Chapter One - The Witch of the Eastern Cliffs

Wounded in a terrible storm at sea, a fisherman's life is in grave peril. His wife must seek aid from the witch living near her village, though the church teaches that she is a follower of dark ways.

A crash of thunder swallowed the sound of the church doors slamming open, but the shout of a fishermen carried to the other end of the large hall. “Help! Father! Sisters!” he cried as he entered, carrying between himself and a companion a wounded man, head slumped forward in unconsciousness. “Our friend needs help!”

An acolyte came scurrying from the altar, bowing nervously and assuring that all would be fine with faith in Destiny’s Light before disappearing from whence he came, muttering about rousing the sisters. The fisherman looked at his companion, then nodded his head toward the altar where they hefted the limp form of their friend.

“No, not on the altar!” the acolyte cried in horror as he saw the fishermen’s intention. “There is an exit at the back leading to the manse. Please bring him into the drawing room there. If you would follow me.” He bowed and led them through a door behind the altar, a small door requiring careful maneuvering by the two fishermen. A short, covered walk outside led to the side entrance of the residence. Bursts of rain blew in from the sides, but the roof sheltered them from the worst of the storm.

The drawing room lay just inside the manse, austere couches flanking an equally austere table bearing nothing but a copy of the Book of the Sun and a pair of plain candelabra, where tapers burned. A pair of women in black habits swiftly cleared the table of its meager burden, one holding the candelabra while the other and the nervous acolyte dragged smaller tables from corners of the room to either side of the longer table. The candelabra placed aside of the large table, the taller sister indicated that the wounded man should be laid upon it. The other hurried from the room.

“Where has she gone?” said one of the men after the pair deposited their friend on the table.

“To fetch our instruments,” said the taller sister, her stern voice redolent with authority. “Undress him.”

The acolyte disappeared as the fishermen hastily but gently divested their companion of his sodden cloak and tunic. A large fragment of wood stuck out from a wet mess of blood on the left side of his chest. “We were afraid to remove it,” one of the fishermen said.

“You were right to fear. Tell me what happened.”

“It’s this Fate-cursed storm,” said the other. He ignored the sharp intake of breath at the name. “Our mast split and poor Raijev took a chunk of it in his chest. We were lucky to make it back to port.”

“Lucky, yes, but this man is not yet out of danger.” She lowered an ear to his mouth, nodding as she straightened again. “He is still breathing. Please, go and wait in the church. You may light a candle to Clera for your friend. Do not mention the Unraveler’s name again, especially while your friend is in such peril. Remember that it is He who forces the Path.”

The fisherman muttered an apology, then his friend clapped him on the shoulder and they left the manse together. The shorter sister returned with a heavy bag, which she opened and produced several vials from. She emptied a clear liquid into the man’s throat from one vial and gently massaged his neck until he swallowed it. “This is bad, Sister,” she said to the taller one.

“Yes, Sister Hable. Let us pray that Destiny has laid a longer Path for him than this.” She walked to a basin in the corner of the room and scrubbed her hands and arms vigorously while the shorter sister poured from a steaming ewer, causing the fisherman to grunt as the hot liquid washed over his wound. When the taller sister returned, Sister Hable handed her the needle and thread. “Remove the splinter, slowly.”

Raijev the fisherman grunted again as the shard of wood came free; blood welled up freely, spilling down the side of his body to the table, then the floor below. “Towels,” said the taller sister as she deftly threaded the needle and went to work on the wound. Sister Hable did her best to remove the blood, but so much flowed out to replace what she cleaned up.

Torral lit a third candle at Clera’s statue, praying for the safety of his companion and all fisherman out at sea in this storm. As he returned to the pew where Kiaro waited, he muttered darkly, “Of course a storm comes on a Mycidi.”

“Do you think the sisters can save him?”

Torral shook his head. “I couldn’t say. We were too long in getting here, that’s for sure. What’d you have to go naming Him for in front of a Sister of the Moon? She looked ready to tear your face off for that.”

“Our friend is bleeding to death. I didn’t think the niceties were so important. I still think I should go fetch that witch up on the cliffs.”

“Stung, you want to bring a witch to church? Next you’ll be inviting Fate Himself through the doors! Stop your foolery and say some prayers, d****t.”

