A few minutes more and I became aware of a growing uneasiness, a bad taste in my mouth. I felt nervous; the back of my neck was tingling; all my senses were on alert. It was unnatural for the forest to be this quiet, this still. There were no animals, no birds, no movement or life of any kind. Instead, a feeling of dread and disturbing silence pervaded the area. If I hadn’t been on a mission, if I hadn’t known I was tracking a witch—my father—I would have fled. Again and again, every minute, my senses told me to bolt, to get the hell out of there, to run as fast as I
could through the thick forest, to not stop until I was home. It took all my self-control to ignore
them, to push those feelings ruthlessly down. Goddess, what had he done? I pressed forward and came at last to a smallish clearing. To one side of the clearing stood an old, round-roofed hut, made of sticks and covered with big strips of birch bark, like an Indian house. A fire burned unenthusiastically outside the hut. It was surrounded by huge logs, easily two feet in diameter, that looked like benches. I felt ill. Nausea rose in my throat; my skin felt clammy, cold, and damp with sweat. From the strong pulls on my senses I could tell I was at a huge power sink, much like the one in the cemetery in Widow’s Vale. But this one was made up of crossed lines, light and dark—it would be easy to work dark magick here, I realized, and my heart clenched. I approached the hut. Every sense in me was screaming for me to get away from this place, to leave, that I was about to die, that I was suffocating. Dimly I was able to understand that these feelings were the effects of spells designed to ward off anyone who stumbled upon this place by accident, and I forced myself to ignore them. Taking a deep breath, I ducked down and pushed myself into the hut through its low doorway. Immediately I was assaulted with feelings of out-and-out terror. My mouth went dry; my eyes were wild; my breath caught in my throat. Fighting for control, I looked around the hut with magesight. There was Da, crouched on the floor in a deep trance, his face alight with an unearthly eagerness. He was leaning over a dark . . . hole? Then it came to me, and my throat closed as if a fist were squeezing my windpipe shut. Dear Goddess. I had never seen one of these before, though of course I had read about them. My father was in front of abith dearc, a literal opening into the netherworld, the world of the dead. My brain scrambled to understand, but nothing came to me except a horrified recognition. Abith dearc. . . if the council knew about this . . .
Da was oblivious to my presence, deeply entrenched in the shadow world. The atmosphere inside the hut was wretched, oppressive. I was reeling from shock and horror, wondering with panic how the hell this had become part of my life. Then, vaguely, my tortured senses picked up on the presence of a person outside. I stumbled back out through the opening, toward the clearing, to see a woman sitting on one of the log benches. She was poking listlessly at the fire with a stick, apparently used to having to wait and not seeming to feel the same terror and dread that was shredding my self-control.
I must have looked crazy, with my face white, my eyes wild, but she didn’t seem to think anything of it, nor was she surprised to find someone here besides herself. “Bonjour,”she said, after a quick glance at me.
I sat down on a log across from her, my head between my knees so I wouldn’t throw up.“Bonjour,”I muttered. I sucked in cold air, trying to clear my head, but the air here felt poisoned. How could my da be doing this? What to do, what to do? "C’est ma troisième visite à le sorcier,”the woman confided. It took me a moment to translate.
Her third visit to the witch. I wished I had thought to brush up on my French before I had come to this hateful place.
“Il m’aide de parler avec mon cher Jules,”she went on, a stranger chatting in a doctor’s waiting
room.“Jules mourut l’année dernière.” My stomach roiled as I took in this information. My father helped this woman talk to her dear Jules, who died last year. Bloody hell. My father was helping people talk to their dearly departed. He had opened abith dearcinto the netherworld and was selling this service to his neighbors. It was appalling on so many levels, I didn’t know what to react to first.
Apparently not bothered by my lack of response, the woman mused,“Le sorcier, il est très
compatissant. Le dernier fois, moi, je ne peut pas payer. Mais aujourd’hui, pour lui j’ai deux
poules grosses.”
