Authors: Jan Siegel
EPILOGUE:
Exit Third Witch
It was Christmas Eve. Fern had been to a party with Dane Hunter, and joined Will and Gaynor for dinner, and had one digestif too many and sung carols out of tune and returned to her flat almost happy, almost sad. She and Dane would spend Christmas Day together, but she had told him that tonight she needed to be alone. She didn’t say why, and he wasn’t satisfied, but he left her with a smile and a kiss, not a quarrel, because he had always sensed that certain fragility about her, the burden of secrets she would not tell. She had entrusted the red file to Gaynor—after all, manuscripts were her area of expertise—explaining to her and Will what she intended to do. Now she sat in the drawing room with a single candle and a glass of cognac, playing a compilation of seasonal songs by the likes of Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole and waiting for the hour to strike. It was barely eleven: she had time yet. Time to think, to regret, to relive all those bittersweet moments just once more. But instead her mind planed on nothingness, vacant if not at ease. Beside her, a folded newspaper told her Kaspar Walgrim’s case would come up for trial next year. He had an expensive lawyer and high-level contacts; she doubted he would get a long sentence. Dana Walgrim had gone to Australia and engaged herself to a beach bum. No one had ever found any trace of Luc.
Soon it will be over, she thought, and the ghoulies and ghosties will go back in the shadows, and I will live out my life in the light, even if it is an artificial light. She remembered God in His blue cape, sitting on the grass to chat, and hoped He at least would not be lost to her. He had seemed a kindly God, a comfortable God; she would like to know more of Him. And maybe, when her time came to pass the Gate, He would open the locked door in her soul, and she would have Atlantis again, and the unicorn would be there, waiting to take her home. She could not know—you could never know—but she must hold on to her faith, because soon faith would be all that remained. All the memories—the passion—the darkness and the magic—everything would be gone.
She found she had drained her glass, and replenished it, just a little way. ‘Twas the night before Christmas, she quoted to herself, and all through the house, Not a creature was stirring . . . But beside the curtain, something stirred. A burglar. A goblin burglar in a crooked hat, with a sprig of holly stuck through the brim. And because he was werefolk—the last she would ever know—because it was Christmas, because of the holly in his hat, Fern was more than pleased to see him. “Her highness sends you greeting,” he said, “and wishes you a merry Yuletide.”
“Thank you,” said Fern. “Have a drink.”
He choked on the cognac, but persisted.
“I didn’t know goblins celebrated Christmas,” Fern went on. “It seems a little inappropriate.”
“We celebrate Yule,” Skuldunder explained when he had recovered. “That is a far, far older festival than Christmas. This is the moment when the year turns. Under the deep cold, in the warmth of earth, the first shoots waken. The snow may lie thick, but after Yule, we know that spring will come again.”
“There isn’t any snow,” Fern pointed out.
“Mabb has moved to the woods and mountains of the far north,” Skuldunder said on a faintly admonitory note. “There, the snow lies thick.”
Fern took a moment to picture the goblin queen careering down a mountainside on a makeshift toboggan, or throwing snowballs at her hapless courtiers and allowing them to throw snowballs back, provided they did not hit their mark. She had no idea if it was a true picture, but it made her smile. “Tell the queen I too send her greeting,” she said with something like a sigh, “but our alliance is at an end. Not because I doubt her, or have other allies in view, but because from midnight I will cease to be a witch, and become an ordinary mortal.”
“Why?” asked Skuldunder, clearly baffled.
“The story is too long for now, and the ending too sad. It is enough to say I wish it.”
“But—how can you cease to be what you are?” the goblin demanded.
“An ancient magic,” said Fern, “and my last. Let’s not talk of it. Merry Christmas! I mean, Yule.” She raised her glass. “Go back to the north where the snow lies thick, and tell Mabb—tell her farewell. This is my final gift.” She detached a tiny model of a violin from her Christmas tree. “It doesn’t play, but it’s pretty. Still, she has some magic. Maybe she will be able to wring a tune from it.” She blanched slightly at the thought.
“It’s a beautiful thing,” said Skuldunder solemnly. “I never stole anything like it.”
“Now go,” Fern said. “Midnight is coming. After that, I will no longer be able to see you, nor any of your kind. But I’m glad you came tonight.”
