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The light of the Discworld was old and slow and heavy. From the cottage door Granny watched as it drained off the mountains, flowing in golden rivers through the forest. Here and there it pooled in hollows until it faded and vanished.
She drummed her fingers sharply on the doorpost, humming a small and bitter little tune.
Dawn came, and the cottage was empty except for Esk's body, silent and unmoving on the bed.
But as the golden light flowed slowly across the Discworld like the first freshing of the tide over mudflats the eagle circled higher into the dome of heaven, beating the air down with slow and powerful wingbeats.
The whole of the world was spread out beneath Esk - all the continents, all the islands, all the rivers and especially the great ring of the Rim Ocean.
There was nothing else up here, not even sound.
Esk gloried in the feel of it, willing her flagging muscles into greater effort. But something was wrong. Her thoughts seemed to be chasing around beyond her control, and disappearing. Pain and exhilaration and weariness poured into her mind, but it was as if other things were spilling out at the same time. Memories dwindled away on the wind. As fast as she could latch on to a thought it evaporated, leaving nothing behind.
She was losing chunks of herself, and she couldn't remember. what she was losing. She panicked, burrowing back to the things she was sure of ....
I am Esk, and I have stolen the body of an eagle and the feel of wind in feathers, the hunger, the search of the not-sky below ....
She tried again. I am Esk and seeking the windpath, the pain of muscle, the cut of the air, the cold of it ....
I am Esk high over air-damp-wet-white, above everything, the sky is thin ....
I am I am.
Granny was in the garden, among the beehives, the early morning wind whipping at her skirts. She went from hive to hive, tapping on their roofs. Then, in the thickets of borage and beebalm that she had planted around them, she stood with her arms outstretched in front of her and sang something in tones so high that no normal person could have heard them.
But a roar went up from the hives, and then the air was suddenly thick with the heavy, big-eyed, deep-voiced shapes of drone bees. They circled over her head, adding their own bass humming to her chant.
Then they were gone, soaring into the growing light over the clearing and streaming away over the trees.
It is well known- at least, it is well known to witches - that all colonies of bees are, as it were, just one part of the creature called the Swarm, in the same way that individual bees are component cells of the hivemind. Granny didn't mingle her thoughts with the bees very often, partly because insect minds were strange, alien things that tasted of tin, but mostly because she suspected that the Swarm was a good deal more intelligent than she was.
She knew that the drones would soon reach the wild bee colonies in the deep forest, and within hours every corner of the mountain meadows would be under very close scrutiny indeed. All she could do was wait.
At noon the drones returned, and Granny read in the sharp acid thoughts of the hivemind that there was no sign of Esk.
She went back into the cool of the cottage and sat down in the rocking chair, staring at the doorway.
She knew what the next step was. She hated the very idea of it. But she fetched a short ladder, climbed up creakily on to the roof, and pulled the staff from its hiding place in the thatch.
It was icy cold. It steamed.
“Above the snowline, then,” said Granny.
She climbed down, and rammed the staff into a flowerbed. She glared at it. She had a nasty feeling that it was glaring back.
“Don't think you've won, because you haven't,” she snapped. “It's just that I haven't got the time to mess around. You must know where she is. I command you to take me to her!”
The staff regarded her woodenly.
“By -” Granny paused, her invocations were a little rusty, “- by stock and stone I order it!”
Activity, movement, liveliness - all these words would be completely inaccurate descriptions of the staff's response.
Granny scratched her chin. She remembered the little lesson all children get taught: what's the magic word?
“Please?” she suggested.
The staff trembled, rose a little way out of the ground, and turned in the air so that it hung invitingly at waist height.
