THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/1 The Witch and the Spearmaiden: The Defiant Power of the Queer Gaelic Witch ​ Throughout my graduate studies, I have applied my learning of writing craft to a novel manuscript. I finished the first full draft in October of 2024. It is a folkloric adult fantasy standalone loosely inspired by northern 10th century Britain, incorporating both Scottish Gaelic and Anglo-Saxon culture. It also features a subplot of sapphic romance between the two point-of-view characters, one of whom is grey-asexual. ​ In working on this book, I have given deep thought to its worldbuilding and the resulting cultural and societal structures that surround and affect my characters. Through various influences from both the graduate program and my own outside reading, I have been able to explore and ground these aspects in research and knowledge of craft. In the process, I uncovered deeper connections between language, culture, and queerness in my manuscript. I learned the role my worldbuilding has in the shaping of themes and its potential to overturn common tropes that villainize queer and queer-coded witches. Ursula K. Le Guin, in Steering the Craft, observes “Fantasy is a form of narrative essentially dependent on its language” (25). It is in the length of the sentences, the word choice, and the word order. This is why Tolkien’s work feels so real; the reality is born from his diction because of his extensive expertise in linguistics and old stories and poems. Benjamin Percy asserts the importance of convincing the reader of reasonability, especially in the fantastical (74). The reasonability of the unreasonable is conjured from all the aspects of worldbuilding—magic, culture, sensory detail—which arise from the root of language. In writing The Witch and the THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/2 Spearmaiden, I focused on creating a tone that rings true with the world so the story and the worldbuilding will resonate as one. For this, language is central, even more so because of the cultural background of my worldbuilding. For years I have wanted to write a fantasy book that includes Scottish Gaelic language and culture, a part of my heritage I am passionate about celebrating. In my Gaelic-learning journey, I discovered that the dialect spoken by a branch of my ancestors in Galloway has been extinct since the 1700s. Anthropologist Malcolm Chapman explains that Gaelic “has been subject to persecution, denigration and neglect, both officially and unofficially, since the early seventeenth century” (12). This almost resulted in full language death. Both Chapman and linguist Nancy C. Dorian observe that for centuries, as part of government policy, Gaelic-speaking children were punished verbally and physically in school for speaking their native language, even if it was the only language they knew (Chapman 12, Dorian 81). These were religious schools dedicated to spreading “Christian Knowledge” in “monolingual Gaelic-speaking areas” (Dorian 20-21). The enforcement of Christianity through the suppression of a native language is no coincidence. It appears again in the horrific residential schools of the USA and Canada, where Native children were tortured into forced assimilation after being taken from their homes. Attacking language through education systems is an established strategy of colonization. It destroys the next generation of speakers, resulting in language shift and eventual language death. The destruction of a language means the destruction of a culture and people because they are all inextricably connected. Knowing this history, dropping a language like Scottish Gaelic into a fantasy book without regard for its background and cultural attachments does not make sense either craftwise or morally. It is important not to cleave language and culture apart because to do so only THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/3 continues the destruction. Much of European-inspired high fantasy ignores this and tends to appropriate and mysticize Celtic languages for setting atmosphere without paying attention to their history, nor to the fact that they are living languages with cultures and people still attached to them. Chapman names this “symbolic appropriation,” which extends back to the Victorian mysticization of Celtic cultures for “supernatural titillation” (132). He claims this taints the folklore with “derogatory archaism and sentimentality” (136). Such tainting continues today in the fantasy genre as authors shed ethereality onto people’s lived reality and perpetuate old harm. I do not wish to fall into this appropriative rut with my novel and have spent a long time ruminating on whether or not it is ethical of me as an American woman to write about the Scottish Gaelic language and culture. Are my long-ago ancestors enough permission, or would it still be appropriation if my execution fell short in some way? My main reason for including Gaelic in the story is to add what I can to the rising effort of revitalization, fighting back against the centuries-old decline of the language. This intent is combined with my own personal learning of Gaelic (though even after many years I am far from fluent). My intent alone, however, is inadequate. In order for the Gaelic in my book to be homage rather than appropriation, I heavily researched traditions, culture, and folklore from the Gaelic-speaking regions of Scotland. ​ John Gregorson Cambpell was a Gaelic-speaking folklorist working in Scotland in the 1850s and 60s. In his research, he provides a treasure trove of details on the significance of juniper, saining, Gaelic charms and rhymes, the fairy faith, white magic versus black magic, Samhain divination games, and other pieces of traditions and folklore I could incorporate into my novel’s worldbuilding. Many of these practices were integrated with Christianity, but some, such as the Samhain games, are far older than that and exist without the religion’s influence (559). Some of these traditions are still practiced in modern mainstream culture (apple-bobbing, THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/4 for example), and have been handed down over thousands of years, reaching back to before most people could read and write to preserve culture. ​ Gaelic culture was oral and centered around bards. In my Irish literature class, I learned that bards were an honored class and that the Gaelic poetic tradition was long and ancient. Rebecca Ross takes inspiration from Gaelic bards in her Isles of Cadence duology, which uses Scottish-inspired worldbuilding. Her main protagonist is a bard, and his music carries the power to commune with nature spirits. Ross’s worldbuilding is mindfully done, giving me guidance for the creation of my own world. While she does not use any Gaelic, her portrayal of a Scottish-inspired culture is grounded in community and people, and this grounding in humanity alleviates most of the risk of mysticization and symbolic appropriation. The magic system is not mystical but grounded in the historical importance of bards in Gaelic society. Derick Thomson, in An Introduction to Gaelic Poetry, explains that the bards were regarded not just as performers, but as chroniclers, battle-inciters, and even magicians (11-12). The association of magic with music and poetry speaks to the amount of power and influence bards had in the eyes of the people. This is not an otherworldly mystic magic, but a power rooted in the reality of art, culture, and humanity. The bardic system functioned across Ireland, Wales, and Scotland, its members enjoying high rank and prestige in Gaelic society (Thomson 11-12). Poetry and song were woven so deeply into Gaelic culture in ancient times that this tradition is continued by musicians today. Gaelic Song Stories is a podcast created by Scottish singer Deirdre Graham, where she interviews other musicians about the backstories of Gaelic songs and traditions. The podcast provided a wealth of cultural information while I was drafting this novel. Graham and one of her guest musicians, Gillebrìde MacMillan, explain that every village had a taigh-cèilidh, a large THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/5 house at the center of the community where people would come together to sing and tell stories while they worked. This detail was essential for my construction of my protagonist Sabh’s home village. The taigh-cèilidh, in tandem with the ancient bardic system, was how song, poetry, and story were transmitted and handed down for thousands of years. In Gaelic, a language is not known, but possessed: the English phrase “I know Scottish Gaelic” would be translated as “Tha Gàidhlig agad,” which means “I have Gaelic,” or more literally, “Gaelic is at/with me.” Similarly, songs are not learned, but given. These linguistic patterns indicate their roots in oral culture. The bond between language and culture in an oral context is extremely strong: Chapman says “a folktale stored in an archive is not the same as a folktale on the lips of a story-teller, and never can be.” (137). Thus, Gaelic-speaking elders in Scotland have the truest forms of the stories, songs, and traditions handed down to them because of their oral context, contrary to the widespread belief that written literature is more accurate and true. My elder character Caitir is meant to serve this role, as she is the bearer of oral traditions she seeks to give to her apprentice, Sabh. Her role is exacerbated by the fact that she and Sabh are the sole survivors of their raided village. There is no one left who has this unwritten knowledge and no one left other than Sabh to receive it. ​ The destruction of the village happened when Sabh was a child. My villain character, Eorl Ceadda, comes from an Anglo-Saxon inspired region, and is a raiding and colonizing force. He has overtaken dozens of villages, stealing resources and abducting people to magically bind them to his will as servants. Ceadda mirrors the historical encroachment of the Anglo-Saxons (later their descendants, the English) upon the Celtic regions of Britain without actually inhabiting history. A similar conflict I have seen explored in historical fantasy takes place in Lucy Holland’s Sistersong between Christian Saxons and pagan Britons in the wake of the THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/6 Romans’ departure. The magic of the land is dying under the invading force as the old religion and language recedes, and this magic is only reawakened by the rise of a Briton king with deep connections to the land. Holland writes this sixth-century king of Dumnonia as transgender, melding the historical existence of queer people with indigenous resistance to invading cisheteronormative patriarchal societies. She adds queerness to her historical fantasy again in her second book, Song of the Huntress, which features a sapphic romance and an asexual king. Her characters grapple with the limits of their Anglo-Saxon society as they explore their identities. ​ Unlike Holland’s works, my novel is not set in history—instead, it is history-inspired, set in a secondary-world fantasy setting. This gives me more room to explore queerness and culture without the restrictions of a truly historical setting such as the ones shown by Holland. Queer-normative fantasy is on the rise because the second-world is an ideal place to explore possibilities of more accepting societies. My two protagonists are both queer: Sabh is biromantic asexual and Leófrith would be called a lesbian in our world. Since their world is not situated in the exact history of ours, I was free to make their queerness mostly normalized. Their romance faces no discrimination on the basis of its sapphicness and their queerness does not drive the conflict of the story the way it might if it was set in our world, as shown by the experience of the sapphic couple in Song of the Huntress. However, I wanted to show a taste of the experience of being asexual in an allosexual society because asexuality is still mostly invisible to both larger heteronormative society and the rest of the queer community. In the introduction of their book, Refusing Compulsory Sexuality: A Black Asexual Lens on Our Sex-Obsessed Culture, Sherronda J. Brown defines asexuality as experiencing “little to no sexual attraction and/or little to no sexual desire…not evidenced by either the presence or absence of sexual arousal or activity” (2). The mere existence of asexuality THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/7 challenges heteronormative society’s enforcement of compulsory sexuality, which is “the idea that sex is universally desired as a feature of human nature, that we are essentially obligated to participate in sex at some point in life, and that there is something fundamentally wrong with anyone who does not want to—whether it be perceived as a defect of morality, psychology, or physiology” (7). The perception of defectiveness and wrongness results in the pathologization of asexual people. This can lead to more extreme harm such as conversion therapy and corrective rape (78). Compulsory sexuality, like heteronormativity, is an alienating societal construct that harms individuals who do not and cannot conform. Sabh experiences the pressure of compulsory sexuality in the form of seemingly innocent comments. Caitir exclaims, “Did you see that jawline? You could have persuaded him to stay! Your bed is big enough for two. I need someone with a strong back to cut peat for me. And you’d have the most adorable children!” Caitir, despite her own queerness, still participates in pressuring Sabh toward allosexuality. During an apple-bobbing Samhain divination game, a neighbor observes of Sabh: “She will have a fine husband and many children, especially with such skilled lips. Go find out who it will be, child! Tonight’s the night!” According to John Gregorson Campbell, the games of Samhain night were mostly focused on divining details of future marriages and children (559). This provides cultural grounding for the compulsory sexuality Sabh faces from those around her, who are also unwittingly influenced by it. As a result of this pressure, Sabh is continually dissecting herself, questioning the reality of her own feelings and wondering if there is something wrong or broken about her—a common experience among asexual people. I could have chosen to give Sabh completely accepting surroundings, ignoring the traditional Samhain games and thus creating a completely queer-normative world, but I wanted THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/8 to show that queer-normativity is incomplete without the acceptance of all forms of queerness. The reinforcement of compulsory sexuality is harmful not only to asexuals, but to all queer people; it results in the invalidation of single queer people, corrective rape experienced by both asexuals and lesbians, and hyperfocus on sexuality that sidelines the experiences of trans and genderqueer individuals (Brown 31). Therefore, my fantasy world is as queer-normative as many queer spaces in the real world—that is, not as queer as it could be. In writing Sabh, I drew from my own experience as an asexual woman, but I also wanted to be aware of the experiences of other asexual people and stereotypes to avoid. Brown observes that stereotypes of coldness, heartlessness, and inhumanity are perpetuated by “antagonists, villains, criminals, killers, and otherwise amoral or unpleasant characters [that] are coded as asexual or aromantic, and their abnormal nature is framed as being directly linked with their asexuality or aromanticism,” (110-111). This is particularly important to keep in mind because Sabh is a morally-grey antihero and walks a precarious tightrope of amorality that, if not well-executed, could cause her to fall into these harmful stereotypes. Her identity as a witch would double this, since the dehumanizing asexual stereotypes also coincide with villanizing stereotypes of witches that have been used to demonize queer or otherwise nonconforming or marginalized women. Chankaya Simpson highlights the history of this demonization, citing the publication of the Malleus Maleficarum in 1487 and the resulting outbreak of witch trials that primarily targeted “spinsters and elderly widows who did not uphold the idea of a family and were therefore harder to control” (3). In other words, they were outside the bounds of the dominant patriarchal heteronormative structures, including the pressures of compulsory sexuality. Both witches and queer people have been (and are still) irrationally feared and scapegoated by society THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/9 to the degree that they are dehumanized and demonized. Simpson argues that this interconnected villanization of queer people and witches is perpetuated in modern witch media, where queer-coded women are punished because their lack of heteronormativity makes them “no longer consumable by men,” which is “unforgivable and leads to those women further cementing their place as vessels of evil and worthy of destruction” (10). This concurs with the villanization and dehumanization of asexual-coded characters, since both result from a heteronormative patriarchy that destroys when it cannot consume. My witch Sabh is both asexual and sapphic, falling into the category of “no longer consumable” by heteronormativity and thus worthy of destruction in the eyes of our society and culture. It is important for me to overturn this expectation in my story, even as Sabh walks down her dark path of vengeance. The space for this overturning is provided by my worldbuilding. Scottish researcher Scott Richardson-Read draws a culture-specific distinction between witches and cunning women, leading me to make that distinction with my own magic-practicing characters. Cunning women are wise leaders who help their communities, often interceding with spirits on behalf of their people and acting as healers. In a way, they serve a similar honored role as bards. The word “witch,” in contrast, has a complicated history since the equivalent Gaelic word, buidseach, “only appears after the 16th century, about the time of the witch hunts” (Richardson-Read). The thousands of deaths resulting from King James I’s obsession with witch-hunting gives the word a heavy weight and a negative connotation in Scotland. “Those who would consider themselves buidseach would work and call on the spirits for self gain, self aggrandisement and work against their community,” a direct opposition to the role of cunning or wise women (Richardson-Read). Sabh makes the choice to accept the identity of witch in pursuit of her vengeance against Ceadda because she believes that the magic she has learned from Caitir, THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/10 handed down