She stood behind the hulking borman, barely visible behind his wide frame. At first glance, she could have easily passed for a tairan or human woman. She had made efforts to disguise her nature, to conceal the discolouration of her nexus points and hide the witches’ tell-tale resistance against the cold: Thick boots and gloves, a coat fastened high over her mouth and nose, and a heavy fur hood pulled low, shadowing her eyes. With all those layers, it was impossible to recognise any distinct features, or even to judge her build or age. Child or grown woman? Yu could not tell. But he knew, without a doubt, that she was a witch. By the layered rhythm pulsing through the air — not one heartbeat, but three. No — four.
His eyes caught on the fourth pulse, well hidden behind the borman. Yu took one step to the side and spotted a white bird perched on the witch’s arm, its talons dug into the fabric of her coat. Its plumage was well concealed against the snow, but where its round eyes caught the orb light, they shone golden.
Now, with his new line of sight, Yu also saw the dark and rectangular thing in the witch’s hand; a box, encased in a lattice of blackened metal, adorned with a fixed ring at the top like a handle. A cage, though not for the bird, which was much bigger? A lantern, unlit? An artefact?
Yu could not look away. He had never been this close to a witch. All those warnings clawed back into his mind, of curses that passed through the mountains, rivers and desert with no other purpose than to kill. Tales from the Snowtrail, of the Shaira who raided camps like a death wind, leaving behind tents rimed with ice and bodies frozen solid, their last breaths still hanging in the air like spectral trails. The endless accounts of Tria and all those who witnessed the repeated murder or abduction of those wizards who dared to travel to the Barnstream settlements.
Do not look too closely. Do not listen too intently. And above all, never let them speak their will.
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