– an old evil which lay a thousand years in the mud at the bottom of the river-something drew you here-that's the one I've come for-

And under all the bluster, the girl child's so scared she's about to shit herself, but still…

How long since anyone or anything called her out?

How long since anything dared come looking for her?

And, besides, there's really no point denying that she relishes the way the shadow things in the old church simper and bow to her and offer up all their darkest, most laughable prayers. Once, they even lured a couple of teenagers into the church and then kept them there for her. When she was done with them, the shadows buried what was left in the overgrown cemetery. It'd be a shame if the rumors were true and the albino girl went and killed them all off.

She has a knife, one of the shadows whimpers.

Elandrion, she's something terrible. Something mad. There's angelfire in her eyes, Elandrion.

She squints into the silt and gloom at the bottom of the pool, considering that last part and recalling that one of the egrets said something about angels, something about purifying fire. But she hadn't given it a second thought. Egrets say all sorts of crazy things.

– something drew you here-that's the one I've come for-

She pushes the bullhead's stripped and needle-spined carcass aside and disturbs a fat, tasty-looking slider concealed inside a thicket of eelgrass. Any other time, she'd have snatched the turtle as it tried to slip away to find some other hiding place. But she hesitates, listening to the voices filling the Georgia night, and the slider escapes. But that's alright, she tells herself. The albino girl will fill up the empty nook in her belly that the turtle would have occupied, that nook and then some. It's been years since she last tasted human flesh, which is almost as sweet as the wild boar piglets she finds in the swamp, from time to time.

Will you squeal for me, sweet angel child? she thinks and grins there beneath the cypress log. Will you squeal just like all the little pigs?

And then she kicks off with her broad feet and rises slowly towards the shimmering surface.

She who has no name, not that she can recall, the one the cowering shadows in the church call Elandrion. The ancient she-thing that the black-brown men and the pink-white men out gigging frogs or checking their traps for muskrats and beaver have glimpsed, moving swiftly between the trees. They've called her lots of things-the demon of Hopekill Swamp, witch, haint, monster, freak, the gator woman. They have no end of names for her. At least the red-brown men knew better than to give her any name at all.

She squats in the water lilies and rushes at the edge of the pool, considering once more everything the birds have said, the careless chatter of warblers and blue jays. The air is still filled with the whispered calls of the cringing church shadows. And that other voice, which must be the girl's, frightened but bold, the voice of someone who believes things she's better off without. Then, the one whose name is not Elandrion gets to her feet and, moving quickly on her long legs, follows a deer trail out of the swamp and up to higher, drier ground, and every living beast and insect falls silent as she passes.

Never before has one of the red witches been permitted within the walls of Kearvan Weal, and now not one but two of them have come, have been welcomed through its gates, after they slipped across the Dog's Bridge on horseback only four days before the Weaver's army streamed over the vast span of bone and wire. That alone is enough to make Kypre Alundshaw suspicious of their intentions and allegiances, despite the things he's told the Glaistig. That these two somehow managed to survive the journey from their far distant temples on the river Yärin, that they traveled the Serpent's Road unmolested, must either stand as evidence that they're in league with the Weaver or that their stone idols have more power than the alchemists of the hublands would ever have dared believe.

Evil times demand strange alliances, the alchemist reminds himself and wipes sweat from his forehead before it can drip into his one eye. It's very hot in the small chamber that has been prepared for the Nesmians' ritual, a great fire burning inside a brick-lined pit set into the floor at the center of the circular room. There's a low stone table pushed against one wall, its upper surface freshly engraved with runes that few, if any, men can read, and there's a long iron sluice running from the table to the fire. Everything's exactly as the red witches have asked, and Alundshaw whispers a hurried prayer that he hasn't simply invited some greater atrocity into their midst. The chamber is crowded with all the court astronomers and the other alchemists who have accompanied Alundshaw in his descent from King's Hale.

He begins to speak, but then there's a loud grinding sound from the bowels of the Weal, and the floor rumbles treacherously under them.

"Alundshaw, there's no time left for you to waste," Pikabo Kenzia says impatiently. "The Seraph is free, and already the Dragon's waking beneath our feet." Her violet eyes glimmer in the firelight, and Alundshaw tries hard not to let his dread of her show. Both women wear the simple crimson robes and grey-green skullcaps of their order, but he's well aware that Kenzia is no common adept, that she's next in the line of succession to be Mother and Voice of all the red witches of Nesmia Shar. She's a beautiful, fearsome woman, a warrior and accomplished sorceress, an uncompromising zealot and a scheming politician, and Alundshaw knows that she was counted a worthy adversary by the King of Immolations. The unruly tangle of her chestnut hair, just beginning to go white at the temples, puts the alchemist in mind of a lion's mane, and, gender aside, the comparison seems all too apt.

"Do you have the feather?" she asks, and he takes a paper envelope from a vest pocket and passes it to Pikabo Kenzia, almost dropping it before she takes it from his trembling fingers. She scowls at him and opens the envelope; inside is a single feather pulled from the wing of the captured Seraph.

"Will it be enough?" one of the astronomers asks her, a nervous old bastard whose name Alundshaw can never recall.

"Possibly," Pikabo Kenzia replies, holding the large grey feather up in front of her face. "Probably. Regardless, I suppose it will have to be, won't it, Ezcha?" and then she turns to face the other Nesmian, a much younger and plainer woman with none of Kenzia's fierce presence.

Ezcha doesn't reply, but merely smiles and nods her head before she goes to stand beside the stone table. "We should hurry," she says. "I'm ready," and the witch removes her crimson robe. She's wearing nothing beneath it, though her skin has been painted with elaborate runes which match the ones carved into the table. Ezcha folds the robe neatly and lays it on the floor, then takes off her cap and places it on the floor, as well.

"You will return these to my sisters," she says to Kenzia.

"Ezcha, you know that I will," the elder Nesmian replies, and Ezcha nods her head again. Then she climbs onto the table and stands at the mouth of the iron sluice, facing the fire.

Pikabo Kenzia takes a deep breath and draws a dagger of black volcanic glass from her own robe. "I would ask that you all leave us now, excepting, of course, Lord Alundshaw. He may remain, if he so desires. I would not wish your Queen or her agents to harbor notions that we're working some secret enchantment against her."

Kypre Alundshaw hesitates, not wanting to be alone with these peculiar women and their heathen ways, but then he motions for the others to leave the room, and, relieved, they obediently file through the door to wait together in the cramped antechamber.