Great. My father was a prince. She couldn’t pay last time, but today she had two nice chickens for him. My father was breaking some of the most seminal laws of the craft and being paid in chickens for it. I felt like I was losing my mind. There had been times in history where it had been necessary, even imperative, to contact souls on the other side, times when it was sanctioned. But to commune with the dead on a regular basis, for payment—it was an affront to nature. It would never be allowed. This was exactly the kind of thing a Seeker would be sent to investigate, to shut down. This realization caused a sickening drop of my stomach.
Eventually, I wasn’t sure how much later, Daniel came out, ashen-faced. When he saw me sitting there, white with illness and misery, he staggered. His dull eyes went from me to the woman, who was still waiting patiently. Ignoring me, he went over to her and spoke gently to her in French, telling her today wasn’t a good day, that she must return at another time. The look of utter disappointment on her face was heartbreaking. But she dutifully stood, offered my father her chickens, which he refused, smiling, and left. Leaving us alone, father and son, witch and Seeker.
Fiona the Bright
“You’ve got to talk to me!” I shouted. My father turned away and paced into the kitchen, his
shoulders stiff, his gaunt face set with anger. I followed him, crossing the tiny lounge in four big paces. A bleak sunshine was trying to stream through the newly washed windows, but it was weak and seemed incapable of entering this house of darkness, death, and despair.
“How could you possibly think it’s all right?” I demanded, pursuing him. Ever since we had
gotten home, I had been trying to get answers from him. He had retreated into cold silence,
regarding me as from a distance, as if I were nothing more than an annoying insect. I had spent most of the night awake, pacing in front of the fireplace, sitting on the couch, rubbing the back of my neck. Da had been in his room—if he slept, I didn’t know it. I would bet he did. Nothing much seemed to get to him. Certainly not my revolted reaction to hisbith dearc. The next morning I jolted awake, slumped against the back of the couch, unaware of when I had fallen asleep. Our ugly fight started again. He looked, several times, as though he wanted to say something, to explain himself, but couldn’t. I was alternately cajoling, supportive, angry, insistent. I never let down my guard, never left him alone. Seeing him in the kitchen, hunting through the cabinets for something to eat, through food I had supplied, filled me with fresh anger. I had been here five days, five awful, disappointing, shocking days. I’d had enough.
“When I got here, you could hardly walk,” I pointed out, coming closer. My anger was starting to spiral out of control, but for once I didn’t rigidly clamp it down. “Now you’re stronger becauseI’vebeen taking care of you. And you’re going out into the woods, to yourbith dearc. Are youmad?”
Daniel turned and looked at me, his eyes narrowed. I almost wanted him to explode, to show me a side of my old father, any side, even anger. He paused, his hand on a cupboard shelf, then looked away.
“What would Alwyn say if she saw you, if she knew about this?” I demanded. “This is what killed her brother.”
He looked at me, something flickering behind his dull brown eyes. Answer me, just answer me, I thought. “Please, stop,” he said, sounding helpless. “You just don’t understand.” “Explain it to me,” I said, trying to calm down. “Explain why you’ve done this terrible thing.” “Itisterrible,” he agreed sadly. “I know that.” “Then why do you do it?” I asked. “How could you take payment for contacting the dead?” We were face-to-face in that cramped kitchen. I was taller than he and outweighed him; I was a
young, strong, healthy man, and he was a broken wreck far older than his years. But there was something latent in him, a reserve of ancient power lying coiled within him, awaiting his need for it. I sensed this; I’m not sure if he did. His face twisted. “I have to,” he said.
“It’s making you ill. And you know it’s wrong,” I said, as if talking to a child. “Da, you’ve got to stop this.”
His shoulders hunched, he looked away. Then, stiffly, as if holding back a cry, he nodded. “I know, lad. I know.”
“Let me help you,” I said, calming down more. “Just stay here today—don’t go. I’ll make you some lunch.”
He gave another short nod and sat abruptly in his armchair, staring at the fire. His fingers twitched, a muscle in his jaw jumped—he looked like an addict facing withdrawal. “Tell me about your town,” Da said at lunch. It was the first question he had asked of me, the first interest he had shown in my life. I answered him, though I suspected he was only trying to change the subject.
