“-ady! Milady! Eibhlin, wake up!”

Eibhlin groaned. She had just been celebrating a successful harvest. The entire village had been there with food and drink. The doctor played the flute while someone else played some strings, and in the middle of the dancers spun her father and the lady with the golden hair—

“Eibhlin!”

This time, the voice was followed by a sharp pain in Eibhlin’s arm. She tried to stand, but she was jerked back to the ground, as if her arm were rooted to it. She looked down. Black strings of various widths had clamped around her hand and arm and were now slithering up to her shoulder, squeezing it. She then realized they were roots. Crying out, she thrust her free hand up to the penknife on her arm and fumbled it into her grip. She stabbed down on one of the thickest roots, right where it left the ground. A terrible roar shook the air, as if a storm were crashing against the entire forest, and Eibhlin thought she could almost feel the tree beside her tremble and move. At the first creak, she sliced through the roots on her arm, snatched up her bag and Mel, and darted away like a frightened doe. Fear dulled the pain in her body, an ever-growing terror as the girl saw from the corners of her eyes the trees shift, branches bend, and leaves shake without even the slightest wind.

Swallowing a sob, she pressed on harder.

From behind her, long, spindling arms, like spider legs, clawed at her. Unstable ground made her stumble, but the trees’ furious shrieks and creaks echoing in the wood spurred her onward. A few times, bits of branch caught her clothes, but no matter how thin the branches, they would not break. Most times Eibhlin could just let her clothes rip free, but when the grip was stronger, she cut it with her knife. Sap black as tar soon dripped down the small blade onto her hand and sleeve and splattered her kirtle.

The Moon watched on in silence.

Eibhlin’s body wore down. Tears stung her eyes, cuts and scrapes and bruises covered her, and her breath came in painful, burning gasps.

Suddenly, sharp pain burst through her skull. The girl’s head jerked back, and she fell to the ground. Looking back as well as she could, Eibhlin saw one of the inky Tensilkir, its tendrils tangling through her hair and slithering toward the rest of her. Renewed fear gave strength to her arms, and reaching back, she sliced through hair and tendrils alike. As she escaped from the harsh cries, a burning sensation ran up her arm, growing in pain till she could hardly stay standing.

Then she came to a drop off.

Due to the crowding shrubs and branches, she hadn’t seen it ahead. She stumbled, dropping Mel, her knife, and her satchel and tumbling down a grassy slope. Mel and her bag slid down beside her. Finally, the ground leveled, and she rolled to a stop. For a while, she lay there in the grass. Her body ached, and her lungs could not support further flight. She waited for the trees to grab her. But nothing came.

At last, Mel spoke, its voice strained, scratchy, and out of tune, “Milady, do you still live?”

It took a minute and a few more prompts by the kithara to get her to answer. “I think so,” she said.

“Oh, thank the angels and saints! I’m most sorry, Milady! The moment the sun set, they began to move. This didn’t happen my last time here. I was caught off guard, and my lack of vigilance could have….”

“It’s okay, Mel. Not your fault.”

They both lay in silence a spell longer. Eibhlin felt comfortable for the first time in days. There was still no wind, but the air no longer felt stuffy, the ground was dry and firm, and the fresh, gentle smell of grass combined with her exhaustion lulled her near to sleep. However, just as she felt the soft promise of rest, something pricked her mind, much like at the monastery. Something didn’t fit. Everything was wrong. She couldn’t quite tell how, but it was. Slowly, Eibhlin propped herself up on her arm, despite her body’s protests. She looked around, and her blood froze, breaking the enchantment and casting off all feeling of sleep or comfort.

The Moon stared down on a crater surrounded by thick swamp on all sides. Grass shone silver as it stood silent and undisturbed. And in the middle of it all, ringed by the only water within the crater, stood a magnificent tower bathing in the moonlight, a clock tower with a face like a miniature moon, a tower white as ivory, a tower without a shadow.

The keys shivered against Eibhlin’s chest.

“Mel….”

“Yes, Milady,” said the instrument. “This is exactly as I remember it. This is the tower of the Witch.”