Snippet 4: Witchlight, Wilfreda Pomfrit #0

It was a day like any other day.

Wilfreda Pomfrit D'Umfraville - Freddy for short - was in a bad frame of mind. It could have been the fault of her ridiculous name, handed down by her ubiquitous mother at her unfortunate birth, or it could have been the heat and dust.

No-one was stupid enough to ask.

In fact Urg the Ogre was quietly polishing glasses at the other end of the bar, just about as far as he could get from her critical stare and idly twirling battle-axe.
It had been ages since she had had a chance to use it. Business had been slow – nobody needed their farm goods protected on the way to market, no-one had a random troll pestering their herd. She was 19, and it was high time she got on with earning her own bread and making a name for herself.

She dreamily pictured William the Witchfinder – now there was a sell-sword of note. Slaying maidens and rescuing dragons at the tender age of 17, he was. She had a poster of him tacked up on her bedroom wall.

Every day she ran up and down the hill carrying buckets of water (and delivering them while she was at it), practiced her sword skills with the rusty blade she had found buried in an earthen mound, and hacked the stuffing out of the backyard scarecrow.

Sometimes the local villagers paid her a copper to watch over their crops, or asked her to escort someone to a neighboring village.

But it wasn’t enough.

She had been languishing in this stupid village for years – all to please her eccentric father. A member of the Low Order of the Druidic Order of Small Shrubs, which admittedly had a place in the world, he kept going on about some prophecy and dangers ‘out there’. If she prodded him too hard for more details, he had a minor apoplectic fit and had to lie down with The Booke of Divers Shrub Dyseases, and a hot toddy, to calm him.

He kept finding excuses to keep her home. First the crops needed watching, then they needed harvesting, then the silly sheep went a little mad and she had to help talk some sense into it because she was the only one who could. As if talking to sheep was anything special.

She could never be a real fighter in a place like this, there was simply nothing to fight.

She sighed in disgust.

A neverending list of boring farm chores, thinly disguised as important and heroic feats. But she saw right through that, oh yes, she did.

And now she was way past a reasonable age to make her fortune. How could she make the Ongrameki Book of Records now? She was already a washed-up has been.

"Freddy, do you have to wave that thing about in here?" an exasperated Linux spluttered as he wafted by in spotless white apron, on his way to check on the progress in his kitchens.

The Spotted Duck Bar and Grille was THE place to be in town. Well, the only place to be, in a village which sported 3 mules and one lame cow. And some sheep – who don’t really count. That didn't stop Linux, who had travelled in his youth and had foreign pretentions and strange notions about fashion, decorating, and something he called "Howt Kwisine".

The Spotted Duck employed the only able-bodied woman in the village, if you didn't count Wilfreda, who was under 70 years of age and still had most of her teeth.

Gerda, the woman in question, was busy writing out the day's specials in charcoal on a large board. "Lam Stoo - 2 coppas; Lam soop and bredd - 1 coppa; Lam Keebab ynne a wyld tomato jus - 3 coppas"

Spelling didn't really matter, as not many of the locals could read anyway.
Flies buzzed dolefully around the room. Wilfreda felt her agitation growing. Urg quailed further down behind the bar.

Linux emerged from the kitchens to the sound of a dull thunk, just in time to see Wilfreda's axe quivering in the expensive imp-polished woodwork of his doorframe, and her back as she strode out the door.

"You'll pay for that, Missy," he yelled after her.

If she didn't do something constructive soon, Wilfreda thought, she might explode with irritation, boredom and sheer bloody-mindedness, and end up locked away like poor Uncle Humphrey d'Umfraville - who had had a real problem with undiagnosed berserker rages.

“Rotten, dead-end life,” she grumped all the way up the hill towards the shack she called home.

A small brown bird fluttered down to her shoulder and sat sweetly, nuzzling her cheek as she strode along.

It could have been an enchanting woodland scene.

“Got any whishky,” the bird grated out in a slightly slurred voice too deep for its small, feathery frame.

“Great,” Freddy muttered, “my special drunken woodland friend.

And the answer is NO Snack! Last time I gave in to your drunken demands you nearly ended up a cat snack – again!”

