nervously. None of the horses seemed very happy about entering the shire, but with calming hands and gentle voices they were coaxed over. The wind shook the trees as Isak crossed, as if the forest shied away for a moment and then reached out to embrace him. Isak scowled, but he was glad enough for their cover when he reached it. Isak ignored the major as he rode alongside and tried to engage the brooding white-eye in conversation. Only when Vesna plucked at the man's sleeve and frowned did the major move ahead and allow the grim silence to return.
There had been no mention of Isak's birthday, other than Tila's delicate kiss on his cheek and Carel clapping a knowing hand on his shoulder as they breakfasted – that was all Isak needed, to know that
he had friends to remember it, and that they knew him well enough to not mention it.
Ahead of them, the third moon, Arian, sat high in the sky. Arian appeared for a week every three years, and the middle day of that week was Silvernight. For two days either side, the night was merely a little brighter, but everyone knew they were bad days to be abroad. There were tales galore of all the evil deeds of the past three years that had risen up from the ground in this week. True or not, there was no doubt that spirits and unnatural creatures certainly roamed the Land when Arian was high; no man of sense would enter open country. Each time Arian appeared, there would be fresh tales of horror and murder told in the taverns and inns and whispered at hearths and bedsides. It was an unchancy time.
For all that, Silvernight itself was so enchanting that every town and village held a festival to celebrate it. On that middle day every surface touched by the bright moonlight appeared to be coated in silver. It was impossible to resist the lure of being outside after dusk, and unlike the days before and after, no fell creatures stirred that night, so it was a time of safety as well as joy.
As they travelled further into Llehden, the light began to wane and open ground gave way to increasingly dense woodland. Hawthorns stretched their twisted branches out towards the road, fat oaks rustled their brittle twigs and sinister yews reached down low to cover the ground about themselves with a concealing skirt of night. They saw few creatures. A solitary kite passed overhead and small birds and early bats darted past their eyes, but only a bandit lynx had paid them any attention. The large cat watched them lazily from a high elm, paws hugged about the smooth bark of the branch. Isak could see tufts of grey fur protruding from the cat's chin like the wisps of a beard. Coppery streaks on its back meant the lynx disappeared when it dropped down into the twilight of the undergrowth, long before the soldiers approached. No sound reached even Isak's keen ears. The lynx just melted away to add another set of eyes to the shadows all around.
The road was nothing more than a wide track, overgrown and old, but easy enough to follow as it threaded a path through the trees. They passed a few isolated farmhouses looking dark and abandoned, though cattle lowed from the barns. Even for a farmer, Silvernight meant society and merriment. Only Isak was unmoved.
Two hours of travelling took them deep into the ancient heart of the woods. The last vestiges of day gave way to silvery twilight. All along the road the trees leaned close over their heads, the moons casting a flurry of leaf shadows underfoot, until the path opened out and became the neglected approach to a large stone house. Tall weeds almost obscured the low wall that surrounded the grounds, a hundred yards of lawn gone to pasture, and at the back, a darkened building that looked derelict.
The gates were gone and as Isak reached the gap and looked down the driveway he reined in and stared.
Major Ortof-Greyl had started on down the road when he realised his party were no longer following. They had stopped before the open gateway. The old grey walls, set against the black background of a tall laurel hedge and the encroaching trees on each side, shone in the moonlight. Crawling trails of ivy reached up the cracked stone wall. Isak set off down the driveway towards the house, his companions following behind. In an open window on the upper floor he saw an owl, bright in the moonlight and as still as a statue until Isak was only twenty yards away. It suddenly stretched its wings out and hooted, breaking the evening silence. The owl's haunting call prompted a strange chattering sound to ring out around the grounds as voices echoed from the shadows.
Isak turned to look around, unsettled by the sudden stir. He drew Eolis half out of its scabbard. He couldn't feel any other presence nearby, not even what was making the noise – then a woman, swathed in a long dark cape that covered a long robe that looked black in the moonlight, stepped out from the trees. She called out in the Narkang tongue.
'They're welcoming you,' Mihn translated, unbidden.
'What are?' Isak felt immediately ashamed that he'd shown his blade, even half-drawn – it was traditional not to draw weapons on Silvernight, whatever the reason. Old soldiers swore that Arian would burn and corrode the surface of any blade exposed on this magical night. He looked down. Eolis shone all the more brightly, unearthly and dangerous.
'The gentry,' Mihn said softly after she had replied.
Isak looked more closely at the woman, who appeared to be no more than thirty. She had long dark hair creeping out from under her hood, and piercing, knowing eyes. She stood so still it was as if she
were of another place and time, set apart from worldly concerns. Isak could see a soft smile on her face.
'I thought they had no interest in men,' he said through Mihn.
'They don't, but they welcome you as a brother.'
'Have they told you that?' Isak asked.
When Mihn translated Isak's words, her only reply was a sniff of scorn.
'Are you the witch of Llehden?'
'I am a witch,' she said.
A figure stepped out beside her. It had the shape of a slender, lithe man, but little else was human. Its pale, hairless skin drawn tight over harsh features reminded Isak of the mercenary Aracnan. The figure – the gentry – had sharp, narrow eyes that looked completely black in this light – almost the complete opposite of Isak's own white eyes. The gentry looked poised either to attack or flee, but neither impulse showed on its impassive face. It wore a robe of stitched leaves, tied at the waist by a switch of what looked like willow. Its feet were bare, and the two largest toes were pushed in the black soil where it stood. By the time Isak had finished studying the gentry he realised there was a group of them; they had arrived as silently as wraiths. The first, their representative maybe, regarded Isak. He remembered the king's warning that the gentry had short tempers. If they truly were greeting him as a brother, then sitting atop Megenn and staring down at them was probably deeply insulting.
Isak pulled off the silk mask and slipped from his horse, dropping lightly to the ground.
The gentry shot him a grin, flashing long canines, and bowed low, though keeping his eyes on Isak all the while. Isak found himself bow-ing too, almost as low, which produced another predatory smile. Then it spoke in a barking chatter, firing sounds out through the night that were echoed out by the unseen gentry still among the trees. Without waiting for a response, the figure turned and darted away. All around, Isak heard sudden movement and glimpsed shapes flashing through the slivers of moonlight between the trees. He guessed at least fifty gentry had gathered.
The witch arched an eyebrow. From her expression, Isak was sure she'd never seen the gentry act like that.
His surprise at a voice appearing in his head must have shown as the corners of her mouth curled into a smile. How? I
I
She
I care nothing for the plans of Gods or the pride of men. I am a witch of
