Lenore had been riding a long time.  A long time today, and many previous days.  She was criss-crossing the great landmass, stopping in many kingdoms in many villages, searching always for the child.  All the portents said she had already been born.  She had consulted the stars, the birds, the flow of water, the flame, plumes of smoke.  She had read the bones, the runes, the intestines of small animals.  They all said the same thing: the child has been born.  But where?  Where?  On that question, even her scrying pool lay still and silent.  So she rode, hoping to find the child by recognizing her on sight.  Tonight she would stay at the castle of her kinsman, a Lord Protector of some small kingdom.  He styled himself a King, as had her father in his day, but it had been many years since she had thought of  the post as anything so lofty.  She had met Kings who ruled over areas too vast to cross in a day, and seen palaces that reached up above the clouds.  In comparison with such splendor, her kinsman's Great Hall seemed like little more than a cozy lean-to.  Still, it had once been her home, and though she no longer knew those who lived there nor felt that she was part of their number, visiting always conjured pleasant girlhood memories for her, and her kin always treated her like a visiting Queen.  The villagers, however, were more wary, but that was to be expected of common people anywhere. 

“We should stop and take a meal, Mistress.”  The words from her acolyte brought Lenore out of the past and sharply back into the present, where she became once again aware of how her muscles ached and her energy was failing.  She frowned.  Now, she realized one more piece of unpleasantness: she was hungry.

“Very well.”  Lenore sighed.  If she hungered, surely her two acolytes did as well.  “There is an inn not far from here that serves a good stew.  We will take our evening meal there.” 

With a soft movement, she guided her horse further to the right, cutting through a fallow field instead of riding to the crossroads ahead.  On black horses in violet robes, the three continued on, wind whipping at cloaks, sleeves, and skirts.  They arrived at the inn just as it was beginning to drizzle.  After dismounting, Lenore spoke a word and touched the jewel at her neck, which filled with light for a moment, and then dimmed.  The acolytes, lacking her powers, dismounted in the rain and looked uncertainly up at the sky.  They pulled up the hoods of their cloaks as they led the horses to the stable behind the inn.  Lenore entered alone, leaving them with the task as she had at many other inns on their long travels.

Two steps into the inn she paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust.  It was starting to get rowdy, as such places often did as the sun began to set, but as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, so too did eyes fall upon her.  Standing there in her violet robes, with a huge amethyst  on a thick chain around her neck, she was recognizable to these common folk.  Not because they had ever seen her before – she had not been through this area in long time.  They recognized her from the tales their grandmothers told.  Tales of a Violet Lady, who rode swiftly at the edge of chaos.  Kingdoms crumbled before her, it was said, and lineages failed and wars of succession ravaged the land.  A guarded hush fell, and now those who had been singing and laughing and joking fell to whispering to their neighbors instead.  The inkeeper's wife walked up to her slowly, uncertainly.

“What's it we can do for you, Lady?” she asked, clearly torn between wanting to throw her out and fearing her wrath if she did so.

“Table space for three, and three hot meals.”  Lenore said.  She saw the furtive looks, the open stares, the fear in the eyes of those in the inn, and she sighed.  They were wrong, of course.  It was not that she brought chaos and destruction, no.  Much the opposite.  Chaos and destruction brought the child she sought, the Opal Child, who would bring peace and order back to a land that desparately needed it.  She was not the only one who sought the child, either.  She just did so more visibly.  While her fellow searchers quietly waited for a sign, she rode.  They had been told to wait, and so wait they did.  They waited for a child they did not know, an abstract child, the Opal One, a symbol of hope and renewal.  Lenore had known her before, however, and had never been able to wait, once she knew the Opal child had been reborn.  Her hope was that in her searching, she would happen across her.  It had come to pass that way last time, and she very much hoped it would again.  The others knew better than to counsel her in patience.

The inkeeper's wife pointed to a large stump cut into a sort of makeshift table near the hearth, and then cracked a rag at one of the serving girls.  “Chairs, and stew.  Three each.” she barked.  The serving girl made a face when she thought Lenore wasn't looking, but did as she was told, bringing the chairs – one with a back, and two rough stools – first. 

Lenore sat in the chair, and watched the fire for a time.  When her acolytes entered she felt their presences, but did not stir.  They could feel her as she felt them, and they would have no trouble finding her.  They sat down just as the serving girl came back with three big bowls of stew, and two loaves.  She plunked it all down on the table without making eye contact.

“Ale?” she asked, in a voice that betrayed her wish for them to decline.

“That would be good.” Lenore said, and smiled, though the girl was still avoiding her gaze and didn't turn to look at her before slouching off again.  The acolytes looked weary, Lenore thought, as she tore the first loaf and handed them each half.  They and the horses would no doubt be glad of the rest.  As for herself... her sorcery could sustain her if she chose not to eat or rest, at least for a time.  But it was always better to actually make the time for both.  That was a large part of why she had brought the acolytes – to remind her that she ought to rest, to slow her down, to prevent her from burning away all the energy of the stone she wore before she found the child.

“How much further is it to the Hall?” The taller girl asked, tucking a stray strand of raven hair away with a movement that was a habit of hers.

“Only a few hours.  We will be there before the deepest part of the night.”

“And how long will we stay?” asked the other.

“For a week.  Long enough for me to pass among the people.  And hopefully more than long enough for you and the horses to regain your full strength and energy.  We will be crossing the Wastes next.”

The acolytes both shivered, almost reflexively.  Neither was from an area that bordered the Wastes, and so they had been raised with stories that attributed far more dangers to that barren land than there actually were.

“Take heart.” Lenore said, smiling softly.  “I have crossed them before.  They hold no mysteries for me.  So long as you do not stray, it will be no difficult than any other journey.”

The raven haired girl nodded, and her fair-haired companion nodded as well, but their faces were still solemn as they continued their meal.

“Will there really be feasting tomorrow?” The fair-haired one asked, seemingly eager to change the subject.

“Yes,” Lenore confirmed with a laugh, “there will be feasting enough.  My kin have always been lovers of good food and drink.  But it will not all be things you have had before.  There will be plenty of hart and boar and pheasant, of course, but there is another small bird with bright blue plumage from those hills that is considered to be especially good in a wine sauce.  Its sweet eggs are eaten as well.  And there are a few types of mushrooms that can be found nowhere else.  Do remember to try new things.”  She always encouraged this in her acolytes, as she found that a willingness to try new cuisine often also became a willingness to try anything new, which was a trait that would serve them well as sorceress.  Presuming these two would make it that far.  Lenore hoped they would.  They had not been the best of her students when she decided to take them with on this long journey, but she had seen sparks of great potential in both, and had found their company pleasant.  Pleasant company was nearly as important as magical aptitude, as they were going to be constantly at her side until she found the child.  Rowan was older and taller, with a thin frame, very dark hair and eyes, but a complexion as wan as the moon.   Orla was younger, shorter, and though she was also thin, she had comfortable curves to her that Rowan lacked.  Her own hair was much fairer, like summer wheat, and her eyes were a muddy green.  Rowan had been the youngest child of a great Lord before she came to the Opal Keep, and had trained hard to learn to use what little gift she had.  Orla had been a commoner from a small village, and her gift was obvious, but her control was incomplete, and her precision had left something to be desired.  This journey allowed them to learn on the fly from the oldest and arguably the best of the Prismatic Sorcerers, and they were doing their best to seem worthy of the honor.  So far, Lenore was proud of them.  They did what she needed them to without complaint, and they brought her back to the present when her mind wandered in the past.  They reminded her gently of their own hunger and exhaustion, and this reminded her of her own, and also that the horses needed food and rest, though they could not ask for it.  Lenore reflected that the acolytes would likely prefer not to continue on tonight, but she knew the inn, and knew the beds at her kinsman’s castle would be far more comfortable.  And less full of vermin.  A rat ran across the floor near the fire to grab a fallen crumb, and then retreated back into the shadows.

The serving girl came back with the drinks after much time had passed.  So much time, in fact, that Lenore had to wonder if she was hoping they would forget. 

“Ale for them two.” she said, putting down two wooden mugs.  “And my mistress told me to bring you hot spiced wine.” she mumbled at Lenore, carefully setting down a fine silver cup. “It’s her wedding silver.  And her own personal wine.  She thought it would better suit you.” 

Truth be told, Lenore liked pub ales well enough.  But she very much appreciated the gesture.  “Give her my thanks.” she said to the girl, who nodded and left, relieved to be finished serving them.

For a while the three ate in silence, the only noise that of the fire and those at the other tables.  When they were finished, Lenore counted coins from a bag she produced out of some unknown fold in her cloak.  Setting more than enough for the meal on the table, the bag again vanished, and she stood. 

“I’ll see to the horses this time.  Sit and rest a moment.  See to it that the lady of the place gets her money and her cup back.”  Then she turned and walked towards the door.  On the threshold she noticed the rain was coming down more strongly.  She frowned, touched the gem at her throat, and spoke the same word as before.  Then, when she stepped into the rain, it seemed to part around her.  Only her hems, dragging on the ground, became wet.  A few drunkards who had been tossed outside stared at her in gap-toothed amazement as she walked to the stables, still dry.

It was quite dark inside, as the sun had finished going down while they ate and only two windows let in the dim twilight.  Still, she found her way with ease.  She did not need to see to find the three black horses.  Once she had found them, she greeted each with a few soft words.  Then she went to the wall where the saddles and bags hung, and she began to prepare them for riding.  However, after she touched the first saddle she realized something was amiss.  Someone else had been here.  Someone who left behind a sour scent – greed and fear.  A thief.  But what had he taken?  Lenore ran her hands over each bag in turn, and then stopped.  This one.  The feeling was stronger.  She opened it, and saw at once what was gone.  There had been small ball made of solid gold, encrusted with small opals.  It had belonged to the child in another life, and she had brought it with hoping it might call out to the child again.  Likely the thief had no idea what it was, just that it was worth a small fortune.  It would take a thief much braver to knowingly steal something like that from her.  She hissed, then stretched out her right hand and closed her eyes.  Her lips formed words though no sound escaped them.  When she again opened her eyes there was a small purple orb of light floating above her hand.  She had called it in order to find the thief.  With a gesture a bit like tossing a ball she released it, and then followed as it darted around the stable and then back towards the door of the inn.  It went straight though the wooden door, which she opened to follow it.  As she entered the room once again fell to a hush, though this time one of terror, not suspicion.  Each eye followed the orb as it sped up and came to rest on the forehead of a man wearing a coat much too large for his frame.  He tried to dodge it and bat it away, but to no avail.  For a moment he froze and his eyes met hers. 