The acolyte cleared his throat, the sound echoing through the hall to where the two fisherman sat. Kiaro gave Torral a look, then the latter cleared his own throat before rising to meet the acolyte. “Hey there,” he said as he approached. “Can you offer any words from the Book of the Sun that suit these times?”

The acolyte set his polishing cloth at the foot of a large bronze statue of Destiny seated on her glowing throne. “There is the story of the doubters at sea, but I hardly think that applies. Most of you fisherfolk have statues of Clera at home, am I right?”

“And aboard our ships, for all the luck they bring. Storms still come.”

The acolyte shook his head. “A statue of Clera does not keep storms at bay. It reminds followers of the Path that a Daughter of Destiny is with them always and will guide them justly if they open their hearts to Her. Sometimes, there is a storm over the Path and the only way is through.”

“And why should foul-mouthed braggarts like me and Kiaro make it through without a scratch while a saint like Raijev bleeds in the scuppers?”

“Only Destiny can say” the acolyte said with a shrug. “Every Path must end, as She wills. What is important is to keep Her close in your heart and walk your Path with grace.”

Torral sighed. “What did the sister mean when she said that Fate forces the Path?”

“Please, do not name Him within this hall. Were you not blessed by sea, sky and stone as a child?”

Torral nodded. “Though I admit I haven’t kept the faith as well as I ought have. We all pray to Clera and even Destiny Herself sometimes, but we don’t have much time for church.”

“Destiny lays out the Path according to Her design. Every choice we make is a choice She has given us; it is our duty to choose the way that brings us closest to Her Grace before our personal Path comes to an end.

“The Unraveler works tirelessly to make the worst branches of the path more appealing. He also has more power over us when we hesitate or fail to make a decision. He is ever trying to take us farther from Destiny and our own happiness. This is what Sister Zyeva meant when she said He forces the Path. Better that we choose than let Him choose for us.”

The doors at the other end of the church banged open for the second time that night, and a sodden woman ran in from the storm. “Where is he?” she cried.

“He is with a sister at the manse. Where is Jerrek?” said Torral as the woman made her way to the altar.

“Someone has to look after my daughter. Is he all right? Will he live?”

The acolyte cleared his throat and said, “I could not say, but Sister Zyeva and Sister Hable are very gifted healers. If Destiny wills he can be saved, they will save him.”

“I want to see him!”

The acolyte put a hand on her shoulder; her eyes widened, then she slumped and allowed him to lead her to the nearest pew. “It is best not to interrupt the sisters. Shall we pray together?” The fisherman’s wife nodded shakily, tears mingling with the streaks of rainwater on her face. He led her to a kneeling position on a cushioned platform before the pew and clasped her hands in his.

“Destiny, Grace of Light, we ask that you illumine the Path ahead. We pray that you smile upon your follower and preserve him from the Unraveler’s clutches. If his Path has yet to end, we pray that you lead him back to it that he may walk again in Your Light. We ask this as humble followers thrice blessed, by the sea and sky and stone of your Daughters. Let him find a way.”

The storm had passed and the sky was lightening over the eastern cliffs as Donja returned home, alone. Jarrek rose immediately as she entered her house, a spark of hope flashing over his face before he saw hers; he sank back down in his chair and buried his face in his hands. “Thank you, Jarrek,” she muttered mechanically, “for watching Sehra. Your friends are waiting for you in the church.”

“Donja, I--” he said as he rose.

“Don’t. I know.” She sighed. “Bless it, the young man at the church said all Paths end. I just thought we would walk together for a long while yet.” He pulled her close in a hug and she let him, sobbing against his chest. She let the despair carry her away for a moment before pulling back together with a sniff. “I have to be strong for our daughter, now.”

“We’re here for you if you need us, Donja,” said Jerrek. “Anything at all, anytime. You let us know, you hear?” She nodded, and he was gone to join the other fisherman. She wished she could go with them to the docks, where they would surely persuade Old Thram to open up a cask and let them drink to the memory of their fallen comrade.

You were supposed to watch over him, she thought as she eyed the small shrine they kept to Clera Seamother in their home. All the candles before the statuette of the Daughter had burned down to pools of wax flowing off the edge of the shrine, candles lit when the first black clouds had been seen in the northern sky before night had fallen.