The bird stopped nuzzling and pecked her hard on the earlobe.

“Why, you dirty, rotten little blighter,” she shrieked, “I’m gonna turn you into chicken pie for my dinner!”

She swung at the bird with a fist, missed and hit herself in the jaw. Roaring in pain, she took several more jabs at the fluttering felon, before she gave up.

Snack chittered with laughter and flew off to harass some other poor soul.

Luckily, not many could hear him, and just thought, “How sweet,” until he got into their mead bucket and took a bath.

“You need a new hobby,” she shouted at his feathery form as it fluttered away.
“We all do,” she sighed.

Just then a piece of paper tacked onto the village oak caught her eye.

“Helppe Wantyd,” it proclaimed loudly. “10 gold pieces to any able-bodied fighters. Must have ownne sword.”

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Snippet 3: The Time Wielder, The Encounter #1

"Why,” it grunted, “you here?!”

The five-foot maven stood below Ella's shoulders, yet commanded the higher authority. Slender, muscular, and pale, the maven's face was aflame with eyes of ruby. They were a rare species that had adapted to their dark surroundings by evolving eyes that shed light on their prey. Just a few quanta of light that emanated from the periphery of the eyes was enough to bounce off their targets and be picked up by their highly sensitive retinas. In the sunlight, these eyes would turn green to prevent excruciating pain in the highly sensitive cells within.

Ella was surprised that the maven had not attempted to attack her. She was more surprised that it managed to communicate in Etherian. Ella slowly clasped her hands and bowed as a sign of respect.

As her third surprise for the day, the maven reciprocated.

“I am merely passing the forest to get to the north.”

“Why," it asked, "you go north?"

Ella had not considered revealing her purpose to a maven when she began her incursion.

“I am competing of the banyan tree,” she answered.

The maven stared at her and watched as she flinched. Ella had caught something in the shadows behind the maven. Lente and Margo witnessed her adrenaline levels spike. For the first time, they could see what fear looked like when it manifested itself in Ella.

For her part, it was the first time she had felt any kind of fear. It was a strange and uncomfortable feeling. But it was warranted. She began to understand how she had come to feel a large mass moving behind her from behind the shadows. The thousands of mavens now lurking in the shadows had appeared to her energy field as one mass.

In slow motion, in the distance, emerged a horde of mavens behind their leader. Slowly they crept, crouching close to the branches. Beyond the veil of the forest's darkness, pairs of glimmering rubies emerged, thousands of them encircling her position. There was nowhere to run.

In the background, Margo and Lente could not understand who on earth Ella was speaking to this far into the forest with all her competitors at least a day behind her.

“Ella, come in.”

Ella could hear them loud and clear but decided to not respond. It would create a huge misunderstanding to respond to Lente and Margo while looking at the leader of the mavens.

“What is your name?" he finally asked.

She stood there staring at him, pondering the question.

“My name is Ella," he answered.

“My name is Per-Ah,” she replied with a growl.

“You speak Etherian?"

“I speak Maven," he insisted. "Etherian derives from Maven."

That was not what she had learned in school or read in books. But then again, she thought, her books never told her that mavens could speak anything. Yet here one was, speaking.

Throughout their conversation, the hordes inched in to close the distance between themselves and the daughter of Cherra Braghi. Ella did not recall there ever being a meeting with a maven. Deaths had been attributed to chance encounters, but no one seems to have made their acquaintance and lived to tell about it. Ella wondered if she would share the same fate.

“You come for tree, or you come for stone.”

“Stone?" she asked. But the change in intonation from statement to question was lost in translation. Mavens did not understand the questioning tone.

“You come for stone. We do not allow." And suddenly the horde tightened their distance. She could hear them breathe.

“No. Not stone. I ask, what stone do you refer to?"

Per-Ah raised his hands and the grunting and forward crawl stopped.

“You come for tree or stone?

“I come for the tree. But I ask, what stone do you speak of?"

“You not know stone. Why?”

“I don't know stone because I never hear of stone in the forest."

Per-Ah stood quietly, pensive in his demeanor. “How you come so fast?"

“I swung on vines and ran on branches."

She was speaking the truth, he realized. The mavens had been watching. He still seemed puzzled.