“Orla.  Stop him.”  Lenore said, not even needing to raise her voice for her acolyte to hear her.

Orla jumped up at once and with a few words and a spin that was almost like a dance step she cast a net of green light from her hands, and when he tried to flee the man became caught in it and it held him tight to the floor.

“You have something of mine.”  Lenore said, her voice dark and dangerous.

“I don’t, either.” the man lied unconvincingly.

“Give it back, or I will take it from you.”  Lenore continued.

“I en’t got it.  Sold it already.” he lied again.

“I don’t have time for games.”  She took one more step towards him and made a gesture with her right arm.  The orb became a circle, and slipped over his head and around his neck.

“I don’t- ” he began again, but Lenore made a fist and the circle squeezed, choking him.  He tried to pull at the light, but he couldn’t get a grip on it.  Lenore opened her hand again.  The man gasped for air, and there was a hot acidic scent – he had wet himself.

“All right, I have it, it’s in me pocket, take it.  Just take it.”

“Rowan.”  At the sound of her name the other girl went over to the trapped man and slipped her thin hand and arm through Orla’s net, to retrieve the golden ball from the pocket the man was indicating.  Once she had it she slipped it into an interior pocket of her coat and retreated.

“Disperse your net, Orla.”  The girl did so, but the man did not move.

“Stealing is never an honorable thing.  And there are some people you should never steal from.” Lenore said, making a cutting gesture with her hand as she did so.  The circle of purple light turned for a moment to a collar of purple flame and the man cried out in agony as it seared his skin.  A second later it dissipated completely, leaving an angry red line.  “You will bear that scar the rest of your miserable life, as a reminder to change your thieving ways.”  Then Lenore turned and left, with the two girls close behind her.  No one followed them to the door, or to the stables, or down the road as they left, and Lenore was glad of that.  It was easy enough to cow someone without sorcery, but in some of places they had been, any display of power would have invited trouble.

Lenore did her best to shield all of them from the rain as they rode, but whenever he mind wandered too far into the past she felt it on her face again.  She could shield herself with barely a thought, but to shield the whole party took much more focus.

They arrived at the castle just as the full blackness of night came down upon the land.  At the outer gate, Lenore lowered her hood and spoke to the guard, who then had the doors opened to let them pass.  The steward met them at the entrance to the castle proper, and a small cluster of maids and footmen and stable hands came to meet them.  The footmen took their bags up to their rooms as the stable hands led the horses away.  The maids helped them out of their heavy clothes and into baths that had been kept warm.  It was the custom here, of those who could afford it, to end the day with a soak in water scented with herbs, flowers, and sweet oils.  Once they felt refreshed, the maids helped them into new nightgowns and also overcloaks, so that they might be decent enough to meet briefly with the Lord before retiring.  It would be much less of a bother to remove an overcloak than to change into and out of a new dress.  Once ready, they walked up the hall to a small parlor that served as a foyer to the guest wing they would share.  Four bedrooms and the bathing area came off the hall, and one bedroom was much larger than the others.  The maids hurried past as the three entered the parlor to meet the Lord of the castle.  He stood as the three entered, dressed in the deep green of his house, the same deep green as the overcloaks they had been given.

“My Lady Lenore.” He said, and knelt.  She offered him a hand, and he kissed it.

“Stand, cousin.” She said, and smiled.  “What would your subjects think, to see you kneel?”

“They would think you must be someone great and terrible, and they would not be wrong.”

That was true enough, in its own way.  He stood then, and looked to the acolytes.  Lenore introduced them.

“This is Lady Rowan of Silverwood, youngest daughter of Aethelstan the Grave.  And this is Orla, of Aspenlea-on-Drammen, a small river town.  They are my students and companions on this journey.”

There was a small amount of recognition in his eyes at the mention of Aethelstan the Grave, but none at all at the mention of Aspenlea.  Neither of the girls’ homelands was very near to this castle.  Lenore had introduced them with such details because they mattered, for now.  If either one was selected to join the Prismatic Sorcerers, however, such family details and titles or lack thereof would cease to matter.  A sorceress could continue to count on her kin for lodging when she passed their way, but beyond that, the family ties would be severed.  She could not act on their behalf, nor settle disputes for them.  A sorceress’s first loyalty would be to the Opal Child and her second to the Pristmatic Council.  Nothing else mattered.  Turning to the girls, she introduced her kinsman.

“And this is my Lord cousin, King Siegmund of Oakenhill.”

He bowed in turn.  “I have requested bread and salt to be brought, that we may attend to the rites of hospitality.”  Such rites were common all across the great landmass, Lenore had learned.  They differed only in details.  The rules of hospitality demanded that once welcomed, a guest could not be harmed.  Turned out, yes, but never harmed.  Here, the welcome demanded bread and salt be shared and eaten.  Elsewhere it was bread and wine, or bread and meat.  Among some who lived in forests far from here it was a finger dipped in honey.

As though he had been waiting for his master’s word, a serving man then entered with a small tray.  A hot loaf, newly sliced, took up the majority of it, and the rest held a dish of butter, a dish of salt, and a small spreading knife.

Lenore took a slice, buttered it, and took a pinch of salt to sprinkle on top.  The acolytes followed her lead, and Siegmund took a slice last of all.  They ate in silence, and when all had finished, Siegmund rose.

“I will take my leave.  Good night to you all, and rest well.  In the morning, you need only come out into the hall and stop anyone passing by and we will bring you what you require.  Until then, none shall disturb you.”  He nodded to Lenore, who nodded back, and then he left.

Lenore rose and walked to her room without a word, and each acolyte went to hers as well.  Once inside, she sat on the edge of the bed for a long while.  She heard the two girls shuffling around and then easing into bed.  Orla even snored a few times as she drifted into sleep.  They were tired – exhausted, even, and she couldn’t blame them.  They had done nothing but ride as fast as they could for days, stopping only to eat hurriedly and to sleep away the darkest part of the night.  This was the first time in a full turn of the moon that they would be able to sleep as much as they wished, without needing to be vigilant.  This was a place of safety, a quiet kingdom, much too small for most empires to bother with finding, much less making into a tributary.  Such sanctuary would allow her acolytes and horses to regain their strength.  And it would give her much needed quiet time and space to redouble her efforts to divine the location of the Opal Child.  For a moment, Lenore considered getting out her scrying mirror.  But no – she, too, needed the rest.  That could be left until tomorrow.  Frowning a little, though she knew she had made the correct decision, Lenore took off the overcloak and slipped under the covers.  As a sort of compromise to herself, she decided to try a little dream magic, and as she closed her eyes she spoke the words that would allow her to slip into the sleeping place between worlds, where she could walk outside her body and feel for the presence of her childhood friend.

The dawn and the birds woke Lenore, and it took her a moment to remember where she was.  She had dreamt of the past again, instead of the future.  Or perhaps she had dreamt of both, but only the past stayed with her.  Either way, yet another day dawned and still she did not know where to find the child.  The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers and though the encroaching cold did not bother Lenore, she decided to pull on her overcloak and go out to the hallway to find someone to stoke her acolytes’ fires.  They were likely still asleep, and she wished them to rest comfortably.  In the hall she stopped a maid and requested more wood.  When a woman arrived with wood and kindling, Lenore made sure she knew to work as quietly as possible, so as not to wake the girls.  The woman asked if she would be wanting a fire as well, but Lenore declined.  The fire would throw more shadows, and make it harder to concentrate on her scrying.  Back in her room, Lenore took out the mirror, pulled the overcloak more tightly around her, and let her gaze fall softly.  The trick was to look without looking, to see without seeing, and to will it to show what one wished.  Any sorceress could do it with ease, and some cottage witches could do it passably well.  In normal times she used it to check up on a student or friend, and she never had problems unless the individual she wished to see had drawn a veil over themselves to prevent such sight.  Again she wondered if the child was hiding somehow, making herself invisible and unfindable.  But why?  Why would the child try to hide from the Prismatic Sorcerers?  They existed only to help her mend the world.  When Lenore came back out of her trance she was not sure how much time had passed.  The birds were quieter now, the sun stronger, and the fire woman was long gone.  An hour, perhaps?  And for naught.  The only thing she had seen was the reflection of her own anxiety, and shadows that refused to come into focus.  The child was out there, but the glass would not show her where.  Lenore sighed aloud.

A moment later there came a hesitant knock at the door.  Rowan, most likely.  “Come in.” she called.

Rowan entered slowly carrying a metal goblet. Orla followed next, and then came a maid with a heavy tray, laden with food.  “We’ve eaten already,” Rowan began, “But we thought we should bring you something.”

“We weren’t sure if we ought to disturb you, though,” Orla piped, “but then I heard you sigh, and I knew you couldn’t be divining.  You don’t make any noise when you are, except to start.”

Lenore laughed.  “So that was your plan?  Stand outside until I finished?”

“More or less.”  Orla said with a grin, and shrugged.  “But you should really eat something.  And try the rabbit – it’s delicious!  Such a unique spice blend!”

“You forget I grew up here.  Oakenhill roast rabbit hasn’t changed much, even in the long years I’ve been away.  The recipe was old even when I was young.” 

Orla blushed and stepped to the side as Rowan came to set down the goblet.  Then the maid brought in the tray and set it on the table where Lenore had laid the mirror for scrying.  She didn’t stay to ask if they required anything else, but Lenore doubted they would require anything.  The tray was piled high with food of many sorts, as though the girls had selected a few choice morsels for her from every dish.  And to judge by the assortment, this was the remnants of their luncheon.  Perhaps more time had passed than she thought.    Lenore made a gesture and the curtains opened themselves, revealing the small glass window.  Yes, it looked like the sun was already high in the sky.

“Have you already learned the layout of the castle?” Lenore asked, before taking a bite of the tender rabbit.  It had become their habit to trace the pathways of every new place they stayed, so as to better know how to escape if trouble came their way.

“Yes, and the area within the walls.” Rowan answered.  “It’s rather small and simple.”

Lenore smiled wryly and licked her fingertips.  “Don’t let my Lord cousin hear you say that about his domain.  To him it is the most magnificent in the world.  Do you know why that is?”

“Every honorable man feels that way about his home.” Rowan answered. 

“Even those who live in tiny hovels?” asked Orla, who was somewhat confused and disbelieving.

“Every honorable man.” Rowan repeated.

“Or a great many of them, anyway.” Lenore said.  “It’s something of a proverb among those born to higher stations.” She explained to a frowning Orla.  “And it means that you should cherish what you have, instead of wishing for what you do not have.”