“I’ve only been there about four months,” I said, not mentioning the reason I had first gone there: to investigate his first wife, his first son. “But I’ve stayed and kept it my base in America. It’s a little town, and it reminds me of England more than a lot of other American towns I’ve seen. It’s kind of old-fashioned and quaint.”
He bit into his BLT and almost looked like he enjoyed it for a second. Every once in a while he
glanced at a window or the door, as if he would somehow escape if I let him. He was trying not to go to thebith dearc. He was trying to let me help him. “Do you have a girl there?”
“Aye,” I admitted, taking a huge bite of my own sandwich. The thought of Morgan sent a tremor through my body. Goddess, I missed her.
“Who is she?”
“Her name is Morgan Rowlands,” I said, wondering how to broach the topic of her parentage. “She’s a blood witch, a Woodbane.”
“Oh? Good or bad?” At his little joke he gave a small cough and took a sip of his juice. “Good,” I said wryly. How could I tell him what Morgan meant to me, who she was? That I believed she was mymùirn beatha dàn ? “What’s her background? Tell me about her.” My pulse quickened. He sounded almost like a real father, the father I had always wanted. “She’s amazing. She’s only just found out about being a blood witch. But she’s the strongest uninitiated witch I’ve ever seen or heard of. She’s really special. I’d like you to meet her.” Da nodded with a vague smile. “Perhaps. How did she just find out about her powers? Who are her parents?”
My jaw tensed. I had no idea how my father would react to this. “Actually . . .” Da looked up, sensing my hesitation. “What is it, lad?” I sighed. “The truth is, she’s the biological child of Maeve Riordan of Belwicket . . . and Ciaran MacEwan. Of Amyranth.”
All expression seemed to drain from Da’s face. “Really.” “Yes. But she was put up for adoption. . . . It’s a long story, but Ciaran killed her mother, and Morgan just learned the truth about her heritage recently. She was adopted by a Catholic family in Widow’s Vale.” My da’s eyes flicked up at me. They were full of suspicion. My father had been fleeing Amyranth and their destruction for eleven years, and now his son was involved with the leader’s daughter. It had to be hard to take. “Does she . . . has she met Ciaran?” “Yes,” I admitted, remembering Ciaran’s odd recent reunion with his daughter. “But she’s very different from him. She wants to work for good, like her mother worked for good. She helped the council find him. You know that he’s in custody now.” Da nodded and went on eating. I had no idea what he was thinking. “Did you know Cal?” he asked.
My jaw almost dropped. When I was young, Selene and Cal were never, ever mentioned in our house. In fact, I hadn’t found out about them until right before I had come to Widow’s Vale. I still remember how stunned I had been by the news. “Only a bit,” I said.
Da put down his sandwich, took a sip of beer. “What was he like?” He was a bloody criminal, I wanted to say, letting out my still white-hot anger at the person who almost destroyed Morgan. He was evil personified. But this was Da’s son—my half brother. And I suppose, deep down, I knew that Cal hadn’t really had a chance, not with Selene Belltower for a mother.
“Um. He was very good-looking,” I said objectively. “He was very charismatic.” “You hated him.” It was a statement.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking, leaving him with her,” Da said, his voice dry and aged. “All I
knew was I was in love with your mother; she’d already had you. I wanted to be with her. I
didn’t want Selene and her evil tendrils wrapping around my life. At the time, I told myself that a child that young should stay with his mother. And Selene always said there was no way I could take him from her. Ever. But now I wonder if I could have—if I’d tried hard enough. And I wonder if I didn’t try because I hated Selene so much, I didn’t want any part of her near me—not even our son.”
Crikey. I’d never heard Da talk like this. It made him seem so much more human somehow. “Well, anyway. Old days,” he said blithely, seeming embarrassed to reveal so much. Yet it was just this that allowed me to get past my new vision of him—the disappointing father—and see him as the man I remembered. A good man, who had loved, made mistakes, had regrets. It was a side of him I liked.
