"What are you doing here at my hut, boy? And who are you, to disturb me?"

"I am sorry to disturb you, Baba Sonya. I am Teodor Kamarev, from Kyrnoka, and my baba told me I should bring my question to you. A young man in the stanista has trouble with the realm of the spirits."

"Ah, the little ataman. Varvara is a sensible young woman, and would not send you to me frivolously. Very well, but first, refill my woodpile. It should not take you long."

"Of course, Baba." It was bizarre to hear his grandmother, at least seventy winters old, called a 'young woman', but everyone knows that Hags grow ancient, and it was said Baba Sonya was at least twice that age.

There was a good sharp axe hanging over the woodpile under the eaves, and two young fallen trees half-stripped of their branches in plain view, so the errand was not hard. He could see where the wood pile was supposed to reach, by the weathering of the wall behind it, and stacked it up slightly higher than that.

He checked on his horse - nervous, but not testing its line to the tree - and then knocked on the front door.

"Baba, I think the pile is full again."

She comes out and checks the pile, then nods. "Good boy. Now, come in - you shall share my tea, and then ask your questions."

"Thank you, Baba," he says, and sits down to accept some tea. Good and hot - even in spring and working hard, Kislev is cold.

"So," she says as he has taken a few large sips, "What problems with the spirits have you had, that your grandmother sent you to me?"

"The stories say that the Ice Court do not allow men to use the magic of the world - not their ice, or the hag's arts, or anything else. And they say that an experienced hag witch can remove it from a man, if he does not want to flee to the imperinyi. Is that true?"

"It is. They have a prophecy, they say, that a man who wields ice magic will destroy the Ice Court forever and bring ruin to Kislev. And so I can curse you to remove your ability to touch the winds and spirits of magic."

"What - happens, when you do that? A young man in the village started seeing spirits, and he did not want to talk to you, because he was afraid."

She laughs, a short bark of a laugh. "Don't be silly, boy. Your grandmother is only a wise woman and might believe your tale, but I can see perfectly well that you are the one with the touch of magic about you."

"...My apologies, Baba Sonya. I did not mean to lie to you."

She is still smiling. "No, you tried to deceive me with nothing but truth. Clever boy, and brave, if not wise. But you need not fear, today. This is a curse to be placed on the willing, or on the Za. And one I would not place this on a man who was not very sure. Do you want to be ataman so much, that you would give up the chance to be a wind-witch in the south?"

"No, I... I think I might ask even if I was born imperinyi. I do not like that I was born with power, without earning it. I do not like that anyone is, without earning the blessing of the gods, or of the land. To be ataman, at least, I must show myself able to do the job, as my father has shown, or else the stanitsa would break with tradition and pick a man that could keep order and lead the rota against the Za."

"Interesting little man you are, Teodor. But know what you are refusing. You could not wrap yourself in a blizzard or speak with the beast-spirits of the wood and oblast, but you could learn to read destinies and secrets in the stars, or walk through bonfires, or become a ghost of smoke and fear. You could master the secret alchemies of metal and logic, or become one with the growing season, the trees and the farms. Or the beasts, the light, or death itself. Magic is a great gift, and you could do great things with it, even if they could not be done in the Motherland."

"I... I know. I can see them swirl around. Hear them, sometimes. When the rota went out to fight the Zelenyie, they muttered that the hag did not ride to aid them against the shaman. But I told them to shush. Because I could see the magic surging out here, that you must be doing something important."

"Hmm, so I was. The spirits of the hills were angry from something their shamans did, and I kept the rota from fighting both at once. Sharp witchsight you have. But you still want it taken from you."

"I... think so. The curse to take away the witch-gift, it cannot be broken?"

"Oh, the simple kind can. And it hurts, so if we were north on the deep oblast, with only Ungols around, I might do only this. But we are here in the south, too near to Kislev City. So I must do it many times, until it takes hold fully and burns the connection away, or you would run into an Ice Witch with the rota and she would see it and kill you for the chance that it might someday be broken. It will hurt, but it will not injure, not beyond the hurt to the spirit."

"I am a son of Kislev; I will not shrink from a little necessary pain. But... there is one thing, that makes me wish I did not have to."

She nods to the first, then cocks her head. "Oh?"

"Witch-sight is beautiful. I wish I could keep it, while losing the 'hands' that make me a risk to others."

She chuckles. "Of all things to hold you back from the decision, it is beauty?"

"Yes," he says shortly, most of the respectful air he's maintained draining away for a moment.

She drops the mockery and grins. "Good for you. It is a very fine reason. And it is not one I could solve for you. But - it is possible."