“Well? Are you going to stand about like last year’s scarecrow, or will you come in? Make a decision. Be quick about it.”
Caewen half-expected the door to open on its own, but it did not. She looked over her shoulder. Three feral shapes lurked themselves into view. They were mere silhouettes of darkness, outlined against a greyer shadowy haze, but their shape was clear enough: the hunting scarle were on her trail once more, and closing fast.
Seeing no other choice, Caewen pushed at the door. Although it was made of old heart-oak, pitted by rain, bound with greened copper and solid as rock, it glided on its hinges as softly as the shadow of a feather.
Caewen stepped within, and did not hesitate the shut the door behind her.
“Good,” said the old woman’s voice. “We’ll be safe from intruders and ill-wishers here. None can pass my threshold who are not permitted.”
The space within was well appointed. There were thick rugs and woollen wall hangings. A huge, red brick fireplace occupied one crevice, and gave out a warmth and a glow. Candles stood on every surface, casting small fickle lights that conjured shadows against the walls. Bundles of fragrant herbs hung from hooks where space allowed. There were bookshelves full of old leather and hide-bound works, and even a handful of plants in pots. If it had not been for the tilted angle of the walls and the weird bulges of raw stone, the place would have seemed like a well-to-do house belonging to a well-to-do village matriarch.
“What is this?” said Caewen, knowing that she sounded silly as she asked it.
“Why, it’s my house,” said Cag-Mag. “And my house is what it is. I apologise for the ruse to get you here. You wouldn’t have come on your own, and the matter is urgent.”
Snarling and howling erupted outside. There was scratching at the door and two moon-coloured eyes appeared at one of the windows, peering in. There was a thump as someone tried to break the glass with what looked like a spiked mace: the glass held as if it were made of iron. Caewen felt herself start, nonetheless.
“Bah. Don’t mind them. They can’t come in, unless I invite them in.”
Caewen returned her gaze to her unexpected host. “But what if I want to leave?”
“We’ll build that bridge after we’ve quarried the stone.” Cag-Mag shrugged. “No point in doing it the other way around.” She was sitting in a plump armchair of red velvet, worn down to a shiny scuff the usual places of wear. All around her lay or were scattered the accoutrements of a comfortable old woman’s living space: basket of yarn, half-finished knitting, a spinning wheel, several warm quilts, tongs for the fire, a pile of neatly cut logs, footstool, quaint little table and all manner of other smaller things. There were pungent but not unpleasant smells of lanolin and dried lavender on the air. And all the time, Cag-Mag’s shadows played about her. She was not called Cag-Mag Twelve-Shadows for nothing. Admittedly, it was difficult to count all twelve of shadows in one go. Each of them lay in a different direction, and they moved fickly with the flames of the hearth and candles. Now and then, one of the shadows quite entirely gave up mimicking its master, and did its own thing instead. One shadow would give a great big yawn and stretch her arms, whilst Cag-Mag sat still as still. Another shadow scratched her nose, and smacked her lips, whilst Cag-Mag remained just as motionless as before.
Caewen looked down at her own shadow, half-expecting it to be cavorting upon the rug, or perhaps there would be three shadows or ten or a hundred, but none of that was true. Her shadow behaved exactly as a shadow ought, following Caewen’s motion and shape, her steadfast companion.
“Now,” said Cag-Mag, “Take a seat, and perhaps you can show me that thing you have been carrying about. “It isn’t easy to get a scent of, not easy at all. It’s like trying to find cobwebs by their smell, or remember the scent of summer clover by snuffling one’s nostrils against a pressed flowerhead.”
“Do you mean the Old Great Spell?” Caewen looked over her shoulder, worried that her voice might have carried outside. The sounds out there were growing angrier. Snarling sounds and growling sounds, but the sounds of harsh voices too, boots stamping and swords being drawn. And there was a faint undercurrent of magic seething outside also. Whoever the magician might be among the soldiers, he or she was throwing spells at the walls of this house–although apparently without much success.
