The Pond - Part 4

The place where magic was taught was a secret place, deep in the woods. Matyei was trying not to show how anxious he was as he walked beside his father. He wasn’t like Izolda. Even though she kept it secret, he knew her magic was much stronger than his. He wished she was here now.

Had his magic been stronger, he might have recognized the shadow flitting through the forest, mirroring their movements. Andrei paused, as though he sensed something, but the shadow melted away and after a moment he continued on, a frown on his face.

Izolda pressed her back against a tree trunk and breathed a sigh of relief. That had been close. She would do well to remember that her father had more magic than her baby brother. She needed to be more careful.

She hung back slightly after that. There was no telling what her father would do to her if he caught her following them. What she was doing was unforgiveable. But she was desperate to learn. The small magics women were allowed were not for her.

At last they came to a small clearing. Andrei and Matyei stepped inside . . . and disappeared. Izolda held up her hands and felt in front of her. The air was solid. She stepped off the path and followed along the edge of the clearing but it was the same.

Taking several steps back, she stamped her foot, letting out a small cry of rage. Wards! The clearing was warded so that only Matyei and their father could step inside. How was she going to learn if she could not see or hear what was going on?

She paced the perimeter of the rough circle, fists clenched. “I will find a way,” she vowed.

There was no point in lingering, and she was in no mood to bake bread, so she turned away and followed her own path through the woods. Another time she might have named the trees that towered above her, or tried to coax a squirrel or sparrow to her hand. She might have even gathered herbs, as they were always useful, but she still seethed with anger.

Once she reached the verge of the river she slowed her pace, following the river’s course until she came to where the great, black boulders edged it. Climbing the rocks to the very top, she finally stopped, and stood looking up. Her scream of unfettered anger sent the birds in the surrounding trees into the sky.

“Well, I hope that made you feel better.”

Izolda spun around so quickly she almost slipped on the rocks.

“Have a care, girl. It would be sorrowful waste should someone with such magic die.”

“Who are you? And how do you know I have magic?” Izolda asked, anger forgotten as she faced the woman sitting on the rocks behind her.

The woman looked older than the oldest granny around the family fire. Her face was a maze of lines, her steel-grey hair pulled back in a severe bun. She wore a dark brown dress with a white apron over it, and held a long wooden staff in one hand.

“Any fool with magic of their own could see what you are, should they care to look. Your father could, but he doesn’t believe women can wield the higher magics so he ignores what’s right in front of him.”

“Who are you?” Izolda asked again.

“I am Varnya,” the woman said. “Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

Izolda shook her head. “I only know the legend of the witch Varnya. Mother uses her name to make my brothers behave.”

The old woman snorted and rose to her feet. “Some things never change. Help me down, girl.”

Having been raised to respect her elders, Izolda did as she was bade.

“What are you doing out here all by yourself,” she couldn’t help asking.

“Waiting for you, of course.”

“Me?”

“Do you know any other young girls with magic writhing under their skin, the desire to learn eating away at her?”

“You can teach me what I want to know?” Izolda asked eagerly.

“Yes. But if you wish to learn, you will have to do exactly as I say.”