But this was far larger. Miskyia led her from room to room whilst Iwa followed, casting anxious glances about her. How did the roof keep from caving in? Was this like the caves in the mountains, or did magic bind the stones? Dimly she was aware of the squat form of Sturmovit as he followed, his feet hardly making a sound across the stones.
Finally, they came to a large round room. Above them a dull light shone down from a crystal set in the roof. Around the room the plaster had crumbled and cracks webbed across the once golden walls, but it wasn’t that which caused Iwa’s mouth to fall open. In the centre the floor dipped away and a row of stone steps led to a pool of water. There was no sign of where the water had come from; no river or stream to take it away either. Yet it didn’t appear to be stale. Cautiously, Iwa bent down and sniffed. No, the pool appeared cool and calm as if it bubbled up from a hidden spring; but there was no hole in the floor.
‘You have hurt your hands,’ Miskyia said, as if noticing for the first time.
‘It’s nothing.’ She didn’t want to waste any more time. Who knows what will happen when Wislaw finds out I’ve run away? But she was hurt, her body aching from a myriad of bruises, and her wrists were rubbed raw.
Iwa was used to a hard life, to forgetting about pain and hunger. This wasn’t the first time her body had ached but, now the warm air encased her, she began to realise the extent of her pain. At least there was nothing too bad, no wounds that wouldn’t heal given time. But that was the one thing she didn’t have. She hadn’t eaten in ages either. She turned her hands, seeing deep cuts where the rope had bitten. They looked bad, the skin broken and puffy.
At least the pain had subsided a little, but that wasn’t always a good sign. Angry red blotches ran along her forearms. No, she couldn’t risk an infection, not now. If only she had some healing herbs to make a poultice. Silently she glanced to the witch.
‘Let me help you,’ Miskyia said. By the side of the pool there was a silver tray, upon which lay a number of glass bottles. Reaching down, she took one and poured an ointment over Iwa’s wounds. All at once, a warm sensation spread across Iwa’s wrists as the stinging pain subsided. ‘This is an ancient healing remedy, known only to the magi of the east. Not even I am sure of the spells woven within the oil.’
Iwa wasn’t listening, her eyes following the bottle as Miskyia put it on the tray. She’d seen glass before, but never like this. Glass was a secret of the Poles. The traders often brought beads or other trinkets with them, but they were simple and dull by comparison. These bottles were fashioned into a myriad of colours and shapes, far smoother and brighter than anything she’d ever seen.
Miskyia took out a glass jar and poured an oily liquid, which dissipated across the waters to fill the room with a thick, heady scent like rose petals.
‘You must bathe,’ she said as, with a single gesture, she silenced Iwa’s protest. ‘You want to help your father and you are eager, worried about what might happen to him. I can help you rid the forest of these woyaks, but you have a part to play in all this as well. Rest, regain your strength, for you will need it.
‘When the time is right I shall come for you, but before then, there is much work to be done. I must make sure that this Wislaw has not the power to find us here. I do not think that I could stay his assault alone, especially should he lead the woyaks here.’
The sorceress stroked Iwa’s forehead. ‘Bathe, be at rest and peace, for there are many trials that are to come.’ Her voice was soft, tinged with sorrow as she gave Iwa a last glance and then turned away, the dress shimmering over her body as she walked through the ornate doorway.
Iwa watched her go and then slipped into the water. She could hear Sturmovit just outside the doorway. More than anything she wanted to free her father, summon this Lord Bethrayal and have done with things, but she doubted that she could even find her way back through the temple. Slowly she closed her eyes and sank back to let the tension ease from her skin. When she opened them she was alone, too tired to be frightened that the roof would fall in. Sturmovit must have gone. Light reflected across the plaster from a candle which Miskyia had left on a silver tray. Though the crystal’s light was more than adequate, Iwa was glad of the candle all the same: it might be a trader’s tool but at least it was something she could understand.
Once more, she closed her eyes. The scent of jasmine and rose wafted around her, mixed in with a trace of magic, so soft that it was hardly noticeable. She had the sense that Lord Bethrayal was out there somewhere. She could almost hear the rush of the void as he fought against the current.
Was this really water, or some other magic that only looked like water? She raised her arm and watched the rivulets drip from her. There was something else as well, spells perhaps woven beneath the liquid. She let them trickle over her, warm and comforting as she drifted off into a deep slumber but, in the dim recesses of her mind she could sense the Lord Bethrayal, feel his anguish to be reborn as, all round him, the spells that kept him from the world howled. A great evil lurks on the edges of your world – she could almost hear his