“Oh.” Orla said, understanding a little better now.  “But it’s hard not to wish for more when you have very little.” 

“It is always hard not to wish for more, whether you have little or much.” Lenore corrected her, between delicate bites of sweet root vegetables.  “But great Lords who wish for more than what they have often lead their people into unnecessary conflicts, with high costs.  If you are not responsible for others, it is hard to cause that much damage.  And I do not mean just wealth – there are those who wish for power, or sorcery.”

“I sometimes wish for stronger sorcery.” Rowan admitted, biting her lip.  “I will try not to, from now on.”

“Wish only to continue to practice and improve, not for a gift.  Only the first can come true.” Lenore advised her.

“What practice should we do today?”  Orla asked.

Lenore thought for a moment while she ate, chewing thoughtfully, and then swallowing and taking a sip of wine from the goblet.  “I want you to practice creating something together, and passing it back and forth.  Perhaps one of those nets of yours, Orla.  You have no trouble creating them, but you do not hold them well once they leave your hands.  And Rowan, you should learn to take and reinforce the sorcery of others.  We will meet again just before the evening meal.”

The girls nodded, and took their leave, walking together towards some empty part of the castle to dutifully practice.  Lenore finished the food slowly, letting her mind wander as she ate.  She ought to get dressed, and then perhaps walk through the castle, herself.  It would be good to acquaint herself with the small changes that had taken place since she was last here.  Undoubtedly the rooms would be furnished differently, and perhaps she should visit the Lady of the castle as well.  As she dressed she made up her mind: first she would visit the Lady of the Castle.  She had heard the woman was ill, and perhaps she knew a remedy or two that might help.  Even though the Lord and his Lady wife were by this time very distant cousins of hers, she still felt kinship with them, and hoped the lineage would continue.  Siegmund had no children so far, and many never have any, if his wife did not recover.  Besides, if she could help it would be a pleasant change from the failure to divine even a glimpse of the child, a failure that had been plaguing her for months now.

Lenore dressed in a long, draping violet dress, as always, and left her hair hanging loosely down her back in dark waves.  She had not taken the amethyst choker off – she never did – but it felt a little off center and so she fixed it.  Last of all she tied her belt and slipped into her soft shoes.  It was nice to not be wearing riding boots, for once.

A maid in the hall confirmed that the Lady’s quarters had not changed locations since the last time Lenore had visited the castle, and so she set off for the southernmost wall.  She could smell the sick in the air before she even reach the door to the suite, and in her younger days she might have reeled.  Instead she knocked firmly, and brushed her way inside when the door was answered by a startled lady in waiting.  A nurse tried to shoo her back out into the hall, but Lenore persisted until she stood at the entrance to the Lady’s bedchamber.

“My Lady cousin,” she called out, “I hear you are not well.”

A hoarse whisper came from within the room – the Lady asked one of her nurses who was at the door.  She told her Queen that the Violet Lady had come, and from the hesitation in her voice Lenore knew that the nurse thought what many others did: that she brought the ill omens. 

“I only chase them.” Lenore muttered.

Apparently the Lady wished her to enter, because despite the nurse’s obvious misgivings, she was ushered in.

“Leave us.” said the Lady, and her nurses and maids left.  “Lady Lenore.” she said, and smiled.  Then she began to say something more, but fell to coughing.

“My dear cousin Isolde,” Lenore said, “Don’t hurt yourself on my account.  What has befallen you?  Have you been ill long?”

Isolde nodded.  That made Lenore frown.  It wasn’t a good sign.

“Does your physician have treatments for you?”  Another nod.

“Do they give you relief?”  A negative this time.

Lenore paused.  She would have to talk to this physician, and see what his plan was, how he was treating her, and what he saw as her major symptoms.  But it wouldn’t do to believe only his word.

“May I examine you?”  A nod again, but more hesitant this time.

Lenore spoke a word, and touched the amethyst at her neck.  It glowed for a moment, and then darkened as she pulled her fingers away.  She ran her hand carefully along the other woman’s body, a few finger widths from her skin, and then over her head, looking closely.  Although those without the sight would see nothing, to Lenore there were tendrils of light running everywhere over the woman now, some of them stronger than others.  The darker spots could hide illness, negativity, even poisons.  It seemed as though Isolde had gotten something stuck deep in her chest.  Lenore took a step back.  “I may have something to help.  First I will speak to your physician – if I may?”

Isolde nodded.  “Please do.”

“And you should try to eat only light foods, and take some sunshine if you can, in the meantime.  I will visit you again tomorrow if not before.”

Isolde smiled and nodded, and Lenore turned to go.  As she exited into the outer chamber, she accosted one of the younger maids, and asked where she might find this physician.  The frightened girl gave her directions to his storeroom and office, and then also to his small house outside the castle walls, should she fail to find him at his work.

“But he makes calls to others as well,” the girl added as Lenore left, “he could be most anywhere.”

Well, then she’d start with his storeroom and office, she decided.  It was the closest, after all.  As she walked briskly in that direction, she heard a laugh that was unmistakably Orla’s.  Lenore resisted the urge to check on them – no doubt they were practicing diligently.  They nearly always did.  Hovering too much would not do them any good; her observation was a distractionwhen they were practicing something she had already taught them.  So she quieted her footsteps as she walked past, and they did not notice her presence. 

A few more hallways and one narrow, winding staircase later, she found herself outside the physician's domain.  She reached up to take the knocker and smiled to find it in the shape of a snake swallowing its own tail.  She had always liked that symbol – and now the uroboros was to her both a symbol of the repeated lives of the Opal Child, and of her own elongated life and repeated searching.  She wondered briefly how many normal lifetimes she would spend like this.  Already it had been nearly seven.  Seven times seventy... she would be 490 when the year turned back towards spring.  It was a strong number, in alchemy – she hoped it would be a strong year for her.  But it would be difficult to wait that long to find the child.  Shaking her head slightly to bring herself back to the present, Lenore pulled back the uroboros and knocked loudly, three times.  She waited for a moment, and then raised her hand to knock again when it opened in.  An old man with white hair and thick spectacles answered, squinting up at her. 

“Yes?  What is it you need?”  He seemed distracted, and did not recognize her.

“Are you the physician of the Lady Isolde?”  she asked, though he certainly seemed to be the right man.

The physican frowned and the wrinkles that appeared as he did so seemed to speak volumes.  He was aware that his treatments were not working.  “Yes, that I am.”

“May I come in?” Lenore asked, somewhat sharply so as to leave next to no room for denial.

He hesitated, and she thought for a moment that he would make some excuse in order to refuse, but then he sighed and stepped out of the way.  As she entered he made a tiny gesture towards the two chairs by the hearth.  Lenore sat down in the only clear and made herself comfortable as the man shuffled around, moving papers and a bottle or two from the other chair to any available surfaces in order to sit.  Then, once he had space to sit he sat heavily, only to bound up again. 

“Ah – do you wish to take tea?”  The wrinkles on his face betrayed anxiety, this time, and so Lenore declined, though a hot beverage would have been welcome.

“No, I am fine."

He sat again, obviously somewhat relieved, and then began to wring his hands nervously.  “What is it that you wish to speak to me about?” he asked.

“Tell me about the Lady's illness.”  It was not a request.  “Start at the very beginning, with the first symptoms, and tell me how she has progressed to the state she is in now.” Lenore commanded.

“Well... it started with nothing more than an early autumn chill.” he began uncertainly.  “She had been out riding when it began to rain, and it rained so hard that the creek overflowed its bank and she had to take a long way around to get back to the castle.  She was out in the cold rain, soaked to the bone, for hours...”

Lenore nodded, listening closely and absentmindedly stroking the choker now and again, causing the amethyst to glow slightly every time she did so.  The glowing seemed to distract the physician, because he continued the story while looking down at his hands, instead of meeting her gaze as was more common in this part of the world.

“When she returned home it was so late that she dried herself and then went straight to bed without any hot teas or baths to heat her, and I am afraid she may have been too cold in the night.  The next day she was a little tired and pale, the King says, but she brushed it off and laughed at him for worrying.  That night, however, she began to cough.  Lightly at first – a maid brought her a hot tea with lemon, honey, and spirits to soothe it, which was her customary remedy.  The next morning, however, it was worse, not better.  She took more tea, and sipped hot broths, but otherwise she went about her tasks as usual, assuming it would pass.  It did not pass, and in fact grew worse every evening and morning.  I was called on the third day, and I admit I, too, thought it nothing serious at first.”  At this, he looked up, almost sheepishly, as though her were a pupil and her a stern professor, ready to berate him for an infantile mistake.  Lenore did not let her face show any sign of condescension. 

“I recommended a steam treatment,” he picked up again. “I recommended putting certain clarifying leaves in boiling water, and for her to breathe in the steam with her head under a cloth to keep it from wafting away.  That seemed to work at first.”  He grimaced then.  “But as with everything else, it did not work long.  When they called me she already did not have the energy to hold court, but as the days progressed she lost even the energy to pace her rooms, and became bedridden.  Every little movement seemed to set off a coughing fit, and it was hard for her to eat solid foods.  Her throat was raw, but only from coughing.  Unlike most, she had no white growths, and it was not so tender.  With no reprieve from the coughing, however, it became harder for her to sleep, and the lack of sleep has made her wan and pale and sickly green.  She is beginning to even lack the energy to cough, and – ”  here he stopped for a moment and squeezed both his hands into fists almost violently, before continuing in an undertone “– and I fear she may soon lack the strength to breathe at all.  But please, tell that to no one.”  His voice had become strained, and his eyes were filling with tears.  “I am trying to work on a cure, any new treatment, I have returned to my books to seek any possible answer.” he finished, lamely.

Lenore reached forward and gently put her hand over his squeezed fist.  She held it there a moment until he relaxed.  Then she drew back and thought for a long while, whispering to herself as she ran a finger absentmindedly around the jewel at her throat.

“I will do what I can to help.” she said, at last, and even that small promise seemed to iron out some of his tension and allow him to relax ever so slightly.  “I have knowledge of the healing arts, and there are many treatments that can be helped along with sorcery.  I also have two acolytes with me – one of whom has an uncommon gift for healing.  We will cure her if we can.”

The physician nodded.  “I am very grateful for that.  And if it is true that our King is your distant kinsman, I am sure he will be happy to hear it as well.  But I must ask – there is talk in the village that you are the Violet Lady, one of the Prismatic Ones.  Is that true?  Can it be so?  I had thought they never left their Keep.”

“I am she.  And no, we do not leave very often at all.”

“Just for one thing, the stories tell.” he pressed, with a sudden hint of gleam in his eye.