“I’m knackered,” he said, sounding shaky. He stood up and walked past me with hesitant steps. I followed him to his bedroom, where he lay down on clean sheets. I guessed that the pull of thebith dearcwas still working on him. “Da, let me help,” I said, coming to stand by the side of the bed. He looked up at me with uncomprehending weariness, and gently I laid my fingers on his temple, the way I had with the First Nation girl. I sent waves of soothing calmness, feelings of safety, of relaxation. In moments his eyes had fluttered closed, and his breathing changed to that of a man asleep. I stayed for a moment, making another spell of deep rest. If I could just keep him away from thebith dearc , if he would rest, I knew that I could help him get stronger. And perhaps then . . . when he was back to his old self . . . perhaps then I could get him away from this place, back home with me in Widow’s Vale.
He would be out for hours, I figured, watching his sunken chest rise and fall. I went into the lounge, got my coat, and headed to town. In town I was startled by how normal things seemed. I checked my watch—it was after three. Please be there, I thought, punching in my phone card number, then Morgan’s number. Mary K.’s bright voice answered the phone.
“Hunter!” she said happily. “Where are you? Morgan’s been so awful lately because she hasn’t talked to you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “My mobile can’t get a signal here, my father doesn’t have a phone, and it’s hard for me to get to town sometimes. Is she there? Can I speak to her?” “No, she hasn’t gotten home yet. Jaycee’s mom gave me a ride from school. I don’t know if Morgan’s with Bree or what. You want Bree’s cell phone number?” “Yes, thanks. It’s been too long since I talked to her.” “I knowshethinks so,” said Mary K. primly, and I smiled to myself, wondering how grumpy Morgan had been all week.
Mary K. gave me Bree’s number, and I called it as soon as we hung up. But a recorded voice told me that the mobile customer I was calling was not available. I wanted to smash the phone receiver against the booth wall. Dammit. I needed to talk to Morgan, needed to hear her voice, her comforting, encouraging reactions to my horrible situation. I called Bree’s cell phone again and left a message, asking her to tell Morgan that I had tried to call her and really missed her and hoped we could talk soon.
Next I tried calling Sky. I didn’t even bother to calculate what time it would be in France—I needed to hear a semi-friendly voice. No one was home. I was starting to feel desperate. Talking to my father was full of emotional highs and lows. I needed some medium. In the end I talked to Kennet. Kennet had been my mentor, had taught me much about being a
Seeker. But I didn’t mention any of my fears about
Da, didn’t talk about thebith dearcor Da’s
transgressions. Kennet, however, had news for me. “It’s convenient you’re up there, actually,” he said. I leaned into the phone booth, watching my breath come out in little puffs. “Yeah? Why’s that?” “The council has a job for you to do,” he said. “All right,” I said with unusual eagerness. Anything to take my mind off the situation with my father. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“About three hours west from where you are, a Rowanwand witch named Justine Courceau is collecting the true names of things.”
“Yes?” I said, meaning, so what? Most witches make a point of learning as many true names of things as they can.
“Not just things. Living creatures. People. She’s writing them down,” said Kennet. I frowned. “Writing them down? You have knowledge of this?” The idea of a witch compiling a list of the true names of living creatures, especially people, was almost unthinkable. Knowing something’s true name gives one ultimate power over it. In some cases this is useful, even necessary— for example, in healing. But it is all too easy to misuse someone’s true name, to use it for power’s sake. Writing this information down would give that power to anyone who read the list. And knowing the true name of a human or witch would give someone ultimate power over them. It was very, very difficult to come by someone’s true name. How had she been gathering them?
“Yes, she doesn’t deny it,” Kennet said. “We’ve sent her a letter, demanding she stop, going over some of the basic protocols of craft knowledge, but she hasn’t responded. We’d like you to go see her, investigate the matter, and determine a course of action.” “No problem,” I said, thinking about how relieved I would be to get away from here, if only for a short while.
“If it’s true that she’s keeping a list, then she must be stopped and the list destroyed,” Kennet went on. “For such a list to fall into the wrong hands would be disastrous, and this Justine Courceau must be made to realize that.”