Witchlanders Read Online Free

past, frowning. At the top of the hill, the lucky man—a scarecrow they had made that spring—stretched out his stick arms, watching over the crops.
    â€œLook,” she scolded. “You’ve let him get all bent over.” She grasped the pole that formed the scarecrow’s body and began to twist it deeper into the dirt.
    Ryder threw up his hands. “Yes, the Goddess and the lucky man. They’re the ones responsible for this harvest. I might as well go back to bed.”
    Skyla shot him a glare. She’d been in a mood all morning, and Ryder knew he wasn’t helping. Normally he’d be happy to appease his sister by praying for a little while. It was Mabis he was really annoyed with. This morning she had refused flat-out to help with the picking, saying that she had to tend the firecall. It had been burning for three days now without a word from the coven. Of course the witches weren’t coming—anyone could see that—but Mabis kept adding herbs and grasses to color the smoke, kept feeding it the good logs Ryder had split for winter. He realized now that he should have put a time limit on their agreement. Mabis had promised that things would go back to normal if the witches didn’t come, but she didn’t say how long she was prepared to wait.
    Ryder followed his sister to the top of the hill and looked out over the tops of the hicca plants. From there, he could see down past the cottage, past the neighboringplanting hills, past the bend in the river, all the way to the village in the valley. Theirs was the highest farm, the last of the green foothills before the mountains turned red with zanthias and began their climb into witch country.
    â€œWe do these things for Fa,” Skyla said softly, without turning around. She was adjusting the head of the lucky man, an old helmet from the war. “He taught us to till and plant and weed. And pray. We’d be ignorant as blackhairs if it weren’t for him.”
    Ryder was still staring into the valley. “Farmer Raiken’s got his whole bottom field done.”
    Skyla gave a frustrated hiss. “A beautiful view and that’s all you see? It’s not a race—our crops are always the last to ripen up here.”
    â€œBut it is a race, Skyla,” he said—it was maddening that he was the only one who could see it. “The chilling might come tomorrow, or the day after that. And we’ve still got to take the hicca to the miller, cut and dry the stalks for the animals, fix the cottage roof—then there’s the vegetable garden . . .”
    â€œVillagers wouldn’t let us starve if worst came to worst.”
    â€œCharity?” Ryder could hardly believe what he heard. “Fa would cry out from his grave—”
    â€œMaybe,” she interrupted. “Maybe we’d be better off living in the village.”
    She inclined her head slightly toward the column ofgreenish smoke that rose up below them from the cottage. Every once in a while, the wind would change, and Ryder would catch its bitter smell—like burnt herbs and sour milk. Skyla meant Mabis—Mabis would be better off in the village. “Or perhaps the coven would take us in,” she added softly.
    â€œThe coven.” He laughed. “Can you imagine us living there? Anyway, Mabis is fine.”
    He put his hand to his chest and felt for the little bone his mother had given him. Day and night he kept it with him, safe in a leather pouch that he wore around his neck. He hadn’t told Mabis where it was, but she knew—he caught her looking at the pouch sometimes.
    â€œShe hasn’t been near the flowers,” he added. “I go every morning to check the river.”
    â€œSo do I,” said Skyla. Ryder hadn’t known that.
    â€œAnyway, the more we talk, the less we do.” He started off down the hill, but Skyla pulled gently at his sleeve.
    â€œRyder?” Her voice was soft,