“Please, tell me," she asked again. "What stone is it that you speak of?

Per-Ah relented and decided to test her facial expression.

“The stone of time."

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Snippet 2: Witchlight, Lucy Duceaul #1

"In troubled times a flower will bloom, 

Night-star, witch-flower, golden loom"

Excerpt from the Lumenary Prophetiae

Lucy considered the world from her upside-down view of it and decided it could do with a little less purple.

Her head was still ringing from the blow Linux had just dealt her. She was still too slow with her defense moves.“Up you get,” Linux jollied her, his tone firm but kind.

She remained where she was for a moment, staring at his legs wrapped in linen, some telltale red fur peeking out between the bindings.

“It’s easy for you,” she said, “You’ve got were-cat reflexes and strength. How am I ever meant to compete with that?” Her ears were still ringing from the blow he had just landed, and bruises were beginning to flower all over her bare arms and legs.

It had been a great training session today. Despite a few bumps and bruises, they had covered some ground. Lucy felt like she was really improving, even if Linux didn’t say so.

Linux slit his eyes at her and bared demon-sharp teeth, which might have looked pretty threatening to anyone who didn’t know that in cat language, it showed approval and pleasure.

He loved having his ego stroked, and it was a surefire way to distract him.

With a jerk, she flipped to the balls of her feet and pushed her stick against his throat. “And while you were preening, you died,” she said, crowing at her own joke.

Linux laughed, a soft, sibilant sound. “And so the student teaches the master, again,” he dropped her a deep court bow.

“After all our years' training, don’t you think it might be time you allowed us to play with real weapons,” she tried.

“A real Michi master doesn’t need a blade!” Linux twirled his stick and sweeping her legs out from under her, again.

“Hey, I wasn’t ready!”

“Precisely my point, indeed.”

Linux purred in a self-satisfied way, sitting back on his haunches with his arms folded. “Now I have a wild sage and truffle souffle in the oven needing attention, and you have a sick father who I am sure, is ready for another of your disgusting herbal brews.”

Lucy loved her time with Linux. He was like the older brother she never had. Mostly patient and eager to teach her all he knew. Which was a lot for a retired Michi Were-cat with a smashing fashion sense and a flair for food.

Linux was tall and lithe. His tawny, brindled fur gleamed with hints of gold, to match his icy catlike eyes. Were-cats were just like big, cuddly, self-absorbed bundles of soft fluff with daggers for claws and teeth and a murderous sense of humor. They made loyal friends and ferocious enemies.

She loved him with the same wary caution one had with any older brother. They could be fun, were protective, but could also put bugs in your bed or sit on you. Not to be entirely trusted, or at least, to be approached with care.

“Don’t forget your birthday supper later,” he called back over his shoulder as he walked away.

“What a great way to ruin a good mood,” she muttered. All she could think about was how old she was, and how little she had done with her life. It was really grating her.

She watched him as he wound his way down the grassy hillside, back to the quaint little village inn he ran together with Urg, the ogre who tended the bar section and kept general order in the place. An unlikely couple, she mused, but they were happy together.

Urg and Linux had endless time for her. She was a bit like a favorite pet human, Linux had often said over the years. They loved doting on her and spoiling her with tasty tidbits, treats, and affection. Linux had been trying to dress her in girls’ clothes for years, and she still thought fondly of the pink dress he gave her last year, which made an excellent nest for her favorite chicken.

Back at the cozy little cottage she shared with her father, she carefully measured out the herbs she needed into a small muslin bag, and with a bit of concentration soon had it steaming away in a large mug.

Reginald Duceaul, an honorary member of the Druidic Order of Small Shrubs, was wrapped up in mounds of blankets, with wisps of gray hair sticking out in a crazy nimbus around his head. He had never really carried off the dignity required for his position; he just couldn’t be bothered.

How much gravitas did a small shrub have, anyway?

“Did someone mention your birthday,” he asked, his usually deep voice muffled by a blocked nose. “I don’t know why you hate birthdays so much, Lucy, everyone has them. And stop stomping around, my head hurts.”

He grimaced as she handed him the cup, “I don’t suppose you added any honey. Not that it would make a smidgeon of difference to your foul concoctions.”

