The Silver Witch(62)

It’s going over!

‘Look out! Dylan!’ she shouts, as the hefty metal tower lurches and then begins to fall. Everyone on the ground scatters as they glimpse movement and hear Tilda’s warning. Everyone except Dylan. He appears transfixed, staring up at the light as it hurtles through the half-darkness toward him. If he does not leap from its path it will hit him. Unless Tilda can stop it. From where she stands she is too far to reach him, so there is no possibility of her pushing him out of the way. With no real idea of what it is she is doing, she grips the bracelet in her hand, wrenching it from her pocket, even as the gold seems to sear into her skin, and holds it aloft. She focuses on the light as it topples over, keeping her glaze fixed upon it. In the seconds it takes to fall, she forces herself to will it to change direction. She conjures an image of it veering to one side, so that it will fall harmlessly beside Dylan instead of hitting him. She pictures it doing this, pictures it thudding into the snow with him standing, unharmed, next to it.

But none of this happens.

What happens is that the tower stops falling. It comes to a halt inches above Dylan’s head and simply stays there, suspended by nothing. Nothing except Tilda’s will. Gasping, she staggers forward, takes Dylan’s arm, and drags him away. They have not gone more than two paces before the floodlight continues its journey and crashes noisily onto the ground, breaking into pieces and sending fragments of glass and metal bouncing across the snow. Dylan is jolted back to his senses. Tilda still has hold of his arm. He looks at the mangled remains of the metal tower, at the place where he had been standing, and then at her. Neither of them speaks. He pulls her to him, and the two stand there in silence, holding one another, as slowly everyone else returns to the trench to examine the chaos that has just rained down upon them.





12

SEREN

After the feast, after Hywel’s mistimed toast that drew such unwanted attention to me, I walk through the snow to the western shore of the lake. Heavy clouds have gathered once more, and as I reach the furthermost point from my home the sky can hold its burden no longer. A steady fall begins, undisturbed by so much as a breeze, plump flakes of snow adding to the layer that already smothers the ground. The stiller edges of the water start to be coated in a topping of slush, as the snow decides whether to freeze or to melt. After hours cooped up in the company of so many, with endless noise and doltish behavior, I feel the need to stand somewhere quiet and solitary. The need to look upon the ancient lake and feel its strength. Its magic. I require it to reassure and remind me that the foolish ways of men are but passing moments, shorter than the life of a single snowflake when compared to the existence of the lake. My boots are sheepskin, the wool on the inside keeps my feet warm, the tough leather on the outside offers sturdy protection. I am glad of my wolf skin tonight, and draw it around me as I stand on the shore. With so much cloud there is little moonlight, what there is descending in brief glimpses of clear sky, so that I stare through one level of darkness out over another. From here I can discern the flames of the crannog torches, though most are going out now. What light there is finds a glittering surface in the white snow, and glimmers more flatly upon the lake.

I feel the peace of Llyn Syfaddan enter my soul. All that I am has come from this place, and one day I shall walk into the waters and let them take me, so that in the end I shall be as one with the Afanc. The thought forces me to recall my vision. Did it foretell Brynach’s death? I have pondered this question over and over, and I think not. Water in my visions often signifies rebirth, or at the very least, a significant change. I have convinced myself that this is the case. Or, in truth, I continue to try to convince myself. Could it be that I am simply unwilling, unable, to accept the alternative? Can I not allow myself to read properly my own prophecy? Could it be that my heart is too tender where Brynach is concerned, and such feelings as I have for him are clouding my insight? Must I always be a Seer first and a woman second? Of course, I know the answer to this question. I take a step forward, so that I move from the softness of the snow to the grit of the shoreline, cold water lapping at my boots. If I am wrong, if the vision showed me my prince’s possible death, then I must warn him. What is shown need not be the outcome of events, not if the prince is furnished with foreknowledge, so that he can act, can prepare, can protect himself. I stoop low and dip my hand into the lake, lifting the water in my cupped hand to take a sip. It is cold enough to make my belly knot, but there is a sweetness to it that can be found nowhere else. As I crouch, my eyes are close to level with the surface of the lake, and I detect the faintest movement farther out. A series of ripples, but not spanning outward as if a stone has been dropped from a height. Rather, these form an arrowhead, giving away the motion of something under the water.