‘For the moment, nothing,’ Miskyia replied, as Iwa tried her best to hide her relief. She didn’t think she could take much more of this. ‘Rest now, for your moment will come all too soon and you must be strong. Remember what we talked about.’ Miskyia nodded for her to go back to her place in the ruins. ‘I will call for you shortly.’
Iwa caught sight of a heap of clothing piled up against the far wall. Moving over, she found that the bundle contained a blanket and her old clothes, washed and threadbare but with the clan marks still visible in faded blue around the neck and hem.
Without a second thought she changed into them and glorified in the rough feel of them against her skin. The dark heady scent of elk and deer clung about her as she moved the blanket into the shade and settled down to rest.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Dusk had fallen and the shadows lengthened across the stones. It was not quite night and the moon was not up, but already there was a chill in the air. The drums of the Karzełek had quietened, but their echo pawed through the ruins, muted like a stalking fox.
With a rustle of silk, Miskyia came into the courtyard carrying a small tray of nuts and berries and a stone cup filled with water. ‘No bread for you this time,’ Miskyia smiled. ‘I don’t want you to taste woyak food before the battle, just the bounty of Matka Ziemia. Her goodness will nourish you and lend your body strength, but it would be wise not to eat too much. You’ll need all your craft for what we are about to do, and a clear head too.’
As Iwa took a handful of berries, Miskyia wrapped her cloak around the girl. ‘It’ll be a cold night,’ she said, ‘and it’ll see some cold work too. You must hurry, there’s not much time.’ Stuffing the rest of the food into her mouth, Iwa got up and followed, thankful that she wasn’t about to be forced into wearing some silken robe. Whatever happened tonight, she would face it as one of the Bison Grass. And even if I am to die, then at least I’ll be a part of the clan, far more a part of it than any of the hunters who fled the camp and left the women to their fate.
Before, she’d always been an outsider: the forgotten girl, pushed into place by Katchka’s hand. Now she was proud of the clan symbols, the mark of the bison dyed deep into the fabric of her clothes. Not even the strongest spell could have made her feel more secure as she walked across the courtyard and faced the tree, its branches drawn pale against the first glimmer of the new moon.
The pig face had already wrapped itself over Miskyia’s head, its eyes shining with a dark power as Iwa walked forward, her bare feet hardly making a sound as she felt the runes shift beneath her. The moon had begun to rise, and around the courtyard an ancient power stirred, the runes moving into new patterns, guided by forces that had been old before the days of the mountains.
As she neared the tree the runes began to sing, their melody folding over her, soft and beguiling like a lullaby. Without knowledge of the craft, no one would have seen a thing, but Iwa saw the runes at her feet, brighter than the stars across the clearest of nights.
The simplicity of the ritual should have scared her. There was no sacred chant or beat of drums to accompany it, but she felt herself drawn to the tree all the same, her every breath guided by those ancient spells as they worked themselves upon her. Miskyia too was caught up in their power; the beat of her heart slowed with the tempo of the magic as she stood before the girl, a handful of herbs clutched in one hand. In the other was a knife.
As Iwa approached, Miskyia raised her arms and then turned to face the tree, drawing her hands across her chest. Iwa waited as the Molfar witch faced her once more. Somehow Iwa knew what to do, as if she danced to the tune of the runes that flooded through her. From the tree’s lifeless branches a tiny copper cauldron hung, cold in the moonlight.
From the lake there was a hiss as a mist drew across the water and, in the distance, Lord Bethrayal howled. Dimly Iwa felt herself sway in time to the magic, the runes crafting her every step as, slowly, from the mists, a figure took shape. Now it was more solid, with the semblance of feet and the crude hint of a face etched across the haze.
She could sense its power scouring the void, seeking her out. Without knowing why, she stretched her arms over the cauldron, her wrists pressed together as the pig voice chanted, the words so quiet that she could hardly hear them. The sprig of herbs was drawn across her arms and a blade pressed against her skin. There was a jolt of pain as the blood flowed across her flesh. The pig-faced demon began to move, a slow careful dance that circled the tree.
Iwa felt herself fall away. She was alone, with no idea of where she was as, around her, the firmament raged. I am the lodestone, she realised, sent to draw the Lord Bethrayal to this world. Out there in the firmament, he waited. She could sense the presence seeking her out, the