“Way to show gratitude for all my tender care, Daddyo. It’s only willow bark, thyme, and a bit of lemon peel. It’s not like you can even smell it,” she laughed.

“So, what is bothering you Lucy, oh light of my life?”

“Seventeen, Dad! Seventeen!” Lucy thumped the table in irritation. Reginald jumped a little, peering at her with concern in his kind eyes. It was not like her to be so irritable.

“My life is wasting away in this charming backwater you keep us in, and now it’s too late even to enter the Witchfinder trials. They would never take anyone as old as me. And how else am I supposed to earn a living one day? With my incredible magic skills?”

Reginald pulled a face, “There is more to the world than the Druids and their police force, Lucy. Why do you think I keep such a low profile? Why avoid our heritage and all that comes with it? Because it is limited! Flawed! I saw that many years ago, and I still believe it now.”

He started coughing with agitation, and Lucy patted him on the back until he was calmer.

“There are more choices than you are thinking of right now. You are worth so much more.”

Gah! Dad would never understand, clearly. Lucy could feel her inner resistance building as he spoke. He just saw things from his own perspective. He thought village life was fine. In fact, he would be happy living a solitary life, with just her and the chickens and trees. She knew that. But that wasn’t her choice!

Joining the Witchfinders was something she had wanted, badly. Why should she give up on her dreams?

Lucy stood up and brushed bits of herb off her trousers in agitation. Her lean, wiry frame stood testament to the hard work she put into her training with Linux every day. It was her way of taking back some sort of control of her life.

She understood why they had to hide away and keep a low profile, but she couldn’t help yearning for a different life, one where she was the master of her fortunes and didn’t have a sickly old father to worry about. Not that she minded fussing over him, he was very dear to her, and she felt he had given up so much to keep her safe and hidden.

But surely it didn’t always have to be this way? There must be another way forward for her, other than growing vegetables and living in this village. It wasn’t even a one-horse town, it was a lame donkey village, and that donkey was probably soon to kick the bucket of old age and boredom.

She remembered when he first explained it. She was old enough to talk, sitting on his comfortable knee. “We need to be careful my poppet! It’s better if we just tell everyone your mommy is gone.

Mommy’s family are not very nice people my angel, and if they found out about you, they might want to take you away. Or hurt you. And that I would never let happen!”

Reg got fierce and protective whenever the subject came up.

She imagined the Sidhe side of her family like black, shadowy monsters, who liked eating children. A rumor that many parents used to keep naughty kids in line.

“But where is my Mommy?” she had asked. Most of the other village kids had mothers. It sometimes made her feel all empty and sad, watching them fussing over their children. What was wrong with her that her mother had left? It hurt.

“Mommy was different. But she and I were not supposed to be together, my girl. She went away before we got into too much trouble so that you could be safe. And I got to change a hundred diapers, for my sins,” her father would chuckle.

“Raising babies wasn’t among her talents. It’s better this way. I get to keep you safe by me,” Reginald cuddled her small frame close as if the very shadows in the room might be a threat.

Lucy wasn’t sure what she was. Her father was a Druid, and her mother, a Sidhe. Order and Chaos in an unlikely mating, “and the best damn time I ever had,” Reg would say nostalgically, a light in his eyes. “That woman was craaaazeeeyy.”

There were a few faded real-world photographs of Reg and her mom, dressed in jeans and long, flowing linen shirts, making peace signs, and smoking things. Sitting around on motorbikes in fields of daisies.

Lucy reached out and smoothed some of Reg’s hair back, off his glasses so that he could see better. He was always such a mess!

There was no point in pushing at him now when he was feeling ill. She would try again another time. There must be some way she could convince him she needed her freedom.

“I’m going for a swim in the river, and then I might drop by Madge’s place for a bit, is that alright?”

“Sure,” Reg nodded, his wild, straggly, grey beard wagging, “your tea has cleared my head a bit, I think I will get in some tinkering in the workroom before dinner. I have a surprise I think you might like.”

Lucy smiled, he had been dropping hints about her birthday present for months, smuggling strange shapes wrapped in brown paper into the workroom, where she had been expressly forbidden to set foot while he was working on her surprise.