“No,” she said aloud to the icon of Clera, “it was your Black Father that took him. I meant no offence, Daughter of Destiny.” She knelt before the shrine and clasped her hands as she closed her eyes. “Destiny, Grace of Light, I kneel before one of your Daughters and lift my heart up to you,” she began. “Pray light the Path ahead and keep us safe from the Unraveler.”

Several hours later, her daughter awoke and wandered into the room to find her still kneeled before the shrine, hands clasped and eyes closed, lips moving to silently match the prayers running through her head. “Mama?” she said.

That morning, and each morning since, she had found her mother knelt before Clera’s shrine, and each morning she had to nearly shout into her mother’s ear before she got a distant reply. On this morning, over a week since the night of the terrible storm, she had decided to simply skip over the early attempts.

Donja started at the unexpected cry from her daughter. “What? Oh, Sehra!” she exclaimed and pulled the girl close in a tight embrace. Her shoulders trembled, but she refused to let a tear fall from her eyes. “I love you so much, my girl.”

“I love you too, Mama,” said the girl, almost making it a question.

“Dear heart, we have to go on a journey today. Go and put on your clothes. Don’t forget your boots and cloak, okay?” Donja rose and patted her daughter on the head. The girl looked up at her with wide eyes, then nodded as her mother smiled. She scurried off to her room to do as she had been asked while her mother when to the pantry and pulled down bread and cheese.

It was Sirodi, the Day of Light, and soon the morning bell would be calling all Followers of the Path to come to worship. Donja knew no one would think her absence unusual. She had not returned to the church since the night her husband died.

She filled a sack with provisions from the pantry, then went to her bedroom and dragged a heavy chest out from beneath the bed. Donja knelt low to push the key that hung on a leather cord around her neck into the lock, turned once and straightened up as she lifted the lid. She ran her hands lovingly over the ceremonial suit Raijev had worn on their wedding day, then lifted it to her face and sniffed deeply. She allowed herself a tiny sob before returning it to the chest.

Rummaging deeper, she found several leather pouches filled with gold saved from her husband’s fishing trips. They had made so many plans for it, and argued over how best to use it; Donja insisting that their daughter should be sent to another village to learn the ways of house and hearth, her husband preferring to ship her off to the capital to learn letters and logic. Out of this was born a compromise: Sehra would learn sewing and cooking with Donja at home, and spend most of her days studying with a Brother of the Sun at the church.

“Mama, I’m ready,” said Sehra from the doorway, startling her mother. She grabbed a pouch of coins from the chest, closed and locked it, and met her daughter, putting her arm around her shoulders and leading her back to the pantry. “Are we going to meet Papa?”

“Not today, dear heart,” whispered Donja. She put the gold in the travel sack and slung it over a shoulder.

The village was quiet at this hour, most of it still in shadow while the sky grew pink over the eastern cliffs. Donja took a circuitous route, avoiding the square where even now a Brother of the Sun would be sweeping the steps of the church, heading instead to the north where the wharves broke the silence with the creak of timbers and the slosh of the morning swell beneath piers. No sailors or stevedores walking to and fro on this morning, no merchants minding their warehouses; only the groan of wood, the whisper of the sea and the cry of gulls sounded.

“Mama, where are we--?” began Sehra before her mother shushed her. She led her daughter east, to the end of the main pier where wooden steps led down to a sandy beach. Sehra often looked for shells there with friends. Crabs scuttled sideways into the water before the pair, and gulls took flight.

Before long, the village was behind them and the eastern cliffs loomed overhead. The sand beneath their feet became more punctuated by jagged rocks, and they stepped carefully around them. Soon there was more rock than sand.

“Tell me what you know of the woman who lives on the cliffs,” Donja said to her daughter. A path had become clear through the rocks; large, flat stones lay evenly spaced, making an easy walk.

“The witch?” Sehra said, a slight tremor in her voice.

“I know that’s what they say, love,” said Donja, “but she is going to help us. That’s what she does. She helps people.”

“But Father Teplin says she’s a servant of the Shadow. He says it’s our duty to shun her.” The girl bit her lip as she paused, then continued, “But he never said what ‘shun’ means.”

“It means to make someone feel unwelcome. She doesn’t even live in our village. How can we make her feel unwelcome?”

“Mama, I don’t want to see her. She’s scary.”