“Stories tell many things.” she answered, her voice suddenly cold.

“Aye, but I hope it is true.” he said.

Lenore rose.  “I will return with my acolytes tomorrow morning.”

The physician rose as well, nodded, and walked to the door, opening it for her and then closing it again behind her.

Once the door was closed, Lenore looked back at it, and the uroboros.  That had been a strange look he’d given her, and it unsettled her.  It was not common knowledge that she’d emerged to search for the Opal Child, and yet anyone who paid a great deal of attention to rumors would easily be able to track her movements.  Once they did that, a clear searching pattern would no doubt emerge.  It would be obvious that she was searching for something or someone, and from there it was no great leap to assume it was the Opal Child.  That was the calling of the Prismatic Sorcerers, after all: to find her, to guide her, and to protect her.  Still, his interest had been strange.  Strange, too, had been the way he appeared not to recognize her at all at first when everyone else in the castle had so far, and then to know the oldest stories better than the nursemaids, who usually knew stories best of all.

The stories of her last search had changed over the course of generations, she knew.  At first, the stories had been that her traveling signaled the end of the world.  Then, as the Opal Child emerged and began doing her work it became clear that she had not been spreading chaos and destruction, but trying to stop its spread.  Somehow, the stories of the Opal Child and the hope she symbolized were lost more quickly than the tales of the Violet Lady spreading chaos, however, and as the years progressed she became a fearsome symbol again.  Hope was more easily lost than fear.  That was one of the teachings of the Prismatic Sorcerers, one of the things they fought against.  So how did this man, old though he was, remember stories that were lost to previous generations?  Perhaps it was the books.  His office had been full of them.  Lenore contemplated this as she slowly walked the grounds inside the walls, and then all the way back to her rooms, but she could come up with no better answer, and even that answer did not quiet her heart.

When she arrived back at the suite she found the girls in the bath area, tidying themselves for the evening meal.  From the looks of it they had practiced very diligently indeed.  Both were flushed, and their hair was somewhat unkempt.  Rowan was struggling with a comb to make hers lie flat again, and Orla was just suggesting that she ought to braid it instead when Lenore entered the room and they both straightened, like knights standing at attention.

“How did it go?”  Lenore asked, and both girls started to speak at once, and then laughed at their own eagerness.  Rowan gestured Orla to go first, and the younger girl did so.

“Rowan’s getting much better at holding onto my nets.  She even managed to strengthen one I hadn’t quite managed to cast thickly enough.  It was like cobweb, and she made it as strong as fish netting.”

Rowan blushed a little, obviously pleased.  “And you’re getting better at controlling the size of them, Orla, and passing them off more easily, instead of just stretching it out or creating more and more.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Lenore said, and she was.  She stepped into her own room for a moment, and left them to fix their hair, splash their faces, and straighten their hems.  She did not need that sort of refreshment, but she had wanted to look for a moment into her scrying mirror again.  This time, as she did so, she could not help but notice the shadows moving, and they seemed more sinister and more obvious than they ever had before.  She found she was watching them more than calling for the Opal Child, and for some reason that made them even more disturbing.  Lenore threw a cloth over the mirror and stood suddenly, breathing hard.  It took her a few moments of concentrated effort to regain her usual calm center.  When she had she left her room to join her girls, and resolved to think on it no more that night.

Dinner was a boisterous affair, despite the noteable absence of the Lady of the castle.  Once again many dishes were passed around, including all of Oakenhill's most famous delicacies.  Many wines and ales were poured, and the night was finished with cheeses, fruit, and pastries.  The girls enjoyed themselves immensely, and even Lenore managed to relax and forget about her earlier misgivings for a while.  After dinner there were ballads, a few folk dances, and more wine, which put the assembled party in a jovial mood.  The music wound down as the fire burned low, and when it was little more than embers Lenore, Rowan, and Orla wandered back to their rooms for a sound night's sleep.  Lenore managed to slip into sleep with ease, unburdened by her quest, and slept more soundly than she had in many months.

The next morning Lenore woke with the sun and the birds, and felt rejuvenated, almost young.  She broke her fast on quail eggs and plain warm bread brought by maids to the little parlor, and her acolytes ate their bread with jam and marmalade.  As they ate, Lenore told them what she had learned of the Lady of the Castle from the castle physician the previous day, and requested that they join her in visiting the physician again, and in searching for a cure for the Lady.  After they had eaten, they bathed and dressed and she led them to the physician's office where she knocked smartly.  The physician opened the door quickly and then almost shrunk when he saw her, but let the trio inside.

“I have prepared my notes on the Queen, should you wish to read them.” he said.

“Oh, please.” Rowan said, pleasantly surprised.  It was often her task to leaf through thick tomes or to ease open long scrolls in order to find information her mistress needed.  She read very quickly – even more quickly than Lenore herself, and Lenore believed very much in using well the talents of each individual.  The physician handed Rowan the folios and she took them gently, placing them on top of a stack of particularly large volumes in order to read through them carefully.

“This is Rowan, and this here is Orla.” Lenore said, not bothering to use their full titles and family names this time.  There was no reason the physician would need to know that, and it was not required by politesse, given his rank.  The King would have needed to know Rowan's lineage at the very least, and she had provided Orla's in parallel, but even as acolytes they outranked a simple castle physician.

“I am Hankin, Physician to the King.” he said, and it occurred to Lenore that they had not properly done intructions before.

“And excuse me for not introducing myself before, but I am Lenore, called also the Violet Lady as you well know, Prismatic Sorceress, and kin to your King.  These girls are my acolytes, and we will do our best to cure the Lady Isolde.”

“I was not aware the Prismatic Ones concerned themselves with such mundane affairs in other kingdoms.” he muttered acidly.  Lenore was somewhat surprised; yesterday he had been very passive.

“Our aim is to relieve the negative burdens of all those who live on the land that stretches in each direction to the sea.” she said, and left it at that. 

Rowan was still reading, and so Lenore turned to Orla.  “Go and examine the Lady.  Tell me what you think.”

“Have you not examined her?”  Orla asked, somewhat confused.

“I have,” Lenore assured her, “but your instincts are very good.  I wish to know what you can ascertain about her illness, in its current form.  Any of the servants should be able to guide her to your chambers if you do not know the way.  And if anyone stops you, tell them you have orders from the Violet Lady, on request from the Queen herself.  They will step aside for you if you hold yourself high.”

Orla nodded, and left quickly, determination on her face.  At any other time Lenore might have smiled at that.  To Rowan, bearing such important orders came naturally.  She was, after all, the daughter of a Lord Protector.  But to Orla they barely came at all.  She had trouble acting the part of an important persona, even though she was one, as an acolyte of one of the Prismatic Sorcerers.  Today, however, Lenore was more preoccupied with the task at hand, and she brushed past the physician to take a look at his stores of medicinal herbs, powders, oils, and salves.

Lenore spent a while going through his stores carefully.  She lifted jars and vials to feel their weight.  She swirled the liquids to see how they rolled around and blended back together.  Many of them she opened, to inhale their scent.  She inspected the dry herbs and powders, too, looking for the shape and thickness of leaves, flakes, and crystals.  Some she tasted, putting the tiniest bit on her tongue.  Most of what the physician had was what she expected: those with obvious medicinal properties, and also some very expensive items from far away with dubious medical use but a large amount of panache.  Some of those latter were also cheap frauds, labeled as the real thing.  Lenore suspected a traveling merchant was to blame for those.  Most physicians from smaller lands did not do a lot of traveling and were easily taken in by unscrupulous merchants.  She sincerely hoped he hadn’t tried to use any of the fraudulent ingredients to cure her Lady cousin.  Once Lenore had taken stock of his stores, she turned back to the physician, and found him watching her.

“Something to write with and on, if you please.”  she said. 

He bumbled away, and returned with a quill, ink, and a scrap of parchment, and handed them over without speaking.

“Thank you.”

She began to write, starting with everything she thought might help.  At first she splashed ink furiously like a swollen river, but when her writing slowed to a trickle she looked up.

“Rowan,” she called, “What has he given her recently, which may still be in her system?”

The physician began to grumble that he would be better qualified to answer that question, but Lenore cut him off.

“I will trust her reading of your notes above your memory.” she said sharply.  And truth be told, she trusted Rowan to know better how long his remedies would stay in her system.

What Rowan read off she wrote down in a tidy little column, with extra notes on anything she knew to be fraudulent.

“And… that’s all.” Rowan finished.  “Except for duplicates.  He gave her the same thing several times.”

“Tell me which ones are duplicates, then.”  Lenore said.  “I’ll make a note to expect more than one dose.”

“Oh – which will better tell us if it’s likely to still be in her system?” Rowan asked, though she knew the answer was yes.  Lenore nodded, and Rowan amended her list.  When they were finished, Lenore nodded, satisfied.

“Now we’ll wait for Orla to return, and add her notes to what we have so far.”

Rowan nodded, and began to wander as best she could through the cluttered workspace.  Every now and again she found a book or scroll or folder of folios that interested her, and she asked the physician if she might peek inside.  In each case the answer was yes, and so she would take it down from a shelf or out of a pile, brush the dust off, and open it, breathing in the scent of each one as she turned the pages.  After a while the physician began pulling things down from shelves or out from under piles of parchment, spare bits  of leather, too-worn quills, old handkerchiefs, and other detritus of his life and offering them to her, having developed a feel for her tastes.

Lenore spent the time letting her mind and powers wander, trying to unify the knowledge she had gained about Isolde’s condition.  With her eyes closed she could only smell and hear what her acolyte was doing, but one thing was obvious even without opening them: the physician was finally beginning to relax.  She smiled, eyes still closed.  Rowan had a talent for putting people at their ease, and she did it so effortlessly, just by being herself.  The girl had a calm, blue-silver energy that contrasted with Orla’s lively green, but the energies complemented each other nicely as well.  Lenore’s own energy was intense and violet, which is why she had inherited the Violet Gem.  There had been other Violet Sorcerers before her, and there would likely be others after her, but for now Lenore did not seek an acolyte with energies similar to her own.  She was not ready to let go of this life and pass on to another.  Instead, she trained the young, taking on many acolytes for their first three years, before passing them on to the correct Prismatic Sorcerer, if one such existed.  There was a Verdant Sorcerer, and if Orla kept progressing he would likely take her on as an apprentice, for she was the only one of the young acolytes with a truly green energy, and she would be strong enough to wield the Gem, if she could learn the proper control.  As for Rowan, Lenore had never seen anyone with an energy quite like hers.  She had seen white energies, and blue ones, but never one with the silvery almost metallic quality hers had.  Frequently the young had muddied energies in strange colors or with strange qualities – a bit of orange in red, a bit of brown in green, that sort of thing – and with training they managed to resonate more cleanly, but Rowan’s silver was not a defect.  She shone true.  What’s more, Lenore would not be surprised if her mother had similar energies, when she still lived.  There had been rumors that she was more than she appeared to be, even rumors that she had blood inherited from the first people of that land, the [elves].  The [elves] were supposed to have been not exactly human – something fairer, longer-lived, and stronger in sorcery than man.  But whatever they were, they either left or died out long ago.  Now the land was cared for by the Heart of the Land, the Opal Child, who was born once every two centuries so that things could be set right again.  And Lenore needed to find her.  There it was again – the pressure, the anxiety, the yearning.  What she wouldn’t give for a distraction.

