It began softly- a faint and distant ringing that sounded like a trick of the brain, or a hum in the ear. Perhaps it could have been a birdcall warped strangely by the leagues it crossed, or the chime of some distant town bell carried on the wind. Eventually, however, the sound began to grow, expanding until there could be no denying its source.
The Call sounded through the trees of the Darkling Wood, stirring the animals and causing the Humble Witches that lived out their lives in service beneath the boughs to drop to their knees and howl like wounded wolves.
In the mortal towns of the Wilds, on the Eastern bank of the Rushing River, sleepy folk twitched as their dreams grew stranger while the Common Witches rose from their beds, poured themselves a strong drink, and threw it back with a rueful grimace.
It flew through the sky like a bird, over river, cliff and plain, to be heard by the High Witches that roamed the sky like eagles, both lovely and dangerous in equal measure. Most took to ground when they heard the Call, pausing their flight to let their grief run its course, though above some forgotten road two figures still flew, faster than ever as if the Call were a fresh burst of wind they rode upon; a Witch with silvery hair and cold eyes shook her head and clenched her jaw in an effort to suppress her grief.
The Call travelled over the Rush and into the West, a realm governed by mortals yet not hostile to Witches, and all there who had held court with the Origin felt its meaning and sighed, for a dangerous day would soon dawn where the fates of all who lived would hang upon one.
In every town and hamlet, across the wide seas and into strange and distant lands the Call sounded, searching for the pair of ears attached to the body that would one day be instated at Loambridge to rule her kind and maintain balance in the world, for none who heard it could mistake its meaning:
The Witchward was dying, and a new day was come.
* * *
Mary woke at the sound of the Call. It was almost like the war horns they sounded on the anniversary of the Battle of Moon Bay, yet the tone was higher, somehow sweeter. It made her feel electric as she lay there in the darkness of pre-dawn, eyes wide open and ears straining to hear every last second of that sweet summoning. Of course, in that moment she did not know what it all meant. She simply heard the sound and felt the strangeness, letting it lift every nerve in her body.
Getting up and lighting the oil lamp with a deft flick of her wrist spread a warm glow over the room, illuminating her large bed with the ornate hangings and the wide oak desk stacked high with thick tomes and parchment covered in her own rushed hand. It was a beautiful room indeed, but Mary was no fool. She knew a prison when she saw one.
Quietly she padded to the window and threw open the heavy white curtains, before pushing open the window with a heave of strength, letting the cool night air rush in. From her window she could see far off into the west, above the trees that hugged the first two floors of the manor she had called home all her life and off almost as far as Hareton she thought, on a clear day. Night still held sway, however, and the darkness was thick and full, with stars in glittering attendance. She smiled despite herself. That strange sound- whatever it had been- had somehow placed a drop of life into her dejected spirit. Suddenly it didn’t seem like such a strange idea that she might leave her house for some far off place; perhaps she might even find her father.
It had been six long years since she had seen her favourite person in the whole world. Often she would spend sleepless nights imagining all the daring ways in which she would rescue him from the various dangers her mind conjured up, but in the morning it was always the same walls around her, with the same fierce eyes watching, keeping her away from the rest of the world.
Mary’s smile vanished rapidly as her thoughts turned to Lady Kadley. No doubt the woman was already up and darting around her study, looking for new ways to undermine and belittle her young student. It seemed as if no sooner than her new magic tutor arrived that her father went on a voyage never to return, and the Lady, spinning some ridiculous story about protecting her from her father’s enemies, had wasted no time in making sure Mary spent as little time out in the open as possible. She could never be sure why the Lady had been so adamant that she should remain within the confines of the Manor. She was only certain that the Lady’s story was a lie, for the only enemy Mary had as far as she could tell was Lady Kadley herself and no one else.
Mary was all too eager to draw connections between the event of Lady Kadley’s arrival and her father’s disappearance, connections that Dratless, her Goblin house slave and reluctant confidant, was always quick to brush off with a dismissive gesture or a change of subject. He was always telling her not to let her personal dislike of the Lady get her into trouble, but she could not help it. She would find it almost laughable that the woman who lived with her for the sole purpose of teaching her to work her Will had robbed her of it if it didn’t make her so mad.