“Bah. Don’t mind them. I am the Grand Archimage of Shadows. I will repeat myself, as it seems you are not listening: none will pass my threshold who are not permitted.” Cag-Mag snuffed, deeply, then added, “To your question: No. Not the Old Great Spell. That little trinket in your coin purse. Don’t tell me you still don’t realise? You might as well bring out the ivory statue too, but don’t touch it with your skin. No reason to let him know that we are talking about him, eh? How about we gossip for a bit before he turns up.”
Now Caewen was perplexed. “My coin purse? Fetch, what do you know about this?”
Fetch performed the little fluid movement of the forelimbs that served him as a shrug. “Nothing and less than nothing. Tsssk. Herself of the High Shadows and Sorcery insisted that I bring you. I did not propose it.”
“You probably think he’s betrayed you?”
Caewen nodded. “Hasn’t he?”
“No. And also, yes. But, also, very much no. You will see.” Cag-Mag leaned forward and tapped a forefinger on her little side-table. Its dark oak surface reflected the finger as if it were the darting neck of a pallid heron upon a lightless pond. “Tip out the coin purse. Let’s have a look at it.”
Caewen unfastened the purse from her belt. It took a bit of effort to unlace it properly, but eventually she had the purse in hand. She pulled at the leather thong a few times, enough to open it wide up. There were fewer coins, rings, drab little semi-precious stones and other bits of tradable jewellery than she’d have liked. This was all she had to sustain a long journey by foot, and it wasn’t much. Nonetheless, it still made for a jumbled pile when upended into a heap. Caewen noticed that Cag-Mag didn’t touch anything with her finger. Instead, she picked up a knitting needle and prodded at the things, gingerly. “Ah, there we are. A white fish hiding among the gold and the silver. I wonder how you ever got hold of it though?”
She separated out the bone cloak brooch that always seemed to be on top of everything else whenever Caewen went hunting for coinage at an inn or shop. The brooch was always a nuisance… and suddenly, Caewen wondered: where had she acquired it? The object seemed in her memory as if it had always been in the purse. Also, it struck her that for some reason she never thought of trading it away. It just sort of slipped around the outside of her conscious thought, whenever her fingers brushed past it, as if it existed entirely in the shadow-thoughts beneath. “Oh. I don’t know…” She had to think hard. “I’ve had it forever, it seems, but it’s not a heirloom or anything like that. Where did it come from? I think it must have been in the handfuls of treasure I took from the Wisht Folk. But that was so long ago…”
“Strange, hmmm? That it should live with you, and go along with you, barely noticed? I wonder what he did to the Wisht as punishment? They ought have taken better care of it. They ought have never have been so lacking in caution as to leave it in some unguarded heap of coins.”
“No. It wasn’t unguarded. It would have been the safest place to hide anything, most of the time. But the old goule-thing had just been killed, and Mannagarm was not fully–“
“He would have been enraged. Oh yes. That would be a sight to see.”
“But what is it?” asked Caewen.
“Take out that statue. Don’t touch it mind, like I said.”
Caewen kept the statue in the same charmed little strongbox where she secreted the fragment of antler with the runes cut along it. Both were wrapped carefully and separately in soft rags of wool and linen to protect them against jostling and scratches. Caewen took the bundle that concealed the statuette, unrolled it and stood it upright on the table. The stand made a resonant clink against the wood. She was extremely careful to touch it only with the rags, and also to close the box immediately. She did not want any hint or notion of the Old Great Spell to seep outside the space where she and Cag-Mag were talking.
The old wizardess leaned over, peering closely, studying the statue. All her shadows bent over and studied the objects too. They started talking to each other, excitedly, but silently. What words they spoke, Caewen had not a clue. Cag-Mag pointed. “It is, I think, third from the right.”
Caewen had to carefully examine the statue to see what Cag-Mag meant. The statue itself was of a bent old man, long-bearded and with a face marred by a lifetime’s wrinkles. Maybe more than a lifetime. He looked older than the hills. Ancient beyond the years of mortal-folk. Around his feet was arrayed a scattering of objects. Cag-Mag was right. The object was tiny, but now that Caewen had the cloak brooch and the statue side-by-side, the resemblance was clear. At the old man’s feet, just next to his right boot, was a tiny carven representation of Caewen’s bone brooch. “Huh,” said Caewen, having little else to say.
“Would you like an explanation?”
“I would love one.”