Prologue

Starlight twinkled off the snow-covered peaks high above the village, while far below the earth was as hard and rigid as iron. The wind briefly ceased its moaning and the whole world held its breath. It was nearly midnight on the longest night of the year and the dwellings below were dark, save for the light spilling from one cold house. The house stood on the very edge of the sleeping village, its grounds flush against a silver river and the wall that marked the threshold between safety and the windswept mountain slopes.

The daylight hours would show the house to be the largest in the village, with stone walls three storeys high, fresh thatch and elegantly painted walls. Right now the house was swathed in shadows of grey and black, and the brightly patterned walls leached of all vibrancy. The only colour came from the soft glow of firelight which spilled out from a window that should not be open. It poured out onto the frosty lawn and bounced off the gleaming surface of the river that was as cold and brittle as glass. The dim luminescence of the winter stars did little to penetrate the gloom in the stillness of that moment. The light of that open window shone like a beacon in the dark, attracting things to it - invisible, curious things that jostled and pushed against the fabric of the night.

Inside the stone cold house, bathing in the glow of that firelight the Lord of the Reaches paced backwards and forwards. He was anxiously awaiting the birth of his unborn child and had little to occupy himself so late in the night. He and his wife had been torn from their midwinter festivities by her labour pains, but this had been many hours ago and still the child did not come. He touched a finger to an unlit candle, lighting it with his fingertip, then contemptuously squashed the flame between finger and thumb. Such nervous ticks were beneath him.

His wife moaned in her bed and he turned towards her as the midwife bent over her, clasping her hand and murmuring low words of encouragement. Sweat trickled down her face as she laboured to bring the new soul into the world. Lord Enys turned away, discomforted by his wife's pain and stared instead into the dying embers of the fireplace. If he looked long enough he could imagine that he could see faces in the coals. The room was eerily still, apart from pop and crackle of the dying fire and his wife's occasional groans. The wind had dropped, and while the raw scream of the wind had grated on his nerves, he now found that he preferred the noise to this uncanny silence. He stared at the glowing coals, uneasy in his chair, while the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, one by one. He whirled, thinking he heard dry whispers, and the patter of quiet feet - but there was nothing. Only empty darkness occupied the shadowy corners. His eyes met those of the Sage, who sat in a corner, wrapped in his green cloak, his breathing shallow. The Sage murmured to himself under his breath and massaged his knuckles. He did not meet Lord Enys' gaze for long, averting his eyes and staring at his hands in distress.

Lord Enys sat with deliberation, drawing the pride of his rank and status about him in an attempt to steady himself. He sat straight backed and proud, cursing himself under his breath. He was letting the atmosphere of the longest night get to him. The solstice was always an uncomfortable time, come summer or winter, and he had never been a patient man. He drew in a great breath to calm himself and then winced as his wife let out a shriek. Her hands were curled in her blankets and her gasps were coming loud and fast. The midwife looked back at him.

"It's nearly time," she said, before returning her attention to the Lady.

Lord Enys muttered a prayer to the Ancestors and glared again at the Sage, who was oblivious, having shut his eyes. Superstitious fool. Of course, the house was protected, and the unseen watchers were in his imagination.

But it was almost midnight, and he could feel the old year dying.

He jumped once again as the air moved against his neck, tickling his skin with icy fingers. He spotted the open window and leapt up to slam it shut. As he did so, the great bell in the village square rang out wildly as the old year slipped away and the new began. The deep resonance of the chimes mingled with a newborn baby's cry. His youngest daughter had arrived.

He turned to his wife and the baby, plastering a smile onto his face, biding the hairs on his neck to lay flat. Lady Enys shed tears of relief and clasped his hand, unaware that her youngest daughter had been born at the exact stroke of midnight on the winter solstice. Meanwhile, the midwife and the Sage muttered to each other, as the midwife swaddled the babe against the cold. Lord Enys frowned at them both and they scuttled off, leaving the new parents alone to share a tender moment.

Lord Enys kissed his wife on the cheek, soothing her flushed forehead, then looked down, stony-faced at the soulless blue eyes of his infant daughter. Lady Enys smiled up at him, then looked down at her new daughter, so small and so tightly bundled in her blanket. The smile slipped as she saw the baby's eyes. Lord Enys gripped her arm reassuringly but clenched his fist in his sleeve. He pressed another kiss into her brow.

"It's not unusual," he said, hoping to soothe his tired wife. "Many children's eyes are blue when they are born. This little one's eyes will change soon enough. Do not dwell on it."

Lady Enys nodded and was momentarily comforted, soon slipping into an exhausted slumber. The Lord wrapped his arm around her and they passed away the rest of the night in peace and comfort, though the wind howled through the eaves and spirits clamoured outside the boundary walls.

In the years following the birth of their youngest daughter, Lord and Lady Enys did their best to love her. Both her parents were disconcerted by the circumstances of her birth. Neither could shake the feeling that perhaps, just perhaps, some unseen monster had climbed through that open window and claimed the soul of their child. However, they did not speak of it, not even to each other, instead finding it convenient to hand the little one off to the nursemaids whenever possible. More often than not, when they stopped by the nursery, they spent time with their eldest son and daughter who were both more pleasing in temperament and looks, both strong and healthy with blonde hair and clear copper skin, while the youngest, the fretted soulless child, was dark and slight and prone to weakness. This youngest daughter was a fey little thing, quick to smile and quick to cry, while her siblings were moderate in their moods.

There were very few who did not find the child's gaze unsettling. Even the nursemaids didn't like to hold her for long, no matter how much they were paid. Children were traditionally Named when their eyes turned brown and their souls settled in their bodies. This child's eyes did not darken, but stayed a clear disconcerting crystalline blue - the colour of the dead and the damned. At nine months old, her eyes were still blue, which was not unheard of, but by the time the child was a year old, people began to talk. Already neglected, it was an easy matter for her parents to leave her with servants with instructions to keep her out of sight of guests. By the time the child was three years old, the once quick smiles were slow to arrive and her chatter subdued. Few people noticed. The child was looked after by a never-ending rotation of servants, paid well to keep their silence, but never stayed with the family long.

The child grew older and quieter, sequestered from the outside world, her basic needs taken care of, but no more. She lived a sheltered half-life - unloved, unheeded, and ultimately unnamed. She watched from the shadows as her older siblings were showered with love and affection and applied herself to her lessons with diligence and care, in the hope that her parents would find her work pleasing.

She was quick to learn from her tutors and everything came easily, except magic. In a land where magic was the norm, where every peasant could light a candle with a touch of their fingers, the Lord and Lady's youngest daughter had no magic to speak of. She spent her spare hours wandering the fell like a ghost on the wind, wasting long hours practising her spells. She would sit, most often with a candle, touching her finger to the wick again and again, praying to her Ancestors it would light.

She was never given a Name, but eventually, she became known as Candle.