“Oh, my dear,” Donja said, stopping to pull her close and rub her head soothingly. “She’s not scary. She’s only different. She’s going to help Mommy, you’ll see.”

“Will she bring Papa back?”

Donja did not release the embrace. It had been over a week and she had still not let her daughter see her cry, not let her daughter know that her father would never return. Later, she had told herself each night before crying herself to sleep. “No, my sweet, she doesn’t have that power. No, she is going to help Mommy sleep better at night. Mommy has been having bad dreams.” She pulled away from her daughter, keeping her smaller hand tightly held in her own as they continued along the path.

“You can have my Misha. She keeps my dreams safe. She could help you.”

“Darling, if I took your Misha, how would you sleep through the night?”

“I’m a big girl,” she said with all the confidence of a child.

They walked a few paces more, then Donja said, “Thank you, Sehra, but I don’t think Misha can help with these dreams.”

She was surprised to notice that they had been climbing for a little while, and the rocks beneath them formed a great pile rising up toward the cliffs, which now loomed nearer. Squinting, she could see where the rock path met the bottom of steps cut into the cliffs, a heavy rope supported by tall iron spikes serving as an outer rail.

Mother and daughter climbed the cliffside for over an hour, Donja keeping to the outer side and tightly gripping the coarse rope while her other hand held her daughter’s. Their slow ascent convinced Sehra that they had spent the entire day climbing, but as they finally set foot on the path at the top of the cliff, the noonday bell could be heard ringing faintly in the distance.

The sandy path was lined with nautilus shells leading to the largest house Sehra had ever seen. Though not as large as the church, it dwarfed the small cottage she shared with her mother and the manse where the sisters lived. Silken drapes hung behind glass windows, obscuring the interior of the home. The path ran right up to a grand front door bearing a large, brass knocker.

Sehra gripped her mother’s hand tighter as they walked to the door and Donja knocked three times. She gave her daughter a reassuring look before returning her gaze to the door. She suppressed a nervous shiver for the girl’s sake.

The few moments before the door opened felt far longer to the pair. Donja held a breath as the smooth wood swung inward to reveal a beautiful woman of russet skin and long, raven hair. She wore a cream-colored dress of lustrous weave, and a golden pendant of a circle bisected by two sinuous lines, resembling four curved vanes of a windmill.

“Hello,” she said, her voice light and musical. “How may I help you?”

Donja stared for a moment before finding her voice. “I have come for a spell,” she said, finding her words coarse and rough compared to the easy grace of the witch’s sonorous tone.

“Please, come in,” said the witch with a smile, stepping back to gesture into her home. The pair entered and she closed the door behind them. They stood in a foyer, light streaming in from tall, narrow windows flanking the door. She knelt before Sehra and placed a hand on her shoulder. “There are many toys and games for you to play with,” she said. “Please make yourself at home while your mother and I talk.” She gestured to the right, where Sehra found a brightly-colored room filled with the promised toys and much more besides. She ran off with a giggle.

“I have prepared tea,” said the witch as she led Donja into a sitting room. A small table bore a tea tray complete with a steaming kettle, a dish of sugar cubes, two teacups and saucers, and a pot of honey with a dipper.

“Did you know I was coming?” asked Donja as she sat herself at the table. The witch sat opposite her and smiled.

“What kind of witch would I be if I did not know when to expect company?” She filled her cup and motioned for Donja to do the same.

The fisherman’s widow reluctantly filled her cup. Ordinarily, the prospect of tea would relax and soothe her. Here, in this stranger’s elegant home, she felt out of her element and wary. Still, she supposed, it would be rude to refuse. “Do you know why I’ve come?” she asked as she returned the kettle to the center of the tray.

“No,” said the other woman, dropping two cubes of sugar into her cup and stirring delicately. “I could see that you were coming without visiting your intentions. You are a guest, and I prefer to let guests explain themselves.”

“So you could read my thoughts if you wanted to?”

The woman nodded. “It is terribly rude to enter someone’s mind uninvited, however.” She sipped her tea, then set it down with a chuckle. “Speaking of rudeness, I’ve forgotten introductions! I am Demire Halfmoon, of the Euric Order. What is your name?”

“Donja. I am a fisherman’s wife.” She hid her face behind her cup, taking a long sip of tea. She could not yet bring herself to say widow.

“I am pleased to meet you, Donja. Please call me Demire.”

