Ghost's Sight
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Ghost’s Sight
Torquere Press Publishers
PO Box 2545
Round Rock, TX 78680
Copyright 2013 by Morwen Navarre
Cover illustration by BSClay
Published with permission
ISBN: 978-1-61040-522-5
www.torquerepress.com
All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.
First Torquere Press Printing: August 2013
Printed in the USA
To PW for pushing me to do this;
To Neko and my snarky paladin for believing in me;
To Dani and DG for being my shoulders when I wavered.
I wouldn’t be here without you, and I love you all.
Ghost’s Sight
by Morwen Navarre
Prologue
The cry was too plaintive to ignore, a thin wail bereft of hope. It was the cry of the child the gods wanted her to find, perhaps even needed her to find. The Witch grumbled a little as she stepped over the remnants of something metallic and inconvenient for someone well on her way to fifty. She was not as limber as when she walked the path of the maid, or of the dam, for that matter. It was easier to be male, but that would mean a stunted life. Most males never took the final step past their place as sires to become truly wise. She had moved on to become a hag, and her power had grown along with her wisdom. Now she sought the male that could also take that step into wisdom. He was the one who could be a witch, a child with the Sight or so the gods whispered. How long had it been since there had been one who saw the hidden things? Too long, and the Witch paused to listen.
It tugged at her again, that cry, pulling her deeper into the ruined place. She had never experienced childbirth herself. The dam’s blood had come, and eventually, the dam’s blood had stopped coming, and that was fine by her. The Witch never needed that to define her. She had the gift and the learning. She could heal with her herbs or with the gods’ light, the potent little dot that could knit a bone or seal a wound, and which drew its power from the witchglass atop her home. She had the Seeker’s box that read the blood and gave her the ancient words, words that named the potion or poultice in her formulary. They were lost now to all but a few, along with the secrets of making witchglass or how to repair the delicate relics. Only the witches remembered the words, and the rangers, the scavengers who combed the ruined places and gave themselves fine airs.
The Witch sniffed, smelling the taint of a ranger in the air. No ranger would touch a witch. Not everything in a witch’s formulary was gentle and wholesome. There were things that could tear a man’s mind out, make him beg for death. The Witch grinned to herself, a dark and feral thing. No, she had no need to fear the unseen ranger. He would not interfere with her, or dare to touch the child she sought.
Again the cry sounded, so close now, and the Witch stepped over the threshold of a ruined building. There was a bundle, small and light, and she gathered it to her, words coming in a soft singsong. “Hush, little one. We’ll leave this place, we will, and go where the skies are kinder, hm?”
***
The child grew swiftly, all gangly arms and legs, a Northern child as pale as the moon that had filled the sky the night the Witch had brought him to her home in the valley of the Heartlands. His hair was white as milk, and his eyes the palest blue the Witch had ever seen. Ghost, she named him, and he cried in the night as though he were indeed haunted.
The Witch read and turned to the scrying mirror to consult with other witches in the hope that their formularies would hold a recipe not known to her. There was one witch, her words cadenced with the slur of the distant South. She spoke of the power of the gems that were called peridot, green and subtle. They had the power to banish the nightmares that plagued Ghost, among other things, and the Witch made careful notes in the secret writing of her craft. He might learn to dream, her witchsister murmured. The peridot might even waken the inner eye, to let him see as far as the gods.
When the moon was full again, the Witch gave Ghost a tea to make him sleep, while she took up the gods’ light. She fused the peridot to Ghost’s forehead, a thin spiral of stones that grew narrower as it turned inward, glittering green against the translucent pallor of his skin. Ghost never moved while she worked, and her voice was like honey as she murmured lullabies and brushed the sweat-soaked strands of white from his temples. She called on the Seven as she worked, and shed a drop of blood to placate the Eighth, to keep that dread one’s eyes closed. And when she was done, she washed away the sweat, laid Ghost in his little cot, and watched over him as he slept for the entire night for the first time since she had brought him home.
Chapter 1
“Fuck, Conn, pay attention,” Gerry growled, low and irritated. He ran a hand through his hair, narrowing his eyes as he glared at his younger companion. “We’re not hunting runners today. Mother’s got us after sind, and you’re spotter, so spot, you little shit.”
“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” Conn retorted, his shaggy brown hair flopping into one dark blue eye. “You’re a dependent, same as me, so don’t pull the fucking alpha shit. Only Mother tells me what to do. And I am spotting, you stupid fucker.” There was berry juice on his lips, and his fingers were stained with it, giving the lie to his words.
The young hunter frowned, watching the lithe young man turn away, poking the ground at random and with little enthusiasm. Gerry fought the urge to reach out and cuff Conn, to see the pout leave the little shit’s face. Still, if he was going to be an alpha one day himself, he needed to master his temper.
Gerry had been nine when Conn came, just turned that moon, and Mother had taken him in not a year before when his dam had died of the flux. Gerry’s sire had been long gone, and without an alpha, he would have been dead as well before a quarter-moon had gone by.