As if on cue, Orla burst through the door.  “Mistress, I’ve seen her, and she’s very ill.  I think his treatments might be doing more harm than good.” 

Lenore sat up and opened her eyes.  They physician started and nearly dropped the book he’d been handing to Rowan, but she caught it neatly as his shock gave way to an angry jutting of his jaw and his relaxation evaporated.  Sensing a change in him for the worse, and realizing they had probably already overstepped all boundaries he had tried to set, Lenore though it best they left.  She took the parchment, and stood. 

“Let us go seek refreshment, and then you can tell us what you have learned, Orla.”  she said, and beckoned Rowan to follow as she walked to the door.  Orla pivoted and followed her out.  Once outside, Rowan frowned.

“You didn’t have to say it like that, you know.”

“Say it like what?”  Orla asked, confused at the chiding.

“You didn’t have to say that he was harming her.  He doesn’t mean to, he’s just not as talented as you are.”

“But – it was the truth.” Orla said.  “I’m almost certain he is harming her with whatever treatment he’s given her.”

“So am I.”  Lenore cut in.  “He is using substances he doesn’t understand, and what’s more, some of them are not what he believes them to be.  But that doesn’t mean that Rowan is wrong, Orla.  You can learn a lot about manners from her.  Truth does not always need to be bluntly given.  Sometimes it is best to keep such thoughts amongst ourselves.  We do need his help, after all, and it will be best not to make him angry with us.  He already knows his treatment isn’t working, and it makes him feel inadequate.  That feeling makes anyone quick to anger.”

“Why do we need his help?” Orla asked.

“Because we don’t have the right herbs and oils, and we certainly don’t have time to buy or gather them ourselves.” Rowan said, before Lenore could answer.  “We need use of his stores.”

“And we also need him to be willing to learn from us if he is to help others in the future,” Orla added, understanding now.

“Yes,” Lenore agreed, happy that she had come around.  She usually did.  Orla’s flaw was not that she had problems understanding, but that she asked questions immediately, before trying to figure it out herself.  Rowan had the opposite flaw – she worked very long and hard to figure things out, when a simple question could set her in the right direction.  It was another way in which the pairing was complementary.  They walked the rest of the way in silence, save for their breathing echoing off the stone walls, and the soft fall of their feet on the stone floors.  The hallways of the castle were bare, lacking the furnishings and tapestries of more wealthy Lords, but the stones of the floors, walls, and arched ceilings were well fitted, smooth, and dry.  Lenore led them to their small sitting room, stopping a laundry maid in passing to ask for tea and fruit to be brought in on trays, along with some pastries.

Once they were inside and seated, Lenore finally turned to Orla.  “Now.  Tell us what it is you felt.”

“The Lady Isolde is full of toxins.”  Orla said.  “It surely started out as a simple illness, but whatever made her ill also left poison in her lungs.  His treatment was meant to cure her head, but it could not stop the progression, for that was not the source of her illness.  And then, as he became more desperate, he gave her something that weakened her further, and now her blood is poisoned as well.”

Lenore nodded slowly as she listened, and then once more when Orla finished.  “Yes, that is very much what I thought as well.  Which means we shall have to work backwards.  First the poison in her blood, then the toxins in her lungs.  And I have a very good idea of what poison he has been giving her – quite by accident, as well.  In his stores, labeled as Mother’s Prayer, an herb from the far eastern sea, he has a deadly lookalike – Deliverance.  It is also called Slow Death, because that is what it does: take a few spoonfuls of a tea made from the dried leaves every day, and you will slowly die, as though you had an illness that could not be cured.  It mocks illnesses.  Those who take it experience better days and worse ones, and find they feel the best in the quiet midday.  Some use it on others, some on themselves, but if it is taken for long enough, all die.  And the Lady Isolde has taken it for many days.”

“Is there an antidote?”  Rowan asked. 

“There is no immediate antidote,” Lenore explained, “but there is a cure.  In order to be cured, the one who is ill must drink a full cup of a special tea of clarifying herbs three times a day, for one third as long as they drank the deadly tea.”

“Four days.”  Rowan said.  “Can we stay here that long?”

“We will stay as long as we must.” Lenore said, though she felt again the tug of yearning to move on, to keep moving until she found the one she sought.  “We cannot possibly overstay our welcome.  The Lord is kin of mine, and nothing the physician or anyone else says will shake his faith in me.”

Rowan looked relieved.  She was always the most unbalanced after they were forced to leave, and she had been jumpy for days after they were chased out of one city by a mob.

“So what goes in this curing tea?”  Orla asked. 

“Five herbs.” Lenore said, and listed them.  Three were very common.  The fourth was known to both girls, and the fifth Lenore had been surprised but very glad to find in the physician’s store.  “We mix them in equal parts, and use a heaping spoonful per cup of tea. Getting her to drink it will be the hardest part – she does not eat or drink much, and the tea will feel harsh to her tongue, and may make her stomach churn. 

Melanie woke an hour after dawn, for that was when the rays of sunlight suddenly stabbed through the window, impaling dust motes along their way across the room, and fell like an axe upon her sleeping eyes.  She opened them, and as she did so lost the last traces of her dream.  She struggled to remember for a moment – someone had been looking for her.   Had she been hiding?  But then her stomach growled so loudly and cramped so tightly that she gave up.  It wasn’t important anyway.  That’s what Mother always said.  Of course, Mother also always said that venison stew would cure what ailed her, but the smell of meat, cooked or raw, had always turned her stomach.  It hadn’t stopped Mother from making a fuss over it again last night, though, and Melanie had gone to bed without supper.  Her stomach twisted and cramped again, and Melanie cringed.  She should find something to eat.  She slowly sat up, stretched both arms and her face toward the ceiling, tossed the corner of the tattered blanket away from her, swung her legs around to the edge of the bed, and gingerly stood.  She breathed slowly as her head swam, blurring her vision.  She counted slowly to twelve, and it cleared.  Then Melanie took three very quiet steps to her door and eased it open without a sound.  With the door opened she could hear most of the house, and so she paused to listen.  Mother was humming to herself, which meant she was probably sewing or mending or darning.  She only hummed when she was working with clothes, for some reason.  Melanie could hear her brother snoring still, his breath raspy and nasal.  He would probably wake soon, but with Mother busy, the way was currently clear.  Melanie did not bother with either shoes or a cloak as she darted down the hall to the front door, eased it open as quietly as she had the door to her own room, and then ran for the road.

Just down the road lived Grey Annie, an older woman who lived by herself, and made a living selling the herbs, flowers, and fruits she grew in her gardens, as well as honey, wax, and mead from her bees.  Melanie liked her, because Grey Annie seemed to be the only one in the village who did not think anything was wrong with her.  Mother thought that the lack of meat was what caused her eyes and skin to be so pale.  Others sometimes whispered that she was a changeling, or had dabbled in witchcraft.  Few townsfolk met her eyes because they believed that their pale color, nearly white with just a hint of amber, was unnatural and could cause any manner of ill luck.  Grey Annie told her not to mind them.  She had been to other places where there were people with skin so dark they could make her brother Douglas look as pale as Melanie did.  Melanie wasn’t sure why she believed that, but she felt it to be true, and now sometimes saw those lands in her dreams.  She saw lots of things in her dreams – the problem was remembering once she was awake again.  Like the dream last night… something still unsettled her.  Or perhaps it was her stomach, still tying her into knotted rope.

When she got to Grey Annie’s she went around to the back, and found the old woman picking apples.  Grey Annie turned just as she came up behind her, and tossed her one.

“Hungry again?” she asked.

“Yes.  Mother wanted me to eat the stew again.  I tried to tell her how I felt, like you said, but she sent me to bed for disrespecting her.” Melanie said, her face screwed tight with emotion.  She didn’t want to upset her mother, and she hated being called rude, but she just couldn’t eat the meat.  She knew she would feel awful for days, and Mother didn’t seem to notice how sick it made her feel.

“Well, I’ve plenty here, so eat your fill, child.”  She went back to picking, and Melanie saw that her basket was almost full of the red-green apples.  Red near the stem because the sun burned them, Grey Annie had said the first time she gave one to Melanie.  It almost seemed to her that the taste was different beneath the different colors, but it was hard to be certain of that.  It was especially hard to be certain when she ate it as quickly as she did that morning.  Melanie had to stop to breathe heavily partway through, because in her hurry to fill her stomach with something that would stop the terrible pains, she had forgotten to breathe between bites.

“What do I tell you about eating and breathing, child?”  Grey Annie said, without turning.

“Try to remember the second when I’m doing the first?” Melanie said, with a sheepish grin.

“Aye, that was it.”  The old woman plucked two more apples, and then seemed satisfied with the basket, and began walking back towards the house.  Melanie finished her apple, eating it more slowly this time, but she still finished before entering the house, and tossed it into the barrel with other scraps of compost.  Grey Annie kept all the bruised leaves and dead flowers and fruit cores to help return nutrients to the soil at the end of the season.

“Want another one, dearie?” she asked.

Melanie nodded, and picked another off the top.

“I should have some new-roasted nuts in the cabinet as well, and I’ve plenty of honey.” Grey Annie added.  “Oh, and the farmer came today, so I’ve fresh milk, as well.”

Melanie looked up with eager anticipation, but her mouth was full of apple. 

“I know that look.  I’ll make you some honeyed milk, child.” Grey Annie said, smiling.  She got up and poured a large mug of milk, then added a generous helping of honey.  As a last ingredient, she took a few petals off the white flowers sitting in a vase in the sun, and rolled them between her fingers to bruise them before added them to the cup.  She stirred it until everything was well blended, and then passed it to the girl, who by this time had finished her second apple.

“Drink it slow, now.  You’ve just eaten two apples faster than a horse.” Grey Annie said with a chuckle.

