“Crotheny isn’t rotting.”
The woman shook her head. “It is very nearly dead.”
Anne slashed the back of her hand in the woman’s direction. “You’re a cloud, you’re a chirgeon. Crotheny is a roast, it’s a wounded man. Speak plain words! You suggest that my country and family are in gravest danger, and that I must be queen or queen-maker, yet here I am in Vitellio, a thousand leagues away! Should I stay or leave? Tell me what to do, and no more nonsense about roasts and invalids.”
“You’re where you are supposed to be, Anne, and I’ve already told you what to do. The rest you must discern for yourself.”
Anne rolled her eyes. “No better. No better. Then answer this straight, if you can. Why me? If you can’t really see the future, why am I needed, and not Fastia, or Mother, for love of the saints?”
The woman turned her back on Anne and walked a few paces. Her back still turned, she sighed. “Because I feel the need for you,” she said. “Because the oaks whisper it, even as the greffyn kills them. And because, of all living women, you are the only one who can come to me like this, unbidden.”
“What?”
“My sister summoned you when you walked widdershins under the sun. I did not summon you—you summoned me.”
“I … how?”
“I told you. You made a pact with Saint Cer. When you send prayers by the dead, there is always a cost, there is always consequence.”
“But I didn’t know.”
The woman uttered a chilling little laugh. “If a blind man walks over the edge of a cliff, does the air ask if he knew what he was doing before it refuses to hold him up? Do the rocks below ask what he did or didn’t know about them before they break his bones?”
“Then Cer has cursed me?”
“She has blessed you. You have walked her strangest faneway. You are touched by her as no other mortal.”
“I never walked any faneway,” Anne said. “Faneways are for priests, not for women.”
A smile drew across the woman’s thin and bloodless lips. “The tomb below Eslen-of-Shadows is a sedos,” she said. “The womb of Saint Mefitis is another, its twin. They are two halves of the same thing. A very short faneway, I suppose, but very difficult to find. You are the only one to walk it in more than a thousand years. You will be the last to walk it for another thousand, perhaps.”
“What does it mean?”
The woman laughed again. “If I knew, I would tell you. But I do know this: It needed to happen. Your prayer to Saint Cer brought you here and set in motion every consequence of that trip. Including this one. As I said, you are where you were meant to be.”
“So I’m to stay in the coven, even if they throw me in the earth to rot? No, I see. They were supposed to throw me down here, because Saint Cer willed it.” She snorted. “What if I choose not to believe you? What if I think you’re some shine-crafting witch, trying to trick me? You come into my dreams and tell me lies and expect I will eat them like gingercake.”
A sudden thought occurred that struck her straight to the middle. “What if you’re a Hanzish shinecrafter? That you and your sister bewitched the knight into trying to murder my mother? Of course, you must be! How stupid of me!”
The implications made her knees buckle. Everyone in Eslen was looking for someone with the power to bewitch a Craftsman and at the very moment it happened Anne had been holding conversation with just such a person.
And she hadn’t told anyone but the praifec, who hadn’t believed her, and now here she was, caught in the grip of sadistic nuns a thousand leagues from anyone she trusted.
Even Austra had made her promise not to run away. Maybe Austra was bewitched, too.
“You’re a liar,” Anne said. “A liar and a witch.”
The woman shook her head, but Anne couldn’t tell if it was a denial. She started to walk off, into the woods.
“No! Come back here and answer me!”
The woman waved her hand, and all was darkness.
“No!” Anne wailed again. But she was back on the cold stone floor of the cave. She pounded the floor with her fists, tears of anger wincing from her eyes.
After calling herself stupid a few hundred times, Anne came to one very certain conclusion: She could not and would not trust Sister Secula to let her out of the caves. The masked woman had told her there was another way out. It was probably a lie, but she remembered now the stories in which caves figured, and indeed there usually was more than one exit.
And so, very carefully, moving very slowly and on all fours like a beast, she crossed the boundary the nuns had warned her not to cross, and passed onto the unknown, uneven floor of the cave.
It was easier than she expected it to be. Each dip and curve in the floor seemed to be somehow where it ought to be, and exploring quickly became more like remembering. It was both frightening and exciting. What if she really had somehow walked a faneway, like a priest? Like Genya Dare and her heroes? What if this strange new sense wasn’t her imagination, but exactly what it seemed to be?
Imagination or not, she grew more and more confident of her way, and stood up. The echo of her footsteps told her when she was in a large gallery or small. A colder feel to the air warned her of a deep cleft in the rock, and the taste of the cave’s breath suggested water. The taste grew stronger as she went along, until finally she could hear a merry trickling. And, after crawling up and down through passages—some almost too small to move through at all—she saw light.
Dim light.
Real light.
Soon the light was bright enough to be painful, and she had to stop to let her eyes regather their strength after so many days of darkness. But finally, when the sun’s rays were no longer daggers, she advanced farther to the mouth of the cave, and for a while she did nothing more than luxuriate in the feel of the light and wind upon her skin. Then she began taking in her surroundings.
The cave opened from a hillside thick in olive, bay, and juniper. Anne reasoned it was the same long ridge that the coven stood upon, but a few careful glances showed the towers nowhere in sight, which meant she must be on the other end of it. She carefully picked her way toward the top until she finally could see the coven, and see as well that it was quite a distance away. Satisfied that she knew where she was, Anne made her way back down and began to explore, being careful to fix the landmarks near the cave firmly in her mind.
The flatter land below the cave was lightly forested, the lines of trees broken often by grassy clearings. It must once have been pasture—probably for the stupid sheep—but she saw no recent signs of grazing.
A little farther on she again heard the trickle of water, and to her delight found a spring-fed pool. A flight of birds darted up from the trees surrounding it, such a bright yellow in color that she exclaimed aloud.
Finishing her survey around the pool, she tested the water and found it cool. She looked around again, until she convinced herself she was quite alone, then stripped out of the smelly habit and eased into the water. It felt wonderful, and after a little swimming she was content to rest in the shallows, submerged to her chin, and close her eyes. The insides of her eyelids shone red, and she tried to forget about her experiences in the womb of Saint Mefitis—and to forget, too, that she had to go back there. Whether the woman of her vision was a liar or not, there was still her promise to Austra, and she would not break that.
She might have dozed, for she came awake certain she had heard something but wasn’t at all sure what it was. Suddenly frightened, she looked quickly around the pool, realizing this wasn’t Eslen, that there could be any number of wild beasts around that she knew nothing of.
But it wasn’t a beast staring at her with wide, dark eyes. It was a man, a tall, young one, in black doublet with brown hose and large-brimmed hat. He had one hand draped on the pommel of a very long sword. He smiled a smile that Anne did not like at all.