Gerry had thought it would be good to have another kid around, another dependent for Mother to train, to share the hunt and the guarding when they were both old enough to be more use. Conn was only a tiny thing at the time, four years old, or maybe five. It was hard to tell because Conn had been a runty bit, all big eyes and a mop of brown hair. The boy was a pretty enough thing, and he was quick to twine himself around Mother to get his way. He had been Mother’s dependent for nearly as long as Gerry, close to fifteen years now.
At first, it had been good. Conn was quick to learn and grateful, happy enough to be free of his sire and happier still to be done with the begging for scraps that had been his job. Mother was a skillful hunter who brought back enough meat to trade the surplus in the market for fruit and vegetables, and sometimes even sweet honey candy for a treat. No one went hungry in Mother’s house.
Gerry had done his best to befriend Conn. It seemed to work until Conn was around thirteen or so, when the kid had gone moody. Everything Gerry said angered Conn from that point onwards. He could barely breathe near the kid without some tantrum erupting, and the cause always boiled down to the same thing. Conn was afraid that Gerry was going to do something to come between Conn and Mother.
In truth, Gerry had no interest in Mother as a lover. The man just was not the type that Gerry liked. Gerry liked his lovers smaller than himself, slim and lithe, a
nd Mother was tall and broad chested. Conn might have been closer to Gerry’s tastes, except for the outright jealousy Conn harbored for Gerry. Conn did not want to take the chance of falling in love with a fellow dependent, even if Gerry might be likely to branch off to become an alpha himself one day. Conn was going to stick with Mother. Gerry was in Conn’s way, or so Conn had apparently decided, except for those nights Conn had crawled into Gerry’s bed when Mother had turned him out.
“You’re not focused.” Mother’s voice was quiet and deep, a firm voice. Gerry looked up, a stray beam of sunlight working its way through the canopy of the trees to make him squint. “A hunt isn’t a good time to think about anything but the hunt itself.”
Gerry hung his head a little. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”
“Where’s Conn?” Mother’s head lifted, his dark eyes narrowed as he scanned the trees. His thick dark hair, shot through with silver now, was plaited tight and hanging to his waist, the end wrapped around with a thin strip of leather.
Gerry had once asked the man how he wound up with the name he bore. Mother had laughed and told Gerry that one of his first dependents had called him that, the old word for a dam, still used sometimes by the oldest hags. Mother had tugged on the thick braid to illustrate the confusion while Gerry had nodded, tentative, as if laughing at an alpha might get Gerry in trouble. Mother had not been angry, though. Mother had been much as he was right now, calm and quiet. That dependent was grown and long gone now, an alpha with dependents, Mother said.
Gerry shrugged one shoulder, returning to the present. “He’s spotting, I hope. We’re getting closer to where they have their lair.”
The hunt today was for sind. Sind were omnivores and opportunists. They were also agile and fierce, with a nasty habit of digging holes to bring down the fleet runners with their long, delicate legs. Their meat was considered far superior in flavor to that of the more common runners. Gerry did not agree, finding it to be a bit stronger tasting than he liked. Their pelts were as valuable a commodity as their meat, so sind traded well on the market, and Conn -- Conn again -- needed clothing. Mother could trade a few good pelts for the services of a weaver, to buy a bolt of their best cloth and have them stitch fine tunics and breeches for Conn, who complained that leather chafed.
Gerry was happy enough with his leather tunic and breeches. He and Mother had tanned the runner hides themselves, scraping one side smooth and leaving the other soft and velvety. Mother had taught him the trick of stitching the hides together with neat, small stitches. The bootmaker in the village was always happy to take a runner haunch and enough tanned leather to make a fine pair of boots, the one thing Gerry could not fashion well enough on his own.
Conn, however, pricked his fingers and swore and broke the needle. Mother had sighed and taken away the sharp bone needles before Conn could break any more. It was much the same with most of the tasks that Mother tried to teach Conn. The boy would whine and find a way to fail until Mother would sigh. Only Gerry would see the flash of triumph in Conn’s dark blue eyes. Mother held that an alpha did not abandon a dependent who could not care for their own self, and Conn played that for all he could.
Mother patted Gerry’s shoulder, his eyes averted. “Stay sharp. The whelps should be big enough now to be long gone, but if not, let them go.”
Gerry nodded. The pelts of the whelps were not as prized as those of mature sind. It was also better practice to let the whelps mature and breed, ensuring there would be sind to hunt in the future. He split away from Mother again, moving as quietly as he could, his bow ready as he drifted through the leaf fall.
The quiet was shattered when Conn screamed, a high-pitched sound filled with fear, and the low chuff of a sind filled the vacuum left when Conn’s voice faltered. Gerry did not even pause to think; he spun around to sprint through the trees in the direction of that scream, his heart pounding like a temple drum. He could hear the sound of Mother’s pursuit as well.
Without warning Gerry was falling, his leg trapped. The wind was knocked out of him when he landed hard, his bow slipping from nerveless fingers. He watched it skitter away across the leaves.