He seemed quite eager for her to leave, which didn’t bother her at all. She couldn’t wait to cool down.

It was a stunningly clear day, the sun shone hot and bright and the cicadas sang in the thickets by the deep river water. Lucy took her time, rinsing off the sweat from her training, and floating around on her back in one of the pools. The shade from the overhanging willows played with the occasional beams of light and mesmerized her through her closed eyelids.

The cool water soothed all her bumps and bruises, and the willows reached down to trail their leaves over her arms and legs, sending healing energy into her body.

“My thanks oh mighty Tree Mistresses,” she sent her thoughts to the trees above her, and they rustled in appreciation of her good manners. Never ignore an attentive willow tree, she had learned that young. They could be very nurturing and motherly, but their sensitive feelings were easily offended, and a healing touch could quickly turn into a stinging smack from a branch if they thought you were being rude.

In the shallows a few young naiads played, splashing each other. Pretty strange when they were basically made of water.

A little brown bird landed on a branch near her head, and regarded her with one eye, its head cocked quizzically.

“Ooooo – errr, check out the legs on you sweetheart.” The bird had a slightly slurred voice surprisingly deep for its small, feathery frame.

“That’s exactly not appropriate you mangy, drunken bird,” Lucy flung some water at Snack’s head.

He dodged with zero effort.

“Magda says you’re late, cutie patootie. And one day you will recognize that you and I were meant to be.”

“You are a bird, Snack! A bird! I am not a bird. Did you notice?”

He always seemed to find her, no matter how careful she was. A small bird with a big attitude. She named him Snack after one of the village cats nearly made a meal of him.

Despite their endless sarcastic verbal jousting, she was actually quite fond of the creature. Just for good measure, she flicked some more water at him.

Snack chittered with laughter and flew off to harass some other poor soul.

Luckily, not many could hear him, only her, Madge, and her dad sometimes, so most people just thought, “How sweet,” until he got into their mead bucket and took a bath.

“You need a new hobby,” she shouted at his feathery form as it fluttered away.

Well, that was her peace and quiet ruined, she supposed.

Lucy climbed out, giving the water sprites a wide berth. She still didn’t feel like talking to anyone and was still feeling a bit prickly about her birthday. She would have preferred to have just a normal day today. But her father and friends would never let the chance slide to make a fuss. She would just have to put up with it.

She sighed and dried herself off. At least her afternoon would just the same as usual. Madge expected her there every day just after noon. No excuses and no nonsense.

The exercise and swim, plus the warm day, had lulled Lucy into a beautifully relaxed state. Sadly, dozing off in Madge’s library could earn you a rap on the knuckles, Lucy grimaced, rubbing her stinging hand. “This is important, Lucy,” Madge stated firmly, “you don’t know what you don’t know. And YOU don’t know quite a lot!”

Madge looked nothing like a village witch, her crisp, navy-blue trousers and smart white blouse and tie, and her short, iron-grey hair made her look . . . well, Lucy didn’t exactly know but it reminded her of some pictures of women in the real world magazines Madge sometimes let her read.

“I really despair. If you can’t stay awake, this is just a waste of time,” Madge stated impatiently. “You aren’t anywhere near where you need to be with your studies. Reading endless books about the real world is not going to help you when we don’t even live there. And talking to trees and messing about with water sprites makes you no better than the average woodland pixie!”

The only class she really enjoyed was herbalism, Lucy thought ruefully. The endless equations, and memorizing rules and numbers bored her to bits. Why did magic have to have so many rules? Who cared if you needed to point a silver-handled athame 32 degrees North-West at 3 pm on a Tuesday, and sing the lower-Druidic blighting chant, if you wanted to get rid of chilblains? She didn’t even have chilblains. She wouldn’t even know a chilblain if it knocked on her door!

Madge was particularly good at lectures. They could go on for ages, thought Lucy, and it didn’t help keep her awake at all.

“Ah, this is pointless,” Madge threw up her hands, “go home and take a nap or something. And in the future you are not to train with Linux before we have done at least a few hours on book learning. We still have the whole section on basic energy control and the law of conversion to cover this week.”

