Sightwitch (The Witchlands 0.5)

“Forget the rules for one second,” Tanzi hissed back. “And water my violets while I’m gone. Unless, of course, you get Summoned too.”

“Yes.” I held my smile as stiff as the stars in the stained glass. “Unless I get Summoned too.”

Empty words made of dust. We both knew it would never happen. Summonings are rare enough; two Sisters Summoned at once is practically unheard of. And with each day that passes, the less I think I will ever get called inside the mountain to earn the gift of Sight.

Then that was it. That was all Tanzi and I got for a good-bye before my Threadsister was tugged onward and the rest of us were assembling into rows. At the end was me, all alone, for our number does not break evenly.

Hilga rang the bell once, and its bright tinkle filled the observatory. Filled my ears, then hooked deep into my heart and yanked down.

I hated the sound of that bell even more than the deeper bell that followed. The one in the belfry above the Crypts’ Chapel.

At the main bell’s single toll, we walked.

Little Trina, who is at least two hands shorter than I, glanced back at me. Pity clouded her blue eyes. Or maybe it wasn’t pity but rather a fear that she’d one day end up like me: seventeen and still pall-eyed. Seventeen and still dressed in brown.

Seventeen and still un-Summoned by our sleeping Goddess, Sirmaya.

I pretended not to see Trina staring, and when we began the Chant of Sending, I hummed the hollow tones louder than I had ever hummed before. I wanted Tanzi to hear me, all the way at the front of the line, as we wound out of the observatory and up the trail into the evergreens.

Two of the Serving Sisters had cleared this path last week, but already white rubble clotted the pine-needle path. It sheds from the mountain each time she shakes herself.

I will have to clean it again tomorrow—just you wait. Hilga will come to me in the morning with that chore. Except this time, there will be no Tanzi to help.

When at last we reached the chapel pressed against the mountain’s white face, the chant came to an end. Always the same rhythm, always the same timing.

We all stopped there, at the entrance into the Crypts, the Convent’s vast underground library. The chant was over, but its memory still hung in the air around us as we fanned into half circles around the arched entrance.



The spirit swift that had Summoned Tanzi swooped over us now, briefly multiplying into three aetherial birds. Then six. Then shrinking back into one before sailing through the open door.

When it had disappeared from sight, Hilga nodded at Tanzi. “From this day on, Tanzi Lamanaya will be no more. She will leave us as a Serving Sister and return with the Gift of Clear Eyes.”

“Praise be to the Sleeper,” we all murmured—even me, though it made my stomach hurt to say it.

Tanzi smiled then. A brilliant, giddy one with no sign of her earlier fret.

And who could blame her? Even she, who waxed day in and day out about wanting to leave the Convent—even she wanted the Sight as badly as the rest of us.

And now she would get it. She’d been Summoned by the Sleeper, the most important moment in the life of a Sightwitch Sister. The only moment, really, that matters.

I tried to mimic her grin. Tried to show Tanzi that I was happy for her—because I was. A person can grieve for herself yet still revel in someone else’s good fortune.

Our eyes barely had time to connect before Hilga gripped Tanzi’s shoulder and turned her away.

They walked, Tanzi and Hilga, step by measured step into the chapel. Into the mountain. Soon enough, they were lost to the shadows.

The next time I would see Tanzi, her eyes would no longer match mine.

The other Sisters turned away then and marched back to the observatory in their perfect lines.

I lingered behind, my gaze trapped on the words etched into the marble above the chapel entrance.

TWO OR MORE AT ALL TIMES,

FOR A LONE SISTER IS LOST.



We call it the Order of Two, and no matter your heritage, the letters shift and melt into whatever language you find easiest to read.

For me, that is Cartorran. My aunt took me from Illrya before I was old enough to learn its written language.

I could not help but wonder, every time I saw these letters, What do those words look like for someone who cannot read?

I shook my head. A useless question, and one that left me running to catch back up to the group.

The rest of my day unfolded in silence.

Tanzi’s half of the bed is cold now, as I write this. Only without her here do I realize how adapted to her presence I am. Her sideways snorts when she thinks something’s funny. The constant cracking of her knuckles while she talks. Or even how she breathes heavy in her sleep, not quite a snore, but a sound I’m so accustomed to.

I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to wake up alone. And I don’t want to wake up wondering, yet again, why, why, why I am still without the Sight.





Tanzi Lamanaya

Y10 D234

Today, I received a knife with an amber on the hilt. My mentor, Sister Hilga, told me it is the “key to the past” and that I must not lose it. “Every Sister at the Convent has their own key,” she said. “And they are not to be shared.”

She also gave me a huge book called A Brief Guide to the Sightwitches and this diary, in which I’m supposed to record all events of the day. Then, upon waking, I must record all of my dreams.

I hope I can remember my dreams. I’ve never remembered them before.

Today, I learned the hierarchy of the Sightwitch Sisters. I don’t think I’ll forget the three kinds of Sisters, seeing as I live here now and will be seeing them every day, but I also do not want to disobey my mentor. Especially since my roommate, a girl named Ryber Fortiza, has now scolded me twice for not following the rules.

Ryber is from Illrya, and she’s just like Gran-Mi always said the Illryans were: focused and serious.

“Your bed is not made right,” Ryber pointed out earlier. Then just a few moments later, she said, “You will get us into trouble, Tanzi. The lanterns are snuffed at the twenty-first chimes, and lighting a candle after that would be breaking Rule 33.”

Her dark eyes have been narrowed ever since and her brow sloped so low. Gran-Mi would say that she has a face for telling stories, because it is so expressive.

I miss Gran-Mi. I hope I don’t cry tonight. I don’t think Ryber would like that.

Oh, no, Ryber is staring expectantly at me again. I had better write what I remember from my lessons.

First, we were assigned something called the Nine Star Puzzle. “Given the nine stars,” Hilga said, “connect them all with only four lines and without lifting your chalk from the slate.”

The nine stars were laid out like this:



But I still haven’t figured out how to connect the stars with only four lines. And I’ve tried a hundred different ways.

After that, we learned the three kinds of Sisters.