About half an hour later, Morwenna was clambering down the end of the steep, rocky path that led to the Old Quarry.
She jumped nimbly from the last boulder and stepped onto the smooth Quarry floor. She stood for a moment to catch her breath and looked up at the expanse of rock rising up in front of her. The Old Quarry was roughly semicircular in shape.
Although it was formed from the pale yellow stone that had built many of the Castle’s older houses—and indeed, the Palace—the rough-hewn walls that stretched up into the tops of the trees were ominously dark, streaked and blackened with soot from the fires from hundreds of years of occupation by the Wendron Witches. The walls were also home to a local Forest slime-lichen, which was a nasty greenish-black color and gave off a dismal smell whenever it got damp.
Dotted here and there in the rock face were the even darker shapes of entrances to various caves that had been exposed by the quarrymen all those years ago. Each cave had steps leading up to it that the witches had laboriously hacked from the rock when they first took over the Quarry. It was in these caves, safe from the marauding night creatures of the Forest—most of the time at least—that the Wendron Witches lived in winter.
Today Morwenna wanted to check and secure the lower caves. It was no fun to return to the Quarry on a cold, wet Autumn day, laden with grubby tepees and damp bedding, to find that a pack of Forest wolverines had decided that your caves suited them much better than you—and were ready to prove it.
The only thing Morwenna actually liked about the Old Quarry was that it was one of the few places in the Forest with some flat, open ground. She headed purposefully across its wide, yellow stone floor. She approvingly noted that all looked swept and tidy and nothing had been left outside—or if it had, something had already eaten it and saved her the trouble of clearing it away. As she neared the bluish-black shadows at the foot of the rock face, a sudden movement inside a large cave startled her. Morwenna stopped dead. Very, very slowly, she drew her green cape around her so that the mottled underside showed, making her blend into the shadows. And then she waited, chanting under her breath the witchy words, “Though you may see, you see not me…not me…not me…”
But Morwenna made sure that she
saw. Her piercing blue eyes took on a bright glow as she stared into the shadows, searching, scanning—and suddenly a flash of white caught her eye. Morwenna caught her breath—what was it? What great white creature was inside the cave?
Morwenna saw the white shape move toward the front of the cave. Quickly she did a basic Safe Shield Spell—one of the organic witch ones. She was preparing to do a Freeze
on the creature as soon as she could see it properly when the large white shape almost fell out of the cave. Morwenna gasped and dropped the Safe Shield.
“Ephaniah!” she cried out. “Ephaniah!” For there was no mistaking the rat-man even from a distance.
Ephaniah Grebe stopped and blinked into the light. He looked startled at hearing his name, but he recognized the voice immediately. “Morwenna,” he squeaked excitedly. “I had so hoped to find you. And here you are!” He set off toward the witch, limping as he went.
They met halfway. Morwenna hugged Ephaniah so tightly that the rat-man coughed, his little rat lungs squashed by the witch’s grasp.
Morwenna stepped back and looked Ephaniah up and down. “You’re limping,” she said, concerned.
“Oh, just my bumblefoot,” muttered Ephaniah.
Morwenna, like many witches, understood Rat and Cat Speak. “Come to our Circle. I’ll make you a compress,” she said sympathetically.
Ephaniah’s eyes smiled, but he shook his head regretfully. “Unfortunately I cannot stay. I have some small charges of my own to take care of,” he said.
Morwenna raised her eyebrows. “You have?” She sounded surprised, although she had not meant to.
Hastily Ephaniah said, “No, no. Not my own children. No, something has occurred at the Wizard Tower. I have the ExtraOrdinary Apprentice with me who is fleeing from the Queste.”
“The Queste?” said Morwenna. “So it is time again for that, is it? How very sad. Such a waste of young talent. What a terrible reward for seven years of hard work.” Morwenna stopped, confused. “But surely the boy is too young? He has not been Apprentice for three years yet.”
Ephaniah’s squeak fell to a whisper. “Morwenna, I have come to ask for your help. Although they are escaping the Queste, they are also—”
“They?” asked Morwenna.
“I also have the Princess and an ex-member of the Manuscriptorium staff with me.”
“Well, well. You don’t do things by halves, do you, Ephaniah? The Princess in the Forest, eh? That must be a first.”
“I need your advice. They have lost their brother.”
“In another Time, so it seems.”
“You know?”
“A witch must keep up with the gossip.” Morwenna smiled.
“I…have a favor to ask,” said Ephaniah hesitantly.
“There is no harm in asking.”
Ephaniah took a deep breath. “I have come to ask you to show them the Forest Way.”
“Ah.” Morwenna’s light-heartedness at seeing Ephaniah vanished. She took a step back as if to distance herself from him.
“Please.”
Morwenna sighed. “Ephaniah, this knowledge is not mine to give. It must be paid for.”
Ephaniah’s eyes pleaded. “But it may save two young lives—or more.”
“Then you have just raised the price.”
“Morwenna—please.”
Morwenna smiled, a little distant. “Ephaniah, enough,” she said. “Spend the day at our Circle. I will dress your foot and then we shall talk. Yes?”
Septimus and Beetle enjoyed the Summer Circle that afternoon—Jenna did not. While Morwenna was fussing with a large green poultice on Ephaniah’s swollen foot, Septimus and Beetle chatted with the young witches. Septimus even had some beads braided into his hair—much to Beetle’s amusement. But Jenna sat at the door of the guest tepee, keeping a tight rein on Ullr and watching with a marked air of disapproval. Jenna did not take to the young witches. She mistrusted their talk of goddesses and spirits and their haughty, confident attitude. Compared with the sober Castle inhabitants they seemed so foreign—with their bright beaded tunics, fingers heavy with silver rings, the tangles of beads and feathers woven into their hair and their general air of sunburned grubbiness.
Ephaniah sat by the campfire with his foot covered in an uncomfortably hot poultice, trying to think how he could persuade Morwenna to show them the Forest Way. Having—foolishly, he now realized—promised Morwenna’s help, he could not bear to let Jenna and Septimus down. He was willing to pay anything that Morwenna asked, but she would not name her price. “We will talk tonight under the moon,” was all she would say.
Darkness began to fall and—with the Transformation
of the DayUllr into the NightUllr—the atmosphere became electric. The witches crowded around Jenna and the panther.
They said not a word but their bright blue eyes glittered in the darkness: everywhere Jenna looked two points of blue would meet her gaze briefly and then look away. Ullr seemed unconcerned. He lay down at Jenna’s side and, apart from a watchful twitch of the end of his tail, he did not move a muscle.
At long last, the uncomfortable evening around the witches’ campfire came to an end and Jenna, Septimus and Beetle threw themselves gratefully onto the pile of rancid goat furs in the guest tepee. Exhausted, Jenna fell fast asleep with her arm around Ullr. But Septimus lay wide awake, listening to the desultory chatter of the witches settling down for the night and the sporadic screeches and screams of the nighttime creatures far below in the Forest.
Septimus was angry with Morwenna. His mother was right, he thought, as he lay under a damp goatskin and sneezed for the umpteenth time. You never really knew where you were with a Wendron Witch. The events of the evening kept going through his head. It had started well enough, even though Jen had seemed a bit twitchy. Morwenna had made them guests of honor. Rugs and cushions were spread for them to sit on and the entire Coven had been introduced and had joined them in a large circle around the campfire. Huge logs—needing three witches apiece to carry them—were hauled off the woodpile and thrown onto the fire. He had watched the flames and sparks leap into the night sky and felt the surge of hope and possibilities that an evening around a blazing campfire brings.