20

The bath, though cold, made Miraveh feel almost human again. Her clothing, however, still retained most of the stench she had collected within the deep cuts, ravines and buttes of the Goblin Trails. There was little she could do about that right now, save for a quick wipe of her leather outer-armour to remove the dried blood. Her hair fell limp against her back as she left the hut to find another Witch waiting for her.

This one was younger, male, and reminded her a little of Sialira. He had the usual arrogance about him, but she could tell a hint of nervousness. A lack of confidence. Only when she concentrated, trying to drown out the cacophony of magic all around, from the dragon, the necklace and the sense of other Witches all around, did she notice how little magic the young man had. Barely enough to even describe him as a Witch.

He curled his nose at the smell emanating from Miraveh's clothing and waved a hand, inviting her to follow him. Miraveh had started to feel more than a little annoyed at the silence. The auburn-haired Witch had not said nearly enough and this man, this boy, didn't even say where he was taking her, only expecting her to follow without challenge. Miraveh was not about to allow that.

"Where are you taking me?" Planting her feet, Miraveh forced the man to wait for her. "And where are my companions? Are they even here? The other one, she said they were, but I need to see them to be certain."

"Northerners." Spoken under his breath, the word came through gritted teeth that soon turned into a forced smile. "This way. To the tower. Please."

He waved a hand again and then folded his hands before him, waiting. One finger tapped against the others and Miraveh considered staying right where she was, if only to spite the impatient young Witch. Instead, she stepped forward, hand falling to where her sword would hang were it still at her side. She didn't like not having the comfort of its weight against her hip. As soon as she moved, the young man turned, leading the way.

Once again, they passed the remains of the funeral pyres. Five of them in a row and, by the depth of the ashes, Miraveh surmised they had burned more than a few times, for several bodies. Yet the other Witch had scoffed at the idea the dragon had caused the deaths, citing the Hunters O' The Dark instead. Miraveh had not seen any Hunters as she had passed through the city and she doubted they would have retreated before killing every Witch they could find.

As they walked to the entrance to the tower, Miraveh and the young Witch passed a number of people. Witches, with differing strengths in magic, servants scurrying to and fro, guards tending to weapons and armour. Each time they passed someone, Miraveh felt their eyes fall upon her, especially those of the Witches and the guards, though, she thought, for different reasons.

The Witches could no doubt feel the strength of her magic. It didn't matter that she didn't use it. As so many had said now, her magical potential was great and the Witches could feel it as she neared them. The guards could tell someone with skills. No matter that she had shown herself lacking in that area, a warrior could always tell another with training and she had had a superlative tutor in Alran, even if she sullied his memory by failing to live up to that training.

More guards stood outside the main doors to the tower and Miraveh mused that they almost had enough warriors to fight a small war. No other Coven had ever had guards or warriors within the gates of their Coven Houses. Though Miraveh had to admit, she had only ever seen Coven Houses in the north and west. Perhaps things were different in the south?

Still in silence, the young Witch passed through the great hall of the tower, heading toward a grand staircase that clung to the curved wall, curling upwards until it passed beyond the ceiling. This looked familiar. A similar design to the tower of the Coven of Scales. There, the upper floors contained the areas of magical studies and quarters of the Phrenica, the leader of that particular Coven. Here, she found the upper floors filled with self-contained rooms. Living quarters.

At the third floor, the young Witch led Miraveh along a corridor until they reached the far end, where he removed a key from within a pouch at his belt, unlocked the door and waved for Miraveh to enter. As she neared him, she heard him almost choke at the smell coming from her clothing. There was little she could do about that. Or so she thought.

Inside the room, she found a simple bed, a chair and a bedside table, and an open wardrobe that held a selection of clothes. Both dresses and breeches and shirts hung within the wardrobe and Miraveh suspected they were for her. The thing that made her most glad, however, was the sight of her sword upon the bed. That simple, but precious weapon given to her by Alran.

"Someone will come shortly to take you to the Phrenica and your friends." The young Witch turned to leave and stopped, looking over his shoulder. "Did you really fight a god?"

