‘If she’s a Mage, then that means she’s from the Otherlands,’ I point out.
‘A most astute observation, Storm Weaver.’
I resist thrusting my elbow into his ribs. ‘Then wouldn’t it help to speak to her in her own language? Which of the seven isles is she from?’
‘Thresk.’
Thresk.An isle carpeted in grassy plains and green, moss-draped forests.
I can speak Threskan. It’s a tricky language, full of vowels and double meanings. It took years to learn, but I persisted. I had nothing better to do, after all.
Eventually young Fox holds up his hands in surrender, half turning to leave. Only, his parting words are not in Zafarian.
‘Al ici daan cera solina?’
Not even for a bag of silver?
The old woman’s head snaps up. Her beady eyes narrow, flicking to the leather pouch at his belt. Young Fox smiles triumphantly. Slowly, he sits down opposite her. We watch as he reaches into the pouch and pulls out a slender coin stamped with a three-pronged crown – the Thavenian royal seal. The old woman licks her lips.
‘Is it true?’ he asks in Threskan. ‘Are you a Mage?’
The old woman remains expressionless. Then she smiles.
Young Fox rolls the coin between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Prove it.’
There’s a long, precarious pause, during which the only sound is that of bells ringing far off in the distance, accompanied by the wheezing rasp of the old woman’s breath. Then, all of a sudden, they’re gone, replaced by dead silence. I turn my head this way and that, snapping my fingers beside my ear, yet I hear nothing.
Young Fox remains perfectly still, his gaze fixed on the old woman. She grins, and then she’s gone too. Everything’s gone. I can’t see anything. I can’tsee.
I stumble forward into something solid and slide to the ground. I’m screaming, or at least I think I am. Sound and sight evade me. I am deaf and blind and terrified.
Then, quite suddenly, my hearing returns, followed by my vision.
The old woman is cackling softly. I flinch as she leans towards young Fox, extending her hand. He presses the coin into her palm. If he’s shaken, he doesn’t show it.
‘Whatwasthat?’ I hiss, as his older self pulls me to my feet.
‘She’s a Mage with the power to manipulate the senses,’ he murmurs.
‘Proof enough for you, boy?’ The old woman slips the coin into the folds of her filthy robes. Her accent is thick, native. It takes me a moment to translate.
‘How?’ Young Fox asks bluntly. ‘How did you retain your magic after the war?’
The old woman picks up a discarded animal bone. It’s picked clean, but she nibbles on it anyway, sucking out the marrow. ‘It is the past you seek, not me.’
‘And where do I find the past?’
‘The past does not wish to be found. That is why she hid it.’
Young Fox spins a coin on the dusty ground. ‘Who isshe?’
The old woman waits until the coin begins to slow, teetering jerkily from side to side. Snatching it up before it can fall, she breathes, ‘The first sister.’
The vision fades out.
‘What’re you doing?’ I demand, turning round in the saddle to face Fox. ‘Make it come back. I want to hear what she said.’
‘Her story is one you’ve heard before, Storm Weaver,’ he says, taking a swig from his waterskin. ‘The story of the three sisters and their enchanted Eyes. Except the Mage knew something my grandfather did not. That nobody knew, bar a handful, and most of that handful were dead. A small detail, but a crucial one. A secret whispered among friends.’
