‘That is a clever trick,’ she said. ‘Can I touch it?’
‘You may touch it, and you may keep it, Caretha.’
The child pinned it to her dress. ‘It is very beautiful,’ she said.
‘Only you will be able to see it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is magic, and it is yours alone.’
‘Does it work spells?’
‘Not yet. But it will.’
‘When?’
‘When I have taught you all you need to know.’
She touched the brooch. It was warm and made her fingers tingle. ‘Do you live near here?’ she asked him.
‘No. I died near here,’ he replied.
Back in the present the Wyrd smiled, recalling that the child had not been at all surprised at such a statement. Her memories of Riamfada were fond ones and she felt refreshed. Glancing down she touched the tiny brooch on her faded green dress. It tingled still.
Rising, she returned to her work. Unwrapping the crystal from its covering of black velvet she held it in her hands and began again the chant Riamfada had taught her so many years before. Freeing her mind of all stresses and burdens, she focused on all that was clean and clear, the freshness of the air, the birdsong in the trees, the rustling of the leaves above and around her. She pictured the energy flowing from the sun, golden and invigorating, from the waters of the stream, white as a saint’s conscience, from the trees, healing and green.
‘I am a vessel, empty and pure,’ she chanted, feeling the power begin to fill her. The crystal in her hands became warmer and warmer. Slowly the colour changed, from white to grey and then to black. Threads of gold grew within it like blades of yellow grass. These thickened and swelled until the crystal itself had ceased to be, replaced by a block of what appeared to be solid gold.
The Wyrd let out a weary sigh. Rising to her feet she carried the golden block to the centre of the clearing and laid it on the sun-dried, yellowing grass. Kneeling beside it she spoke the seven words of power.
The crystal began to glow. Around it the grass thickened, becoming emerald green. The Wyrd closed her eyes. Blue flowers sprang to life as the magic rippled out from it, flowing across the clearing until it touched the ancient oaks.
When she opened her eyes the clearing was verdant, the grass rich and velvet, the trees swelling with new life. The air tasted as sweet as honey, and the sunlight sparkled on the waters of the stream. She lay down on the grass and fell into a deep sleep.
In it she saw Riamfada. He was walking in the shadow of mountains she had never seen. It was a land of exquisite beauty, and filled to overflowing with magic. Vast lakes, swarming with birds, huge plains, rich with grass and wildlife.
‘Where is this place?’ she asked him. ‘Home,’ he told her.
It had taken Chain Shada no more than a few minutes to realize that he disliked the Bishop of Eldacre. Within the hour he had come to loathe him. The Source alone knew what he would have felt if he had to spend a day in the man’s company.
He and Gorain had dined with the bishop at his fabulously appointed mansion behind Eldacre Cathedral. Built of limestone, faced with marble, the mansion boasted Eastern rugs of silk, curtains of lace, furniture covered with the softest leather. Red-liveried servants were everywhere, polishing and cleaning, fetching and carrying. The bishop was at the centre of it all, like a vast, bloated red spider. To’ be honest, Chain realized, he had begun to loathe the man on sight. As a fighting man and an athlete he despised gluttons, and the bishop was so fat it seemed his skin would burst. Chain could not take his eyes from the golden rings the man wore on every finger.
The meal he had promised them turned out to be a feast, three roasted geese, a suckling pig, several roast chickens, and platters of steamed vegetables, coated in butter. There were cakes and pastries, wines, ales, and spirits, and the twenty guests tore into the meal as if they hadn’t eaten in a month. Chain ordered a steak with gravy and some fried bread. He drank no wine or ale, and was irritated that Gorain did not abstain from the golden uisge.