"No. My friend did, Kayrian. Well, he fought a mortal avatar of ... you know, I don't really want to talk about it." She moved to the bed and ran fingers along the blade of her sword, smiling. "I'm sure it's not as exciting as you think it is. Where can I get some food?"

"I'll have some sent up." He bowed his head, for the first time, his arrogance falling away. "As a disciple of Yusuvur, you will receive the best of our hospitality."

"I'm no-one's ..." Her hurried protest reached no-one's ears. The young man had gone. "I'm no-one's 'disciple'."

She finished the sentence more for herself than for anyone that could hear. As she looked out of the door, she saw no others within the corridor. The young Witch, another that had not even mentioned his name, had gone, leaving the key within the door's lock. Miraveh took the key and closed the door. There, hidden by the door, were the saddlebags from her horse, sitting on a hook upon the wall. She didn't bother to check the contents.

Once again, she undressed, dropping her clothing in a pile in the corner, then stood before the wardrobe. The selection of clothing surprised her in its diversity. Dresses from her own region, ones that looked thinner and more revealing that she expected to hail from the Southern Lands. There were leather breeches, pantaloons, hose, and an array of shirts and jackets and, in drawers at the bottom of the wardrobe, she found underclothes.

She chose a simple set of clothes from her own region. The aforementioned leather breeches and a loose shirt, covered by a puff-shouldered, plum-coloured, velvet jacket. No sooner had she donned the clothing, a timid knock came to the door. Outside, a waif barely nine summers old held out a tray towards Miraveh without saying a word.

As Miraveh took the tray, the girl glanced up, big, brown eyes latching on to Miraveh's face before the girl turned and sprinted away, down the corridor. Even the children spoke little in this place. Miraveh didn't like talking much herself, but even she spoke more than these people. She almost missed the constant barrage of inane words from Daras and the verbal prodding from Sialira to take up her magical training.

Upon the tray, Miraveh found an assortment of food. Crusty, fresh-baked bread, meaty soup, the aroma setting her stomach to growling and some kind of ale, spilled upon the tray by shaking, little hands on the way up to the room. She placed the tray onto the side table, took the bread and ripped off a chunk, dipping it into the soup before taking a bite. It tasted wonderful.

Curious, Miraveh stood upon the bed and looked through the high window. From this vantage point, she could see the dragon upon its perch. She could see, now, how the dragon had arranged the fallen stones of the castle into some kind of circular nest, where it now lay, curled against itself. Until she saw that enormous head rise and turn to look in the direction of the tower.

Miraveh couldn't say for certain, but she had the distinct feeling that the dragon looked at her. How it could see her through this tiny portal, one among dozens upon the face of the tower, she could not imagine, but it felt as though those golden eyes peered her way and saw only her. A shiver ran down her back and she stepped down from the bed.

Hunger overtook her curiosity and she sat upon the bed, bowl of soup on her knee, bread in one hand, spoon in the other, and began to devour the meal. She couldn't tell what animal the meat came from, but she enjoyed the way the meat almost appeared to melt upon her tongue. A fine meat prepared by a master cook. The soup did not last long. Nor did the bread and the ale disappeared into her stomach almost as soon as her lips touched the mug.

Not quite full, but more than satisfied, Miraveh laid back upon the bed, glad that it was neither too comfortable nor too hard. She lifted her sword from beside her, checking the edge and the point. She would need to maintain it. Harpy blood still clung to the blade and she had caused a few notches along the edge. Resting the sword upon her chest, she felt her eyes begin to close. She knew the nightmares would come, but she had her sword. She did not fear bad dreams.

-+-

Her dreams were filled with the usual faces, only, this time, something else seemed to intrude upon those images. The great, golden, cat-like eyes of the dragon. Always there, watching as though examining everything Miraveh saw, every emotion she felt, every last piece of guilt and remorse. Visions of the dead and those she had wronged, swimming together in a sea of decaying flesh, threatening to drown her within a miasma of failure.

