6.43 E

(Volume 2 of The Wandering Inn is available on Amazon! If you can, please leave a review or tell people it’s out! Buying is not necessarily necessary. Thanks so much for the support!)

 

Day 60 – Ryoka

 

“She knows it’s not alive.”

Wiskeria spoke softly. Her eyes were shadowed by her pointed hat. Her face was pale. She stood in the light, a flickering candle’s illumination in a lantern aided by the embers in a fireplace. They cast long, dancing shadows. But no one was suggesting using the [Light] spell. The silent gathering did not want to see magic.

“She knows it’s fake? You’re sure?”

Prost leaned over the table. The former [Farmer]’s face was pale. He had fought Goblins, lived for decades in Riverfarm. But this had shaken him. Wiskeria looked up. Her yellow-green eyes reflected the lantern’s light. She nodded once.

“She has to. I know the deal she took. At least, in part. It would be hard, very hard, to make something that fooled her against her will. Too much work. Moreover, what would be the point?”

“To trick her?”

Lady Rie sat at the table, flanked by her bodyguard, Geram, and Nesor. She looked up at Nesor, but the young [Mage] was silent. This magic was beyond him. Wiskeria, the sole [Witch] in the room, shook her head.

“It didn’t feel like that. I can see her magic. My…mother’s. I can’t see all of it. But it looks fair.”

“Fair?”

The word was incredulity. It came from more than one person. Charlay. Durene. Not Ryoka. But from others. Wiskeria tugged her hat lower, hiding her eyes.

“Yes. In a sense. It was fair in that Rehanna gave something and she got something. That…doll is casting a spell on her. It looks like a baby. If you let it, it would probably seem like a baby to you.”

“Why don’t we see it that way, then?”

Wiskeria shook her head.

“Because you don’t want to, Lady Rie. You don’t want to. The magic works on you if you’re willing. Like I said, it’s an easier illusion. But Rehanna wants the doll to be her son. So it is. That’s the nature of the deal. The baby—the doll is hers. And my mother has what she wants.”

And what was that? The listeners exchanged silent looks. In truth, they didn’t need Wiskeria to say. They had seen Rehanna. The woman was aged. In a single day, she had developed grey in her hair. Her body was older. And all of the vitriol, the anger, and the hatred she had had towards Wiskeria, towards Riverfarm and Laken and the world, all of it was gone. Rie murmured.

“So. Is it a threat?”

“No. It’s just a baby. It can’t do anything other than cry.”

“Can it eat? Will it grow?”

The words made Prost’s heart jump. They came from Ryoka. And they were the first she’d uttered since the emergency meeting had been convened. Wiskeria glanced at the City Runner.

“No. It’s not alive. Not like a String-person. It’s just well-sewn.”

That statement made no one relax. The air felt unsettled. Clammy with nerves. Durene shook her head and then coughed. She was weak. Woozy, in fact. The healing burns were still fresh; her body still smelled of smoke. Come to that, Wiskeria was wearing a borrowed tunic and leggings. She’d been literally naked but for a blanket less than ten minutes ago. Ryoka shook her head wearily, feeling her sore feet and tired body from a day of exercise. She hadn’t slept since yesterday morning.

It was late. So late the sun was rising into the next day, casting long shadows out of the night. But no one was abed or even thought of it. Tired as she was, Ryoka feared sleep. She feared the sight of that infant, the piercing, familiar wail. But it was not alive. She shivered with fear. But at least she had seen things more terrible.

Most of those standing around the table had not. Ryoka looked at them and saw the horror. For Wiskeria? Disgust. Regret. Anger?

She had none of it. She had looked at that crying infant made of cloth, Rehanna’s aged features, her mother’s craft—and it moved her not at all.

She too had seen worse, and Wiskeria gave Ryoka a little nod. There was only one emotion that Ryoka could read there. Just disappointment. As if she had hoped for something else. But her mother would never change.

Mothers, in Ryoka’s experience, were like that. Now, Wiskeria was left to explain, so she did, like a girl having to tell people why her mother had stumbled downstairs, unable to even stand for the drink. It was a tired, practiced explanation of half-truths, and there was a girl there, trying to defend something she knew was wrong.

