Elves are fantastic. They create fantasies.
Elves are glamorous. They project glamour.
Elves are enchanting. They weave enchantment.
Elves are terrific. They beget terror.
The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake, and if you want to find snakes look for them behind words that have changed their meaning.
No one ever said elves are nice.
Elves are bad.
“Well, that's it,” said Nanny Ogg, as the witches walked out over the castle's drawbridge. “Well done, Esme.”
“It ain't over,” said Granny Weatherwax.
“You said yourself they can't get through now. No one else round here's going to try any magic at the stones, that's sure enough.”
“Yes, but it'll be circle time for another day or so yet. Anything could happen.”
“That Diamanda girl's out of it, and you've put the wind up the others,” said Nanny Ogg, tossing the lamb bone into the dry moat. “Ain't no one else going to call 'em, I know that.”
“There's still the one in the dungeon.”
“You want to get rid of it?” said Nanny. “I'll send our Shawn to King Ironfoundersson up at Copperhead, if you like. Or I could hop on the old broomstick meself and go and drop the word to the Mountain King. The dwarfs and trolls'll take it off our hands like a shot. No more problem.”
Granny ignored this.
“There's something else,” she said. “Something we haven't thought of. She'll still be looking for a way.”
They'd reached the town square now. She surveyed it. Of course, Verence was king and that was right and proper, and this was his kingdom and that was right and proper too. But in a deeper sense the kingdom belonged to her. And to Gytha Ogg, of course. Verence's writ only ran to the doings of mankind; even the dwarfs and trolls didn't acknowledge him as king, although they were very polite about it. But when it came to the trees and the rocks and the soil. Granny Weatherwax saw it as hers. She was sensitive to its moods.
It was still being watched. She could sense the watchfulness. Sufficiently close examination changes the thing being observed, and what was being observed was the whole country. The whole country was under attack, and here she was, her mind unravelling . . .
“Funny thing,” said Nanny Ogg, to no one in particular, “while I was sitting up there at the Dancers this morning I thought, funny thing. . .”
“What're you going on about now?”
“I remember when I was young there was a girl like Diamanda. Bad-tempered and impatient and talented and a real pain in the bum to the old witches. I don't know if you happen to remember her, by any chance?”
They passed Jason's forge, which rang to the sound of his hammer.
“I never forgot her,” said Granny, quietly.
“Funny thing, how things go round in circles . . .”
“No they don't,” said Granny Weatherwax firmly. “I wasn't like her. You know what the old witches round here were like. Set in their ways. No more than a bunch of old wart-charmers. And I wasn't rude to them. I was just . . . firm. Forthright. I stood up for meself. Part of being a witch is standing up for yourself - you're grinning.”
“Just wind, I promise.”
“It's completely different with her. No one's ever been able to say I wasn't open to new ideas.”
“Well known for being open to new ideas, you are,” said Nanny Ogg. “I'm always saying, that Esme Weatherwax, she's always open to new ideas.”
“Right.” Granny Weatherwax looked up at the forested hills around the town, and frowned.
“The thing is,” she said, “girls these days don't know how to think with a clear mind. You've got to think clearly and not be distracted. That's Magrat for you, always being distracted. It gets in the way of doing the proper thing.” She stopped. “I can feel her, Gytha. The Queen of the Fairies. She can get her mind past the stones. Blast that girl! She's got a way in. She's everywhere. Everywhere I look with my mind, I can smell her.”