The hand that awoke her quickly snapped away as Miraveh flashed out her own hand to grasp it, her sword falling to the floor of the room with a clatter. As her eyes adjusted to wakefulness, she saw the face of the young Witch that had led her to the room. He looked worried and more than a little fearful as Miraveh swung her feet to the floor, leaning down to retrieve her sword.

"You were screaming." The young man stepped back a little further, hands clasping together at his waist, knuckles white. "And you were using magic. You shouldn't do that."

"I don't use magic." A glance around the room showed Miraveh that something had happened. "Just because I have magic, doesn't mean I can use it."

But the evidence proved to the contrary. The room was a mess. One of the doors of the wardrobe had become ripped from its hinges, the clothes inside tossed around the room in ragged piles. The chair had, somehow, ended up at the other side of the room, smashed. The bedside table toppled. The tray that her food had sat on had become lodged into the wood of the door.

Outside the room, she saw several faces, heard insistent murmurs. She only recognised one of those faces. The grim, burly guard from the gates, her sword in her hand. Upon seeing Miraveh awake, the guard narrowed her eyes, returning the sword to its sheath. She looked at the mess in the room and then back at Miraveh, the stare lingering.

"The Phrenica would like to see you." The young Witch twisted his fingers against each other and Miraveh saw a distinct tremble upon his shoulders. "Follow me, please."

Miraveh rose to her feet and the assembled faces outside the door scurried away. The guard stayed the longest before turning away, eyes reluctant to leave Miraveh. As Miraveh moved to sheath her sword, something fell to the floor from her hand. The necklace. Somehow, during her sleep, she had taken it from within her jacket, unwrapped it from the kerchief and held it within her hand.

The kerchief still sat within her jacket and she took that out before touching the necklace. This time, she wrapped the necklace and tied the ends of the kerchief, sealing the necklace within the cloth. The fact that she had touched the necklace at all disturbed her and she could see the young Witch glance at the little package more than once. He could feel the magic within.

She soon found herself being led through the tower once again, doors closing as she passed, people scrambling away as soon as she came within their sight. Whatever she had done, the entire tower now appeared alert to her presence. She didn't like that. No matter how miserable she appeared, no matter how much she didn't like being around other people, she never wanted others to feel afraid around her.

Several flights of stairs carried Miraveh and the young Witch higher in the tower and, as they passed windows along the way, she caught glimpses of the long-ranging view the tower gave. More than once, she saw the dragon upon its perch. Standing, now, the dragon appeared to glare towards the tower and Miraveh couldn't help but feel it stared at her.

At one landing, only one door led away to the interior of the tower. The stairs continued upwards, leading to the topmost reaches, but Miraveh could tell this was as far as she would go for the moment. The young Witch had not said another word as he had led her through the tower, but he had made several glances her way. Now, he knocked upon the door, opened it and then turned away. He could not leave Miraveh's presence fast enough.

"Please, come in, Miraveh Arachild." The voice from within sounded deep and calm. Kind. "Don't dawdle, girl!"

Kind and impatient. The man's attitude reminded her of Alran, though Alran only showed his impatience when Miraveh had not taken her training with the seriousness it deserved. She stepped into the room and, as soon as she entered, she found arms flung around her. Daras clung to her for far longer than Miraveh liked, but she didn't break his hold, only patting his shoulder.

"I am so glad you weren't eaten!" Daras pulled away, his hands moving over her arms, checking her. As a hand reached her shoulder, she yelped. She had almost forgotten her injury. "They say the dragon doesn't eat people but, well, its a dragon. I'm sure its eaten more than its fair share of humans. Are you well? Apart from the shoulder? Here, I have bandages. A poultice."

He tugged a bag around from his back to the front and began to rummage inside. Miraveh had not seen the bag before and, when Daras began to fuss, trying to relieve her of her jacket, she shooed him away. Her injury was only a scratch. A deep one, but she would live. Right now, she wanted to see what the Phrenica of this Coven wanted from her.

