The Silver Witch(13)
But then, I must allow that I am a mystery to them. I cannot expect them to understand all that I do, all that I am. I have followed my mother’s calling as a shaman, and it was she who showed me the path of the seeker of visions. She who taught me how to read what I saw. Our strangeness marked us out, and we have always been respected as different, as having a connection to the old religion, to useful talents and gifts. The title of witch they accept less readily. There are too many tales of wickedness attached to my kind, and the combination of seer and witch is rare. My mother knew the day I was born that I carried magic within me. That I had been doubly blessed. But my skills were not enough to keep her in this life. When the sickness took hold of her, she could not shake free of it, and I was too young, too green, my gifts too undeveloped to save her.
The moon is high, sacred darkness claiming the land. There are few clouds, so that a silvery light descends upon the surface of the lake. The water slips and slides in small undulations beneath it, moving in the wake of a scurrying water vole, or the sleepy paddling of slumbering birds that rest upon it for safety. The air smells fresh, cool, yet with the warmth of decay as reeds and rushes begin to die back for another year. From the woods, I can hear my sister owls, cutting the night air with their sharp screeches, or wooing one another with their breathy calls. And now there is something else. My eyes work better without the harsh sun to hurt them, so that I am able to see the darkening shadows forming on the lake, near the center. I steady my own thudding heart and wait. The silky water does not stir, but I sense a presence. My skin tingles, my pulse grows stronger, louder. I feel a coolness cloak me. She is near. I feel the immense weight of her beneath the surface and my soul dances to know that I am in her company again!
‘Seren?’
The voice behind me is as unexpected as it is unwelcome. Even as I wheel around I know that the connection is broken. I hear a low rumble from deep within the lake, fading as it swiftly moves away, and I know that she is gone. I frown at my visitor. He may have donned a monk’s robe to disguise himself, but his height and regal bearing give him away to any with the wit to look at him properly. I dip my head, irritation at this interruption preventing me from showing further deference.
‘My Prince,’ I say, and then, ‘You are welcome,’ even though he is not. Not at this moment.
‘I cannot fool you, can I Seren?’ He smiles, pushing back the hood of his habit.
‘I would not be worthy of the name ‘seer’ if I could be so easily blinded to the truth.’
‘Indeed.’ He steps forward. He stands close now. When he speaks again I can feel his breath upon my cheek. ‘I wished to come sooner, but, well … I have been much occupied.…’ He waves a hand, vague and apologetic.
‘It is the business of a prince to calm his subjects when they are agitated.’
‘They ask me questions for which I have no answer.’
‘You know the Mercian army stand ready to threaten us at any time. You were quick to tell me this is not news.’
‘Queen Aethelflaed will bide her time yet.’ He shakes his head. ‘She herself is much occupied.’
‘Making trysts with Vikings?’
‘Trysts. War. One or the other. Both at once. Her plans change direction at the lightest breeze it seems, but that is to our favor. We are not, for the moment, her main concern.’
‘You see how at times it is best, after all, not to be the center of all things?’
Prince Brynach gasps, and then laughs, louder than he meant to. Louder than he should. A nearby coot is startled from its reedy bed and splashes out onto the safety of the open lake. ‘Why, Seren, my revered prophet, I believe you are chiding me for vanity!’
‘If the crown fits…’
He laughs again, more softly this time, and reaches out to put a hand on my shoulder. It is a gesture of friendship, casual, the reflex of a soldier, or one man to another. But I am not a man. And the instant his palm alights on my shoulder I feel the tension in him. He lifts his hand, hesitant, unsure, before moving to touch my hair. I am not in my ceremonial garb now, but wear my workaday woolen tunic. My hair, unbraided and loose, reflects the moon’s beams. My arms are bare and the prince’s hand is cool against my flesh. His touch is restrained, but there is no mistaking the catch in his breath, nor the widening of his eyes.
‘I trust Princess Wenna is in good health,’ I say.
At the sound of his wife’s name Prince Brynach drops his hand. His manner alters. He becomes brusque. The friendliness is gone. He is a Prince once more, and I his advisor, nothing more.