Diamanda was struggling. Her footwear was barely suitable for a city summer, and certainly not for a foot of snow. Whereas Granny Weatherwax's boots, even without their hobnails, could have survived a trot across lava.
Even so, the muscles that were propelling them had been doing it for too long. Diamanda was outrunning her.
More snow was falling, out of a night sky. There was a ring of riders waiting a little way from the stones, with the Queen slightly ahead. Every witch knew her, or the shape of her.
Diamanda tripped and fell, and then managed to bring herself up to a kneeling position.
Granny stopped.
The Queen's horse whinnied.
“Kneel before your Queen, you,” said the elf. She was wearing red, with a copper crown in her hair.
“Shan't. Won't,” said Granny Weatherwax.
“You are in my kingdom, woman,” said the Queen. “You do not come or go without the leave of me. You will kneel!”
“I come and go without the leave of anyone,” said Granny Weatherwax. “Never done it before, ain't starting now.”
She put a hand on Diamanda's shoulder.
“These are your elves,” she said. “Beautiful, ain't they?”
The warriors must have been more than two meters tall. They did not wear clothes so much as items strung together - scraps of fur, bronze plates, strings of brightly coloured feathers. Blue and green tattoos covered most of their exposed skin. Several of them held drawn bows, the tips of their arrows following Granny's every move.
Their hair massed around their heads like a halo, thick with grease. And although their faces were indeed the most beautiful Diamanda had ever seen, it was beginning to creep over her that there was something subtly wrong, some quirk of expression that did not quite fit.
“The only reason we're still alive now is that we're more fun alive than dead,” said Granny's voice behind her.
“You know you shouldn't listen to the crabbed old woman,” said the Queen. “What can she offer?”
“More than snow in summertime,” said Granny. “Look at their eyes. Look at their eyes.”
The Queen dismounted.
“Take my hand, child,” she said.
Diamanda stuck out a hand gingerly. There was something about the eyes. It wasn't the shape or the colour. There was no evil glint. But there was . . .
. . . a look. It was such a look that a microbe might encounter if it could see up from the bottom end of the microscope. It said: You are nothing. It said: You are flawed, you have no value. It said: You are animal. It said: Perhaps you may be a pet, or perhaps you may be a quarry. It said:
And the choice is not yours.
She tried to pull her hand away.
“Get out of her mind, old crone.”
Granny's face was running with sweat.
“I ain't in her mind, elf. I'm keeping you out.”
The Queen smiled. It was the most beautiful smile Diamanda had ever seen.
“And you have some power, too. Amazing. I never thought you'd amount to anything, Esmerelda Weatherwax. But it's no good here. Kill them both. But not at the same time. Let the other one watch.”
She climbed on to her horse again, turned it around, and galloped off.
Two of the elves dismounted, drawing thin bronze daggers from their belts.