Shadowfire (Birthgrave #2)

by Tanith Lee

It was she, Morda—by some exercise of her lost Power, by her passion and desperation that I live—who had turned death aside from me, and healed me and made me whole. But clearly she never knew fully what she had done.”

And what now should I do with this woman, half malefic, half tender?

If this were true with him, she had been other things to other men.

“Now I see one scar, after all.”

I had already taken her from her own folk, now I did not wish to take from her the sea.

With our portion of the herd we did well, for goats are earnest in love. Their numbers soon doubled, and doubled again.

I have share this with dad.

His woman died, he loved her but did not mourn, dismissing grief as superfluous.

Some nights she crouches by her fire and summons demons, and they never come, for which I am very grateful.”

The village, the ocean’s murmur below, less complaining than in the night, the enterprising trees and tranquil people, had got me to the stage again of not actually believing myself in danger.

my little sons and daughters I had barely glanced at twice,

when she saw what I carried into one mute, sinuous, and protective gesture of acceptance. This, more than anything, moved me.

“You are a magician,” Hwenit said. “You are a healer.” Jealously she whispered, “You are more powerful than the priest who taught me.”

I saw in Qwef’s eyes, side by side with his desire, a cold revulsion.

Equipped with the wings of power, I knew myself yet for what I was born to. A tribal savage dressed for the summer wars, and on my body the scars of those wars, the scars I had never kept. It was as if I had been thrust back into a mold that had been expected to form me, rather than the actual clay of which I was made.

It was crystal clear to me, what he had meant for me, my father, Vazkor, what she had robbed me of.

Now all the uncertainties, the powers of healing and slaying and all the rest, came together in one ferocious urge I recognized as another’s. The gifts were his, the wish was his, the deed was his. Vazkor, unquiet in his death; my unquiet life showed me the manner of it.

“you have no way to master your powers. They master you. You heal without being aware of it. Perhaps you kill as rashly.”

There followed two or three peculiar days, during which I found out for sure that Hwenit-Uasti was two persons, as her two namings implied.

I have met few others since who could compare with, or better, this mentor, a girl more youthful than I,

I think, too, that she was the superior teacher because she had not the mastery of these “arts” herself, while being fully cognizant of them. She gave me, at any rate, the key to doors, both to unlock and to seal them.

A child will learn to walk, but you must persuade him not to put his hands in the fire.

This, in fact, was not Uasti but Hwenit the witch, the one I had met to begin with.

Confusing one Hwenit with the other—Uasti—for a moment, I complied.

no rigid moral laws, being too moral, and too lawful, to construct them.

It would have taken a woman who did not consider herself a milk-cow to show me that women are not cattle.

I said, “You are his sister, Hwenit. This is why he will not.” “Oh, the fool,” she said. “It would only make us closer. It is why we are bound. Flesh speaking to flesh, because the flesh is one.”

we are men.” “And the poorer for it. I never yet saw a man outrun a beast, outswim a fish, outfly a bird. If they fall ill, which is rarely, they need no healer to tell them what herbs they should eat in order to be well. They take no slaves and make no wars.”

“Probably it is some old woman of a fear got into me for no reason.”

though I did not believe she intended to betray me, perhaps an angry mischief in the dark hidden part of her mind, “Light a big fire, and there is a means to thrash this pompous oaf.”

Ride a girl, then tell her who else she might or must not ride with. Fine morality.

The savage, who knew only how to wield bludgeon and ax, must learn more subtle weapons.

I was trying to assess what ability lay in me that I dared use.

Force him to study his art, to explain how he focuses magically on his target, and he will grow mannered and unsure and presently miss his mark altogether.

Somewhere in my mind, Hwenit and Demizdor were merging. Life snuffed out and beauty turned to cold meat for worms.

All the plots and schemes, the moralities and codes of men, seemed dust in the face of death.

The circle ended and began.

I had gone beyond sleep, and sat like a shipwreck there, trying to come to terms with my own self.