Strange Attractors - Kim Falconer [166]
See that he isn’t.
Shaea eased the horses down to a walk. What do you want me to do?
Pay attention. Just before the township, off to the west side of the valley, you’ll come upon a strange scene. Don’t be alarmed. Nothing’s wrong—it’s just a glamour. You’re to go up to the red-headed witch and touch her.
Touch the witch?
That’s right.
The red-haired witch?
Yes.
Anything else?
She’ll instruct you from there. Do as she says.
What about Rall?
Never mind Rall. This is the witch you must answer to, if you want to find your way to the many-worlds.
What happened to Rall?
She’s out of the picture, for now.
And what’s this one’s name?
La Makee. Ride now; there isn’t much time.
I’m on my way.
Shaea didn’t ride, not yet. She wanted to think it through and the valley the Entity spoke of was not far off. ‘Touch the witch? What kind of glamour is that? La Makee? Isn’t that what they called Rall in the portal under the quarry steps?’ Her head hurt trying to figure it out.
She sucked on her lower lip, urging the stallion into a brisk trot. The road was smooth, the grade downhill. She had no idea what was going on but she figured it would make sense, sooner or later. Maybe something would come to her when she faced it head-on.
Shaea had trouble controlling the horses. Amarillo pranced in place and the mare planted herself, all four feet braced. Both animals were snorting, the sight of the frozen witch too much for them. Shaea thought it might be too much for her as well. She’d never seen anything so uncanny. It was like a piece of landscape had been stopped cold.
A woman stood before her, a Treeon witch by her tattoos, eyes unblinking. Was this La Makee? It must be. Her long black robe had blown open, frozen in the act, revealing her sword, the hilt silver with inlays of lapis. Her sword belt was made of fine black quilted cloth—nothing like what Corsanons wore. Her hair was flaming red, immobile as though it had been captured in a dance. The surrounding trees and birds were statue-still. Shaea’d never imagined anything like it could exist save in a book or painting. ‘Easy now,’ she said, holding tight to the mare’s lead, keeping the warhorse from bolting. ‘This is just a glamour, apparently.’
Shaea calmed the horses before dismounting. She tied them well to the side of the glamour, uncertain what would happen when the frozen picture came back to life, or even if it would.
‘You be La Makee then?’ she asked, stepping towards the witch. If it were true, Shaea was about to touch the High Priestess of Treeon Temple. Her hand shook as she pointed her finger. ‘Pardon me, but the Entity said I am to do this.’ She didn’t get a response. ‘I’m guessing it’s going to crack the spell?’
The strain on the witch’s face was unbearable. Her eyes bulged, the whites dry and gritty, bloodshot. Her posture may have been confident, once, but it had caved in on itself, as if age had come all at once. Her face was lined, her mouth tight and the feeling emanating from her was menacing, cold and specific. Shaea stepped closer, her arm extended. She realised she was holding her breath. ‘A tap then, if you don’t mind?’ Shaea leaned in, her finger touching the witch on the shoulder. ‘Just like that.’
She snapped her hand back, clutching it to her breast. It burned and when she examined her finger she expected to see the flesh seared. She had no time to consider it further, in any case. Like falling glass, the glamour hit the ground. The sparrows squawked and faltered, righting themselves and flying away. The trees all but groaned, resuming their graceful sway in the breeze. An instant of cacophony blasted, the warhorse answering with a trumpet of his own before everyone settled. Everyone except the witch.
‘What took you so long?’ she croaked. Her voice was dry, like the sound of rocks scooped from a bucket. The witch shut her eyes and took a step forward, rubbing her shoulders. When she opened them again, she locked onto Shaea. ‘Did you walk the horses here backwards?