“Your father would be horrified to know how far I have let you fall behind, while you satisfy your curiosity about motorbikes and television sets. I know they seem mystical and exciting, but real, everyday magic is what you need to get by in this world, missy!”

Madge piled a few extra books in Lucy’s arms, with strict instructions to read at least a chapter of each later, birthday or no birthday. She would test her tomorrow.

Lucy trailed off into the deepening twilight. A delicious waft of cooking meat came from The Spotted Duck and her stomach grumbled.

The cottage felt empty when she got back home. Her voice echoed and there was no answer from her father when she called his name, other than a few spiders plopping down off the rafters.

“Dad?”

Nothing.

That was strange. She investigated around the back. She wasn’t supposed to go anywhere near in his workroom until her present was finished, but her worry was growing. It wasn’t like him to not be home. He was always home.

In his workroom, a greasy canvas half-covered a strange horse-shape, complete with two shiny wheels poking out the bottom. A strong smell acrid smell permeated the air. On the floor a roll of tools had been dropped haphazardly, and a metal container of something lay on one side, spilling clear pink fluid onto the floor.

Lucy sucked in an excited breath. Was this what she thought it was? She had seen them in real-world books and read about them. She pulled off the canvas and an ant-shaped machine stood in front of her – looking like its thorax and head were made out of metal. She ran her hands over the metal and leather, burning herself on the two long pieces that lay on each side of the bike. They were quite hot.

A motorbike!

This must be the birthday present Reg had been hiding for months and hinting at, her own piece of real-world treasure.

But where was he?

Forcing herself to stop ogling her birthday gift, she continued on her search.

The cottage wasn’t that big, and he wasn’t anywhere to be found. Not even in the chicken coop or shed.

Maybe he was out gathering herbs, or down at the Duck.

Not like him to leave without her.

A little niggle of fear wormed its way through her.

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Snippet 1: The Time Wielder, The Eye #1

"Are you afraid, my child?”

The quiet question sent a chill down Ella’s spine. Ignoring it, she stared straight ahead as Saion continued to circle her, feeling his gaze on her. She calmed down her rapid heartbeat before shaking her head, in response. “No.” Her answer was simple, as she desperately attempted to forgo any emotion.

“Do you lie?” He stopped walking, taking a place behind her.

“No.”

A humorless laugh left the man, if she could even call him that. Ella felt ill prepared for this trial. Of course, Athos had informed her of what was to come, but this was nothing like in training. This man hardly seemed to lack the kindness that the books described of the entities.

“Then why do I think you a teller of untruths?” he asked.

“Because I’m sure most people who visit you are.”

“How so?”

“They truly are afraid of you.”

“But, you’re not?” There was no surprise or anger in his voice. He was asking her a genuine question.

“I see you differently.”

“And, why is that?”

One of her hands lightly clenched at her side. The small movement had him swiftly moving in front of her at the speed of light as he stared into her eyes. He appeared different than he did when she first entered the Zorin Cavern. Instead of the dark hair and green eyes, Saion had switched it to blonde hair and brown eyes. Another face that he had stolen from someone who thought they were powerful enough to face him without fear.

“Because the only thing to fear is fear, itself.” It’s a mantra that has been installed in Ella’s head as soon as she was born. She’d believed it all her life, and that wouldn’t change now.

“Is that what Athos has taught you?”

“No,” she answered. “My mother.”

“Ah, your mother always was incredibly optimistic. It’s what brought about her early demise.”

Hearing his words makes Ella frown a bit before she quickly wiped the expression from her face. She knew better than to show her true feelings. Thoughts began to circle through her mind, piles of questions, yet she knew that she didn’t have time for them all. “You knew my mother?”

“Everyone knew her, whether it be by her mortal name, Cleo, or her keeper name, Vyana.”

“What happened to her?”

“My child, that is not the reason you sought me out, is it?”

Ella knew that he was right. Athos had not sent her here so that she could dig further into her mother’s untimely disappearance. But, she couldn’t shake the fact that she thought he knew what happened to her, that Saion could tell her every detail. But, he wouldn’t. She didn’t need to ask him to know the truth. He knew why she was here. “And do you believe it?”

“Believe what?”

“That there’s nothing to fear in this world?”