through her people’s oral traditions, is not powerful enough for her aims. She calls on a fire spirit and enters into a sort of faerie bargain, known in Gaelic tradition to be inadvisable and dangerous because “no good comes out of the unnatural connection. However enchanting at first, the end is disaster and death” (Campbell 21). Sabh’s bargain appears similar to common portrayals of witches making deals with the devil. In the context of our world, especially with Christianity, this would lead to demonization and punishment (Simpson 5). However, Sabh is not in our world. She lacks the pressure of an organized religion that would punish her for such a choice. My Gaelic-inspired worldbuilding contrasts Christian witch-hunting culture because pre-Christian Celtic cultures were centered around earth goddesses and were likely matriarchal. The Picts, the indigenous people of pre-Roman, pre-Dalriadan Scotland “recognized succession by the female line alone” (Mackenzie 344). The punishment of women who do not fall in line is a practice of the heteropatriarchy and not something that would likely have been inflicted in this sort of ancient matriarchal society. Because Sabh is grounded in this culture, the disastrous results of her deal are not a retribution for sin or vindication for being a disobedient woman, but the natural result of abandoning the balance that comes from “walking in the right way with the world” and turning left/tuathal rather than right/deasail (Richardson-Read). It is the consequence of touching the stove and feeling the resulting burn. ​ The burn for Sabh is the physical withering of her hands as she uses more and more power. Stories in which women overuse their power come with their own slew of tropes that result in the conclusion that the woman “was never supposed to have what she gained from magic…and therefore loses control over it quickly once she gets it. Such narratives focus heavily on punishment, reveling in the act of magic backfiring on its practitioner or being undone” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/11 (Simpson 4). This is another problem to steer clear of with Sabh, especially since the physical toll of her magic would make it easy for the narrative to focus on penalizing her for her power. I was mindful in the progression of her arc to reveal the truth behind her bargain with the fire spirit: the power she has been using was her own lifeforce all along, not something bestowed by the spirit with whom she bargained. As most deceitful beings do, and in line with the Gaelic understanding of faerie bargains, it tricked her. The fact that Sabh’s power is her own means the withering of her hands is the natural result of using too much of her own magical energy, not a physical sign of a turn to evil. She also does not lose her power in the end, which is a common consequence in fiction for witches and other magic-using women. She keeps it and learns to use it in a balanced and healthy way as she and Caitir rebuild their community and traditions. ​ Sabh’s character and her resulting arc fall into the category of anti-hero. In Creating Characters, Jessica Page Morrell explains that an antihero character is a protagonist who is “flawed or more flawed than most characters…who disturbs the reader with his weaknesses yet is sympathetically portrayed” (141). The sympathetic portrayal is what separates the anti-hero from the villain. At the end of the chapter, Morrell adds “Unlike a villain, an anti-hero can have a character arc in which he is redeemed or transformed by the end of the story; in fact, he can become heroic” (157). This made me think about Sabh’s character arc and whether or not she is redeemable by the end. In the midst of her descent, she commits darker and darker deeds—the actions of a villain that could echo back to the continual villanization of queer people and witches and the denigration of Gaelic-speaking people as uncivilized and barbaric, which I want to avoid with this story. The key to preventing Sabh’s villanization is her transformation, which occurs at the end of the book. The fire spirit has withered her nearly to death, but she survives by using the old THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/12 magic she had abandoned for power and the quest of vengeance that began when Ceadda decimated her village and family and solidified his destructive influence in her life. I reveal that Ceadda bargained with the same fire spirit as Sabh and has been using its consuming influence to overtake, control, and gorge himself on the life-forces of his prisoners to prevent his own withering. Sabh’s return to the magic taught to her by Caitir allows her to defeat the fire spirit and reject the descent into destruction that would put her on the same irredeemable level as Ceadda. Her reclamation of her roots overturns the villanization of her character and halts the colonial punishment of her identity as a magic-using Gaelic queer woman. ​ My choices in crafting this novel give Sabh complexity and growth rather than demonization and punishment. Sabh accepts and integrates both her asexuality and her magic by the end of her arc as she returns to the traditions of her cultural background. If she were to succumb to the ways of the invader who destroyed her people, she would lose all she had left of her home and become a villainized, demonized witch worthy of being put on the pyre by contemporary readers. Instead, through the context of the worldbuilding and Sabh’s existence in its culture, her choice to return to her cultural roots solidifies her identity as a queer cunning woman who will carry on the traditions and language of her people in defiance of invaders who would have them destroyed. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/13 Works Cited Brown, Sherronda J. Refusing Compulsory Sexuality: A Black Asexual Lens on Our Sex-Obsessed Culture. North Atlantic Books, 2022. Campbell, John Gregorson. The Gaelic Otherworld: Superstitions of the Highlands and Islands of Scotland and Witchcraft and Second Sight in the Highlands and Islands. Birlinn Limited, 2014. Chapman, Malcolm. The Gaelic Vision in Scottish Culture. Croom Helm, 1978. Dorian, Nancy C. Language Death: The Life Cycle of a Scottish Gaelic Dialect. University of Pennsylvania Press, 1981. Graham, Deirdre. Gaelic Song Stories. 2023. Holland, Lucy. Sistersong. Redhook, 2021. Holland, Lucy. Song of the Huntress. Redhook, 2024. Le Guin, Ursula K. Steering the Craft. The Eighth Mountain Press, 1998. Mackenzie, Donald A. “A Highland Goddess.” The Celtic Review, vol. 7, no. 28, 1912, pp. 336—45. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/30070410. Accessed 3 Nov. 2025. Morrell, Jessica Page. “Creating an Anti-Hero.” Creating Characters - the Complete Guide to Populating Your Fiction. F&W Publications Inc, 2014. Percy, Benjamin. Thrill Me: Essays on Fiction. Graywolf Press, 2016. Richardson-Read, Scott. Cailleachs Herbarium, 2 Sept. 2025, cailleachs-herbarium.com Ross, Rebecca. A River Enchanted. Harper Voyager, 2022. Ross, Rebecca. A Fire Endless. Harper Voyager, 2022. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/14 Simpson, Chankaya. The Consumption and Destruction of the Female Body in Modern Witch Media. 2022. JSTOR, https://jstor.org/stable/community.32506345. Accessed 3 Nov. 2025. Thomson, Derick. An Introduction to Gaelic Poetry. St. Martin’s Press, 1974. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/15 about 22,000 words The Witch and the Spearmaiden Chapter One - Sabh The juniper crumbled in Sabh’s fist. She sprinkled the flecks of scaly evergreen over her campfire and sat back as fragrance rose from the flames. She closed her eyes and breathed it in. It mixed with the heady scent of the night forest, with its carpet of old leaves still damp from the day’s rain. Above, the barest crescent emerged from the new moon, the same phase that had watched her leave her mentor Caitir’s cottage two moon cycles ago with its slight knowing grin. Look at you, witch, she imagined it saying. You’ve already changed into someone the old woman won’t recognize. When footsteps approached, Sabh didn’t flinch. The first time she’d heard them, weeks ago, she’d startled, heart racing. That panic hadn’t been good for what followed. Now she knew to stay still. She kept her eyes shut, the fire painting the insides of her eyelids. “Is that her?” came a whisper. “Should be.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/16 “She doesn’t look dangerous. Just a lass.” “Maybe we can wait for her to fall asleep and kill her then. Forget honor. I’m no warrior. I just want this hunt over with.” One of Sabh’s eyebrows lifted at this, but the rest of her stayed still. The two men approached, each footfall sending a jolt of warning up Sabh’s arms as they crossed the clove boundary she’d buried in the leaves. Her fire breathed out more juniper smoke. The wind changed and blew it toward her. She let it wreathe her, winding its hot fingers through her long hair and curling under the neckline of her kirtle. The juniper was old knowledge, old power, handed down for centuries from cunning woman to cunning woman. Caitir had taught her to always harvest juniper from the root—never to cut it—pulling it up with clods of dirt and muttering a triplet of prayers. It was to be burned at the new year, smoke filling the house until it choked the residents, then let out all at once through hurled-open doors and windows to cleanse away any badness, any sickness. It was burned to protect cattle, to protect home, to bless. But it wouldn’t be enough here, not for this. Sabh opened her eyes. The men froze midstep a few paces from her. She took stock of them. Well-made leather jerkins and sturdy boots. Bows and quivers slung over shoulders, long knives in hand. The men were both young. They may have even been brothers, their hair the same dark gold and their skin pale. The bronze pommels of their hunting knives were molded into the familiar shape of bear heads. A grin curled Sabh’s lips. “Good evening,” she said, voice smooth. One of the men pointed his knife at her. “Sorry to have to do this miss, but you’ve left us no choice.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/17 Sabh got to her feet, brushing crushed leaves from her skirts. “I’m sorry too. For the same reason.” The men lurched forward, knives raised. Sabh pulled a dirk from her boot and dove to the side, dodging the slash of hunting knives. She crouched, blade out. The men circled her like wolves. And she was the rabbit. Or the deer. Whatever it was wolves really ate. “The knife won’t do much,” said one of the hunters. “I know,” said Sabh. “No magic for us? We heard what you did to the other hunters.” “Maybe that was some other witch. Or maybe I’m all out of fire.” The men slashed at her again. She danced out of reach of their knives. “It will be easy to kill you then,” said the second hunter. “And the eorl’s woods will finally be safe again.” Sabh backed away, making sure her steps looked unsteady, her eyes wide and afraid. She dropped the dirk and held up her empty hands. “Is there any mercy in your hearts?” “Not for a murderous witch,” said the first hunter. He charged, knife raised. Sabh curled her fingers. The air blurred with heat. Shadows crept from the trees, their forms wavering like smoke. They darted around the hunters, who gave shouts of alarm and slashed at them with their knives. The blades went straight through the illusions and cut their own flesh. The shadows danced closer, herding around the men. They reached out with sharp-fingered hands and held the hunters fast. The men tried to cut the hands from each other but only drew more blood. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/18 The shadows clutched the hunters’ necks. The men stopped stabbing at the illusions. They wouldn’t want to risk slashing each others’ throats. Sabh curled a finger at the fire. A snake of it twisted upward, body made of flame and juniper smoke. She approached the men, guiding the fire snake along with her until its tongue was close enough to lick one man’s cheek. The men had fallen still, rooted in place, eyes wide and teeth gritted as the hands of the shadows squeezed tighter and tighter. Sabh tilted her head. “You’re the sixth pair of hunters your eorl has sent after me. After, of course, the first pair happened upon me quite by accident. I was sitting by my fire, not hurting anyone, and they decided I had to die. You are all so like your master, killing because you can, with no regard for the lives you take.” One of the men choked, his eyes bulging. The shadows pressed in closer. “Fourteen strong young men,” Sabh lamented. She let the ribbon of fire grow long and curl around both the men’s necks, overlapping the shadow hands. The smell of sizzling flesh rose. “All gone forever because they dared to poke the snake.” The choking was real now, not just an illusion. The men fell to the forest floor, squirming, trying to work free of the loops of flame, mouths gaping for air as the fire burned into their throats and the claws of the smoke dug into their arms. Sabh knelt next to them. Her blood rushed with power, but she kept her demeanor serene as she whispered, “I’m going to kill your eorl. That’s why I’m here. Long ago, he killed my family and burned my village. Now, I’m finally powerful enough to make him answer for it.” Blood vessels popped in the men’s eyes. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/19 “I’m telling you this because you deserve to know why your eorl has squandered so many of your lives. And because you will soon be dead. They’re not real, the shadows.” She let the smoke figures dissipate. Blood streamed from wounds on the men’s arms and trickled from gashes in their armor. They each held their knives in white-knuckled grips, crimson gleaming on the blades. “The fire is real, though,” said Sabh, standing. She approached her campfire and scooped up her satchel. “Good luck putting it out.” She left the two hunters there as the fire around their necks spread up to their golden hair and down to their jerkins. It ate over the leather and into their flesh. They didn’t scream. That was the beauty of strangling them and burning them all at once—no release for the agony, nowhere for the pain to go. She curled her hands against her chest. They ached with pain, the veins burning. She didn’t look at them. She didn’t need to. She knew from feeling alone that her fingertips were blackened like charcoal, and the withering had extended further, past her first knuckles, eating its way toward her palms. *** The night she’d left Caitir, the night she’d summoned the fire spirit for the first time, was the first time Sabh had ever killed something. And that was why it had finally worked. After all her years of learning, of waiting, of practicing; all her hundreds of attempts at summoning a spirit. They’d been worth something after all. All it had cost was one small life and the will to take it. She’d found a little hollow in a cluster of roots. Inside was a small family of squirrels, sleeping. It was almost like they’d been offered to her. Maybe Caitir’s forest goddess was on THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/20 Sabh’s side, even if the old woman herself wouldn’t approve of what she was doing. She snatched one of them by the neck. At the altar, fresh blood spattered over the whorls of ash. Sabh sheathed her knife, knelt and closed her eyes. She dared not move in the darkness. She kept herself bowed to the ground, fir needles pricking her cheeks, the scent of loam and humus filling her nostrils. “Witch.” The voice rasped low and scraping, like charcoal over rough stone. Sabh’s skin prickled and her arm hairs stood on end. Carefully, she raised her head. The clearing was still there, with its flat stone and all of her tools and herbs. But now, the air danced, swirling and rippling as if in one massive heat mirage. Sparks rode the currents, spraying and leaping as they made a wide circle around Sabh. The circle was flowing anti-sunwise. Her blood chilled. There is deasail, Caitir had explained. Sun-wise. The right way. We must always strive to walk in this way, turn in this way, live in this way. What if we don’t? Sabh had asked. You can’t always turn right, child, Caitir had said. The other way, tuathal, has its own worth, unlucky though it may be. Walk in that direction carefully. Sabh watched the sparks flowing around her and wondered if she was making a mistake, breaking some sort of balance. She had always striven to walk in the right way with the world at Caitir’s guidance. She had always tried to be a good apprentice who might one day be a good cunning woman. “Witch,” hissed the voice again. Sabh took a shuddering breath and answered to the accursed name. “Spirit.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/21 “I’ve been watching you.” “And yet you never came?” she asked, hoping her words weren’t too disrespectful. Maybe she’d be struck down by a burst of flame. “The trifles you offered were quaint, but not enough. Now you have given me life-flame, so I have come. Now I know you truly want me.” The dead squirrel lay still on the stone, blood leaking from the cut Sabh had slashed into its body. Sabh forced herself to look at it, to absorb what she’d done. She hoped Caitir never found out. “You seek power.” Heat rushed at her, threading through the hair by her ears, frothing through her fingers. “You hunger.” “I want vengeance,” said Sabh. “I want to kill the man who destroyed my village.” “Vengeance. For your family or for you?” The question made any response choke off in her throat. “Ah. Astonishing. You admit that your desire is a selfish one.” “I haven’t admitted anything,” Sabh said. “But you have, because it’s true. The blood you crave is not for those you loved. They are not the ones who will exult at its spilling.” Sabh lifted her chin. “And if this vengeance is for me? Don’t I deserve it?” She thought of herself, years younger, a child still. She wanted to give the child something that would make her stop crying. “It’s not a question of deserving it.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/22 The swirling patterns in the air intensified, gaining color and thrumming like embers as they morphed into each other. The net of sparks thickened, the paths of each flare braiding and twining. “If I give you the power you seek, will you see this through?” “I will,” said Sabh. “You will not falter?” “I will not.” It was the one thing of which she was certain. Her hands would not fail her, nor would her will. The air thrummed. “What can you give me in return that would be enough?” “If it’s life-flame you desire,” said Sabh. “Then I shall give you a bright one. His. Give me the power to kill Eorl Ceadda, and you can have everything else.” The spirit hummed, the sound resonating through the stone of the altar and into the ground, making the dry leaves shiver against each other. It echoed in the hollow of Sabh’s chest. The low pulse of it made the sparks and embers dance faster. “I accept your offer, witch,” said the spirit. “Reach deep, and you will find my flame awaiting you. I can already taste the eorl’s death.” The sparks winked out, one by one. The rumbling presence of the spirit faded away. Sabh’s little fire lost its flame and she was left in the forest’s darkness. “So can I,” she whispered, and smeared her prayers from the stone. