Bring Down the Sun by Judith Tarr Page B

grove, it was said, all the way from Egypt. The outside was rounded to fit into cupped hands. Inside, it was polished smooth.
    She folded back the linen wrappings, then filled the bowl almost to the brim with water from the Mother’s stream. She lit the lamp and hung it above, where it cast light but no glare on the water.
    She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. All her power was given to the oracle. When she diverted it, she had to quell the surety that if she let it go, it would run wild.
    She could control it. She opened her eyes and looked down into the pale shimmer of the scrying bowl.
    It was slow, but she had expected that. Magic blurred the sight. The stronger the magic, the harder it was to force it into focus.
    Myrtale’s magic was very strong. For a long while there was only a dazzle of light. Then, little by little, a vision took shape.
    It looked like a goat pasture, high and stony, with patches of grass and scrub and thorny bushes. A stream ran through it. Myrtale knelt by the water, washing what must be her only garment: she was naked and her hair was loose.
    Timarete did not recognize the little dark woman who splashed in the stream, but there was no mistaking the aura that radiated from her. It was crimson and black and royal purple, and spoke of a multitude of dark things.
    â€œThessaly,” Timarete hissed. She caught herself before she spat in the water and broke the vision.
    That much she had allowed Myrtale to learn: that the witches of Thessaly were dangerous. They followed a dark path, sacred to the deep powers and the gods below. Their worship was of the Mother, that was true, but it lived on Her left hand, in blood and endless night.
    Timarete cursed herself now for a thrice and ten times fool. In all her years of guarding the girl, protecting her against any power that might rouse the dangers Timarete had foreseen, she had detected no sign of this particular threat.
    She had looked for it. She had cast her spells toward Thessaly, as toward many other places of power in this world. She had searched out every cranny, and found only emptiness. The one enemy she had to fear, or so she had thought, was Myrtale herself.
    The witches were great diviners and even greater deceivers. They would know what Myrtale was—and of course they would have come looking for her, now that she had escaped her aunt’s vigilance. She had power they would lust after, and she would know no better than to trust them.
    It was like their wickedness to slither in when Timarete was most direly distracted. For all she knew, they had tempted Myrtale into releasing her power, and so brought about Promeneia’s death.
    Timarete called herself to order. Maybe it had not gone too far yet. The witch with Myrtale was young; she must be the bait to draw the quarry in.
    No doubt she would be teaching Myrtale simple arts to amaze her untaught mind. The other arts, greater and more perilous, would wait until the snare was set.
    Timarete let the vision open before her. The two young women could be anywhere in the mountains, but she did not think they had gone very far—not on foot. Myrtale had been living in the palace; her body had softened into an image of this new world’s womanhood. Even the hardened soles of her feet had been rubbed and scraped and oiled until they were judged fit to walk on polished pavements.
    The shape of the hillside above them struck a chord of familiarity. Timarete peered closer. Just as she began to think she knew the place, Myrtale looked up, full into her eyes, and bared her teeth in a she-wolf’s grin.
    The vision winked out. Timarete stared down into blank and faintly shimmering water.
    Through the anger and frustration she allowed a flicker of respect. It took more than strength to play that game. However she had gained it, Myrtale had a little skill.
    But Timarete was older and wiser, and now she was forewarned. She held in memory the long bare hill with its jagged