Free The Wilful Eye by Isobelle Carmody Page A

all magic is bent to serve its king. He caught me and, after a long and painful time, he let my body die, but he chained my spirit to it. Now I have magic enough only to be heard by one who will hear me.’
    â€˜And I have magic enough only to hear you,’ Moth said sadly. ‘Yet I am glad not to be alone, for I am very frightened.’ She laid her head against the head of the panther, imagining it prowling the snowy mountains as in her dream, lithe and deadly. Better to die at the claws of the panther than to die for the wicked pleasures of a corrupt king, she thought. If only it could rise up and kill her. She saw that the high window had gone dark now, for night had fallen. She wept, thinking of her own bed, in which she would never again sleep, but suddenly a little stunted man with a hump appeared on the hearth. He had the proportions of a grotesque boy and one eye was half-closed by the distortions of his face so that he seemed to leer at her from under his bulging brow.
    â€˜Who are you?’ Moth asked in astonishment.
    â€˜I keep my name for myself,’ the little man answered. ‘Why were you crying so bitterly just now?’
    â€˜I am crying because your master the king has bidden me spin that straw to gold by dawn and if I cannot do it, my life will be forfeit. But I have no magic.’
    The small man gave her a sly look. ‘I am my own master. I could do what the king has bidden you do, but why should I?’
    â€˜Out of kindness and because you can,’ said Moth.
    â€˜It will cost me to give you what you want and so it should cost you, too. What will you pay me if I spin the bales of straw to gold thread?’
    â€˜I have no coin,’ Moth said, certain she was dreaming.
    â€˜I will have the ring you wear,’ said the little man.
    It was her mother’s rose gold ring, given to her on her tenth birthday and lent to Moth for this occasion. It was precious to Moth, but she thought her mother would rather a daughter than a ring so she slipped it off and offered it readily to the little man.
    â€˜You must not trust me until I have done what you ask,’ he said and gave her a malevolent smile before going hippity hop across to the spinning wheel in the alcove, where he climbed up onto a stool and began to work. The spindle whirred as he fed in straw and very soon the bobbin was filled with shining gold thread. Moth closely watched as he filled the next bobbin, but the transformation from straw to gold eluded her eye. In two hours, all of the straw had been spun into gold. The little man hopped down and put out his hand. Moth laid the ring on it and would have made a little speech to express her gratitude but he vanished without so much as a grunt.
    â€˜Well,’ said Moth. She turned to look at the bobbins, still half-thinking she must be dreaming despite pinching herself hard several times. She did it once again for good measure, but the bobbins of golden thread remained.
    The king looked at the thread shining softly in the morning sunlight, his face expressionless. Moth was careful to affect a look of grave deference and show no sign of triumph or relief, for she felt a violence raging in him. Finally he turned to her. ‘Clever little Moth to have eluded the flame,’ he said with a viciousness that took her breath away. Suddenly his eyes were alight with glee and she wondered if he was mad.
    â€˜I have done what you asked and I would like to go home to my parents now, your majesty,’ she said.
    The king wagged a long sallow finger at her. ‘That’s not how it works, little Moth. Don’t you know that already? Didn’t your mother tell you any stories ? Things never go in ones when it comes to magic. Tonight you shall have your second task. Until then, you may stay here. I must go now to play at being king, but before I go, little Moth, kiss me. I would feel the desperate flutter of your wings.’
    Moth felt she would rather