Lightning forked in the sky over his head, illuminating the road ahead of him. His fingers clutched the mane of his stallion as he dashed through the countryside.
Although he had never been there, he knew where she lived. The old shack on the outskirts of town. Not much farther. He leaned forward over his steed’s neck, urging him faster. The townspeople avoided her, called her a witch, said she dealt with black magic.
Graden didn’t care. He would not lose his father. He would not lose his only remaining relative! His fingers clenched in his horse’s mane. His body moved with the animal. The pounding of horse hooves rivaled the explosive thunder over his head. He turned the steed off the path toward the stream on the border of his lands. She lived there. The witch. He didn’t even know her name. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that she could save his father’s life.
In a burst of light from above, he saw her small shack. It looked tiny and rundown. There was a small doorway in the front, but no windows. He reined his steed in, a flash of lightning streaking the sky. Graden stared at the shack, a trembling sense of foreboding creeping across the nape of his neck.
Suddenly, a boom of thunder erupted, and his steed reared up onto two legs. Graden’s fingers slipped from the stallion’s mane and he tumbled backward from the animal. The horse fled into the darkness, whinnying with a terrified cry as it raced away.
Graden lay on the ground for a long moment, staring up at the grey clouds churning in the night sky. When the first drop of rain splashed his cheek, he sat up. He rubbed his throbbing head to find a large lump at the crown. He slowly stood.
The wind swirled about him, pushing him toward the shack. A torrential rain started, pelting the ground in sheets of water. Groggy, Graden stumbled toward the shack.
He hesitated at the doorway. He saw a flickering light at the edges of the cover that protected the doorway. There was no wooden door barring entrance; a sheet of worn cotton served as the shack’s door. He glanced back toward the road. Was he doing the right thing? Was this the best way to save his father?
“Where are your manners?” a voice called from inside.
Graden straightened. He tried to peer inside, but the cover over the doorway made only glimpses possible. He could see shelves lined with jars. A table.
“Come in!”
A gust pushed Graden forward and he eased the cover aside, taking a deep breath before stepping into the shack. It was not what he expected. It was clean and comfortable. A hearth with a warm fire was tucked into the corner of the room. Two chairs with padded coverings were situated before it. Shelves filled with jars and containers lined the room. A simple, wood table was in the center of the room, a woman standing beside it. She was grinding something in a stone dish. Her long blonde hair fell over her shoulders, and her tan, flowing dress barely covered her thin body’s curves. For a boy of twelve, she was breathtaking.
Graden’s mouth dropped open.
“Do you always lurk around in front of homes?”
Graden shook his head. “No. I’m sorry.”
“What do you want?”
Graden had expected a witch. A gnarled, old woman. Not this beautiful… “My father,” he whispered, the words coming out in a nervous croak.
“He’s sick,” she said, finishing his words.
Graden mentally shook himself. He stepped up to the table. He was here for his father. To make his father well. “Yes. Are you…?” His voice trailed off. Was she the witch? “…the one who lives here?”
She stopped grinding the dark substance in the bowl and raised her eyes to him.
Graden’s mouth opened in surprise. Her eyes were completely white. “Are you blind?”
“I can see well enough. You are Lord Dumount’s son, are you not?”
“Aye,” Graden said, his gaze unable to move away from her eyes. “My father is ill. He has the same sickness my mother died of. I want you to give me something to cure him.”
Thunder shook the shack. Jars rattled on the shelves.
The beautiful woman gazed at him for a long time until he grew uneasy. She wasn’t going to give him the cure. Maybe she didn’t have it. Doubt festered inside of Graden. He pushed the uncertainty from his mind. She was his only hope. Graden splayed his hands on the table and desperately leaned toward her. “I heard a powerful witch lived here. I heard there was nothing she couldn’t do.”
She stared at him with her white eyes, a strand of golden hair falling forward. The silken hairs drifted over her pert nose.
“You can do it, can’t you?”
She lifted her hands and rubbed one over the other as if she were cold. “Only a powerful witch could do what you ask. To bring back a man on the verge of death.”
Graden scowled. She hadn’t answered his question. “Can you do it?”
“Of course.” She picked up some herbs from beside the bowl and sprinkled them over the dark material in the stone dish. She began to mash up the new contents, combining them with the ingredients that were already in the bowl. “I will need ingredients that I do not have. Antlers from a royal buck.”