The two drank their tea in silence, Demire finding it companionable while Donja felt anxious. The widow regarded the witch. No, she thought. Demire.

“Demire, I want you to--”

The witch tsked the other woman into silence. “There will be time enough for that after tea. Do you like it? I chose something more palatable than my usual favorite. I have an affinity for spices, you see, that most people here don’t put into tea.”

The taste was familiar to Donja, if more refined than her usual fare. She could only afford the cheapest of teas, and then only sparingly, so any tea was a special occasion in itself. “It’s delicious,” she said, relaxing a bit at the normalcy of conversation with this strange woman. “Thank you.”

“It is my pleasure,” said Demire, smiling. Donja admired her perfectly white teeth, made so much more apparent by the darkness of her skin. The fisherman’s widow saw few people with skin darker than her husband’s had been, tanned from his days spent on deck beneath the cruel sun. She found the effect lovely and exotic.

Without realizing it, she had emptied her cup. She set it down on the saucer, looking awkwardly from the dregs to her hostess. “There is more if you would like,” Demire said, but Donja shook her head politely. The hostess drained her cup and set it down, then asked, “Would you like to get to business, then?”

Donja nodded, and took a moment to gather her thoughts. She drew in a deep breath before beginning, “My husband died over a week ago.”

“I am so sorry,” said Demire, putting out a hand to rest lightly on Donja’s. “Was it the storm Mycidi before last?”

Donja nodded. “The mast of his boat broke, and he took a splinter to the chest. The sisters couldn’t save him.”

“May he go swiftly through the Forest to his final rest,” Demire said.

“He was thrice-blessed,” Donja said, a note of confusion in his voice. “He belongs with Destiny.”

Demire nodded. “I am sorry, I often forget that my ways are foreign to your village. I meant no disrespect. I must tell you, though, if you have come to me wishing to speak to your husband, I cannot help you. It is forbidden by the laws of my guild and those of decency.”

“He speaks to me!” Donja wailed. “I haven’t slept in nearly a week! He is in my dreams, scaring me!”

“It is normal for you to dream of a recently departed--”

“No,” Donja said firmly, shaking her head. “No. This is different. He comes to me saying things I don’t understand. How can I take care of our daughter if I can’t get any rest?”

“You wish my help to end these dreams?”

“Can you do it?”

Demire regarded her guest, her dark eyes piercing, seeming to see through the woman. Donja wondered if she was looking into her mind then, perhaps judging to see if she was worthy of help. “I believe I can help, yes,” she said finally. “You will have to show me one of these dreams, however.”

“How can I show you a dream?” Donja asked. She felt silly as soon as the words left her mouth, had she not climbed the eastern cliffs to ask this woman for a spell? If the woman could look into her mind, why should she not be able to see her dreams?

“Please, lie on the couch near the window,” Demire said, rising. “I must fetch something, and then we can begin.” Donja moved over to the couch, dread welling up inside at the thought of facing another dream. She rearranged the pillows beneath and behind her, unused to the plush luxuriousness of the multitude of cushions. Her final configuration resembled her own bed, one small pillow beneath her head with the rest piled neatly beside the couch.

Demire was not gone long. “Very good,” she said as she breezed into the room. She held a small, amber-colored stone up to show her guest.

“Is that a topaz?” Donja asked.

“‘Tis far more precious than a topaz,” Demire said. “This stone will guide you to a dream-filled sleep. Then, with your permission, I will plumb the depths of your sleeping mind to see what you see.” Donja nodded her head, then settled down on the couch. She started a little at the cool smoothness of the stone as Demire placed it on her forehead, but it warmed quickly and she felt her closed eyelids grow heavy.

Demire watched as the other woman’s breathing slowed and a light came to the stone, a soft light that pulsed with her heartbeat. Demire bent close, watching the eyelids of the sleeping woman for the telltale movements of dreaming. They were not long in coming.

She straightened and began a series of complicated gestures, sketching arcs of ochre and golden light in the air. She wove these together into a long braid stretching from the stone on Donja’s head to her own, threads of light connecting the two women. Satisfied, Demire closed her eyes and let herself be pulled along the braid into the mind of a sleeping woman.