"You have made a mess, haven't you? Using magic without training!" Now Sialira appeared before Miraveh, righteous anger upon her features, all pretence of adoration gone now. Miraveh preferred the girl this way. "The guards wanted to kill you, you know? I wanted to wake you, but they wouldn't let me near you. That poor boy had to do it, and you throwing things around! If you'd trained, like I told you, this would never have happened!"

"Sister Sialira, give the lady some room." The owner of the deep, kind voice stood up from the seat upon which they had sat, hidden from Miraveh's view. "I'm sure we all had mishaps when magic first returned. I certainly did. I awoke one morning to find vines covering my bedroom floor. They were, oddly, quite comfortable to walk upon."

Almost as short as Sialira, the old man, the Phrenica she presumed, looked similar to drawings Miraveh had seen of dwarves, though she had since learned that the depictions of the lost magical races were not entirely accurate. The man, as old as anyone Miraveh had ever seen, other than the Pillar of Grace, had a long, white beard that tickled the top of a bulbous waist. His hair, a halo of white from ear-to-ear, sat beneath a bald pate. His eyes, brightest of blues, looked odd coming from the deep, dark skin that carried the ravages of age like the ravines and canyons of the Goblin Trails.

"I don't even know what I've done. The room was a mess, but that shouldn't have scared everyone like it has." Miraveh hoped that Sialira would offer a little comfort, but the girl still looked angry. "They were terrified."

"You created a storm, Miraveh!" Sialira grabbed Miraveh's hand, dragging her to a set of windows larger than any others Miraveh had seen in the tower. "The streets flooded! Look!"

Sialira pointed downwards and Miraveh leaned over, looking below. The courtyard of the Coven House compound, the nearby streets and alleys, all looked as though they had seen a great deal of rain in a short time. Detritus and rubbish had piled up against walls and houses. Mud had formed on those streets not cobbled or paved. She could see damage to several roofs, but could not see a single raincloud in the sky.

Her hand moved without thought to her chest, pressing against the necklace tucked inside her jacket. She could only think of one explanation. The magic that she had felt within the necklace, that ancient, dusty magic, had, somehow, entered her mind, forcing her to use the necklace's magic. For what purpose, she could not say, but the thought that the necklace could somehow control her made Miraveh want to destroy it before anyone came to harm.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know." She had to force her hand to fall away from her chest. "Is that why you summoned me? Am I to be punished?"

"Punished? Gods, no!" The Phrenica held out a hand that had large rings upon each chubby finger. His other hand indicated one of several chairs around a circular table. "No-one was hurt, I doubt you did it on purpose, and I'm certain that, from what I have heard about you, you will be diligent in ensuring it doesn't happen again. Yusuvur said you have a singular mind, unrivalled once you put that mind to a purpose."

Yusuvur again. That woman followed her everywhere. People cropping up in the furthest places that spoke of the woman, as though the elder Witch anticipated Miraveh's every move. She felt anger simmer inside, yet again, and her hand began to rise to the necklace within her jacket. She gripped her hands together, stopping the involuntary movement. For that reason, among others, Miraveh realised she needed to start controlling her anger better.

"Well, if not about my ... mistake, then why?" With little else to do, Miraveh sat in the offered chair, clenched hands resting on the surface. "If its about the dragon, I can say little. It barely spoke and then seemed to grow bored of me."

"The dragon is ... well, the dragon. We can no more know it than know the wind." The Phrenica sat in his own chair, cumbersome backside stretching the arms outwards. He, too, leaned forward, hands clasped upon the table. "We must discuss the matter of the Hunter O' The Dark that you rescued and what we should do with him."

Miraveh didn't know what to say. She had not intended rescuing the Hunter, only to protect herself and her companions from the harpy. In truth, she had thought the Hunter dead. To think he had not only survived, but had found his way to Jukunashar, as she, Sialira and Daras had, worried her.

What worried her the most, however, was whether the Hunter would try to take the necklace from her and what she would do if he tried.