C. Brittain - Voima

He came out of the tunnel and rose slowly to his feet, his sword still in his hand. “Do not fear me, Roric No-man’s son,” said the voice.

All creatures of voima, it seemed, knew his name. Considering how little use his sword had been against the dragon, he doubted it would be much more use here. Their best hope was that this witch really was as friendly as it wanted to sound, and he would not learn that by threatening. He gritted his teeth for a moment, then shrugged, sheathed his sword, and put an arm around Karin as she came up beside him.

He could feel her trembling, but she spoke clearly. “We have come a long way to find you. The Mirror-seer in my father’s kingdom said that you would know the way into the Wanderers’ realm.”

The massive shape by the fire shifted but did not answer at once. It did not look human in spite of its voice. Yet the firelight glinted from a pair of eyes, human eyes. As the flame licked high for a second it bounced images from an enormous mirror on the far wall.

“Are you perhaps a Mirror-seer yourself?” said Roric politely. But he asked himself with a tightening of his lips whether all of this, their entire trip to the Hot-River Mountains, might be some sort of Seer joke.

“No, nor a Weaver,” said the shape. It was impossible to place the being’s voice as either man or woman, any more than it was possible for the Weavers. “Although, as you see, I too weave.” Roric saw then that there was a net across the far side of the room, tightly tied, full of knots and tangles.

“But can we reach the Wanderers’ realm from here?” asked Karin again, a desperate edge in her voice.

“ Everything beneath the sun is ruled by those you call the Wanderers,” the Witch of the Western Cliffs replied. Roric had yet to see a mouth but thought it must be enormous to match the creature’s bulk. “At least for now, all lands are the realms of the lords of voima. But the upheaval is coming soon…”

“The Weaver back home,” said Roric, “also spoke of an upheaval.”

“And the faeys as well,” said Karin quietly.

When the witch again fell silent, Roric tried to focus on the mirror. It seemed to show people moving, maybe even fighting, but too dimly to identify any of them even if he knew them.

“Come and sit beside me, Roric No-man’s son and Karin Kardan’s daughter,” said the witch then.

Karin had not reacted when the witch first called Roric by his name, but she lifted her head sharply at hearing her own. “How do you know us?” she demanded.

“I expected you,” said the witch, again with a low chuckle. Roric thought that this witch, whoever he or she might be, sounded like someone who had been alive much too long ever to hurry again, or even to worry, but was prepared to observe with interest whatever came its way. “After all, your Seer sent you to look for me; did you think I would not have seen that?”

“Then you know what we want,” said Karin.

“And I also know that you are both exhausted, bone weary, and famished. I have watched mortals long enough to know one has to be careful with them sometimes-there was a time I watched them very closely. Sit with me by my fire before you try to find other realms than this one.”

There was no way to judge the passing of time in the darkness of the cave of the Witch of the Western Cliffs. They ate bread and cheese and drank ale; Roric wondered briefly where the witch had gotten it but knew better than to ask. After a while, even sitting in the dark with a witch who must be twenty times the size of either of them stopped being disturbing. Karin commented that this large room was much more comfortable than the cramped burrows of the faeys.

The dragon seemed far away, and then even farther away as the ale went to their heads. They had not heard any of its rumbles since they entered this room. Karin said something about tiny islands of security, but Roric was too tired for it to make much sense. Then they slept, lying on the sandy floor by the fire, their heads pillowed on what appeared to be a leathery roll of the witch’s belly. They woke again to find the flames still flickering low.

The witch was working on its weaving, pulling and tugging at strings, seeming to make them even more tangled, humming quietly as it worked. It was difficult to see clearly for the shadows moved with it, but the witch almost appeared to have more than one pair of arms, like a huge spider.

Not wanting to disturb its work, Roric and Karin whispered together. She told him about the renegade king and his embittered woman, and how she had gotten out of their castle. But he did not tell her, not yet, that he had killed Gizor. For the last day he had been too involved in keeping first himself and then the two of them alive to think much on it, but he was carrying a massive blood-guilt.

“So, you two mortals have not yet had enough of the Wanderers?” asked the witch above them. “From what I heard, I thought you had turned against them.”

“What have you heard?” asked Roric cautiously. This being was the first, including the humans, who seemed to realize that mortals needed food and rest, the first since they had left the isolated manor and its strange blue-eyed lady, and it inspired him-almost-with a feeling of trust. But he had never trusted anyone absolutely, except maybe Karin, and he had no reason to trust a creature of voima.

“One of those you call Wanderers often visits me,” said the witch pleasantly. That is, Roric thought the tone was meant to be pleasant; it was so hard to tell without seeing a face. “I knew him long ago, when he was young-knew him very well, you might say. So he asks favors of me and tells things to me, and sometimes I guess even what he has no intention of telling.”

“I didn’t know the Wanderers were ever young,” said Karin.

“Oh, yes, both small and young. Tell me, Karin Kardan’s daughter,” in an apparent change of topic, “have you borne children?”

“Not yet,” said Karin slowly, and Roric thought that she, like he, must be wondering aghast if this strange creature was a Wanderer’s mother.

“Sometimes I wonder,” said the witch thoughtfully, “if their plan has any chance of success-and I think he wonders as well, though so far he still supports it, as much as he ever supports anything.”

“Does their plan involve us?” asked Karin in a small voice.

They had been maneuvered, Roric thought grimly, into coming all the way here in order to rescue Valmar from the lords of voima, and all the time the lords of voima had known exactly what they were doing, were delighted to have them do it, and had no intention of letting Valmar be rescued. His eyes ached from trying to see, his muscles ached from the fights of the last few days, yet more than anything his spirit ached for a clear goal ahead of him.

“Certainly they need mortals, and you seemed like a good first choice, Roric No-man’s son,” said the witch. “But I am not sure, now, if they still want you, or if the mortal they have will do… I must say, I do not like these changes any better than they do, but I would have thought there was a better solution than introducing death into immortal realms.”

The witch fell silent for a moment, and Roric squeezed Karin’s hand. They had stumbled into a crisis of the lords of voima, a great shifting and change that might affect all mortals as well as the Wanderers themselves, and he wanted no part in it. He had gone into immortal realms originally because he wanted to do something to make himself worthy of Karin, but now he would be satisfied with having the blood-guilt removed and she beside him.

Karin seemed determined to keep the witch talking, though little they had heard seemed of use to Roric. But women, he thought, always liked talking. “You keep referring to changes, to upheavals- We mortals, I am afraid, know little of these. What is that the Wanderers fear?”