“There are many things to fear.” Saion contradicted her, as he began to walk again, pushing his cloak out of his way. Her words sparked an interest in him, something to think about. “Fear is an instinctive emotion. It’s what keeps mortals out of trouble. But, mortals aren’t the only ones to feel it.”

“The underworlders do as well?”

“Hm,” he answered.

“And the entities?”

“Everything in the world has something to be afraid of.”

“What is your fear?”

“Do you have means to use it against me?”

Ella shook her head. She was shocked by his words. The entities are supposed to be all powerful and mighty. None of the books or scrolls that she read revealed any possible fears that they might have. And why would they fear something anyway? What could hurt them? Her eyes widened with curiosity.

“You’re deviated from your task, once more.”

She was surprised from just how often her mind would wander to other things once she was within his vicinity. But she wasn’t mad at herself. There was little that Saion didn’t know, and she couldn’t help but to want to gain a bit of that knowledge for herself. Still, she’d have to return for another chat when there wasn’t as much weight on her shoulders. “You’re right.”

“What did you come for, my child?”

“The Eye of Evermore Sight.”

“And you think you are worthy of such a thing?”

His question wasn’t degrading, nor was he stating a stance. Just as everything he’d asked until then, it was genuine. Saion just wanted an answer. She swallowed. “I think that I was chosen,” she stated, pushing her shoulders back. “And I believe there’s reason for that even if I don’t know that reason.”

“So, you consider honest that you were justly chosen?”

“Everyone has a destiny.”

“Another teaching?”

“Yes.”

Saion nodded. “Even if you are deserving, who says that the world is?”

Hiding the confusion she felt, Ella stared at him as he glided past her. Several thoughts swirled in her mind although she didn’t voice them. “To play devil’s advocate, who says that it isn’t?” she asked him, her voice strong.

“I do.”

His cold answer made her heart drop, as he walked away from her eyesight. If he didn’t believe that the world was worthy then he wouldn’t give her the artifact. If Ella was unable to get the artifact then her trial would be for nothing. She wouldn’t be able to continue. She would have failed not only herself, but the entire purpose. She couldn’t let that happen.

“Then, why do I think you a teller of untruths?” she asked, using the words he’d told her earlier.

He chuckled. “Because as an Egrite, you believe what you want to believe instead of what is in front of you. The same is with Higrites. It’s a flaw you all possess.”

“I disagree,” she told him. “You care about the mortal world. You don’t want to see it corrupted.”

“This is not a question of what I want, but what all Methulans deserve. They have launched themselves into this chaos. They have doomed themselves and their world.”

“But, it’s not all mortals,” she argued. “Most are good, but the actions of the evil few seem to outweigh those of the rest. Will you punish all for a crime that only a few committed?”

“It is not I who inflicts the punishing. It is the doing of the mortals themselves,” replied the entity, changing complexion once more into a translucent green. “Such terms, good, evil, are in the eye of the beholder, self-imposed beliefs. I ask yet again, how does someone who has not experienced its true nature and makes such fallacious remarks pretend they can wield the power of the Eye?”

Ella chose to remain silent. She sensed Saion’s rhetorical question. Athos had warned her of the tricks entities played. Causing doubt, they would manage to sneak into one’s subconscious and take over. Losing control, disorientation would follow and fear would soon kick in. The entity would then take over and the forsaken soul would abandon its owner and increase the repertoire of transformation of the entity and its power.

“You are not ready,” Saion eventually concluded. “The banyan has not borne its fruit.”

As eerily as he emerged he vanished into the chromital wall of the cave, leaving Ella’s gaze piercing through the darkness in the lilac flicker of the crystal bracelet on her wrist.

“Dammit! I thought I had it,” she muttered to herself with frustration. And what was that about the banyan fruit? She traced back her conversation with Saion to find clues that would reveal where she had missed the mark. Was it the dialectical back and forth with the entity? Her own ego? Her desperate attempt to forgo emotion and mask fear which left her inflexible?

She was not ready, he concluded. What most annoyed her was that he was right. She had lied. She knew she did not feel any tug. She knew within herself that without it she would be unable to wield the power of the Eye of Evermore Sight. Without it, her mother’s spirit would remain trapped.

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