Gerry’s vision blurred with pain. He sucked in a desperate breath, his bow too far ahead of him to reach. He heard Mother’s voice and Conn’s ragged whimper, blended into one note, while he turned his head with infinite care. He heard the chuff again, and this time it was so close that he was sure he could feel the sind’s hot breath. His hand crept down his leg, feeling for his knife, and he was never so glad to touch the leather strips that bound the grip as he slid it from the sheath. His lips moved in a silent prayer, calling on the Hunter to aid him, the Father to protect him.
The sharp twang of a bowstring interrupted his prayer, and the sind dropped, the heat of its body bleeding through Gerry’s leather breeches. Gerry let out a breath, his body flushed with adrenaline. It was only then that he truly felt his leg, and he gagged as the pain ran up from his ankle to his groin.
“Oh, fuck,” Gerry moaned. “Dam-fucking, hole-digging little shits. I hate fucking sind and their busy fucking little paws.” The tears stole his vision as he swore to keep from screaming, Mother kneeling by his leg.
“Oh, shit,” Conn whispered, looking up at Mother, his pretty face pale. “It’s bad. It’s really fucking bad. Is Gerry going to lose the foot?”
Gerry sucked in a breath, but he did not have a chance to speak.
“Shut up, Conn.” Mother’s voice was just as quiet as ever, but Conn squeaked before falling silent. “If you’d been spotting properly, you’d have uncovered that hole. Help me, and if you even think about fainting, the Lady help you.”
Conn swallowed hard, while Mother knelt to slide Gerry along the leaf fall. “Grab his foot and ease it out. Gently, boy!”
Gerry moaned, black spots obscuring his vision as his stomach twisted. He had never felt a pain even close to this. He fought to remain conscious, to try and help Mother as best he could.
“Easy, man. We have you.” Mother’s deep voice sounded so confident that Gerry nodded without even thinking about it. “The Witch isn’t far. I can carry you on my back, and Conn can bring the sind. We’ll not get another now anyway. They’ll have scattered.”
Chapter 2
The Witch walked out of her drying shed with a small bundle of something green and leafy in her hand just as Ghost hurried over, wary. He pointed at the path that led into the yard, a figure visible and coming closer.
“He’s coming. They’re coming.” Ghost’s voice was no more than a whisper. He slid behind the Witch, watching as a tall man in hunter’s leathers approached. For every stride that the strange man took, Ghost took a half step backward, into the shadow of the drying shed.
“Who is he, you silly little thing?” the Witch asked, squinting down the narrow path. “Do you know them?”
Rather than answer right away, Ghost shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, his knitted tunic far too big as it slid off one shoulder. He reached up to tug his hair over his eyes. “I saw them in my dreams,” he breathed. “One who leads, one who loves, one who is known by the End.” Ghost’s vision blurred, and his breath hitched as he spoke the name of the one of the Eight who was never named aloud for fear of catching the eye of that dread one. His heart hammered in his chest in time with the pressure that throbbed behind his eyes. He fought the urge to flee into the woods, to the places he had carved out where one could hide and never be found.
Ghost saw the curiosity in the Witch’s eyes, but he just shook his head, the words lost in the memory of the vision. He ducked inside the shed, breathing in the smell of drying herbs and berries, letting the fragrances sooth him. Ghost knew what they all did, had learned it all at the Witch’s knee, along with the names of the Eight, and the count of days and moons. She taught him to read the ancient words, to match those words to the coded entries in her formulary. He could mix the potions and the sa
lves as well as the Witch, although she had forbidden him to touch the gods’ light or the Seeker’s box. He made a game of it, though, standing behind the Witch, trying to guess what the Seeker’s box would say about the people who sought her help.
“Don’t do a runner, boy. I may need you.” The Witch sounded calm, but she turned to put a pot of water on the tripod over the fire pit. As Ghost watched, the lone figure shifted and became two figures. He knew the Witch wanted him to tell her, and so he spoke.
“He’s carrying one of them.” Ghost lifted his chin, not realizing that the Witch could not see the gesture while he hid in the shed. Ghost knew she saw well enough close up. It was distance that made her narrow her eyes and fuss at him.
“Don’t suppose you’ll tell me who’s who,” the Witch said under her breath. “Seeker guide me, you never make it easy, little one.”
“Because it’s never easy. It hurts,” Ghost replied, one hand stealing up to tug at his hair again, pulling it down over his forehead and into his eyes before wrapping back around his chest. “I don’t ask to See.”
Ghost hugged himself harder as he watched the Witch walk forward, the woman looking as unafraid as ever. He could have listened if he wanted as she spoke to the tall man with the dark eyes. The stranger had long hair shot through with silver, prettier than the Witch’s hair. The man was tall and broad, and wore leathers that were clean and neat. The Witch looked like a beggar next to the man.
The Witch looked drab on purpose, though. No one looked too close at her, a hag with greasy, gray hair hanging in lank strands around her face. They tried not to notice the rusty black homespun with the raveling edges, and the nicks and stains that marked her hands. They missed the fierce, dark eyes like those of the raptors that tore the little songbirds to pieces and scattered bright feathers to the winds, never saw the fine bones of those deft hands.