Melanie nodded, and took the cup gratefully.  “Thank you, very much.”  She knew how dear milk was – Mother rarely let her forget.

While she was drinking, Grey Annie took down some of the roasted nuts from her cabinet and poured a few handfuls into a scrap of burlap.  “When you’re finished, you run along home before she catches you out, but take these with you.  And how much do you have left of that honey I gave you?”

Melanie swallowed and then looked guilty.  “None.”

“None at all?” Grey Annie asked, surprised.

“I finished it the day before yesterday.”  Melanie confessed.

“Well, bring back the clay pot and I’ll give you more, you ninny.  No wonder you’re so hungry this morning.  You’ve nothing at all left, except what your mother feeds you!”

Melanie nodded, and Grey Annie frowned.  “She means well, you know, your Mother.  She’s just stubborn.  Thinks she knows what’s best, because it worked for her and for your brother.  Doesn’t want to see you as different, because she thinks different means bad, but it don’t.  You’re different, child – that’s as plain as can be.  But it isn’t a bad thing.  It’s like plants.  Some of them want sun and some want shade, some want water every day, some just a sprinkling now and again.  Some bloom and some don’t.  You’re just a different kind of flower, child, and she’s trying to plant you in the wrong soil, because she thinks her soil is best and she can’t understand how you can be her child and not need the same things.”

They’d had this conversation before, and Melanie just nodded.  Privately, she often wondered if her mother wasn’t actually her mother at all.  If she came from the fairies, as some folk said.  Or from some strange distant people, people who ate fruit and honey and nuts and milk, but never ever meat.  People with pale gold hair and skin and eyes.  There was one other girl in town with hair almost as light as hers, the daughter of a farmer.  But her hair was a sort of red-gold, much shinier, and the girl had the same sun-browned skin as anyone else in the village, and common muddy brown eyes.  Melanie had noticed that children were sometimes born with hair like hers, but their hair all seemed to darken and thicken and get shinier as they got older, and none of them had hair so light and fine once they could walk and talk.  Melanie was nearly seven now, but hers was still as fine as cobwebs, and as light as bone bleached in the sun.  Her eyelashes and eyebrows were so delicate that she didn’t seem to have any at all, which contributed to her strangeness in the minds of the villagers.

Grey Annie eventually stopped comparing her to a rare plant, and Melanie tipped the mug all the way back and stuck her tongue in to remove the last few drops.

“You take those nuts and run along home, now.” the old woman said, and Melanie nodded.

“Thank you, Grey Annie!” she called as she ran out the front door, clutching the edges of the burlap tightly so that no nuts would fall out.  She went home the long way, around the back hedges, so that she could see the house before those inside could see her.  At the hedge she stopped, and closed her eyes.  Sometimes, she found she could hear things even when they were far away, if she tried.  She forced herself to breathe slowly, though her heart was pounding because of her run, and she focused on hearing the house.  It only took a moment, and then she could hear Mother’s humming coming through the window, and it sounded as though Douglas was eating a loaf of bread.  She could hear the crackle of the crust.  He was likely in the main room, then, which meant she ought to enter from the back, and tiptoe past Mother’s room to get back to her own.  Melanie took a deep breath and then darted again, from hedge to tree, trying to stay low and in the shade whenever possible.  When she got to the door she held her breath and eased it open a hair at a time.  The door creaked, and Mother seemed to prefer it that way, but Melanie had practiced for hours one market day when she and Douglas were gone, and now if she did it just right she could open it far enough to slip in and close it back without a sound.  It worked, and Melanie nearly sighed with relief before she caught herself and put a hand over her mouth.  Now all she needed to do was sneak past Mother’s door, and that was easy enough in bare feet.  She had just barely closed the door to her own room when she heard Mother’s creak open.  Melanie froze for a moment, then realized she was still holding the nuts.  She managed to slip them under her pillow and sit down just before Mother opened her door, and then pull off a very convincing yawn and stretch.

“Still in bed, girl?  I would think you were hungry.” Mother scoffed.  “Join your brother at table – he’ll give you some of the loaf, and maybe a bit of the butter.”

Melanie stood slowly, and her mother pulled her by the arm – not roughly, but none too gently, either – and set her in motion towards the table in the main room.  Douglas looked up as she entered, and sneered.

“Look, it’s the pale one.  Want a bit of bread?  Or is that going to turn your little baby stomach, too?” he mocked her.

“I’d like bread.” she said faintly.

He tore her off a tiny chunk.  “There you are.  And it’s more than you deserve, not eating what was made for you.”

Melanie wished he’d leave off.  He was worse than Mother, really.  Mother thought it was punishment enough to be sent to bed without, but Douglas would go on teasing her about it until he found something else to tease her about.  He didn’t like what the villagers said about her, and he hated that it was attached to him as well.  Melanie wanted to tell him that it wasn’t her fault she was like this, but she knew it wouldn’t do any good.  She chewed slowly and swallowed the bit of bread, and then waited a long while in silence while Douglas pretended to ignore her before asking for more.

“Could I – have another piece?”  she asked.  “And maybe a bit of butter this time?”

“And maybe a bit of butter this time?” he mocked her again, raising his voice to a nasally whine.

“Give her a smear.” Mother said with a sigh, as though it was Melanie making the trouble.  She had just walked into the room, and she sat heavily in the remaining chair.

Douglas grumbled, but he tore off a bigger chunk this time, and added a dab of butter to it before handing it over.

Melanie thanked him and then ate it slowly.

Douglas, finished with his meal, made a big show of being full and then got up.  “Well, I have plenty of work today, so I should get going.  The fires don’t wait.”  He was apprenticed to the local blacksmith, and being chosen had given him a sense of worth that was perhaps inflated.  Mother seemed to think he was very important, though.  Or perhaps she was just relieved that he was normal and strong, unlike his younger sister.  Mother beckoned him over, and he gave her a peck on the cheek before leaving.

“Now, Melanie,” Mother said, turning to her, “I have things to do in the village today.  I’ve left some potatoes for peeling – see that they’re done before suppertime.  Other than that, stay out of trouble and stay home.  You understand?”  She narrowed her eyes.

Melanie brought her eyes up from her bread and gave her mother an innocent look.  “Yes, Mother.”

Her mother did not appear to be fully satisfied, but she nodded anyway, and stood, rearranging her skirts around her and grabbing a basket from the floor.

“Don’t go wandering off!” She yelled as she stepped through the doorway.

As soon as Melanie was sure her mother was gone she slumped back in her chair.  She was tired of all this pretending.  Pretending she wasn’t hungry, pretending she hadn’t been to visit Grey Annie.  She wished there was some way she could just be herself – even if she wasn’t sure who that self was.  She knew who she wished she was, however.  She wished she was the girl she dreamed of being, when she had good dreams.  Most of her dreams were awful and made her not want to sleep unless she had to, but those dreams always left her feeling at peace, as though she knew her place in the world.

The girl she became in her dreams was older, had hair that was brown and red and gold all at once, and eyes that were blue-green-grey.  She had friends, and people sought her counsel.  She was special, and there were people in colorful robes who taught her things and listened to what she had to say.  There were also young people her age and some older or younger who wore more drab clothing, but they learned and played with her, and were her friends and confidantes.  Especially one girl, with white robes and violet eyes.  They had known each other even before the special place, and they were nearly sisters, she felt.

While she remembered these dreams, she had a sudden flash – a woman, dressed all in violet, on a black horse.  She had the same eyes as that girl, the same hair, and yet she was different, somehow.  Something had changed her.  Melanie couldn't remember where she had seen the lady.  Another dream, perhaps?  What she remembered most was the determined and yet despairing look in her violet eyes, as dark hair curled around them, enclosing her.

Last night she'd had terrible dreams, but she couldn't remember details, just the sense of dread and how her heart pounded and how she awoke out of breath.  She was often out of breath even in her waking life, though, especially when the wind changed around mid-morning and started to come from the direction of the smithy where her brother was apprenticed.  She was beginning to smell it now, and sho she hopped up and quickly shut up the house: all the windows, shutters and shades.  She had to stand on a stool to reach some of them, but she'd long since learned how to manage them in order to keep out that smoke.  Mother thought she was being silly.  “En't nothing wrong with a little soot, Melanie.  What're you anyway, a princess?  Can't stand a little dirt?” came her Mother's voice, ringing in her mind.  It was no use to explain to her that dirt was fine, good fresh dirt never bothered her, but soot was something different entirely.  Soot made her eyes and throat burn, got into her nose and lungs and stayed there, choking her even as she coughed harder and harder, trying to get it out.  Wood smoke didn’t bother her so much, but the smoke from the smithy was different, with its scent of searing metal and all that coal dust.  It was like breathing in death.  Just for her, though – no one else seemed to feel it like she did.  Douglas didn’t even cover his face when he was working; she could tell by how the soot clung to every inch of him when he returned home.  Dirt never made her feel so ill, not even when it was dry out and it all turned to fine dust and sand, and the wind whipped it at her, cutting her face and stinging her eyes.  That pain didn’t cling, didn’t make her feel weak and queasy.  And once she had a cup of hot tea and blew her nose she didn’t even sneeze.  The soot was different, but Mother didn’t understand.  Grey Annie did, though.  The soot didn’t make her ill, not really, but she still shut her windows when it blew her way.  “Can’t be good to breathe in, when the plants don’t like it.” she’d said, the only time Melanie had asked.

