The Shepherd's Crown (Discworld #41)(71)

Outside her window, the moon was rising, a gloriously full silver orb to light the skies, to lead the elves in . . .

Tiffany’s eyes closed.

And a part of her, the soul of her, was in a chalk pit, the shepherd’s crown in her hand, its five ridges catching the light of the full moon, and it was glowing, like an aquarium out of time.

Now she could hear the roar of the ancient sea beneath her, its voice trapped in the millions of tiny shells that made up the Chalk.

And she was swimming . . .

Great strange fish were coming towards her, big and heavy-looking with teeth.

At that point, Dr Bustlefn2 floated into her mind and took his cue. ‘Dunkleosteus,’ he said as a creature the size of a house floated by. ‘Megalodon’ was huge and carnivorous – more teeth than Tiffany had ever seen in one go. Then there were sea scorpions – armour-plated, clawed horrors. But none of them paid any attention to her. It was as if she had a right to be there.

And then there was a smaller creature, an explosion of blue spines that did notice Tiffany.

‘Echinoid,’ whispered Sensibility Bustle.

‘That is correct,’ said the creature. ‘And I am the shepherd’s crown. Deep in my heart is the flint. And I have many uses. Some call me the sea urchin, others the thunderstone, but here, now, in this place, call me the shepherd’s crown. I seek a true shepherd. Where can a true shepherd be found?’

‘We shall see,’ Tiffany heard herself saying. ‘I am Tiffany Aching and my father is a king among shepherds.’

‘We know him. He is a good shepherd, but not the best. You must find the king of shepherds.’

‘Well,’ said Tiffany, ‘I’m just a witch, but I will help you if I can. I work hard, mostly for other people.’

‘Yes,’ said the echinoid. ‘We know.’

I’m talking to a creature from under the sea, thought Tiffany. Is that right? First Thoughts, not Second Thoughts, her mind reminded her.

‘It is strange,’ said the voice of Dr Bustle in her head. ‘But not so strange as falling down a rabbit hole with a pack of cards.’

Let me think about it, her Second and Third Thoughts said. If talking creatures from the sea turned up everywhere, we’d all know about it, so this must be something just for me.

The voice came from nowhere, as though it was part of that ocean from Time: ‘Tiffany Aching is the first among shepherds, for she puts others before herself . . .’

And the shepherd’s crown was warm in her hand, a golden light glowing from within its depths. An heirloom handed down from generation to generation of Achings – down to Granny Aching, on to Joe Aching, and now to Tiffany herself . . .

Then the sea had gone and she was back in the pit, but the magic was still there, for slowly, oh so slowly, she could see bones pulling themselves free of the chalk, rising to draw together . . . to make two figures . . .

Thunder and Lightning! Granny Aching’s sheepdogs. The best dogs any shepherd could ever have. Dogs for the first among shepherds.

Now they were at her feet, their ears pricked, and Tiffany felt as if she could almost reach out to touch them. Almost. But not quite. For if she should touch them, be part of them, would she too be drawn into the chalk, to be bones like them . . .?

‘Come by, Thunder. Away to me, Lightning,’ she whispered, the familiar commands filling her with courage.

Then she was suddenly awake, back in her room, You draped across her feet and an owl’s huge eyes hanging in the dark of the trees outside.

And someone was tapping on the window.

While the moon shone gloriously full over the stone circles, lighting a path for her wayward children, who rode through in their splendour . . .

fn1 Most everyday working witches believed the best use for a book was on a nail in the privy.

fn2 Part of him anyway, his memories being relocated to Tiffany’s mind following an episode early in her witching life. The rather pedantic wizard’s knowledge, especially of ancient languages, came in very handy sometimes, like when she wanted to read a peculiar menu in Ankh-Morpork.

CHAPTER 18

The Shepherd’s Crown

THERE WAS THE face of Rob Anybody, and he said, ‘The scunners are breaking through, Mistress Tiffany. It’s stairted!’

‘So cry “Crivens” and let loose the clan Mac Feegle!’ Tiffany commanded as a small group of Feegles scrambled out from under the bed, from where they had been watching over her. One of them appeared to have been hiding in her boots . . . he was now punching at the laces with a cry of ‘Tak’ tha’, yer nasty wrigglin’ little bogles!’

Boots, Tiffany thought. I wish I had brought Granny Weatherwax’s boots to wear for this fight. They would have given me strength. And then she stopped this thought. No. This is my land. My turf. My feet. My boots. My way . . .

But she still scolded herself as she struggled into her dress and thought that she should have slept with her day clothes on: What kind of leader are you?

As she stumbled to pull on her boots she felt a weight in the deep pocket of her fine black dress . . . and she pulled out the shepherd’s crown, which she thought she had put on the shelf. Had she put it there herself earlier that night? Ready for this moment?

And to the moon she said, ‘What is the shepherd’s crown? Whom does the shepherd’s crown serve?’