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Goody turned her head toward the Halfling as he whispered his plea. And saw the look of relief as the flames took hold and the embers brightened. ‘Be careful with your charms and words, Master Willem. The fire that turns the year feeds on such little vowings and remembers, even if you do not.’
She smiled fondly at him. ‘Still, ‘twas said with a generous heart. For all of us. We thank you.’
The old woman turned back to the fire. Her face seemed more tired and worn. Hot as they were now, the flames did not seem to warm her, but instead seemed to draw out her little store of energy. Leeching her until she seemed almost translucent; the shadowings of her bones moving or still beneath her pale, drawn skin her only solidness.
She too whispered low as the embers flickered and shifted in their dance of renewal.
Hunter, Rider . . .
Lord of Trees, Master of Hounds . . .
Winter’s Lord, Woodland Spirit . . .
We smaller spirits call to you
Speed now to us on silver shod with gold
And recall some pity for us in our need.
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