It occurred to her that she’d never told Grey Annie about the dreams, good or bad.  She’d told Mother, and Mother had told her that dreams didn’t matter, they were just silliness.  Melanie felt that some of them were, but some of them weren’t, and she hadn’t been able to explain that to Mother.  But maybe Grey Annie would understand.  Melanie wished the wind weren’t blowing from the smithy.  She would have loved to run down to Grey Annie’s right then and tell her all about the dreams she was remembering, and the two people with the violet eyes, but she couldn’t go out of the house.  Not now, not into that horrible smoke.  Hopefully the wind would change, though.  In the meantime, she should start on those potatoes.  Melanie hummed a strange little tune as she took the knife to the potatoes’ rough skins.  It wasn’t a tune she’d ever heard anyone sing, but somehow she felt there were probably words to it, if only she could remember them.  Mother thought she’d made it up, said she’d been singing it since she was a wee babe, and no one else have ever even hummed it.  Perhaps she’d heard the song in a dream, too, Melanie thought.  Lots of things happened in her dreams, and sometimes it was hard to tell the difference between the dreams and things she actually remembered.  Not all her dreams were like that, though – sometimes she dreamed things just like anyone else: dreamed she was picking turnips and suddenly they were pumpkins, or dreamed she was falling from somewhere very high just as she fell asleep.  Even Mother had that last dream.  She’d startled herself awake on several occasions when she fell asleep in her chair and then dreamed she was falling.  Melanie thought she’d had more dreams like that when she’d been younger, too: dreams of talking to toys and other nonsense.  And Douglas sometimes talked about dreams where he’d been chased by wolves or other beasts, only to turn on them and kill them.  Melanie had dreams where people were chasing her, too, but when she awoke the feeling of being hunted didn’t disappear.  Even now, in the middle of the day, in her house in the little village, she could feel the fear viscerally, if she stopped to think about it.  Melanie shuddered, and then went back to the smooth work of peeling, focusing instead on how the peels stuck at first and then gave gently beneath the knife, and the feel of the starchy wetness as she exposed the flesh of the potato beneath the skin.  She tried to use the loamy smell of the potato to drown out the whiff of soot she’d breathed in while closing the windows and shutters.  Potatoes smelled so much of the earth, even more than some of the other foods that grew underground, like carrots and turnips and onions.  And their skins were the same brown-grey color as the dirt around here, too, and the same rough, gritty texture.  Once they were peeled, though, they were smooth and almost soft.  Melanie rubbed her fingers over the potato she’d just finished peeling, and then smiled at it before dumping it in the bowl her mother had left for her and grabbing another.  It was tedious work, but she didn’t mind much.  With Mother and Douglas gone, just about anything was relaxing.  The funny thing was, she enjoyed peeling potatoes more than she liked eating them.  Somehow they were always too heavy in her stomach, despite the delicious smell, and she couldn’t eat more than a few bites without feeling like she swallowed a rock.  Still, she always managed to eat some, and that pleased Mother well enough.  She didn’t mind if her daughter ate like a bird, so long as she tried what was served.

When the bowl was about halfway full, Melanie stopped for a moment to rest her hands.  They were becoming stiff, with both the starch and the work.  There was still some water in the morning wash bowl, so she got up, took the few steps to the counter, and plunged her hands down to the bottom, flattening her palms against the curved metal.  She left them there for a moment, watching the swirling patterns of dirt, debris, and the few remaining soap bubbles on the surface.  It mesmerized her, made her mind float almost like she was entering a dream.  Then her mother’s face came into sharp focus, and so did a customary command: “Don’t let your mind wander off like that, child, or it won’t come back!  Keep it on the task at hand.”  Melanie sighed, and rubbed her hands together beneath the cool water, releasing the last of the starch.  Then she pulled them out, let them drip for a moment, and walked back to the stool and the potatoes.  She picked another one up, and then froze.  Leaning her head towards the nearest window, she inhaled carefully.  The scent of soot – it had been light before, but now it was really gone.  She set the potato down, and rushed to the window.  Taking a deep breath and holding it in case she was wrong, she pulled open the window and then pushed out the shutters and looked to the trees near the road.  Their leaves were floating around, and just as she had suspected, the wind had changed directions.  Now it would carry the smoke from the smithy towards the other end of town.  Melanie grinned, and then ran around the house like a wild thing, throwing all the windows open.  When she came back around to the front of the house she opened the door without thinking, and then after only a moment’s hesitation, she broke into a sprint and headed straight for Grey Annie’s.

She was on the threshold of the old woman’s house and about to enter when she realized she’d forgotten the honey pot, and so she froze there, her hand resting on the doorknob with an equivocal look on her face, and when Grey Annie opened the door from the inside she nearly fell on her face.

“Why, hello, child.” she said with a chuckle.  “I thought I heard someone come up to the house.  Why didn’t you come in?”

“I – forgot the honey pot.” Melanie confessed.

Grey Annie laughed at that.  “I’m not surprised.  I am a little surprised to see you, though.  Your Mother’s not home to keep an eye on you?”

Melanie shook her head.  “Things to do in the village, she said.”

“And your brother’s at the smithy.”

It wasn’t really a question, but Melanie nodded anyway.

“Well, I’ve plants to tend, but there’s no reason you can’t help.” Grey Annie said, and shooed the girl back out the door before coming out herself and walking around to some plants on the side of the house.  “The basil needs pruning – we need to clip off every flower bud, to keep it making leaves instead of going to seed.  You remember what the buds look like?”  She squinted at Melanie.

Melanie nodded again.  “Yes, I remember.”

“Good.” grunted Grey Annie, and she got to work.  Melanie did the same, and for a while they worked in silence.  She’d run here on a whim, and though she wanted to talk about her dreams, she wasn’t sure how to broach the topic.  After a while Grey Annie seemed to sense that something was on her mind without even looking at her, though, and she started the conversation.

“Was there something you were running here to tell me, child, before you realized you’d forgotten the honey pot?”

“Dreams.” blurted Melanie.  “What do you know about dreams?”

Grey Annie stopped then and turned to look at her.  “Mostly I know which herbs give you good dreams, which give you bad ones, and which ones to turn to when you want none at all.”  She paused for a moment, and gave Melanie a very piercing look.  “I also know a bit about how to tell if your dreams are more than just nonsense you see in your sleep.”

“Then – they’re not all just nonsense?”

“Goodness no, child.  Why do you think Seers are also called Dreamers?”

“I didn’t know they were.”  Melanie said.  “And anyway Mother says that Seers don’t exist, anyway – they’re just liars who want your gold.”

“I expect all the ones she’s ever met have been.” Grey Annie said with a sigh.  “Real Seers don’t travel around in caravans, telling fortunes from the back.  Most of the real Seers are employed by Kings, or work with other Sorcerers in castles all their own.”

“There are sorcerers, too?” Melanie asked, dumbfounded.

“Of course there are!  Don’t tell me your mother never told you the stories of the Prismatic Ones?”

“The what ones?”  Melanie asked.  “I don’t think she ever told me stories at all, except about my father.  She wanted me to try and remember him, but I don’t.  I was too young when he died.”

“Then perhaps I’ll have to tell you one. But they’re long in the telling, so why don’t we do it while we cut apples.  I’ve pies to make for the hayman’s wife.  The basil will keep.”  Grey Annie turned and headed back towards the door, then, and Melanie followed.

Once inside, Grey Annie plunked three bowls on her table, one of them full of apples.  The larger of the other two would be for the good slices, and the smaller for the peels and pips.  She handed Melanie a small knife, suited to her small hands, and they sat down on her stools, each taking an apple.

“Now let me see… it’s said that there are a number of them, the Prismatic Sorcerers.  It’s a fancy name for colorful, Prismatic, at least that’s what I’ve been told.  A number of them, and all with different colors, see.  A Green Lady, and a Blue Lord, and a Yellow Lady and a Red Lord and such like that.  Each one of them had a pretty gem of that same color that they carried with them.  Some wore it in jewelry, some carried it on a scepter or staff, but all of them had one.  They could do things with magic that other sorcerers only dreamed of, too – just about anything you can imagine, short of bringing the dead back to life.  No power in heaven or hell can do that, child.  But their sorcery was somehow the same color as their cloaks and their jewels, and some say their eyes blazed the same color as well.  Now, I can’t tell you much about them all individually, besides that they live somewhere all together in a huge castle, but I can tell you about the Violet Lady, the ominous rider.”

Melanie let her mind drift and form pictures as Grey Annie wove her tale, and her fingers and the knife danced across apples: first peeling of the skins, then quartering, then removing the pips, then slicing finely and dropping each piece in the bowl, only to take another apple and repeat the whole process.  Grey Annie started out describing the woman, with her dark hair and sharp, sinister features, her dresses so dark violet as to be almost black, and her horse as black as night with eyes that blazed like hellfire.  It sounded almost like an evil twin of the woman in her dreams, she thought idly, slipping a piece of apple into her mouth and savoring the crunch and run of juice.

“They called her the ominous rider because wherever she rode, disaster followed.” Grey Annie explained, and then she listed off many terrible calamities that had happened in exotic and faraway places.  Wars of succession, rivers running with blood, lakes full of filth, waves of crime and murder, peasant uprisings, slave rebellions, famines, drought, plagues of locusts, diseases that turned the flesh into black ooze, terrifying beasts much larger and stronger than was natural.

Melanie listened, and for the first time in her life, she had trouble believing Grey Annie.  How could one woman, even a sorceress, cause so much trouble?  How could such hardship be her doing, alone?  But Grey Annie would not lie to her.  Melanie bit her lip, and then dared to interrupt while Grey Annie took a breath.

“But why isn’t it like that still, and getting worse?  What stopped her?”

“A child, they say.” Grey Annie told her.  “A child who was so much one with the land that she could set it right just by willing it to be so.  They say the Violet Lady was searching to find her, but that the child found her first, and stopped her black magic right then and there, and spread her healing touch all over the land, and it became well again.”

“A child.” Melanie echoed, and she felt something strange deep in the pit of her stomach, like when she jumped too high and was unsure of her landing.

“A very special child.” Grey Annie said.

For a moment a contemplative silence descended, during which Melanie stuck her hand into the bowl of apples without thinking and touched not an apple but the bottom of the dish.  Suddenly, she jumped up.

“Oh!  The potatoes!  I’ve got to be finished before she gets home, or she’ll be terribly angry.  I have to go!”  She rushed towards the door, then pivoted and rushed back.  “Thank you so much for the story!  I’ll want to hear more again soon!”

Grey Annie nodded.  “I’ll be here.  You run along home now, and get to peeling!”

“I will!” Melanie called out as she left.  “And next time I’ll remember the honey pot!”  She barely managed to shut the front door behind her in her hurry, and she sprinted home without even looking out for neighbors or anyone who might tell her mother they’d seen her out and about.  She didn’t even go around back and pause at the hedges to inspect the house before she ran inside, she just bolted to the front door, whipped it open, and slammed it behind her, finally coming to rest in the kitchen where the potatoes still sat.  Then, she paused and listened.  No one was home.  No one could have seen her come in.  And she hadn’t noticed anyone on the road – perhaps no one had seen her at all.  Relieved and a little tired from her sprint, Melanie collapsed in the chair, and then pulled the potato bucket closer, away from the stool where she’d sat earlier.  Once it was all rearranged to be within easy reaching distance she went back to humming her little song and resumed her peeling rhythm.  It was only then that she remembered that she’d gone to talk to Grey Annie about dreams, not sorceresses.  Still, she was glad she'd heard the story, and she was still turning the images over in her mind.  A sorceress with violet eyes and violet robes... Could the lady in her dreams be one and the same?  And what of the girl in white, with those same violet eyes?  She was kind and good; Melanie knew that without knowing how.  The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced her dreams meant something, and the more she hoped to dream about the girl tonight.  She was so wrapped up in such thoughts that when she reached into the bucket of unpeeled potatoes and found only wood and dust, she was confused for a moment.  She must have peeled a dozen potatoes without really realizing it.  Melanie sat there and stared at the peeled potatoes, the ones below with the starch drying in lines and patches where it dripped and fell, the ones above still wet and scenting the air.  She was still frozen in that pose, the knife held loosely in her right hand, when her Mother walked up to the house.

