Sightwitch (The Witchlands 0.5)

I paused then, my pulse hammering in my eardrums. If I didn’t answer, would she follow? If the glamour was down, there was nothing to keep her outside the Convent grounds.

So I swiveled back and cupped my mouth. “And she will die here too! The Sightwitches are all gone, and there can be no home for her at the Convent.”

With that, I spun on my heel and sprinted directly for the Standing Stones.

It is only now, as I sit against the tallest monolith of the eight while the last of the day’s light fades, that I realize the woman must have been a Threadwitch.

All the Standing Stones are intact, which means the glamour spell that is bound to them still holds. She must have seen my Threads—not me—through the magic.

Which means she did not hear my answer.

Which means she will never know why I couldn’t take in little Dirdra.

For some reason, this makes me cry.

And cry and cry and cry and cry.

The grass tickles my ankles. The Rook preens atop a smaller stone nearby.

I miss Tanzi.





Tanzi Lamanaya

Y14 D27

NOTES ON RULE 12: ACCEPTING CHILDREN TO THE CONVENT

Long ago, the Sightwitch Sister Convent was vast place, spanning half the mountain, and the Sisters took in every girl who was ever left at the Sorrow.

“But that was centuries ago,” Hilga explained in our meeting today. “In the days of the Twelve, when we Sightwitches were top advisers to queens and kings. When the wealthy and the poor alike sent their corpses here so we could record their memories.

“We had food, we had wealth, and we had space. The Standing Stones had not yet been erected, so no glamour hid us from the world.”

“Why was the spell made?” Ry asked. “Why did we hide?”

“Because six Paladins turned on the other six, and we were no longer safe.” Hilga lifted a flat-palmed hand before Ryber could inevitably demand more explanation. “That’s a lesson for another time. All you need to know now is that the day the spell was cast was the day the Rules of the Convent grew stricter. Including Rule 12.

“So you must harden your hearts, girls, for more children will always be left than we can safely keep. And always, always their parents will beg or scream, or curse you when you ignore them. And always, always they will say, ‘This child will die if you do not take her!’

“But you must not listen, and you must not believe. Look to the Rules to guide you, and remember to trust Sirmaya.”




When the sky splits and the mountain quakes,

Make time for good-byes,

For the Sleeper soon breaks.

—Sightwitch Sister skipping song





Ryber Fortiza

Y18 D216 — 42 days since I became the last Sightwitch Sister

DREAMS

The same dream came to me, except this time, Hilga was there too. “Find us! Please, Ryber, before it is too late!”`

Two Sisters trapped behind a wall of water.

Two Sisters I could not save.


MEMORIES

I don’t know where to start. The day feels so long and disjointed. So much has happened since I wrote my dreams.

So much has changed.

But “there is no such thing as coincidence” and “there is no changing what is meant to be.” So I must accept this.

“The beginning,” Tanzi would say if she were here. “Start your tale at the beginning.”

Morning prayers it is, then.

I recited them as I always do, and no spirit swifts came for me. As soon as I’d uttered the final word, I scurried up to the telescope.

The Nubrevnans have made such progress, and their wooden scaffolding looks more and more like a proper tower.

They scuttled about even more industriously today, though their pale-haired captain was nowhere in sight. I couldn’t help but wonder where he’d gone.

The storm clouds gathering above the mountains must have spurred the workers on. Black thunderheads were not unusual for this time of year, except that these rolled in from the Northwest.

I’ve never seen a storm come from Arithuania before.

Eventually my eyes burned from the all the squinting, and lightning had begun to flicker. I needed to check on the sheep, not to mention cover the weaker vegetables and fruits.

Ever the dutiful Serving Sister.

That was when it happened. As I turned away from the telescope and toward the stairs, movement caught my eye.

Movement in the scrying pool.

Nothing unusual. I see flickers atop the water all the time. Ripples of sunlight or the Rook’s reflection as he coasts past. I’d already dismissed this particular distraction before my gaze had even locked upon it.

I was wrong, though. For once, it was not sunlight, it was not a reflection.

Shapes were forming on the water. One after the other, elongated figures that grew clearer and larger with each passing boom of my heart. It was as if they walked toward me, people trapped in a rainstorm and reaching for my help.

Before the image had crystallized, I found myself stumbling down the stairs, grasping, clawing for them as desperately as they clawed for me.

Then I was at the pool’s rim and falling to my knees as every single Sightwitch Sister stared at me. There was Trina, there was Birgit, there were Gaellan and Ute and Lachmi.

There was Hilga.

There was Tanzi.

Their mouths worked in unison, saying the same phrase again and again. I couldn’t hear them, but I didn’t need to. I’d heard the words often enough in my dreams.

“Find us,” they said. “Please, Ryber, before it is too late!”

“Where?” I cried. My fingers ached to grab at the water; my legs itched to jump in. “Where are you? How do I find you? How, how, how? Please, Tanz,” I begged, staring at her. Then at Hilga. “Please, tell me how to find you!”

But the Sisters gave me no answers, and in moments, the entire vision had melted away.

I stared, too scared to exhale. Too scared to do anything that might break this moment and keep a second vision from coming.

Surely another vision would come.

Minutes slid past; no second vision showed.

I touched the water then. I punched my fist into the pool and screamed at the stained-glass ceiling overhead. I screamed at Sirmaya, I screamed at the Sisters, and I screamed at myself.

For never had I felt this truth more sharply than in that moment.

A LONE SISTER IS LOST.

Eventually, my throat was too raw to keep shouting. My soul too tired to care. I sank to the stones, curled onto my side, and wept.

Only the storm prompted me to move.

Not the Rook, who tried for an hour to nudge me off the observatory floor. Not my bladder, which had long since moved past discomfort and into misery. Not even my bloodied knees—the result of falling to the stone floor—could wrest me off my spot beside the scrying pool.

The storm, though, was not to be ignored. So bright was the lightning that it seared through my closed eyelids, and so strong was the thunder that it shook through my body with each crash.

This storm was not confined to the sky. The mountain herself was moving.

I pushed myself upright. Stars dotted my vision. Everything hurt. It was in this moment, as the Rook cooed happily that I was finally moving, that a second vision appeared.