The Ragwitch

“All this time, the Magi, the Magic-Workers who might have been able to oppose the North-Queen, were being hunted down and slain. For the Patchwork King still would not allow the use of Magic. Till, one day, the Magi began to gather at Alnwere Hill–where the standing stones climb up to the Pool of Alnwere, all ringed about with a hedge of rowan trees, themselves older than the stones.

“By this time, there were few of the Magi left alive. But they gathered together and bided their time, hidden beneath the protection of stone and tree. Midwinter was their goal, when the icicles hang all asilver from the trees, and the white of snow removes all colour from the land. Midwinter–the time when man and woman, child and beast, curl up and dream of warmth and light and colours richer than those of any worldly spring.

“At such a time, the land of Dreams and Shadows is close to that of ours, and this greatly augmented the Magi’s powers. They lit the great Midwinter Fire, and at the striking of the midnight bell they cast the first of their great spells against the North-Queen, where She held state atop Her Spire, hundreds of leagues to the north.

“In some ways the battle of Magic that was fought between North-Queen and Magi was worse than the original destruction wrought by the North-Creatures. Her spells spread ruin across the land and the Magi were themselves forced to turn to similar destructive Magic.

“In the end, She would have won. The Magi’s Magic was never one of destruction and they could not match Her power. Alnwere Pool lay dark and showed no vision, and the great Midwinter Fire lay in ashes. The Magi lay about it: Wizard and Witch, Sorcerer and Enchanter–all too weak to resist as the North-Queen’s dark Magic overwhelmed them.”

Tanboule paused, and Paul looked away from his face for the first time. He’d been so intent on listening, he hadn’t noticed the room growing cold. The nearer fire had burnt down to ashes and the stove was no longer glowing a cheerful cherry red. Tanboule sighed, and indicated to Paul to stoke up the fire and put in a few pieces of the heavy wood that lay stacked at its side. Paul quickly did so, eager to regain the cosy warmth in which Tanboule had begun his tale–though from the sound of it, a blazing fire would be small comfort for the horrors Tanboule was about to reveal.

“The Magi were beaten…” hinted Paul, when the fire was burning brightly again and Tanboule seemed ready to resume.

“Yes…” said the old man. “They seemed beaten, when from a most unexpected quarter came help for the dying Magi. Help from Ornware and his kind, the wild spirits of forest and lake, wood and stream. And with them rose the Wild Magic, that untamed power of Nature, in all its uncontrollable passion.

“No one knows what happened in the last wild hour, in the darkest part of the night. Who called the Wild Magic (if anyone did) no one knows, and whether it served them or itself is also a mystery. But in the morning, the North-Queen was gone and all the Magi were dead, their Magic broken. Alnwere Pool was dry, the standing stones fallen. Only the rowans remained, bent over as if from a great wind.

“Later, a few Hedge-Wizards and minor adepts learned a little of what had occurred. And they discovered one important fact: the North-Queen had not been killed. She had been thrown out of this world–an act which should have killed Her. But even at the end, and amidst the bitter cold of the transfer, She had great power. She conjured a body for Herself, one that would be unsleeping, tireless, with no bones to break, or blood to bleed, or heart to stop.”

Tanboule paused and watched Paul’s face. Paul saw Her in his mind, all bloated limbs and leaking straw, and said, “A rag doll…”

“Yes. A rag doll. And Her spirit passed into that body, and She went from being North-Queen to being Ragwitch. Oh, She was banished to another world–a simple world, where the people understood Magic and that it should be left alone. And wards and guards were set upon Her (for that was the nest and the crow), but She was still alive. As were Her creatures, though they scattered to the north, and most of Her major servants vanished with Her, being either slain or banished on that grim Midwinter Night.

“Here, Her fate became a thing for tales and stories, songs and legend. Genuine fear of the North-Queen became a sort of tame uneasiness about the Ragwitch, and She became the common blame for all household misfortunes or petty ills.

“Yet even this has faded with time and now the Ragwitch is thought of only as a name, as the common conception of evil and all that’s ‘not right’. Her North-Creatures have kept to the Sea Caves and other such remote corners of the land, and are rarely seen near even the most northerly settlements. Till now, of course. Gwarulch roam ahunting, and worse things are to follow. It is a pity your folk lacked the wisdom of the people who made the Hill of Bones–but perhaps the Ragwitch already had Julia under Her control. In any case, because of your sister She is back–and make no mistake, She is still North-Queen, as well as Ragwitch. And She will destroy this Kingdom if She can…and everyone in it.”

6. Tanboule’s Advice / The Sack of Bevallan (#ulink_13501cff-1cce-5c96-b959-c17374975e6e)

PAUL SAT STUNNED, a half-empty cup of cold tea in front of him. He knew Julia was in trouble, but not that much trouble! And everything was suddenly becoming very complicated–it was getting worse than maths homework, or writing a report on some stupid play. Except here, failure meant much worse than a bad report.

“So where is Julia?” he asked Tanboule, who was sitting open-mouthed, staring at the tiny red glow of the fire between the bars of the stove. “How can I get her back?”

“Where is Julia?” repeated Tanboule dreamily. “Where indeed, but in a place far stranger than any you or I have trod. She has been consumed, and any part of her mind that still exists will be within the Ragwitch.”