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/23 Chapter Two - Leófrith Leófrith could no longer stand the scent of mead—sickly sweet, the sunshine of honey turned sour. But she poured it all the same, the liquid streaming from the flagon to pool in the drinking horn. The smell rose. Leófrith forced herself to breathe it, her vision tilting with dizziness. Eorl Ceadda took the horn in his many-ringed hand. “That will be all,” he said. With a sip and a wave, he dismissed her. She descended the dais where he sat at the head of the hall, head down, her flagon held close. Behind her, Ceadda rose from his seat, horn aloft. The hall quieted. The fire in the long hearth snapped. “To victory!” Ceadda bellowed. Leófrith hid her flinch as the warriors at the tables echoed the words back, voices ringing to the rafters, winding through the pillars lining the hall. “Victory! Victory!” “Our hold grows,” called Ceadda. “Our numbers rise and our prosperity increases! This is a place of peace, of plenty!” The warriors cheered. They crashed their cups together and drank. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/24 Outside, the cages on the carts were still being unloaded. Prisoners were being brought out. They’d be fresh from the pain of seeing their village raided, their loved ones killed. They’d be bloodstained and stinking of smoke. The servants would do their best to calm them, to welcome them to Sádaholm and offer food, but the porridge and bread and ale would likely go untouched, blankets loose around shaking shoulders. And after the feast, Eorl Ceadda would bind the prisoners to him, placing his hands around each neck and burning a bone-deep, invisible chain beneath the skin. More people to serve him, unable to leave. More people Leófrith would have to watch over. The hall was raucous, the tables laden with roast boar and baked turnips flecked with thyme and drizzled with honey. Spiced apple tarts filled many a trencher, crust flaking onto fingers. The men drank and laughed, faces growing ruddy. Leófrith glanced at her uncle’s chair again, then the floorboards of the dais behind it. If it ever gets bad, Eadræd, the lord of the hunt, had told her months ago, there’s a spear and a knife under the floorboards behind the chair. Protect yourself. That night had been a different feast. A worse feast. She’d slapped away so many hands, shepherded so many servants out of the hall before fists could fly at them. One warrior had snapped at Hild and nearly pushed her to the floor, bruising her arms. Leófrith had shoved him off the girl before he could hurt her further, but she hadn’t torn up the floorboard for the weapons, not even then. She hadn’t dared to raise them in this place because that would be an invitation for the warriors to raise their own blades. Besides, the mere knowledge of the weapons’ presence was a comfort, whether or not the feast was dangerous. It gave her enough strength to make it through the bad nights. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/25 One of the warriors gestured for more mead. Leófrith filled his cup. His friend was full-belly-laughing. He reached for Hild, hands snagging her hips as she passed. The mead in her pitcher sloshed down her front, darkening her yellow kirtle. Leófrith’s heart lurched in her throat. “Let her be,” Leófrith snapped. “Now.” “Ruining my fun?” drawled the warrior. He didn’t let go of Hild. Leófrith glared, hoping her eyes looked like her uncle’s. They both had grey irises. His were like stormclouds, but hers were like morning mist. She could never hope to command people the way he did, with the bindings he’d wrapped around every soul in this place. But there must have been some semblance of similarity in her look, because the man finally let go of Hild. The kitchen maid scampered away before Leófrith could ask if she was all right. Hild was only a girl, seven years younger than Leófrith. She’d been brought from a raid last year and Leófrith had sat with her long into the night, trying to get her to eat something. The girl had only lifted the spoon of porridge to her mouth after Leófrith promised to protect her. As if you were my own sister, she’d said, pressing a hand to the girl’s shoulder. As if we were blood. Hild’s throat had quaked as she forced the bite down. Every day since, Leófrith had tried to keep that promise—for all such a promise was worth from a woman who was not quite a servant, not quite a lady. Something in between and neither. The niece of the eorl, cup-bearer, mead-pourer, protector of serving folk. Her back always bending, her head always lowered, taking as many blows as she could if it meant they fell on no one else. Sometimes she wished her uncle would take the rest of her birthright completely and make her a servant outright. But he still hadn’t, after more than ten years. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/26 Maybe that meant something. Maybe, deep down, he was still the uncle who had been there for her after her mother died. Maybe one day that man would appear again, laughing like he used to. A hand grabbed her sleeve. She flinched. “A song!” the warrior crowed. His pale face was splattered with dried blood. “Sing a song for us, maiden!” Leófrith twisted her sleeve free, but the other warriors echoed the request until the hall rang. “Sing! Sing!” “I’m out of practice,” she said, but they wouldn’t hear it. She looked up at the big chair. Her uncle was watching, his gaze cold and grey. He gestured to the dais before him. He didn’t even have to tug on her binding. She took her place before him, facing the hall. Her voice likely wouldn’t be heard over the din, but she opened her mouth anyway. The Warrior’s reach is wide, spear long and singing. He bends from blows, bear-built and brandishing. A spearhead of silver, an arc of argent, Hewing and hindering, throat-slicing, thigh-slashing. His fervor fierce, never numbing. Battle-bright, battle-bright, upright and unfearing. His shield shining before the clashing and the clattering. Mourn him in the morning, his gloried end glittering. But the red is yet to river, and the battle brays on. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/27 It wasn’t really a song, but a poem she’d learned from Eadræd and his hunters in the lodge. She’d put it to a work melody sung in the kitchens, and it worked. As the song went on, the hall quieted. By the time she was finished, it was silent. That, more than anything else, told her that tonight would be all right. And in the pause before the hall applauded, she let herself take a single, unfettered breath. She bowed to her uncle. He gave a satisfied nod, an approving smile. And when she passed by him, he touched her arm and said, “Well done.” The tension in her chest slowly released. It will be all right. It will. The rest of the night had an ease to it. Leófrith should have let herself relax and enjoy an evening without tension. But she still waited for something horrible to break out, for the warmth of the hall to erode and snap into a full, violent danger with all the warriors baring their blades. It would force her to sprint at last for the hidden spear and tear it from beneath the floorboards. She’d wield it, standing between her uncle’s warriors and the servants. And after the blood had mixed with the mead and the warriors had fled, her home would be hers again. She’d point Ceadda to the doors and demand that he go back to Mirce. The servants would finally be free. They’d take Ceadda’s chair outside and burn it. The hall would never be a place of fear again and Sádaholm would be a true village, not the seat of one powerful man. Something tightened around her throat, but it wasn’t the familiar singe of the binding beneath her skin that could silence her midspeech. No, it was like an ember was lodged there. She swallowed and the burning went down, down, down to her stomach, where it pulsed and scalded. A dark voice sang in her head. What kind of person fantasizes about killing? About shoving a man from his home. Look at him. He’s your uncle. He was proud of your song. He THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/28 loves you. He raised you after your mother died. He fed you, cared for you. How dare you betray him by thinking of such horrible violence? The voice could have been from the binding, or it could have been her own mind. It had been years since she could tell the difference. The warriors rearranged themselves into a big circle around the central hearth, long benches scraping against the floor. They sat with cups and horns in hand and stomped their feet in a steady beat, taking turns chanting verses. It almost made Leófrith smile. She liked the men best like this—gathered together, creating poetry on the spot, murmuring in appreciation of each other’s voices and sipping their mead. She wished they would stop raiding and stay like this all the time. This is who they really are, she thought. Not the killers Ceadda has turned them into. They are poets at heart. They love beauty and soul, not battle and blood. They deserve freedom as much as the servants do. But in the morning, this glimpse of their hearts would be gone. They’d be back to crowing about blood and glory, eager for the next raid, all poetry forgotten. Most of them had joined Ceadda willingly, renowned warriors from the southern kingdom of Mirce looking for more glory. The binding was nothing to them if it meant more acts of valor for their tales. Leófrith’s arms grew tired of pouring, of carrying the mead. At the edge of the hall, other serving folk were waiting with their flagons and pitchers ready. She handed her flagon to an empty-handed serving woman—Ùna—whose eyes widened. “You’re leaving the feast? So early?” Leófrith gave a tight nod. “Headache. If my uncle asks for me, please give my apologies.” Ùna bowed her head. “Did you not see? He has already retired to the war room. The hunters have returned.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/29 Her uncle’s large wooden chair was empty. She must not have noticed him leaving while she’d been serving the warriors and listening to their poetry. Foolish of her. To be oblivious to anything in this hall was dangerous. But if the hunters had returned, that meant Eadræd was here. Leófrith left the hall. Outside the doors, braziers burned, holding back the night and sending sparks up to mimic the stars. Firelight leaked from the windows and doors of the surrounding structures—the kitchen hut, the work hall, the stables, the hunting lodge, the warriors’ barracks, the war room. On the wide path leading up to the feast hall were the carts, cages all standing empty. The dark figures of servants ushered the last of the prisoners into the warmth of the kitchens. The low shush of their voices reached Leófrith on the breeze. She took a step toward them and paused. A fortnight ago, the last time she’d tried to help the prisoners adjust to their new home, it hadn’t gone well. There had been a woman, Rhoswn, the lady of a raided town. She had lifted her noble chin and said, If you are the lady of this hold, where is your finery? Why are you here, among the servants? Where is your seat at the head of the hall and your golden cup? You are no lady. The chiding voice in her head had taken up those words in the months since, repeating them back at her whenever she dared to straighten her spine and walk between the buildings of Sádaholm like it was her home. It was better to let the servants take care of the prisoners. Leófrith approached the war room instead—a low, round building with smoke billowing from a short chimney in the center of the roof. The dirt and pebbles of the path grated beneath her feet. She allowed herself a few breaths of the cool night air to cleanse her lungs, and then she slipped through the half-open door. A fire burned in the center pit. On the curved benches around it sat her uncle with a handful of his best hunters, Eadræd among them. The lord of the hunt was still wearing his hauberk, his THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/30 helm on the bench next to him. Leófrith kept to the shadows, holding her skirt just an inch above the ground so it wouldn’t shush against the stone. “The bodies were burned completely through,” one hunter was saying. His name was Ælfred, if Leófrith remembered right. An axe-thrower. “It was a slow and painful death for both of them.” “And the witch?” asked Ceadda. “No sign of her, other than a burned-out campfire,” said Ælfred. He paused. “But she is within your domain, in the woods nearing Sádaholm. We will try again, Eorl Ceadda. We will slay her.” Leófrith’s uncle leaned back on his bench. He still held the last horn Leófrith had filled for him. The fire made the brown of his bear cloak turn golden. It did the same to his brown hair and beard, even the grey strands. His milk-pale skin gained a flame-licked tint. “She has eluded her death far too many times. Her power is too great.” He took a sip of mead. The fire cracked. “We must avenge our fallen hunters.” He stood. “We leave tonight.” “My lord?” said Eadræd, eyes wide. “Surely—” “I will kill her myself. Ready my horse.” Eadræd bowed his head, long black braids draping, and Ælfred hurried to do the same. The rest of Ceadda’s hunters streamed from the war room to follow his orders. Leófrith pressed herself deeper into the shadows as her uncle passed, but he didn’t see her. Then Eadræd approached the door, helm under his arm. He stopped before the threshold and looked directly at her. The lines around his eyes crinkled. “My lady,” he said with a bow. “Lord of the hunt. I’m glad you’re back,” she said. “Not for long, as I’m sure you heard.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/31 Leófrith thought of the news. The burned corpses. The witch. Her uncle’s hard voice: I will kill her myself. The fire drew her gaze. She kept her focus on it as she considered her next words. “How long has this hunt been going on?” “A few fortnights,” said Eadræd. “The eorl wished to keep it between himself and the hunters, so as not to alarm the household.” “You could have told me.” He fixed her with a hard look. “No, I couldn’t. None of us can speak of it to any who didn’t already know.” He touched his neck, where the binding laid beneath his skin. She could not argue with that. “This witch. How powerful is she?” “I don’t know much of witches and their power,” said Eadræd. “But I would not want to meet this woman in the woods.” “And yet you will?” “So many of my hunters already have. I cannot quail away from their killer. I must follow the eorl into the hunt.” Leófrith studied Eadræd’s face. His brown skin was lined with fatigue, his brow heavy with sorrow. He had lost so many hunters to this witch. He’d trained them all himself, watching as they went from shaking young lads still fresh from their burned villages to hardened hunters with steady hands and clear aim. Leófrith looked for traces of fear in his eyes. But she found only the low-burning sorrow that had always been there, leaching warmth from their earth-brown. The sorrow was as familiar as his voice telling her to adjust her stance, her throw, the balance and tilt of the spear in her hands. Whenever she tried to remember her father’s voice, all she could hear was Eadræd’s. “It is late, my lady,” said Eadræd. “And as your uncle commanded, we must leave tonight.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/32 He moved toward the open door, hand still at his neck. Leófrith mirrored him, fingers grazing over the invisible binding around her throat. Her power is too great, her uncle had said. “Wait,” she said. He turned and looked at her, eyebrow raised. “Let me come. Let me find the witch,” she said. Her heart fell as he shook his head. “It’s far too dangerous. You’ll be slain. And I’ll have your uncle to answer to.” Leófrith pushed on, a plan already taking shape in her mind. “She might not see me as a threat. I could find her for you and get her to lower her guard. Then you can take her by surprise. Tell me where she was last seen.” Eadræd sighed. “I’ve lost too many of my lads. I can’t lose you too.” “You won’t. The witch will be taken care of. The woods will be safe for the hunters again.” She waited. He seemed to consider her words, looking out the door at the stars and the crescent moon, lost in thought. “Your uncle’s order binds me,” he said at last. “We hunt the witch tonight.” Leófrith looked down at her feet. “However, I find it unlikely that we will succeed.” She lifted her head. Eadræd gave her a steady nod. “Your plan has soundness. If your uncle doesn’t kill the witch tonight, you and I will go together in the morning. You will ride ahead of me and approach her first. Distract her, and I can get in a shot. But if she attacks, I will be there to defend you.” “Won’t you be exhausted? You’ll have no time to rest between night and morning.” “I’ll rest once the witch is dead and the woods are safe again. Believe me, I’ve stayed awake on long hunts before. This will be no more difficult.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/33 “What about my uncle?” “You often go for morning rides or hunts, do you not? He won’t know of your involvement until we return with the witch’s head.” He nodded, as if confirming the plan for himself even as he spoke it into existence. “I am tired of sending men out to their deaths. We need a different plan. A smarter one.” He met her gaze. “I trust your instincts as I trust the instincts of everyone else I’ve trained. Be ready at dawn, my lady. I’ll send word.” He bowed. She inclined her head in return. He moved to leave, then paused. “Was there any need for the weapons tonight?” Leófrith shook her head. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad you were safe.” He left the war room before Leófrith could tell him about how she’d had to defend Hild, had to sing in front of everyone. How, even though nothing horrible had happened, her blood hadn’t stopped rushing in her ears. Leófrith approached the fire in the round hearth, which had begun to burn low, and held out her hands to the warmth. On the bench where her uncle had been sitting was the abandoned horn of mead, resting on a gilded holder. The smell rose from it, turning her stomach even from an arm’s reach away. She could shake Eadræd in the woods tomorrow. She could find the witch on her own and ask her to break Ceadda’s binding. Then her mind would be her own again. Footsteps entered the war room, heavy and sure. “Leófrith.” Ceadda’s voice hit her like a hammer. He stood in the doorway, outlined by the night sky, made bulkier by his bear cloak. “What are you doing in here?” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/34 The binding compelled her to respond with a pulse of tightening heat around her neck. “I saw your seat empty so I came looking for you, my lord. And I was cold, so I lingered by the fire.” She nodded to the horn. “You left your mead. I thought you might come back for it.” “And I did,” he said. He approached and took his mead from the bench. He downed it in one swallow. “My time is short. My horse is being readied. What did you need, niece?” When his voice was like this, quiet and mellow, it was almost like he cared. Forget the binding, forget all that he’d done to the surrounding villages and towns. When he wasn’t tugging her this way and that with the binding, she could almost believe he still saw her as his sister’s daughter, his family. “You’re leaving again?” she asked tentatively. “Our hold is under threat. I ride to protect it.” “Then I hope you will succeed in protecting the hold’s peace.” Ceadda’s face closed off. He lowered the horn. “Peace will not keep us fed. It won’t keep our hold safe. These northern lands are wild. I expect you’re needed back in the hall. The feast isn’t finished yet.” “But—” “Leave,” Ceadda barked. He raised his arm. Leófrith flinched back, hands flying to protect her face. The horn cracked at her feet, bouncing, rolling. Droplets scattered over the toes of her shoes and the bottom of her skirt. Leófrith knelt to pick up the horn from where it had come to rest beneath a bench. She used her already-soiled skirt to wipe the floor. “Leave,” said Ceadda, voice quiet. “I must bind the newcomers before I go.” Leófrith stood, knees shaking. She fled out the door into the cold of the autumn night. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/35 Chapter Three - Sabh Sabh’s clothes stank of smoke and burning flesh even once she’d left the charred corpses far behind. She didn’t stop to look for a stream to wash. Instead, she carried the rankness with her like a burden as she traveled through the woods, trying to gain distance from the bodies before she bedded down for the night. The hunters she’d killed had no one to keen for them. Maybe she should have given them last rites. The dead deserved respect, after all, no matter who they were. A lump rose in her throat and she thought of her family. Then she clenched her jaw. Fire would be funeral enough for the latest pair of hunters. It was the only funeral her village got, after all. And her village had been wantonly crushed, defenseless. The hunters were the aggressors here. The flames were a mercy to them. Better char and ash than a stiffening, rotting body for birds and beasts to pick clean. As she worked her way through the dark woods, Sabh wished it had been a better fight. Maybe she should have pretended weakness longer and let them draw a little blood from her. Maybe she should have held back the magic until the very last moment. But as she thought about THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/36 it, she knew she couldn’t have done it any other way because the sight of them falling so quickly made her heart swell. The agony in their eyes made her want to laugh. The sight of their blood was enough to hearten her for her walk through the dark. Suffer how my people suffered. Scream as they screamed. Die as they died. With every pair of hunters she slayed, the more confident she grew with the fire magic. Soon, she’d be strong enough to approach Ceadda. She imagined a great hall, fires roaring on pillaged wood, mead from stolen casks pouring into drinking horns, and the eorl looking over it all with cold eyes. She imagined her fiery snakes on a rampage throughout the hall, flames spreading up carved wooden pillars to the rafters, catching on the thatch. People running. Soldiers crying out, unable to fight the enemy overtaking the hall, beating at smoke and shadows. And she would stand there, in the middle of it all, unburned. She would watch as the fire reached the eorl himself, latching onto his bear cloak and forcing him to roll on the ground like a dog. But it would be in vain. The fire would eclipse him, burrowing deep into his flesh, down to the bone. There would be nothing left. Sabh’s fingers ached. It wouldn’t do to keep ignoring them. She held her hands up, letting the dim moonlight wash over them. Her nails were blackened, like she’d dipped them in ink. The skin of her fingertips was withered and dark, like she’d stuck them in a flame and held them there. Veins stood out on the back of her hands, flame-red and throbbing. When she flexed her fingers, her nerves screamed. Caitir’s voice entered her mind, the way it always did when she started to doubt herself. Some power is outside the bounds of balance. It is not part of the natural world. It’s something deeper and darker, and once it’s set loose it will consume. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/37 “It won’t be me it consumes,” Sabh muttered. She curled her aching fingers into fists and kept walking, letting the shadows of the trees soothe her pain, the slim crescent in the sky an eye almost shut, keeping a calm but constant watch. She kept a watch too. After being attacked so many times, it would be foolish not to. She’d need to find a safe place to curl up tonight, in case they found her again. Every day she spent in the forest was a risk, especially since the attacks were growing more frequent. She needed to find her way to the eorl before his hunters succeeded in killing her—and they might, one day soon, if they caught her when she was unaware or weary. If she’d really been sleeping back in the clearing, it might have been over already. Her luck was dwindling, like wool pulled too thinly onto a drop spindle. Slow the spinning, even a little, and the fibers will fall apart and the spindle will thunk to the ground. *** Sabh flinched awake to the glow of torchlight through the branches of the elderberry bush she’d crawled under. She blinked, disoriented, waiting for her vision to clear. The ground shook with hoofbeats—that must have been what woke her. They were growing closer, not yet at the edge of her clove boundary. She made herself smaller, curling up. The damp leaves shushed around her, painting her back with dew. Ripe berries fell and crushed under her weight, releasing their earthy scent. She stayed still, hardly daring to breathe. Her skin burned when the horses crossed the circle of cloves she’d buried under dead leaves. The horses thundered into the clearing beyond. Through the leaves, Sabh counted the silhouettes of five men, but distant shouts and hoofbeats told her there were more nearby. Those THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/38 bearing torches raised their fires high, shedding light and shadow over the underbrush and tree trunks. “She can’t be far,” said one rider. His horse trotted in a circle around the clearing, restless. The beast tossed its head and the rider tugged on the reins, metal rings clicking as the leather strained. “Unless she sprouted wings and flew away,” said another rider. “Witches do that, I think.” “No, they transform into animals and hide among them. Their beastly cores overtake their human forms.” Sabh held back a scoff, then realized she was actually hiding quite like an animal—some sort of terrified rabbit. She wanted Caitir. The old woman could save her, with her goddess-sent beasts, her wooden staff, her withering glares that might send even these mounted warriors fleeing. But the old woman was far away, and if she knew what predicament Sabh had gotten herself into from her own stupidity, she’d sniff and stir more honey into her tea. “My lord!” one of the men called. Another horse cantered into view. The man atop it was heavily armored, a bronze helm on his head. His horse was chestnut brown and enormous, the saddle edged with glinting gilt. He pulled the steed to a stop and looked around. “Any sign of her?” he asked, his voice low and sonorous. “Look at the base of this tree. These tracks,” said one of the riders. The lord dismounted, boots sinking into the dead leaves. Sabh’s blood thrummed. She knew that helm, the bronze swirling with bear motifs. She’d seen it the day her village burned, standing out in the rush of raiders. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/39 Her blood sang, screamed, chanted. All thoughts of making a plan flew out of her mind like a startled flock of starlings. Ceadda. Ceadda. Ceadda. Vengeance. Vengeance. Vengeance. This was her chance. She had to act now. She reached for the deep powers of her deity, grasped the fire, and gathered all her strength. At the sound of her slipping out from under the bush, every head in the clearing turned. She shot to her feet, palms blazing with fire, and rushed at Ceadda. A scream burst out of her. The fire surged from her hands, flaring brighter than midday. A horse screamed. When the light died away, it was still rearing, Ceadda clinging to its back. An angry welt was seared on the horse’s flank. The air stank of burned horse hair. Hooves crashed to the ground, sending Sabh stumbling back. Hands clamped around Sabh’s arms—hunters, dismounted from their steeds. One of them grabbed the hair at her nape and held her fast, jerking her head back so she was forced to look up at Ceadda. His horse brayed in pain, but he yanked on the reins and it went unnaturally still and silent, eyes wide. He looked down at Sabh, nostrils flaring, gaze shadowed by his helm. “So. You’re the witch who’s been roasting my hunters like autumn fowl.” Sabh bared her teeth in a snarl. “Tie her up,” Ceadda said. Two more warriors moved toward Sabh, rope in hand. Sabh tried to pull free of the men holding her, but they only tightened their grip on her arms, moving them behind her back so they could be tied together. The rope rasped against her wrist. The men wound more rope around THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/40 Sabh’s arms, pinning them to her sides. All the while, she glared up at Ceadda as if she could set fire to him with her gaze alone. He returned her glare like she was a rat who’d found its way into his kitchen. “What manner of creature are you?” I could ask the same of you, Sabh thought. But before she could speak it, one of the warriors shoved a wad of rags into her mouth and tied a thick piece of wool over her lips. “You wrapped fire around their necks, I believe,” said Ceadda. “Suffocating them even as they burned. Exceptionally cruel. What a dark mind you must have.” Sabh reached out to her deity, down into the pit of her gut, an echo of the depths of the universe. Dark and sweltering, this place was the seat of all true power. Caitir’s magic of herbs and charms was pithy superstition compared to this. “For the safety of those who enter these woods, and to avenge the men you murdered, I will bring justice upon you.” Ceadda pulled a broadsword from the sheath on his back. No. This is not how it should be. I kill you. You will not kill me. She extended her reach like an oil-slick arrowhead over a flame and the deep powers caught the end of it. Flame licked over her hands. She bent her wrists and sent fire hurtling at the men beside her. As they careened away, beating at flames, she grasped the rope around her arms and singed it off. It fell away in ashes. She raised her flaming hands toward Ceadda. His eyes widened. He lifted his sword over his head. There was no time for illusions, no time for torture. Only death. Death. Death. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/41 She screamed, and the flames bloomed from her hands at the sound, so hot that they tinged white, and then blue. They eclipsed her view of Ceadda. The sounds of his men screaming as they cantered away echoed distantly, but there was no such scream from Ceadda. He is already dead, she thought wildly. He has to be. He’s nothing but charred sinew and ashes now. Her hands ached. The pain grew so fierce that her fingers spasmed. The flames flickered out. She could no longer hold up her arms. It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the dimness, the embers caught in the wet underbrush, the moon high overhead. There was no corpse before her. No shriveled, burned thing in bronze armor, the helm blackened with soot. No horse. No Ceadda. Sabh fell to her knees, the crunch of charred leaves beneath her weight the only sound in the empty clearing. He must have slipped off in the blaze of light, knowing it would mask his departure. But to do that, he would have had to have survived the fire itself. And he couldn’t have. Not even his armor could have protected him. Sabh clutched her head in her throbbing hands. Her breaths came sharp, in and out, in and out. Her jaw clenched against the boil of rage in her throat, climbing up with a crest of foam. The scream burst from her. She doubled over, hands scraping and clutching at the burned leaves. She screamed until her throat was raw and torn. He was right there. Right there. When would she ever get another chance like that? And now it was lost. Why did he get to survive the flames when her village hadn’t? When her sisters and parents hadn’t? Sabh had never believed there was true fairness or justice in the world. That was why THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/42 she’d known for years that she’d have to take it for herself. It didn’t make this any easier to bear, though. She swallowed and her throat ached. When she touched her face, her fingertips came away wet. She shouldn’t have allowed her rage to take control. She should have stayed hidden in the elderberry bush and been patient. Maybe then, she could have caught him off guard fully. That had been her mistake. She would not make it again. Next time she saw the eorl, she would be cold and sharp as bone when she raised her hands to kill. Next time, he wouldn’t be alive to escape. *** She stayed curled up in her circle of singed leaves and rope until dawn, allowing the remaining warmth to comfort her through the night. Then she got to her feet in the faint morning light and began following the trail the hunters’ horses had left. The hooves had crushed ferns and bushes, snapped twigs, and squelched horseshoe prints into mud. One good thing to come from the night—she now had a path to Ceadda. She could put an end to all of this. She wrapped her shawl closer around her and followed the trail. She kept an eye out as she walked—for more hunters, yes, but also for other threats of the woods. She’d lived with Caitir long enough to know that the goddess of the forest was not just an earth spirit, a nurturer, a mother figure. She was also a wildness of which to be wary, pure primal wrath. And Caitir mirrored her. Sabh had known this years before she’d ever learned of Caitir’s oath to the forest, before the raid, before she’d gone to live in the cottage with the old woman, . It was in the stern glares the old woman gave her when she poured too eager a helping of honey onto her bread, the bestial hiss of rage when a jar slipped from Caitir’s hand and shattered on the THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/43 floor. Even before Sabh had become an apprentice, she’d seen the flares of green light coming from the forest at night, watching from the window of her family’s home while her sisters slept, wondering if the old cunning woman had been eaten by something powerful and deadly or if she was shedding her human side and becoming one with the forest, as she was meant to be. Sabh shuddered and pulled her shawl closer against the chill autumn air. The wind didn’t help, rattling its way through dead leaves and scraping its fingers through Sabh’s clothes. After a while of walking and not being able to shake her unease, she paused next to a flat boulder and considered it for a moment before unslinging her bag. Each time she prayed to the fire spirit, she became less sure she should be doing it. But without Caitir, she had no one else to ask for help. Besides, the oath had already been made. Sabh belonged to the fire spirit, and it to her. It had to answer her call. She pulled out the carved wooden bowls and filled them with offerings. She burned a handful of juniper to ash and painted the surface of the boulder with it. With every prayer she also worried that she’d inexplicably offend the fire spirit and be turned to ash for her mistake. It was a creature of chaos, after all. Pure unpredictability. For this reason, she never asked for more than she absolutely had to, even though she had hundreds of questions—the spirit’s name, if it had one, or if it was really a spirit at all. Sticean, Caitir had told her once. All fire deities are demons at their core. Sabh had wanted to point out that the forest goddess herself wielded fire and ask if the only reason it didn’t count as demonic was because it was green, but she’d held back because she didn’t want to receive a look. She shaped the last curl of ash on the stone and a chill raced up her arms. She took a step back, her breath catching in her chest as something began to burn there, sending smoke choking THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/44 up her throat and tingles of heat through every vein in her body. Ever since the first prayer, the visitations had become more vivid, more cloying. Sparks danced around her, tuathal. “What do you seek, witch?” hissed the spirit. “They found me again.” She swallowed. “Ceadda was there, leading them. I tried to destroy him but he survived my fire.” The spirit rumbled. “You failed.” “I won’t fail again. I need more power if I’m to face them again. I need to be stronger, or else they’ll kill me before I can kill Ceadda.” “You wish for strength. Protection.” Sabh swallowed, unnerved at the spirit’s perception. “I do.” “If I give it to you, I must have something in return.” “What do you desire?” She could catch another squirrel, perhaps. Or something bigger, like a hare. The spirit hummed. The sound vibrated in Sabh’s ribcage. “Your pain will do,” it said. “The burn of it, the sweetness.” Sabh clenched her jaw. “What will your protection give me?” “You will not die by loss of blood, no matter how many blades may pierce you. No fire may burn you, not even the fire of mortals. Instead, it will give you strength and healing. No arrow that may penetrate your heart or throat or eye will end your life.” The words left many ways to Sabh’s demise still open, but she didn’t require immortality—only a sense of security from the hunters and Ceadda and anyone else who may wish her harm. It would be enough. She could fight without fearing for her own death. The thought of healing-fire made up for anything lacking, especially given the state of her hands. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/45 Sabh nodded. “I accept your boon.” The fire sighed, a long gust of heat, and seeped up from her veins and onto her skin, a layer of pulsing power. It grew hotter and hotter, like the press of heated iron against her flesh. It ran up her arms and legs, her back, her torso. Sabh clenched her jaw, eyes watering. The scent of her own burning skin filled her nostrils. It’s branding me, she thought wildly. It’s marking me as its own. But then the pain faded away, and with it the dancing sparks of the fire spirit’s presence. Cold autumn air pressed its hands against Sabh’s cheeks, turning the wet of her tears sharp. She took a shuddering breath and looked down at her hands. Her fingertips were still blackened from her fight with the hunters the day before—and made worse from the fire she’d used last night, the veins more angry red and the soot-stain darker. She pushed up a sleeve, baring her still-throbbing skin to the air. Curls of red burns marked her forearm, an echo of the prayers she’d scrawled to bring the fire spirit to her. She pushed the sleeve higher and the marks continued. She pulled the collar of her overdress and shift away from her body to check her chest, her stomach. The swirling marks were there, too. She raised her hands to her face, feeling for raised, burned skin. But there was nothing there, no brand of the protection boon. She wondered if the burns would fade, or if they’d always be so angry and scarlet. Perhaps the extent of their protection would soon be tested. Sabh splashed the ashen prayers from the stone and gathered her bowls, wincing at every movement as the raw burns protested. The rough wood scraped together in her hands, almost masking the sound of footfalls off to her right. She shoved the bowls into her bag and whirled, already reaching down for the fire. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/46 Just a few strides away stood a deer. Its back was dappled with white fur and snatches of sunlight. It stared at Sabh with its deep well-like eyes. Sabh stayed still and waited, she and the deer caught in a silent battle. Who would flinch first? She thought of those old memories of green light in the forest. She’d never seen Caitir transform. The old woman had never even mentioned it. But what if, somehow, this deer was her mentor? It blinked. Nothing in its eyes reminded Sabh of Caitir’s knowing looks. It didn’t even cock its head with an old-woman obnoxiousness. Sabh allowed herself a small exhale. Then she remembered something Caitir had said the night Sabh left, when the old woman had found her at her altar in the woods. If you’re not home before I wake up in the morning, I will ask my goddess for aid in bringing you back. Perhaps she will send bears and wolves and they’ll drag you back by the scruff of your neck. It had been many weeks, completely free of raging bears and howling wolves with green fire in their eyes. But maybe it was finally happening. Sabh had seen enough deer to know one would never approach a human—especially since these woods were rather dominated by clambering human hunters. She wouldn’t really do it, Sabh told herself, thinking of all of the empty threats Caitir had voiced over the years—ones that ranged from if you don’t finish your porridge, I’ll put it in your tea, to run away to the woods again and I’ll ward this cottage against you—have fun getting eaten. But then, did Sabh even really know what the old woman was capable of? She lifted her hands slowly, placatingly. The deer transformed in a gust of green light. It dove at her in the form of an owl, talons outstretched, screeching. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/47 Chapter Four - Leófrith Years ago, when Leófrith was thirteen, she had swallowed down her fear and walked up the path to the hunters’ lodge. A sheltered porch ringed the building, eaves upheld by pillars that looked to Leófrith like tree-trunks. She crept up to the door and reached to open it when she heard the shushing of a knife against wood. There was Eadræd, lord of the hunt, sitting on a bench in the shade of the porch. He leaned forward, whittling a chunk of wood, his long black braids draping to hide his face. One of his spaulders sat unbuckled on the seat beside him, but other than that he was still in his full hunter armor. He held up his carving and examined it. The hints of a wolf head were beginning to emerge from the wood. “I wondered when you’d be stopping by, Lady Leófrith,” he said. Leófrith took in a sharp breath. How had he known? “You’ve been watching my boys train,” he said. He scraped another curl of wood from the carving. “They’ve noticed.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/48 And they’d told him. Had they told Ceadda, too? Her stomach twisted. “What did they say?” “They’re wondering which of them you fancy.” “I don’t fancy boys,” she said. “You’re watching for the training. I suspected so. If the lads could see a little clearer, they would have realized the same. But they’re a silly bunch at this age.” Leófrith took a timid step forward. “They’re only a little older than me. If they can do it―” “―then you certainly can,” said Eadræd. “Indeed. And you’ve come to ask me to train you as well.” Leófrith tried to determine if he was angry or not. When she was little, she’d learned how to gauge her mother’s anger, and in the past three years learned her uncle’s rages well. But Eadræd was more unreadable. Or perhaps he wasn’t angry at all. She watched him carefully work his knife into the wood, each movement careful. “Yes,” she said finally. “I assume you don’t want your uncle to know about this?” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t like it. He says I need to stay with the servants in the kitchen and the laundry.” “Leave that to me. Come,” He stood, tucking the unfinished carving into a pocket and sheathing his knife. “A lady of the hold must learn to fight.” He opened the great doors of the hunters’ lodge and led Leófrith inside. She followed in his wake, eyes wide in the golden glow of dozens of torches and braziers. Weapons lined one paneled wall―spears gleaming, swords shining, painted round shields made even more colorful in the firelight. And the bows, so many bows. Longbows taller than she was, arching recurves, THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/49 short hunting bows. Buckets full of arrows sat freshly fletched, and more hung in quivers on a rack. Baskets of feathers sat on shelves with bundles of twine and tools for trimming. The center of the room was taken up by a long table. A few of the hunters sat there, munching on hunks of bread and cleaning their weapons. “I usually start my trainees with the bow,” said Eadræd, leading Leófrith over to the weapons. “But apparently it’s my spearmen you’ve been watching the most. Is that right?” Leófrith looked at the spears. They were long, simple but elegant, lethal tips shining in various shapes. Many of the shafts bore Eadræd’s carved designs. She nodded. “A good choice,” said Eadræd. “There is hardly a more indomitable weapon.” He started her with a plain wooden staff. For weeks, she practiced with it. Eadræd summoned her whenever he knew Ceadda would be out raiding, recruiting warriors in Mirce or nearby Northan-Éa, or locked in the war room for long meetings. Eadræd made sure she would not be discovered. When he finally gave her a real spear, she almost didn’t want to take it. What if her uncle found out? What would he do if he knew she was holding such a thing? It was taller than her, its bronze tip shaped like a raindrop. It was not meant for little nieces who were supposed to be shucking peas with the kitchen folk. Loyal, dutiful, obedient, and standing still. She was sure that if she wrapped her hands around the shaft, the ripples of the motion would reach all the way to Ceadda, out on his latest raid. He would turn his horse around, gallop right up to the hunters’ lodge, and barge through the doors. The spear would fall from her hands with a clatter. He would pull her away. He would punish Eadræd so harshly that the lord of the hunt would lose his tall bearing and the warm gleam in his eye. He wouldn’t have the heart left THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/50 to give her another encouraging word. He’d be focused on his own survival, the remains of himself. It would be her fault Ceadda hurt him. And her fault when she was punished, too. “Take it,” said Eadræd. “I can’t,” Leófrith whispered. “You can.” He leaned down so his eyes were level with hers. “He’s not here,” he said quietly. “He doesn’t know. And he won’t. You want this. You deserve it. Take it, my lady.” He held the spear out further. Leófrith didn’t take it. Eadræd sighed. “Did you know I had a daughter once?” Leófrith shook her head. “She loved to pick goldenrod and gather it in her arms like sheaves of wheat. She collected smooth pebbles from brooks and left them in my pockets. She asked me once if I’d teach her to hunt. I told her I would when she was older.” He took a shuddering breath. His grip tightened on the spear. “Then your uncle came to our village. I never got to teach her. I wish I had. If she’d had a spear that night, or even a little dagger, perhaps she’d still be here.” He held the spear out again. “Take it.” Leófrith’s small, pale fingers wrapped around the shaft right beneath Eadræd’s callused brown ones. She thought of another little girl, reaching for it, hands the same ochre as her father’s but stained with goldenrod pollen. And then Eadræd let go, and then the spear was hers. *** Now she rode behind him in the woods, keeping watch on their rear. At every disturbance, every rustle of branch and twig, she turned her head, the cold tip of her spear tracing her ear. She wondered if her uncle would discover she wasn’t with the servants. What would he do? How would he punish her when she returned? She tried to comfort herself with the knowledge THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/51 that he rarely sought her out, confident in the power of the binding keeping her in line. She’d hunted with Eadræd many times and nothing bad had happened. He wouldn’t notice her absence this once. But she couldn’t shake the dread from her core. It lodged there like she’d swallowed a whole walnut, shell and all, and it wasn’t likely to move any time soon. The best she could do was try to ignore it. “She’s close,” said Eadræd, after they’d been riding for hours. He sniffed the evening air. “Do you smell that?” Leófrith drew in a deep breath of air. Campfire. “You go on from here,” said Eadræd. “Follow the smoke. I’ll be close behind in case of trouble. If she doesn’t attack you, I’ll get closer and take aim. At your signal, I’ll loose.” She dismounted and led her grey gelding through the trees, following the scent of the smoke as it drew her deeper into the shadows of the wood. It occurred to her that she should be afraid. The witch had burned so many of Eadræd’s men alive. She was not someone to be trifled with, not someone to speak to with reason. But then, dealing with Ceadda was no better. If she had to choose—Ceadda or the witch—she would choose the witch. That was why she was here. The choice had already been made. She only had to see it through without losing her nerve. She could fight, if need be. A spear might not be much good against flame, but she could at least try. That was more than could be said of standing against Ceadda. With the binding around her neck, there was no fighting at all. Nothing but shrinking ever smaller, ever quieter. Let the witch hurl fire at her. She’d rather die than keep shrinking. The scent of smoke grew stronger. Firelight bled through the trees. Leófrith squared her shoulders and approached the flames. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/52 Chapter Five - Sabh Sabh stumbled backward, crouching just in time. The owl flew over her head. She rose again, looking around wildly for the bird. Apparently the protection boon wouldn’t stop woodland creatures from attacking her. “Why are you trying to kill me?” she yelled. She didn’t know if the owl was being influenced by Caitir, or the forest goddess, or both. Why would Caitir want to hurt her, though? Caitir hadn’t even forced her to step away from the altar the last time they’d seen each other. It had seemed she’d decided to let Sabh choose her own way. Caitir wasn’t the type to delay punishment for months, and her punishments never included physical harm. The threat to drag her home could still be likely, but an owl couldn’t do that. Caitir would need something larger for that, like a bear. Trusting her knowledge of Caitir’s nature, there was only one person who could be controlling the shifting deer-owl. And she was not really a person at all. The owl swung around and came back toward her for another go. Sabh reached down for the deep powers and lifted her hands. Her sleeves fell back a bit, revealing the protection burned THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/53 into her skin. Sabh called the fire into her hands and held it out like a shield. “Get back,” she snapped at the owl. It veered aside to avoid the flames, but careened around again, talons out. Its eyes glowed verdant. A screeching voice pierced Sabh’s mind. WITCH. BETRAYER. DESTROYER. KILLER OF GREEN THINGS. WITCH. WITCH. WITCH. Sabh blasted the owl out of the air. It fell at her feet, charred, the beak still ajar in a scream. Acrid smoke rose from the remains of the feathers. She thought of the squirrel she’d killed the night she left Caitir, the smell of its blood. Her stomach churned and she swallowed a rush of bile. Carefully, she reached out and examined the dead bird. This had been the forest’s creature, and even if Caitir hadn’t sent it, the sight of the dead bird would make her face harden. What have you done? Sabh could imagine her saying. If this is who you are now, don’t bother coming back. She’d wrap herself in the moss-green shawl Sabh had made for her and sit in front of the hearth, staring into the flames. She’ll be fine, Sabh told herself. I’ll go back as soon as I’m finished here. But would Caitir even want her back, after Sabh had abandoned her? Disobeyed all of her teachings? Killed the squirrel, and dozens of men, and now this owl-deer-creature? It had likely been an aspect of the forest goddess. Caitir would know what Sabh had done sooner or later. If the goddess didn’t tell her herself, the knowledge would make it back to the cottage through whispers of trees that Sabh had never been able to hear. I’ll make it up to her when I get back. I’ll break ties with the fire spirit. Then we can celebrate Ceadda’s demise together and I’ll go back to the right way. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/54 She pushed dead leaves over the owl until it was buried. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and left it there to be reclaimed by the forest and its endless cycles of life and death. Then she stood and considered her options. She’d been biding her time for two moons, waiting until she was fully confident with the magic before moving to strike Ceadda, using the attacking hunters as target practice. But it was growing more dangerous, and last night had changed everything. Now Ceadda himself was pursuing her, seeking her death. She had to move against him before he found her again. She scanned the ground for the trail of hoofprints she’d been following before the owl had attacked, eyes roving over crushed leaves and abandoned snail shells and broken twigs, all smattered around the boulder she’d used as an altar. The shape of her own boot heel appeared over and over again, turned this way and that in the desperation of her scuffle with the owl. She crouched again and again to sift leaves around, looking closer, but couldn’t find a single hoofprint. She rose, fingers bunched in her hair. “Fool, fool, fool, fool,” she spat at herself. She pressed her hands to her face and took a muffled breath. For a long moment, she only breathed. Then for the first time in months, she muttered one of Caitir’s singsong seuntan to calm herself down. “Biodh sìth orm, biodh sìth orm, beannaich air m’anam, m’inntinn. Hùg ò, hùg ò, hì ri ò hò. Biodh sìth orm, biodh sìth orm…” She spent the rest of the day retracing her steps, trying to pick the trail up again. But by dusk, her stomach was growling, so she turned her attention to finding dinner. If she wanted her wits and her strength, she needed food and rest. A balance, she imagined Caitir saying as she added flowers to a wreath of blackberry thorns. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/55 Sabh got a fire going, three rabbits roasting over it. She sprinkled cloves in a circle around her camp, making a protective boundary. She burned a frond of juniper, and then a handful of dried basil. She used another handful of the latter to season the rabbits. As she took her first bite, her boundary alerted her to the presence of an intruder, sending prickles up her arms. She kept eating and didn’t look up. In the past months, she’d learned that it was best to seem calm and harmless, at least until she knew who or what had tripped the boundary. Sometimes, before she’d made it close to Ceadda’s domain, wandering rangers happened upon her, deer slung over their shoulders, and shared a meal with her. Sometimes there were cunning folk like Caitir who had been foraging by moonlight, and she welcomed them to the warmth of her fire for a rest. She knew the woods well enough to know that most of their dangers came from hostile intruders, not from those who lived in balance with the trees and the animals. You have abandoned balance, said Caitir’s voice in her head. Does that not make you one of the dangerous things? WITCH. DESTROYER. Sabh took another bite of the rabbit she’d killed and swallowed, even though her throat was closing up. The footsteps of the intruder grew louder. From the sound, there was only one. A good sign, since Ceadda’s hunters never appeared alone. Sabh wiped her lips and looked up. A young woman led a grey horse by the bridle, the skirt of her dark woolen gown dragging in the pine needles. She wore a hooded cloak, a spear strapped to her back. But for the spear, Sabh would have relaxed completely at the sight of the girl. She’d had enough of Ceadda’s hunters for a lifetime. She hoped the girl’s arrival meant safety and a comfortable chat by the THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/56 fire. A shared meal. Perhaps the girl was a cunning woman or a healer. Maybe she had some herbs or charms Sabh could trade for. She kept one hand palm up on her knee, ready for flame. She’d been attacked too many times to stay completely relaxed. “Care to sit by my fire?” she called. The woman tied her horse to a tree, half-turning to glance at Sabh. “Thank you.” She sat across the fire from Sabh and pulled down her hood. The glow caught in her golden hair as it spilled down her cloaked shoulders. She gathered it and began working her fingers through it, untangling snarls. The motion was methodical, nervous. Sabh forced her voice to its practiced smoothness. “Are you a traveler?” The woman’s gaze met hers. She had pale grey eyes, cold in the firelight. “I’m seeking the help of a witch.” The words help and witch didn’t go together in Sabh’s mind, but she leaned forward. “You’re in luck. You’ve happened upon one. If it was indeed happenstance, which I doubt.” Leófrith shook her head. “I came to find you. They say there’s a witch who burns men in this forest. They told me not to come, but I thought you wouldn’t harm me if I came peacefully.” “Who’s they?” “My—my village. There’s been talk of a witch for days.” Sabh hummed. “It’s a strong word, witch. Most cunning folk would rear back from such a name, would never claim it.” She leaned forward, daringly close to the fire. “But I have.” Witches took what wasn’t theirs. Witches turned their backs on their communities. Witches twisted power for their own gain. Sabh had been warned and she’d done it anyway. “What’s your name?” Sabh asked. The woman hesitated. “Are you going to use it to enthrall me?” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/57 Sabh laughed. “Is it not common human decency to trade names? I’m not one of the sìthichean, am I?” “The what?” “The Other Folk,” said Sabh. “Those are the ones you need to be careful of handing your name. But witches are human, you know.” The woman wrapped her cloak tighter around herself. “I’m not yet sure what you are.” “I’m Sabh.” The fire cracked. A flurry of embers went up. The woman flinched and Sabh leaned back. “There. You have my name, and whatever power over me you think might come with it.” “I’m Leófrith,” said the woman. Sabh mulled the name over. In the Mirce tongue of the south, the one they were speaking now, it meant beloved-of-peace. “Leófrith. There’s no need to be afraid. I only harm those who’ve harmed me. And I’ll help those who ask for it. What do you ask of me?” If it was as simple as an ailment or a missing item, she could fix it with only cunning craft. Leófrith took a deep breath. “My uncle put a curse on me, years ago when I was a child. It wraps around my throat and compels me to obedience, silences me when he doesn’t want me to speak and burns when he wants to force words out of me. It keeps me on a leash so I can’t stray far. It keeps me from harming him, should I wish to.” Sabh stared. “And do you wish to?” “No. I—at least, I don’t think I do. I wouldn’t.” Sabh considered her, took in the fine wool of her gown, her bright tablet-woven belt, and the well-made bronze spear on her back. There was also the fact that she’d known about Sabh, THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/58 been out looking for her, and the fact that there was not a village for miles that hadn’t been destroyed. There’s only one place the lady could have come from. “Your uncle is Eorl Ceadda.” Leófrith flinched. “How—” “Tell me. If I break your curse, will you take me back to his hold? Will you help me?” Leófrith stared for a long moment. “I may not wish to hurt him, but you certainly do.” “Such a terrible man, I would think you’d want the same.” Leófrith flinched and shook her head. “I don’t wish him dead. I only wish to be unbound from him. He’s family. He can be kind. He’s a great leader who provides for his people.” “He burns villages full of children and steals people from their homes. Justice must be had. You could help me do it, and then you’d truly be free of him.” Leófrith kept her eyes on her hands in her lap. Sabh did too, because the woman’s fingers were shaking, just barely, the tiniest whispering flickers of movement. “Even after everything he’s done, I couldn’t hurt him. Even if the binding on me is broken and my mind is my own again, I couldn’t. He’s my uncle. He raised me.” She took a deep breath. “He’s the only kin I have left.” Sabh let herself feel empathy for that, if only for a moment. What would she do if someone asked for her help in ending Caitir? But Ceadda had to die. He’d destroyed far too many lives, ravaging villages far and wide. And if the Mirce kings in the south or the spirits of the land hadn’t seen fit to strike him down for disrupting the so-called balance of the world, Sabh had to do it herself. She picked up a stick and prodded at the fire, rearranging the rough, half-rotted branches she’d gathered from the forest floor. They crackled against each other. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/59 “There was a village, years ago,” said Sabh, eyes on the fire and its gentle dancing. “It stood in the meadows at the foot of a mountain. The people there were great weavers, the wool of their flocks soft and fine. One day a greedy eorl rode into the pastures from the south. His men raided the sheep and took them all away. They took the unwaulked tweed still fresh from the looms. They took all the bolts that would be sold in the spring. They took the best weavers and dyers and shepherds, and then they killed the rest. They took all the grain stores and oxen. The people who had run for shelter in the nearby woods returned to find their home destroyed, their food gone, their living taken. They starved and sickened that winter and they all died. All except for the old cunning woman from the edge of town who’d had her hands full trying to save them, and her little apprentice, who would have been killed with her family if she hadn’t been foraging in the woods.” Sabh tossed the stick into the fire and met Leófrith’s gaze. “My master refused to seek revenge because she is too good. And so I vowed long ago to grow powerful enough to do it for her. Here I am, finally.” Leófrith shut her eyes, shuddering. She shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For what he did. He took your home, your family. Everything.” The grief in the lady’s voice surprised Sabh. All at once, the anger rising in her throat fell back. She swallowed to clear the dregs. “It’s he who must pay, not you.” “You won’t be releasing fire upon me for his sins?” “That would be cruel and fruitless.” Images of burned men flashed behind her eyes. Her words were true now, at least, when it came to the lady. Sabh would keep it so, her rage a concentrated substance meant only for Ceadda, more powerful for its purity. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/60 Sabh stood and walked around the fire, crouching in front of Leófrith. The closer she got, the harder her heart pounded. Somehow, she kept her voice silken. “But I would be forever in your debt if you were to help me reach him. I will break the binding he’s put on you. I will do whatever you wish. Just get me into his hall alive. I’ll take my vengeance, and in return I’ll give you anything you desire.” Sabh caught her breath. She was being too visibly desperate. She resisted the urge to lick her lips, sat back on her heels, and waited. “Even if I got you there alive, Ceadda would kill you. He’s ordered your death,” Leófrith said quietly. “That’s why we’re here.” Sabh darted a look around at the darkening trees. “We?” “The lord of the hunt is right behind me.” Leófrith took a deep breath. “He has an arrow aimed at your throat.” “Cac.” Sabh lurched to her feet. She should have known this was a trap, a farce. She thought quickly. “In that case, if you want your binding broken, call off your hunter. Capture me instead. Take me to Ceadda as a prisoner. He can kill me when I get there if he wishes for my death so much.” Leófrith stood. Slowly, she faced the woods behind her. She held out both her hands in warning, fingers spread. Don’t shoot, the gesture said. From the trees came the sound of an arrow clacking against a bow, tension gone from the string. Leófrith turned back to Sabh. “Please,” she whispered. The desperation in the lady’s eyes was enough to make Sabh reach instinctively for the deep power. She brought her hands to Leófrith’s throat and felt for signs of what Leófrith called her curse—and found it, a burning chain of magic coiled tight around her throat. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/61 Sabh hissed out a breath of surprise. It was no cunning craft spell of dried flowers and tied cord. It was something darker and stronger, akin to Sabh’s own magic. If she’d stayed on Caitir’s path, she would have been powerless against it. Lucky she had abandoned that path, then. She placed her fingers carefully so they aligned across the binding, one thumb dipping into the cleft of Leófrith’s collarbone above the clasp of her cloak. The lady’s pulse fluttered against Sabh’s fingers. “Break,” Sabh hissed. “Break.” She bit back a cry as the binding flared in protest, jolting pain up her arm. Leófrith choked. The flesh of Sabh’s fingers ached, the throb digging deep to the bone, to the marrow. She was stronger than this mere thread of magic. She could snap it. She gritted her teeth and pushed harder, curling her power into the binding, feeling for weaknesses, for gaps. It was like working a needle in between fibers of yarn, carefully prying the ply apart until— There. It unraveled. The binding evaporated in shreds, heat dissipating on the air. Leófrith took a deep breath, grey eyes wide and clear. She looked down at Sabh’s fingers and recoiled with a gasp. The nails were darkened, the beds inflamed, veins of red crawling up from the knuckles. Sabh’s hand fell away in the gap between them. Leófrith took another step back, hands raising to her neck. “It can’t have been so easy.” It shouldn’t have been easy. It should have been impossible. But Sabh had done many impossible things already. She’d made figures of smoke and strangled men with fire. She’d reached into the abyss and knocked on the door of a demon. She shook out her aching hand. The pain held fast no matter how she flexed her fingers. The discoloration didn’t fade. “Your hands,” Leófrith whispered. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/62 The clove boundary flared, sending a zap of heat down Sabh’s arms. Leaves crackled under hooves as a man approached, leading a pale grey mare. He was armored and tall, a leather helm on his head, a bow in his hand. Strapped to his back was a quiver, and at his belt were twin knives. His gaze fell on Sabh and he gripped his bow tighter. Then he turned to Leófrith. “I had a clear shot. Why did you stop me?” “Because she’s offering herself for capture,” said Leófrith. He narrowed his eyes at Sabh. “Why? After all the men she’s killed?” “The lady here has told me a curious thing,” said Sabh. “Your lord, a glorified brigand, has a penchant for magic. I’m intrigued. I wonder if he’d appreciate the service of a witch. It would give him far more power than my death.” “Why should I believe the words of a murderess?” “Bold of you to call me that, when your men are the ones who attacked me. I was only defending myself.” He clenched his jaw. “Self defense does not require such cruelty.” “I’m afraid it’s rather difficult to kill cleanly and mercifully with fire. And unlike you, I am no warrior. I don’t have the luxury of giving clean deaths with sharp arrows or blades.” She shrugged. “But I can be repentant. I offer the eorl my services in payment for my actions. Let there be peace between us at last, if he’ll have it.” Eadræd shook his head. “I don’t believe you. Your true motive is clear to me. If you wish the eorl harm, think again. He is far too powerful to be toppled by one witch, no matter how many men she has slain to reach him.” Sabh tilted her head at him. “Have you tried it yourself?” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/63 There. Eadræd’s lips pressed together in a firm line. He hadn’t tried. But he’d wanted to. She latched on. “You say he’s too powerful to be slain by one witch. What about a witch and a huntsman? I could break your binding now, and he’d no longer have power over you. You could help me kill him.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure you saw from your perch in the trees what I did for the lady.” His eyes widened. Maybe he’d seen, but he hadn’t known what was happening. Sabh nodded at Leófrith. “Tell him.” “She broke my binding.” Leófrith’s voice was soft. She rubbed her neck, as if still in wonder at the binding being gone. “She put her finger to my throat and broke it.” Eadræd took a sharp breath. “Truly?” Leófrith nodded. Eadræd sat silent for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “It doesn’t matter whether or not I wish him dead. Even if you succeeded in killing him, I couldn’t risk battle with his warriors. I couldn’t risk the safety of the hold.” “What has he taken from you?” said Sabh. When his expression crumpled, she let her voice soften. “Who?” He shook his head and regained his composure. “If you wish for your own capture, so be it. Know that Ceadda will likely refuse your offer and kill you. And if he doesn’t, he will bind you to his will. You won’t be able to raise a hand against him after that, and you will regret asking this of us.” “Oh, I don’t regret anything I do, I’m afraid,” said Sabh. “Because I always know exactly what I’m doing.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/64 Do you, lass? Caitir would say. Look at what you’ve done so far. Seems like you regret a fair bit of it. Sabh ignored the thought. “Even if Ceadda doesn’t take the offer I have for him, you can still take the one I have for you. When else will you have the chance to be free of the binding? Who else could possibly break it?” “Eadræd,” said Leófrith. “It’s your only chance. If you kill her now, it’ll be gone.” Eadræd considered the lady, eyes softening. “You came here for the witch to ask this of her, didn’t you? As soon as you knew she existed, you took your chance, no matter the danger.” Leófrith nodded. “It’s the only chance I ever would have gotten. I couldn’t have that thing around my throat for the rest of my life.” Sabh watched Eadræd carefully, trying to read him. She couldn’t get a sense of what he would choose. In his eyes was a sadness she recognized deeply, one that only came from losing loved ones. But in his bearing was the honor of a man loyal to his lord. The question was, which held more power? He held out the reins of his horse to Leófrith. She took them and Eadræd drew rope from one of his saddlebags. “Do it,” he said, approaching Sabh. “While you still can. In return, I’ll take you to Sádaholm as prisoner, and I won’t kill you to avenge my men.” He held out the rope. “I’ll tie your hands once it’s done.” Sabh nodded. “A fair bargain.” Carefully, she put her throbbing fingertips to his neck. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/65 Chapter Six - Leófrith Leófrith helped Sabh struggle onto the back of Eadræd’s horse. Her blood roared in her ears. You’re free. You’re free. Go. She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She imagined snapping her reins and cantering away into the trees, Eadræd calling after her until his voice faded completely. She imagined long days and nights of hunger and thirst and cold as the autumn faded into winter. She imagined finally making it to a village that had yet to be raided by her uncle, and begging for a place to stay, a bite to eat. It would be difficult, dangerous, but it might be worth it. The witch adjusted her skirt. Her legs were draped side-saddle and she was perched elegantly, as if she were on her way to a feast-day gathering and not her doom, her red shawl draped behind her. Her long hair cascaded down her back, threaded with crimson light from the fire. That confidence and power would soon be gone. Even if Ceadda took Sabh’s offer of service rather than her life, she’d become like everyone else in the hold: back bent, head bowing, words quiet. Unable to fight back, unable even to protest. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/66 Sabh reached out a hand and clenched it. The little campfire blew out like a candle flame. The dimness of evening encroached, made darker by the forest shade. Leófrith could barely make out the shape of her horse Thrym, still tied to a tree. What better chance would she get to flee? When else would she be so far from Ceadda’s reach? Hild’s face flashed in her mind. Ash-streaked, the way it had been when Leófrith first saw her, and contorted in fear as hands reached for her, fingers catching on her skirts. Her mouth opening, a cry emerging. You promised. The guilt that hit Leófrith made her vision blur, her stomach lurch. She leaned a hand against a tree for support. “My lady?” said Eadræd. “What is it?” Other faces came to her mind, twisted, weeping. She imagined bruises blooming out of control on the faces of the stableboys. The hands of the cook, Freida, cracked and bleeding from labor. She saw shoulders curled in fear, feet shuffling, arms straining from weight. The laughter of drunken warriors reverberated in her mind. The smell of soured mead pricked her nose. If she left, how much worse would it be for everyone else? “Leófrith,” said Eadræd, a tinge of alarm in his voice. Her fingers dug into the cracks in the bark as a wave of nausea swelled in her stomach and one last image surfaced. The face of her uncle. His voice, asking What do you need, niece? The memories from when she was a child and he’d canter around the hall with her on his back. Her laughter, his laughter, eclipsing the scolding of her mother. A plate of bread with raspberry jam slid in front of her, pushed by his many-ringed hand. Eat. The jam had been so red, like jewels. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/67 The uncle from her childhood had been gone for a long time. But she missed him so much that sometimes, she wondered how far away he truly was. “Are you all right?” asked Eadræd. Leófrith lifted her head, blinking away the dizziness. She pressed a hand to her stomach and swallowed, her dry throat scraping. “I’ll be all right once I’ve had supper,” she said, and untied Thrym from the tree. “I’ll say,” said Sabh. “I didn’t get to finish my rabbit.” Leófrith mounted her horse and gathered the reins. The thought came again, to turn Thrym away and flee. She ignored it and thought of home, the people there who needed her. Hild. Freida. Her uncle. They were all the family they had left, the two of them. And if she was lucky, he wouldn’t notice the binding was gone. He had so many within his grasp—what was one missing thread? She’d have to act as if she was still bound, but she was well-practiced, and it wouldn’t matter because she was free. Maybe that was all it would take for her to breathe a little easier, to walk a little taller. Maybe now, she could better protect the household. Maybe now, everything would be all right. She’d gotten what she wanted. The binding was gone. And the hall was her home. Her people were there. It was time to return to them. *** It was deep night by the time they made it to Ceadda’s lands, braziers and torches burning gold on the hillside. The guards at the path to the hold cried out and readied their weapons at the sight of Sabh, but after Eadræd spoke a few stern words to him, they let the horses pass. They stared at the witch sitting peacefully on the back of Eadræd’s horse, coming quietly after all the horror THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/68 stories of what she’d done to Eadræd’s hunters. Unnerving to say the least. Too good to be true. At worst, it was madness to be bringing such a threat into Sádaholm. Leófrith couldn’t stop taking long breaths of the cold night air. Now that she was unbound, something about it was clearer, sweeter. All through the ride to Sádaholm, she’d kept raising her fingers to her throat, as if to check if the binding was still gone even though there was no way to know through a mere touch. But she’d felt it break, that much was certain. It was gone. Truly gone. Her mind was free. She almost wanted to face her uncle merely to see what would happen. “Will you tell him?” she said quietly to Eadræd as they entered the stable. “Of course not,” he muttered. “Not about the bindings—about me helping you find the witch.” “He will demand the truth,” said Eadræd. He gestured for some of his men to surround Sabh, who stood tall and still as they grabbed her arms and held them behind her back to tie them. Eadræd handed his reins to a stablehand and met Leófrith’s eyes with a solemn look. “I can’t know if he’ll be pleased or disappointed.” Disappointed was a light word for it. Ceadda might try to punish her. In the process, he might discover she was unbound. Her stomach rolled. Fear was half the power Ceadda held over her, binding or not. She’d have to bend to it tonight. She’d have to act as if nothing had changed and she was still a pet on a chain. “You don’t have to come, you know,” said Eadræd. “I will,” she said. “It was my plan, and he deserves an explanation.” Ceadda was sitting in the war room when the doors groaned open and they entered, Sabh captive between them, hunters trailing behind. Leófrith forced her breaths to steady. She kept her hands twisted together in front of her. Her cloak and dress were muddy from traveling in the THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/69 forest at night. Her hair was mussed from the wind. As Ceadda’s eyes fell on her and took in her state, they hardened. “There you are,” he said, voice ringing through the round room. Leófrith’s stomach clenched at the sound. “Where have you been?” “With me,” said Eadræd. He stepped forward, angling himself slightly in front of Leófrith. “Together, we found the witch.” He nodded at Sabh. “She offered herself for capture. She came quietly.” Ceadda regarded the witch, standing without a word. He grabbed Sabh’s chin and tilted her head this way and that, his thick rings clinking and scraping against each other. He was only a head taller than her, but his bear fur cloak made him loom. “Is this how you inspect the sheep you steal?” Sabh asked. “Shut up.” “A good sheep is silent. I understand.” She smirked. Was she biding her time? Would she strike at any moment, hurling flames, lashing at Ceadda? If she did, would Leófrith defend him? Or would she run? She didn’t know. Ceadda let go of her face. “Well? Are the two of you going to explain why this woman is alive and standing in my war room when I asked for her death?” Eadræd bowed. “As I said, she offered herself.” “And you believed her?” “You’ve seen her power yourself, my lord. She offers it to you.” “For peace,” said Sabh. “As payment for my actions.” “Preposterous,” said Ceadda. “This is clearly a trick.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/70 “Bind me, then,” said Sabh. “That way you’ll know for sure that I speak true. My power will be yours.” Ceadda considered her. Leófrith held her breath, waiting for him to pull the sword from his belt and stab the witch without another word. But instead, he tilted his head. “I admit, I have often wondered what a mage would add to my hold. And your power is certainly formidable. I’m surprised I didn’t think of this myself.” He glanced at Eadræd. “Leave. I will bind the witch after I speak with my niece.” Eadræd bowed again. He didn’t look at Leófrith, but as he turned to leave he put a hand on her shoulder. It was a gesture meant to give strength, the best he could do in front of Ceadda. His men followed him out, the door sealing Leófrith inside with her uncle and the witch. All at once, her heart was pounding. Ceadda fixed her with a glare. “You left without my permission.” Leófrith bent her head. “I’m sorry.” Pain slashed across her back. She drew a sharp breath. The next lash burned hotter and she curled forward, hugging herself. Sabh made a strangled noise. “What are you doing to her?” “Nothing at all,” said Ceadda. He stood, completely still, eyes on Leófrith, hands relaxed at his sides. “Niece, what is ailing you?” “I’m sorry,” Leófrith breathed again, and more pain bloomed across her back. The lashes were invisible, like the binding had been. But they burned more than any real whip. Leófrith kept her face still as she took them. Five. Ten. Enough to make her bleed, had the whip been real. She waited for more and none came. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/71 She’d thought this would be over now that the binding was gone. She’d thought wrong. He may not be able to force her to kneel, to choke her voice off in her throat, but he would always hurt her. It didn’t matter that there was no longer a chain around her throat. Ceadda’s expression stayed flat. With him standing there so calmly, it was like he’d done nothing at all. He’d never raised a hand against her. Not once. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. She’d thought it all her life. Why shouldn’t it be true now? “I understand you are the reason the witch is in my possession,” said Ceadda. Leófrith’s vision blurred from pain, but she caught the gleam in her uncle’s eye. “You brought me a powerful vassal. For that, you will be rewarded.” Leófrith’s back throbbed. She bowed. “I will accept any reward you see fit to give, my lord.” ​ “I know Eadræd has tried to keep you a secret, but the hunters talk. They say he trained you himself, that you’re a great rider and spearwoman. Because you were so cunning in catching the witch, I will make you a hunter. No more secrets, understand? I expect quality kills from you.” He waved his hand, not even waiting for her response. “You may leave now.” It was almost heartening that he had known all along and never punished her. Maybe there was hope yet that he could be merciful. Leófrith bowed again, her back screaming with the motion. When she straightened, Sabh’s large brown eyes were on her. If Leófrith left the room, would Sabh strike? Would it be her fault if either of them killed the other? You could stop this now, something deep in her gut said. You could protect your uncle. Kill the witch. Or. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/72 You could help her end him. You are no longer bound. Nothing is stopping you. Guilt pooled in her heart. How could she think such a thing? Her uncle was the last of her blood. And how could she think of killing Sabh, who had freed her from the binding? Even to save her uncle? “Go,” said Ceadda. “You’ve had a long day. Eat. Rest. I’ll handle the witch. You’ve done enough.” The words weren’t enough to quiet the pain in her back. Her vision blurred at the edges and there was a pressure on the crown of her head as if a heavy hand lay there. Her breaths came in and out, each one sharp and quick as if stolen. Her fingers grasped at the skin of her throat, nails digging in. The binding was gone. Why did she still feel like this? Sabh was still looking at her. The firelight caught in the witch’s long black hair, turning strands of it red. “Go,” said the witch. Her brown eyes were hard and glinting, wolflike. Whatever happened, it was between them. Leófrith wanted no part of this. As her uncle had said, she’d done enough. Her movements were slowed as if she was surrounded by thick honey, but she made herself walk to the door. Cool air met her on the other side. She shut the eorl and the witch into the darkness behind her. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/73 Chapter Seven - Sabh Kill him. Kill him now. Ceadda faced Sabh, eyeing her warily. Behind him, the sparks in the central hearth began to dance tuathal. Did he know about deasail and tuathal? Probably not. Could he feel the whisper of the fire spirit’s presence? If he did, he gave no sign of it. “Well, witch,” he said, picking up an abandoned cup from the rim of the hearth. “You’ve caused me quite a bit of trouble.” Kill him now. Kill him. But now that she was here, after all she’d learned of him, she couldn’t. Not yet. She’d left Caitir’s cottage thinking she’d be facing a raiding brute. Had he been only that, she would have reached for the fire in the round hearth and killed him then and there, fulfilling her bargain with the fire spirit. Swords were nothing against magic, after all. Instead, she stood before a warrior sorcerer, one who could torture his own people without lifting a finger, one who could bind them to his will. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/74 The sight of Leófrith doubling over under some invisible pain was seared into her mind, as was Ceadda’s expression—the slight twist of his mouth, the venom in his eyes. Contempt, raw and freezing, from the sunless depths of An Ifrinn. He sipped from the cup. “I find I miss the taste of venison, but with my hunters meeting their death whenever they venture into the woods, I’ve had to make do with mutton.” Sabh thought of the sheep from her village, stolen in the raid, and swallowed. “A tragedy, my lord.” “I instructed them to ignore other game until they had slain you and made the forest safe again, so I suppose it’s my own fault. But I must protect my people first and always. I couldn’t allow a witch to remain in our woods.” “You’ll find we love the woods,” said Sabh, thinking of Caitir. “No matter how you try to oust us.” She tested the tightness of the rope around her wrists. The bristling fibers scratched her skin, too tight to slip free. She could burn it off and attack him right now, flagrantly, and pit her own magic against his. With the element of surprise, chance might be on her side. She might overpower him by sheer luck. But that would be immensely foolish to attack without knowing the extent of his power. He might snuff her out in one quick lash of magic. She had no idea what he could do, but she knew enough from Leófrith and Eadræd not to underestimate him. This entire hilltop was his. Every last soul was under his control. For that alone, he was more powerful than Caitir, and certainly more powerful than Sabh. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/75 “But it’s true, your death would have been a waste. Far better to have you here, at my side, where I can keep you from harming my people and use your magic for good. What kind of eorl am I if I don’t have a powerful dreá in my hold—a sorceress, to protect and advise me?” Dreá. It was an unfamiliar Mirce word, but it carried a weight, a power: maybe enough for her to wield to her benefit. “A very poor eorl, I’m afraid.” She needed time to learn about Ceadda’s magic so she could eventually overcome it. She needed time to calculate and make a secure plan for his eventual demise. This was her chance. “We’re agreed, then?” said Ceadda, putting the cup down. His voice was lighter. He’d likely been expecting her offer to be a ploy. But she hadn’t dropped it, hadn’t attacked him. He must have realized he truly was getting a witch as a servant. Good. Let him be fooled. Let him become complacent. An eorl without a dreá was a very safe eorl. “I think such an arrangement would be beneficial for all parties,” said Sabh. She lifted her chin, baring her neck. “Bind away.” She let the grin on her face grow until all her teeth were bared. Caitir had always said Sabh’s grins were unnerving—the wider, the eerier, like a carved mouth on a glowing turnip lantern. Ceadda bared his own teeth and returned the grin with all its threat. He stepped forward, becoming a dark silhouette with the fire behind him, towering like a bear on hind legs about to roar. He wrapped his hands around her throat. For half a breath, she thought it might not work. The fire spirit’s marks were burned into her skin, after all. She was already owned and protected by another entity. But then a garrote of heat encircled her neck. She spluttered, choking, as it tightened. Ceadda’s grip remained loose, THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/76 but the heat intensified, spreading up to her jaw and down to her collarbone. Her lungs screamed for air, but she couldn’t draw breath. There was only the collar of sharp, digging pain. Ceadda let go of her neck. As quickly as it had come, the garrote was gone. Sabh touched the skin there, fingers tentative, expecting blistered flesh. But there was nothing. It was like the pain hadn’t been real at all. It was real, Sabh told herself. And it’s still there, beneath. The sparks stopped their tuathal dance. She’d lost her chance to fulfill the bargain. For now, she promised the sparks as they slowed their dance. For now. “My own terrible witch,” said Ceadda. Sabh wanted to lurch forward and choke him, but when she tried to lift her hands against him, they wouldn’t respond. A scream filled her mind—her own raging frustration—and pain clenched around her throat. “Your will is now an echo of my own,” said Ceadda. “Now you, once a murderous wolf, are nothing but a docile hound. You’ve slain so many of my men, but no longer. I have given you mercy. Your power belongs to me, and I will wield it as I see fit.” My power is mine. I bargained for it from a spirit that would terrify you so greatly, your eyebrows would singe off from fear alone. Sabh bowed her head. “I am eager to serve you, my lord.” Ceadda chuckled, but his eyes stayed wide, their grey piercing. “You may be lying now, but soon enough, you’ll come to mean it. Come with me.” *** Ceadda carried a torch. Sabh followed him down the hill, the path dimly lit by braziers. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/77 A little stone hut was built into the side of the kitchen building. The thatch needed replacing, and weeds grew in the small fenced yard before the door, probably the remains of an herb garden. The whole place was cast in shadow until Ceadda’s torchlight flickered over it. Ceadda opened the door. “My last healer worked here,” he said. “He passed last winter, but his supplies have been preserved.” Sabh entered the small, dark hut. Ceadda followed and brought his light. The shelves were well-stocked, the table rough but clean. There was even a small hearth with a little iron cauldron, a stack of wood in the grate. A sleeping pallet was tucked in one corner, blankets folded at its foot. She ran her gaze over the jars on the shelves. She could make a poison. She could go to the kitchens, or the meadery, and— “Most of the healing has been taken on by the cook in the past months,” Ceadda continued, brushing dust from the top of the lintel. “Her name is Freida. She’ll be grateful you’re here.” Sabh hated how light his words were, how human. Spirits, he’d told her his cook’s name like she mattered. Sabh told herself it was a lie and thought of him dead, foam trailing from the corner of his mouth, his eyes empty, just to remind herself of her purpose here. The binding would likely prevent her from actually killing him, but she could imagine it all she liked. “It’s very tidy,” she said. “Ask the other servants if you need anything specific,” said Ceadda. “I prefer to forage my own supplies in the woods,” said Sabh. His eyes hardened. “Very well. But don’t go too far.” “How far is too far?” “You’ll know,” he said, and left. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/78 Sabh clenched her teeth and hissed through them. How dare he act like anything other than the murderous raider he was? She thought of Leófrith, doubled over in pain. Ceadda standing still, watching. That was the truth of him. Well at least there’s one thing you can do to spite him, she thought. She lit a flame in her hand and took a closer look at the shelves. She snatched down a couple of bottles and shoved them into her bag. Then she left the hut and walked back up the hill, to the hall, in search of the lady. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/79 Chapter Eight - Leófrith There was no medicine to ease the pain of the lashes. No salve to pack into them, no thread to stitch them up. All Leófrith could do was ask for a cold bath and sink into it, eyes squeezed shut, breath held. As she always had after being lashed, she felt for wounds on her back. Her fingers met only smooth skin. She stayed in the bath as the water grew lukewarm. Her eyelids weighed heavy, but she didn’t sleep. The pain would keep her awake all night, and her blood was still thrumming from Ceadda’s whipping. There would be no rest for her, not until she was sure there was no more punishment lying in wait. Just as she was rising from the bath, there was a knock on her door. She reached for her heavy woolen robe and wrapped it around herself. “Who is it?” “Me,” said the witch’s voice. Leófrith opened the door. There was Sabh, red lips curved into a smirk. “You’re alive,” Leófrith said. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/80 “And so is he, I’m afraid. Can I come in?” Leófrith exhaled. No death tonight, no calamity. Maybe she’d sleep after all. She opened the door wider. The witch sauntered into her bedroom. “I’m here to see to your wounds.” “I’m not injured,” said Leófrith. Sabh turned, taking in Leófrith’s chamber—the fireplace, the tub, the bed and oaken chest. “Nonsense. I saw your pain. He was hurting you.” “There’s nothing there to heal. Besides, your power is his now.” “The binding has only laid out boundaries for my powers,” said Sabh. “From what I understand, I can’t use them to harm Ceadda or anyone under this roof unless ordered. I can’t use them to escape, nor to break the binding on myself or any other.” She inclined her head to Leófrith. A good thing, then, that she’d broken Leófrith’s when she had. “In short, I can’t wield my powers against his best interest. If he needs them, he will command me to use them, like any of his warriors and hunters with their weapons. He will give me more explicit orders when he sees fit. But since it is in his best interest for his newest hunter to not be in ardent pain on the morning of her first hunt, here I am.” First official hunt. Leófrith shook her head. “As I said, you can’t heal what isn’t there.” “The wounds are magical in nature. I might be able to use my craft to heal them. But only if you wish it, of course.” She dipped her head in a slight bow and added, “My lady.” Leófrith considered the witch. Even bound, her dark brown eyes were still alight. Her back was still straight and she stood several inches taller than Leófrith. “He didn’t break you,” Leófrith said quietly. “Not yet, anyway,” said Sabh. “And I intend to break him first.” The words left her lips so flagrantly that Leófrith couldn’t help but ask, “Did you try?” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/81 “I decided not to be a fool and to bide my time. Before I met you, I had no idea he was a sorcerer. Best to learn what I’m really up against before I strike.” So that was why neither of them had killed the other, why there were no mustering bells ringing or warriors shouting—or fires blazing. “First you’ll have to break your own binding, which is impossible.” “I’m a witch. I’ll figure it out. So, will you let me help you?” Leófrith stared at Sabh, unsure how to even begin to fathom how the witch’s mind worked. But she knew Sabh was powerful. Which was why she walked over to the bed, turned her back to the witch, and undid her robe, letting it fall to her waist. She laid down on her stomach, her back and all its searing pain open to the air, her cheek pressed into the blanket as she faced the wall. Sabh’s footsteps approached, her shadow growing on the wall. Her weight made the mattress sink. Jars clinked as she rummaged in her bag. Leófrith imagined the witch’s hands with their angry red veins, the burned fingertips and sharp nails grazing clay bottles of lavender and chamomile. “Your power hurts you,” Leófrith said, her voice slightly muffled in the blanket. “It twists your hands.” “Indeed.” “And you still use it?” “Of course.” There was the crinkle and pound of herbs being crushed in a mortar. A splash of liquid, scraping stone, and then something cold touched Leófrith’s back. Sabh’s fingers were light as she spread the salve. The cool scents of lavender and lemon balm pricked Leófrith’s nose. “Will this magic wither your hands?” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/82 Sabh chuckled. “No. It’s part of the cunning craft my mentor taught me. Anyone can learn it, can use the herbs and say the charms. The deeper powers are something else. Not many would dare to reach for them, even if they could. Hence why you had to come to me for your binding to be broken.” Leófrith tried to detect whether or not the herbs were working, but her back was still a muddle of pain and slick cold. “Where did you get the deeper powers?” “The knowledge is found, not given. I don’t think I should tell you.” Leófrith stayed quiet for a while. She tried to focus through the pain in her back on Sabh’s fingers, spreading the salve, working it into the skin. “Did my uncle find that knowledge?” she whispered finally. “Is that why he can make the bindings?” And lash people with unseen malice? Sabh went still. “That’s something I’m going to find out,” she said quietly. “As his advisor, of course. It’s best I know such histories.” “He will make you do the most horrible things.” “I’ve already done horrible things, as you well know.” Sabh stood. “Let the salve sit for a while and tell me if it feels any better.” Her weight lifted from the bed. Leófrith turned her head so she faced the room instead of the wall. Sabh lowered herself into the chair by the fireplace and set the little mortar on her lap. Leófrith waited for her to start talking again, but instead she smeared the remains of the salve onto her neck. Her hands were even more twisted than before, fingertips sharper. Almost monstrous, but not completely. In this light of half-shadows and half-gold, the witch looked like a creature from another world. Her eyes were framed by thick lashes. Her long, regal nose was like an ancient statue’s. The curve of her full cheeks caught the glow of the fire and held it, and THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/83 her lips were crimson like she’d recently eaten a basket of blood-red berries. She finished with the salve and leaned comfortably in the chair, head rolling back, hair a river of black. Leófrith turned her head to face the wall again, telling herself that the burn in her cheeks was because the fire was too hot. It snapped, and the logs tumbled. After a while she said, “It feels a little better.” “Wonderful.” Skirts shushed as the witch rose. “Get some rest, then.” Footsteps padded toward the door, then paused. “Why did you come back?” The quiet sharpness of the witch’s voice made Leófrith’s skin prickle. She pulled her robe up against the chill and sat up. “This is my home.” “I broke your binding,” said Sabh. “You had your freedom. You could have let Eadræd bring me here himself and fled. But you came back and let yourself be whipped. I can’t wrap my head around it. It doesn’t make a lick of sense.” Leófrith remembered the urge to flee and how strong it had been. “I couldn’t leave.” “Why?” “There are people here who need me, who I’ve promised to protect. Besides, it’s almost winter. It would be foolish to leave now. I might as well stay. I don’t have a chain around my throat. I can walk around my own home without cowering and protect my people. I can make this place better.” “And how has that been for you so far?” Leófrith flinched at the words. Sabh’s face softened. “What he did to you in the war room isn’t your fault. I just don’t understand why you would come back to such a horrible place. Especially after seeing how he treats you.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/84 Leófrith looked down at her hands in her lap. “Please understand. This is the only home I’ve ever known. I can’t leave it. I can’t leave the people here bound and alone.” She wanted to explain about how the warriors treated Hild. How she’d promised to protect the girl. She had a million stories in her head that would explain it so fully that Sabh would have to nod and say she understood. But when Leófrith opened her mouth, nothing else came out. Sabh took a deep breath. “Maybe I could understand, if I had people left to protect.” The door closed softly behind her. Leófrith pulled the robe off again and prodded her back. It was slick with salve, but the pain was swiftly dulling. She wondered if it would go away by morning, like Sabh had said, or if it would still be there, sunken deeper into her skin where no healing could ever reach. *** In the morning Leófrith rose early, dressed in the simple tunic and trousers she kept in her oaken chest, and walked the stony path to the lodge. The doors creaked in welcome when she opened them. And there on the wall was her spear, only ever wielded in secret. Now, when she took it up, it would sing in the hands of a true hunter. She gazed at it for a long breath before taking it down from the wall. The doors opened behind her and Eadræd’s steady tread entered the Lodge. “Ready?” She turned and smiled. “Of course.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “He knew about my hunting.” Eadræd nodded. “I’m sorry. I should have told you years ago, but I didn’t want to worry you. It got out among the lads, despite my efforts to keep it secret. I expected punishment to fall, THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/85 but it never did, which told me your uncle knew he’d one day have need of your skill. You deserve this new freedom.” “Perhaps I’ll become the son he never had,” said Leófrith. “Perhaps. He may start asking you to go on raids with him.” Leófrith’s smile fell. “I will never,” she said. “I will never raid.” Eadræd nodded. “And neither will I, my lady.” “Has he asked you before?” “Yes. And I told him my blades and arrows were meant only for the beasts of the wood. Most nobles in Mirce would agree, and spend their time hunting with their hounds rather than taking whole villages and their people.” Leófrith found a polishing cloth and set to work on her spearhead. “Did you tell him that?” “Of course not. I believe he once enjoyed the hunt, but has moved on to more human prey. But he still loves his venison.” Ceadda’s love of good food was one of the only easily understandable things about him. “Let’s bring down a stag for him today, then,” she said. To smooth his ruffled feathers, to prove herself, and to begin a brighter dawn for this place. Eadræd nodded solemnly. “I’ll follow your lead, my lady.” She lifted her eyebrows. “You will lead the hunt today. My gift, in congratulations,” Eadræd said. He took his horn from his belt and extended it to her. When she grasped it, he leaned in, lowering his voice. “You have proven your lead to be wise,” he said. “I thought I would live with the binding forever around my neck, completely beholden to Ceadda until I died. If you hadn’t stopped me from killing the witch, that would have been my fate. No longer.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/86 “What will you do now?” Leófrith whispered. “Same as you, I expect. Watch over the people.” “The witch thinks I’m a fool for returning here. She thinks I should have fled,” Leófrith said. “I couldn’t have. Not right then, anyway. I didn’t have the supplies.” “Do you want to flee?” She thought for a moment. “No. I want to try, one more time, to stay here. Maybe being unbound will make a difference.” Eadræd nodded. “We can both change our minds if we ever need to. On that day, we’ll leave together. Take comfort in that. Until then, know amid all the cruelty, you are a beacon. Let your light spread, and perhaps this hold will see better days.” And what about the witch’s way? Her murderous path? Now that both Leófrith and Eadræd were free of the binding, there would be no invisible hand to stop them from landing a blow against him. They could choose to act against him and there would be no paralyzing pain. But the binding wasn’t the only thing protecting Ceadda. There was his strength, his skill with the sword, and his unseen power. There was also the honor and fear deep-seated in both of them. Leófrith took the hunting horn and put on a smile. “I’ll try not to get us killed. But if a bear finds us, there won’t be much I can do.” “If a bear finds us, run it through,” said Eadræd, “Spearmaiden.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/87 Chapter Nine - Sabh The jars on the shelves of the apothecary hut were replete with herbs. Dock leaves. Thyme. Feverfew. Fireweed. Spruce needles, their clean scent bringing to mind Caitir’s forest-roughened hands, plucking sprigs and dropping them into a clay bowl. A jar on the high shelf caught Sabh’s eye, glinting in the morning light streaming through the hut’s open door. She climbed up on the table and brought it down, turning it in her hands. The withered white blossoms shushed against the glass, clusters of pale death. “A mhinmhear, a mhinmhear,” she whispered under her breath. “What’s a poison like you doing here?” When the jar began to shake in her hands, she set it down. She gripped her fingers together and took a deep breath. She hadn’t seen water hemlock since the day of the raid. She’d gone out of her way to avoid it, the same way she’d avoided the ruins of the village. Now here it was, greeting her. Caitir might say it was a sign. Sabh had been in the forest when it happened, ten years old, gathering herbs to surprise Caitir. Too far away from the village to hear the screams, the desperate bleating of sheep. Too far to smell the carnage. She knelt in the bracken, looking for wild carrots and yarrow. Her eyes kept THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/88 catching on froths of small white flowers and her heart would lift in hope, but a closer look would send it back down to its place. Not yarrow. Hemlock. She veered away from it, Caitir’s warnings sounding in her head. Poison. Careful. Not all plants are made for healing. When the first of the smoke finally reached her on the air, she thought Caitir had started a summer bonfire in the yard. But the solstice had already passed, and the smell wasn’t that of fresh-cut wood and dried fir boughs. It was burning wool. Burning hair and flesh and wood. Basket heavy in one hand, she made her way to the edge of the forest. There, her hand loosened. The basket fell, flowers and sprouts and roots spilling from its lip. Fire gorged itself on thatch, black smoke frothing up into the afternoon sky. The wind gusted, shoving the smell at Sabh, carrying the echoes of screams. Even from the forest hill, Sabh could see flashes of unfamiliar armor, hear the scrape of sword against shepherd crook. She wanted to run back to Caitir’s cottage and get her to do something, anything, to save the village. Cunning folk are protectors of the people. We use our ways for their benefit, not our own. But what could Caitir’s magic do? She was a healer. Healers could not kill invaders. Sabh left her basket and went back into the woods. When she found the cluster of hemlock, she took out her gathering knife and wrapped one hand in her apron. She held the cloth around the stems and cut them free. The one glaring fact in her mind was that this plant could kill. It was the kind of weapon only a girl of ten would reach for, her apprenticeship just begun and her confidence high. She ran toward the village with the hemlock tight in her fist, but she was too late. The raiders were cantering away, pulling carts of stolen goods, their armor stained with blood and THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/89 soot. At their head rode a man with a shining bronze helm. His head turned toward her and she caught sight of the bear-headed shape of the noseguard. Rage bellowed up inside Sabh. She screamed at the raider. But her voice was so small, it turned to a wail and was lost on the wind. A hand grasped her shoulder and pulled her around. “Little one!” said Caitir, eyes wide. “Stay back!” The raider looked away, snapped his reins. He and his raiders left the village behind. Sabh wanted to become something eldritch and powerful so she could stream after them with inhuman speed. They would not be able to protect themselves from her lashing rage. The spirits could do such things. It was why they were not to be crossed. Could a mortal girl become a spirit? “Where have you been?” Caitir snapped. “In the woods,” Sabh offered. Caitir’s hands closed around her upper arms. The old woman’s wrinkled face was wet, her eyes red. “I thought you were in the village.” She looked down. “What do you have?” Sabh offered the hemlock like a bouquet. She wasn’t sure why Caitir wasn’t running toward the village, broomstick in one hand, dirk in the other. Cunning folk are protectors. “Why would you pick such a thing?” asked Caitir, her voice quiet. Her eyes burned. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “For the village,” said Sabh. “To save them.” Exactly how, she hadn’t figured out. Could she have forced it down the throats of the invaders? Thrown it into the flames to burn death into the air? She wasn’t exactly sure how the poison worked, anyway. Caitir had purposefully withheld the details of its properties. The cunning woman pulled Sabh close. “The power to kill has its place,” she said. “Even poisonous plants have use. But you must only use them at the utmost need.” THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/90 “This is the need,” said Sabh. “Perhaps it was,” Caitir said. “And had I known this raid would happen, I would have been prepared. I would have used the minmhear in your hand to coat arrows and spears. But it’s over now.” She wrapped her hand in her apron and took the hemlock from Sabh. “You’re a brave lass, a good lass. You were willing to protect your people. But it happened too fast. We were both too late. Go, now. Wait for me by the fire.” Sabh let out a sob, but she took off toward the cottage. When she looked back, Caitir was facing the burning village and squaring her shoulders, preparing for what she might find. She took the hemlock with her, into the ashes. Sabh couldn’t understand why. Later, Caitir arranged a thick wool blanket around Sabh’s shoulders and sat next to her by the fireplace. Caitir’s cottage smelled like meadows, with the ceiling completely covered in hanging herbs and some sort of tea always steeping on the hob. One wall was entirely covered in shelves that held jars of every plant for miles around, as many miles as Caitir could travel on foot. Sabh’s favorite jar was the honey jar. Caitir traded for it with another cunning woman who kept bees and always greeted Caitir with a kiss. The woman sometimes stayed for a few days and Sabh was given a break from her apprentice duties and sent home. Sometimes the woman brought pieces of honeycomb, and upon Sabh’s return Caitir let her eat some as long as she’d completed her apprentice chores for the day. But tonight, there was no honeycomb. The honey jar stayed on the shelf. Caitir and Sabh sat in silence. Sabh thought she heard Caitir weeping, but when she turned to look at her face, her eyes were dry. Maybe she’d already cried all her tears out today, when she’d gone to help what was left of the village. Maybe there was nothing left to say. THE WITCH AND THE SPEARMAIDEN/Bowman/91 “There are survivors,” she said. “They’re sheltering in what’s left of the taigh-cèilidh. We’ll help each other through the winter. I’ll need your aid, a Shaidhbhìn dhubh.” Sabh wondered what the point was, with all the food stolen, the sheep killed and taken, and most of the people gone. “You’ll stay here,” Caitir murmured. “You’ll live with me now.” “What about Mamaidh and Dadaidh?” “I didn’t find them.” “Mara and Peigi?” Caitir was silent. Sabh prodded further. “You found them?” “I’ll give them a funeral tomorrow. A few of the survivors are well enough to help me build a pyre for the dead.” Sabh thought of her little sisters. Peigi with her two black braids, Mara always sucking her thumb. She couldn’t believe she’d never see them again, never pick bits of wool out of Mara’s wild curls or tease Peigi about horse-shaped monsters who lived in streams and ate little girls. Caitir combed her fingers through Sabh’s hair. “I’ll take care of you, little one. I promise.” Sabh didn’t want Caitir’s promises, but the old woman kept them. She protected Sabh from the illness and starvation that ravaged the few surviving villagers that winter until they joined the rest of the dead. But Sabh didn’t want the cottage and the forest and the lessons on how to be a cunning woman. She didn’t even want Caitir, though she could never say such a thing out loud. She wanted her family back.