“Melanie, open the door!  My arms are full and I en't got a hand to spare.” she bellowed.

“Coming, Mother!” Melanie called, and jumped up, tossing the knife in the bucket in her rush.  She flung open the door for her mother, took a few bunches of leeks, and the smell of the meat hit her so hard she doubled over and gagged.  Mother gave her a stern look, and Melanie knew this night wasn't going to go well.  Two nights in a row it was going to be a fuss.  She had the nuts, though, and so instead of letting it play out, Melanie just went to her room then, took the nuts out from beneath her pillow, and slipped into the tight space beneath her bed.  Mother didn't follow her, and Douglas didn't poke his head in.  She could hear them all night as she slowly munched the nuts: cooking, then eating, relating stories about their days, and eventually going to bed.  Only when she heard her brother's snoring begin and her Mother's humming end did she slide out.  It was harder than sliding under, as she'd been so tense and so still that her muscles were tight and cramped.  She worked out the tightness by stretching slowly, and hid the rest of the nuts inside her mattress this time.  Then she sat down on the bed, pulled up the tattered blanket she'd thrown off that morning, and wiggled beneath it, curled on her side.  She lay there for some time, thinking about the lady with the violet eyes, willing herself to dream what she wished, and as she drifted into sleep, she found herself seeming to float in midair, above an ornate bed in a room that could only have been in a castle.  Below her, sleeping, was a woman with dark hair and violet robes, asleep.  She was almost the woman from the other dreams, but something was different about her.  She slowly realized that it was the same something that was different between the girl and the woman – just age.  The eroding force of time.  The realization startled her, and she awoke to find herself back in her bed, unmoved.  Strange, she thought.  The second time she fell asleep, she could remember no dreams at all.

Lenore woke up disappointed.  She’d caught a tiny glimpse of the Opal Child floating above her as she slipped into sleep a few days ago, but since then: nothing.  She had been hoping there was more to come, perhaps something that would show her more than just the girl’s face, something that could tell her where to look.  Perhaps it was better that it hadn’t come yet, however, because the Lady Isolde was finally getting better.  The antidote had worked wonders, and after that all she truly needed was plenty of rest, sunshine, and fluids, including a special tea designed to bring the dampness out of her chest.  It was a simple case of misdiagnosis – dampness in the chest, not the head – that had gone horribly awry.  Lenore had been thankful for Orla’s healing talent these past few days.  With her sorcery encouraging the herbs, the Lady Isolde was getting better at twice the normal speed.  And Rowan had been a godsend on the third day of the antidote, when it looked to all like the Lady Isolde was closer to death, not further from it.  She had managed to quell the fears of the Lady and the Lord alike, and had brought everyone closer together when it had seemed they might all come to blows.  It was that strange and beautiful silvery energy of hers, and as she became more confident in her abilities, her power grew.  On that day she’d filled the whole bedchamber with a faint blue-silver light, almost without realizing it.  Although there was a chance that she didn’t see it, as Orla hadn’t seemed to notice.  With the expansion of one’s own power came the expanded ability to perceive powers at work, whether they were one’s own or those of someone else.

Today, if the Lady Isolde was strong enough to walk through the gardens and eat a full meal, they would pack up to go.  Lenore was eager to leave, to cross the Wastes, and to continue looking, but she wanted to be sure the Lady was well again before they left.  Lenore spent the morning in something of a haze, planning their next travel and barely paying attention to her acolytes, much less anyone or anything else.

The first time she was fully focused was when she followed her acolytes into the Lady Isolde’s chambers for their daily visit.  As on the previous days, Orla examined her first, then Rowan gave her the tea.  After she drank it, Lenore helped her to her feet and the girls helped her into a fur cloak and fur boots.  Once she was wrapped against the crisp air, Lenore supported her weight and they walked together onto the balcony, flanked by the girls and followed by Lord Siegmund.  He went first when they came to the stairs, and led her down carefully as Lenore supported her from behind, all the way down to the gardens.  There they stopped for a moment, and Lenore looked out over the land that had been her childhood home.  The gardens grew different flowers now, and the hedges and trees were different, but the general layout was the same, and the effect similar.  If she let her mind wander she could smell the cool sweet scent of the flowers during the summer evenings when she had lived in the castle as a girl, and she could almost taste the heady perfumes that used to hang in the air.  The scent was lighter and fresher now, more woody and greener than it had been, and the fall air gave it an additional crispness in the nose.  The stone, though it was warm where the sun fell on it, was cool and damp anywhere out of the direct rays, and it had always stayed the same temperature, year round.  It was a boon, winter or summer, for it kept more warmth inside in the winter, and kept the heat off in the summer.  The Lady squeezed Lenore’s hand, and brought her back to the present.  They started off again, slowly, but her strength did not fail.  They did a full circuit of the garden paths, and she even made it back up the stairs to the balcony and from there into bed without much help.  Once she was sitting in bed, however, it was obvious how tired she was.

“Are you hungry, dearheart?”  Lord Siegmund asked his wife.

“I am a bit puckish, I think.” she said, with a tiny smile.

He turned to a maid and nodded.  She ran off, returning in a moment carrying a tray laden with a variety of food.  From what was offered the Lady first took a few sips of broth, then a few spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and turnips.  She ate a few grapes, a slice of apple, and then a quail’s egg.  After a brief pause she took a hesitant bite of pheasant, and that seemed to spark a true appetite, for she finished off most of the breast and then returned to the potatoes and turnips.

“It is good to see you eating so well, Lady Cousin.”  Lenore said, smiling.  “But be careful not to make yourself ill by eating too much.”

Lord Siegmund was so happy he pulled Lenore into a rough hug, much to her surprise.  “You have made her well again!  How can we ever thank you enough?”

“A few provisions for our journey onward are all the thanks we need.” Lenore said softly, extricating herself from the embrace gently.

“Then you shall have them!” he declared.  “Any of the servants can give you what you require.”

“And you should give this –” she pulled a small folded note from the pouch at her belt “ – to Hankin, if he ever comes out of his sulk.”

Lord Siegmund grimaced.  The physician had been shut up in her workroom since the first day it was obvious his queen was recovering.  “And if he does not?”

“Then find a new castle physician.  One who has seen a bit more of the world.” Lenore advised.

Siegmund nodded.  “When will you leave?”

“Tonight if we can.”

“Then please – go and get ready, but come here again once more before you ride.”

“Of course.” Lenore said, and smiled at them both.  Then she and the girls left the Queen’s chambers and returned to their own.  Right away they set about packing up their things, noting what sort of supplies they needed.  Once they had a list of everything, Rowan took it and a piece of charcoal down to the kitchen, so that she could tick off each food item as it was taken upstairs.  Then she continued on to the laundry for linens and warm blankets, the armory for more arrows and bowstrings, and the stables to see what the horses might need.  When she returned to their chambers, everything on her list ticked off, she saw that most of it had arrived before her, and was being packed away.  Some of the bags were already finished, and being taken to the stables where she had just been, so that the horses might be saddled and made ready.  That was one good thing about traveling with girls instead of men: there was no need for an extra pack animal.  The horses had no problem carrying the weight of the bags and the girls, because the girls hardly weighed an ounce compared to men in full armor.  It meant they could ride faster, too, and that had already saved them a few times on the journey, when they had out-ridden those who would have wished to waylay them.  Sorcery was useful, but it still did not guarantee one’s safety when it was three against a dozen or more, and the robber gangs were fierce.  They were unlikely to encounter robber gangs on the next leg of their journey.  Now the treachery would come from the land itself.  They had to cross the Wastes: a vast dusty land, where water was scarce and there was little protection from the high winds.  Few plants grew there, besides scraggly shrubs and patches of hardy grass.  The animals that made this place their home were as hardy and dangerous as the land itself, which was rocky and uneven, but flat enough that the winds whipped through like claws.  Even the strange rock formations and canyons that were scattered through the Wastes provided no protection from the wind: they caught the wind and channeled it ever faster and more sharply.  This time of year it was already cold enough at night in the Wastes to kill a man, if he did not bring the appropriate clothing and shelter.  Lenore had been through the Wastes before, however, and she knew well its ways.  They would be safe, she was sure.  Not comfortable, but safe.  It would take them eight days to cross the Wastes.  Without the use of sorcery it often took people much longer, and without knowledge of the stars to guide one's way a traveler was likely to get lost within the Wastes and die.  Conquering armies had been defeated by the Wastes before they ever reached the lands beyond.  Conquering armies had not learned its ways as she had, however.  There was only two times a year it was safe to cross the Wastes: autumn and spring.  In the winter, snows could cover the land in moments, and the wind froze skin even through wool.  In the summer, there was no shelter from the burning sun, and there was no way to carry enough water for the entire journey.  In the autumn and spring it was warm enough in the day and bitterly cold at night, but with plenty of careful planning the journey could be made.  The last time, Lenore had made the journey in the spring, with two guards.  She worried somewhat for her young acolytes this time, but there was plenty of space for additional supplies to make them more comfortable.  All this and more was in her mind as Lenore supervised every stage of the planning.

At last, just before nightfall, they were finished.  All that remained was to go.  A few people gathered to see them off: the Lord and Lady were the most prominent, but also there were a number of people the trio had befriended in their short time in the village, including some of the servants.  The physician Hankin was not there, which Lenore did not find surprising. There was one young man from the village who seemed very sad to see Rowan go, though she seemed not to notice his attentions, busy as she was giving farewell embraces to others.  Orla had acquired a small shadow of a girl child at some point, and the child was very solemnly saying farewell, and requesting a kiss for her dolly.  Lenore mounted her horse first, and felt the animal shift itself to accommodate her weight again.  Next Rowan mounted, and last of all Orla, and they set off at a moderate pace, wrapped tightly in furs and wool.  As they passed through the outer gates, Lenore put a finger to the gem at her neck and spoke a word, which Rowan and Orla echoed.  It was a small sorcery, to keep them warm as the night grew colder.  They would not travel far tonight, but she wanted to be beyond the borders of the small kingdom before they stopped to rest.  She knew the land well, and with her watchful gaze guiding them, the horses were as surefooted as in the light of day.