Ghost's Sight Read Free

the Witch’s eyes, but he just shook his head, the words lost in the memory of the vision. He ducked inside the shed, breathing in the smell of drying herbs and berries, letting the fragrances sooth him. Ghost knew what they all did, had learned it all at the Witch’s knee, along with the names of the Eight, and the count of days and moons. She taught him to read the ancient words, to match those words to the coded entries in her formulary. He could mix the potions and the salves as well as the Witch, although she had forbidden him to touch the gods’ light or the Seeker’s box. He made a game of it, though, standing behind the Witch, trying to guess what the Seeker’s box would say about the people who sought her help.
    “Don’t do a runner, boy. I may need you.” The Witch sounded calm, but she turned to put a pot of water on the tripod over the fire pit. As Ghost watched, the lone figure shifted and became two figures. He knew the Witch wanted him to tell her, and so he spoke.
    “He’s carrying one of them.” Ghost lifted his chin, not realizing that the Witch could not see the gesture while he hid in the shed. Ghost knew she saw well enough close up. It was distance that made her narrow her eyes and fuss at him.
    “Don’t suppose you’ll tell me who’s who,” the Witch said under her breath. “Seeker guide me, you never make it easy, little one.”
    “Because it’s never easy. It hurts,” Ghost replied, one hand stealing up to tug at his hair again, pulling it down over his forehead and into his eyes before wrapping back around his chest. “I don’t ask to See.”
    Ghost hugged himself harder as he watched the Witch walk forward, the woman looking as unafraid as ever. He could have listened if he wanted as she spoke to the tall man with the dark eyes. The stranger had long hair shot through with silver, prettier than the Witch’s hair. The man was tall and broad, and wore leathers that were clean and neat. The Witch looked like a beggar next to the man.
    The Witch looked drab on purpose, though. No one looked too close at her, a hag with greasy, gray hair hanging in lank strands around her face. They tried not to notice the rusty black homespun with the raveling edges, and the nicks and stains that marked her hands. They missed the fierce, dark eyes like those of the raptors that tore the little songbirds to pieces and scattered bright feathers to the winds, never saw the fine bones of those deft hands.
    The Witch looked up at the tall man with her fierce look.
    “Mother,” the Witch acknowledged. “It’s been a time.”
    Ghost did not mind the tall man that the Witch greeted with such familiarity, or even the limp hunter that this Mother carried. The third man had a sind across his shoulders, which he dropped, assuming an air of injured innocence when the tall man turned to look. That one made Ghost’s hackles rise.
    “Conn.” Mother’s voice was firm. Ghost found himself nodding approval as he watched from the shed.
    The tall man turned back to the Witch, having issued the quiet reprimand. “This is Gerry. Can you help him?”
    The Witch looked at the third man, her eyes flashing. “Bring the injured lad in,” she said to Mother. “That one, your Conn, he can wait here. If he needs to be useful, I’ll take that sind.”
    Ghost nearly choked. The sind held a gland that was worth as much to a witch as a double hand of pelts, but that was something the witches did not want known, nor the uses for that potent musk. Ghost relaxed when the Witch continued, in her tone that allowed for no argument.
    “He can hang the carcass in the tree there, and leave it to bleed out proper. Your dependent’s likely got a bad break, and a sind should cover the fee.” The Witch looked up from under her greasy hair.
    “As she says, Conn.” The tall man had to stoop to enter the house, while Ghost edged closer to the door of the shed, pulled along despite his misgivings.
    “Bring the water, little