Donja sat on a stood in the village square, mending a tunic Sehra had torn while playing. The girl had said she had fallen on a rock at the beach, but her mother was not fooled; she saw where a fishhook had pierced the cloth and tugged. It was bad enough mending clothing for the second time that week, but the lie made her cheeks burn with anger.

Village folk milled about her, Demire surprised to see that their faces were washed out or blurry. She looked up and saw the golden throne of Destiny, represented literally with the golden goddess smiling down from her seat in the heavens. A true believer of Destiny’s Light, she mused.

Both women felt a wave of cold, Donja looking up from her mending as the faceless villagers hurried from the square. Destiny above looked disquieted, then rose from her throne and retreated behind it, bringing the darkness of night as she went. Fog rolled in from the sea, and the church bells began to toll. As the twelfth bell echoed away into silence, the sound of chains could be heard.

An obscure figure approached from the north, from the direction of the sea. The sound of chains grew louder as it grew nearer, and the figure became a silhouette of a man. “My Raijev,” Donja said as she rose, tossing the tunic aside. “My poor Raijev.”

“Tabarol,” he groaned, and the chains groaned with him. Demire saw they were fastened around his wrists and ankles, the links darker than shadow and heavy.

“How do you know that name?” she asked. “Your wife told me you were a Follower of the Path!”

“He is coming,” he said.

“Impossible!”

“Tabarol is coming,” he repeated.

Demire eyed the chains, questing out with her other senses. “Is it he who binds you?” she asked incredulously. “He dares bind a departed soul?”

The silhouette of Raijev did not reply. Demire drew up her hands, focusing on the links trailing into the darkness beyond. With a flash of violet light and a terrible screech, four links shattered, freeing Raijev from his fetters. The trailing ends of the chains whipped back into the shadow.

“Promise me you will walk swiftly through the Forest, and let no one bar your path!”

“I promise--” he began, but a rumble in the distance drowned out the rest of his words.

“Promise me!” shouted Demire.

Raijev repeated her promise, and she nodded. “I bind you to your word, Raijev. So long as I live, you must do as you have sworn. Go, now!”

Donja woke groggily, moaning as she opened her eyes. The light in the room was strange, until she remembered where she was and why she had come. She began to murmur something, but Demire shushed her and handed her a fresh cup of tea.

“Drink, you will feel better,” she said. “I am sorry to have had to put you through that. However, I believe that your husband will visit your dreams no longer.”

Donja drank deeply, letting the warmth comfort her and drive away the shivers she felt at the thought of her husband’s apparition. “Was that really him?” she said.

“After a fashion. I have reason to believe that the entity you call the Unraveler had a hold on him. I broke that hold and sent him on his way.”

“What do I owe you?” Donja asked.

Demire smiled. “I cannot take your coin. You have brought me news that I must share with my peers. We will have much to discuss. That the Oathbreaker can hold souls back from their final destination is troubling indeed.” The woman certainly looked troubled; the serene calm she had borne while serving tea had vanished. “Yes, troubling indeed,” she said in a whisper.

Donja rose, setting the cup of tea on the table while her hostess stared off into space, lost to her thoughts. “Should I go, then?” she asked.

Demire started and apologized. “You must think me terribly rude.”

“No, not at all. I want to thank you for what you did.”

Demire stood and clasped Donja’s hands. “It is I who must thank you, Donja. You will return to see me if ever your husband reappears in your dreams?”

“Yes,” said Donja.

“I pray that he does not. But still, nothing is certain.” Demire seated herself again. “Please forgive me if I do not see you to the door.” She fixed her stare on nothing again, her lips moving slightly as though she whispered to an absent party.

Donja did not immediately take her hint, then flushed as she realized what the woman had meant. She shuffled off to the room where they had left Sehra, smiling to find her daughter curled up on a plush sofa with a book in her hands. The leather cover was stamped with a medallion bearing an etching of a frog standing tall on two legs and dressed for a ball. Donja chuckled as she lightly picked the book from her daughter’s hand, placing it upon a small pile on the floor near the sofa.

As the pair left the house and made their way to the cliff stair, Sehra vigorously rubbing sleep from her eyes, Donja said to her, “Dear heart, I have to tell you a story about your father.” As she told the tale of the vicious storm, she berated herself for having chosen a terrible moment, but the greater part of her knew there was never an ideal moment to deliver such news.

Author's Note

First draft, there may be errors I didn't catch