’s dead, surely –”
“No. I didn’t see her dead, I saw –” Rory licked her cracked lips. “I saw her alive. She’s a cailleach. It will take more than that to kill her.” She reached down, wrapping her hand around his, tugging him to his feet. “We need to go.”
He followed her in silence, both of them blinking against the glare of the dazzling midday sun, and then a queasy smile curved along the corners of his mouth.
“Molly,” he murmured. She followed his gaze to a nearby tree and saw the two kestrels huddled together, orange eyes sharp with concern.
“I didn’t – I didn’t imagine that, did I? That they attacked her?”
“They did,” said Rory, her fingers tight around his as she urged him forward, that distant voice whispering to her to go, to flee, to leave this place and never again to return.
“We might both be dead, if not for them. I’m not sure I could have – I don’t know if it would have worked in time without them. ”
Niall was quiet for a moment as they hurried down the mountainside, hand in hand. “Ror,” he said at last, low and fearful. “What was that? What did you – what did you do, exactly?”
“I’m not sure, Niall. I never have understood it, not fully. I – sometimes it comes to me, this feeling of knowing what could happen, if I allowed it to, and then I just…wait.”
“But the fog, and the shadows, and all that ice – and oh, that voice, gods that was awful –”
“I don’t know, Niall,” she said again, more sharply this time. “It’s very confusing and a bit terrifying for me as well, you know, so if you don’t mind, I’d rather not be needled about it at the moment.”
“Sorry.” He managed to wait until they passed the fork in the path, scrambling down over rocks and stumbling over roots, before he spoke again. “How many times has…that…happened?”
Rory sighed, rubbing at her forehead with the heel of her hand. “That was the third time. And by far the worst.”
“Worst? What do you mean, worst?”