He faded, slowly and sorrowfully, or at least in bewilderment, and she was left alone with her vigil. She fetched the phial, and stood it beside her glass, and knew that soon it would be no more to her than a curiosity, an unusual perfume bottle that she had acquired she couldn’t recall where. She would have liked to say good-bye to Kal, but she sensed it was unnecessary. He had given her the phial; he would know she had used it. And
now
the memories began, jostling for place in her head, memories of golden city and giant tree, of starfoam and dragonfire, of Rafarl and Ruvindra, enemies and friends, of riding the wind and feeling the heartbeat of the earth . . . She needed leisure to savor every second, to live it all one more time, before it slipped over the boundary into the realm of dream and fantasy, never to return again. But the clock ticked inexorably onward, hand closing on hand, and her Time was running out. Three minutes left. With a little difficulty, she unstoppered the phial. Her grip was unsteady. It seemed to her that the memories had spilled out of her mind and thronged the room, reaching out, calling to her: Fernani—
nevelindë
—Simple Susan sewing samplers—Morcadis—witch maiden—sorceress—lover . . . On the clock face, the hands touched. The chimes of midnight began. She raised the phial to her lips and drank.
And then there was only the music playing in the empty room.
Glossary
Boros (Boor-ross) Possibly derived from Boreas, the Greek name for the North Wind.
Bradachin (Brad-da-chin) From the Scots Gaelic meaning “little thief.” The ch is pronounced as in loch.
Cerne (Sern) The antlered god also known as Herne, Lord of the Hunt. This name, one of many, comes from Cernus, a Celtic deity about whom little is known.
Cthorn (K-thorn) An obscure name that may have some connection with the Greek
chthonos
, earth. Gods of the underworld are often referred to as chthonic.
Dibbuck (Dib-buk) Presumably from the Hebrew
dybbuk
, an evil spirit that possesses a living body, though why a house-goblin should acquire such a name is not clear. Perhaps he was considered to “possess” the house.
Eriost (Eri-osst) This may be a corruption of Eros, or from the Greek
eris
, strife. The other names mentioned for this spirit seem to come from a variety of sources. Vallorn is from “valiant”; Idunor from Iduna, the Norse goddess of youth; Sifril may also be Norse (Thor’s wife was Sif of the Golden Hair); Teagan is a Welsh name meaning “beautiful”; Maharac sounds like a spirit name, possibly of Indian origin; Varli may connect with Vali the Slayer.
Léopana Pthaia (Lay-oh-pa-na P-thai-a) Léopana is from the Latin mean “leopardess” or “lioness”; Pthaia is possibly from the Greek pythoness, or the Atlantean that predates it:
pythé,
seer.
Mallebolg (Mal-leh-bolg)
Morgus (Moor-guss) Also called Morgause or Morgawse, the half sister of Arthur. Her sibling Morgun (Morgana, Morgan Le Fay) is better known to common legend.
Nehemet (Neh-heh-met) The name sounds Egyptian, a land in which cats were revered and (it is thought) first domesticated. Bastet was the cat goddess.
Nimwë (Nim-way) Also spelt Nimuë, an enchantress who was in love with Merlin.
Oedaphor (Ee-da-foor) Probably from Greek, this could relate to
oidema
, swelling.
Pangaea (Pan-gae-a) Gaia was the Greek earth goddess;
pan
is a prefix meaning “everything.”
Skaetha (Skay-tha) There may be a connection with Skuld the Vola in the Edda, the seeress who foretold the battle of Ragnarok.
Skuldunder (Skul-dun-da) This sounds like an uncomplimentary nickname of human origin, similar to “dunderhead,” meaning “stupid.”
Sleer Bronaw (Slee-a Broh-noor) A corruption of the Scots Gaelic
sleagh
, spear, and
bron
, grief.
Sysselore (Siss-se-loor) See
The Dragon Charmer.
Ysis-Astolantë (Ey-siss Ass-toh-lan-tay) Isis was the Egyptian moon goddess; Astolantë is probably derived from the Assyrian Ishtar, or Ashtoreth.
About the Author
Jan Siegel is also the author of
The Dragon Charmer
and
Prospero’s Children
, which was chosen by the
San Francisco Chronicle
and
Library Journal
as One of the Best Books of the Year. She has already lived through one lifetime—during which she traveled the world and supported herself through a variety of professions, including that of actress, barmaid, garage hand, laboratory assistant, journalist, and model. Her new life is devoted to her writing.
Also by Jan Siegel
Prospero’s Children
The Dragon Queen
A Del Rey
®
Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 2002 by Jan Siegel
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in Great Britain as
Witch’s Honour
by Voyager, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. in 2002.
Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
Jan Siegel hereby asserts her moral rights to be identified as the author of this work.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2002105198
Interior illustrations by Eric Peterson
eISBN: 978-0-345-45481-2
v3.0