Ryoka found herself trembling as Wiskeria’s tone became more matter-of-fact, soothing. She wasn’t shaking for the reason the others were.

“It was a bargain. There was no malice in it. Not from my mother at any rate. Sometimes, she makes deals you could call unfair. She’s on her best behavior right now.”

Prost fixed Wiskeria with a searching eye, but his voice cracked.

“This is her best behavior? She didn’t seek Rehanna out because the woman destroyed your brew, Wiskeria? You’re sure?”

The [Witch] barely hesitated.

“No. My mother doesn’t mix business with vengeance. Believe me, when she goes for vengeance, it’s very clear. If she was angry at Rehanna, she would have killed her or done something far worse. I know what we saw. But it only concerns Rehanna. If…”

She hesitated.

“If there were anything to worry about, it would be if she makes a second deal. Someone should watch Rehanna. And anyone else with something to lose.”

Then the silence deepened, and a shiver ran through Riverfarm, as if the winter had never left and this summer were an illusion. Ryoka stared at Rehanna, and Rie’s voice rose shrilly.

“Someone else? Who would look at that and think they wanted—”

“Lady Rie.”

Wiskeria cut in, voice polite.

“I am not giving you the reasons. I am telling you what I know from experience. The best thing to do would be to watch Rehanna. Not to take the child from her, and to tell everyone to stay away from Belavierr. The contract cannot be undone.”

Lady Rie looked at Wiskeria, both with a strangled fury and now…her eyes darted to Ryoka and then a scroll of parchment Ryoka had received via [Message]. Nesor had just finished copying it, and Fierre had signed it herself.

“Is this what the woman did on Terandria? Belavierr. I know that name, now. Not her name, but—the Temptress of Izril. What did she do in Noelictus?”

Wiskeria’s shoulders hunched further.

“I don’t know. Ryoka?”

Bad news often came too late. Ryoka stared down at the…list of Belavierr’s crimes. Her stomach lurched. It was long. Long, disturbing, even hilarious in parts. Then just horrifying because it was probably true.

“It doesn’t even say. The bounty’s too long to—mass-murder of a city. Is that even possible? Seduction of a [Prince]?”

“Allegedly.”

Charlay unhelpfully pointed that out. The entire room glared at her, and she quailed.

“What? It says that there.”

“That’s probably a lie.”

Wiskeria looked uncomfortable. But she hadn’t been surprised by the list of crimes either. On the other side of the table, Rie and Prost were greatly disturbed. Prost muttered to himself.

“This goes beyond regular crime. If even a tenth of what’s written here is true, let alone the bounty, Belavierr is a monster on the same level as…why was she allowed in here? Wiskeria, you didn’t tell us to—”

Wiskeria’s voice rose.

“I tried to banish her. No one can just get rid of her. It would take three [Kings] to even remove her without a good cause—and she took a position in the coven. She’s here for me. This is, again, her best behavior. You don’t want to make her mad. Believe me. Please.”

That drew the man up short. Prost looked at Rie. She paused, her face pale, and nodded.

“Another question then: why is her name not known the world over?”

Wiskeria gave Rie a sardonic look.

“Isn’t it? You know her. The [Ladies] and [Lords] of Izril do. She’s not as well-known as Az’kerash. Perhaps because she doesn’t kill armies…often. She comes and goes. She’s most dangerous when people try to attack her or stop her. I know what my mother is capable of. But believe me, she didn’t come to harm Riverfarm. I know how she thinks. For her, this is business. And her coming with the coven is because they need to deal with Laken. Because of me.”

Wiskeria looked around the table. No one could immediately respond. They had known she was unsettling from the start, but not what they had welcomed into their village, however reluctantly. Now? Ryoka did understand. If a tornado touched down in Riverfarm, she would be astonished if it left no casualties. Belavierr was that, unto [Witches]. This? This was the first sign of who Belavierr was.

Ryoka recalled the thing in Rehanna’s arms. It had been skillfully done. Everything was right. In fact, it was far, far more realistic than any mannequin baby from her world. Plastic could not take the shape cloth had.

It was not alive. But it moved and cried. Ryoka’s skin crawled, and she felt her stomach heave, trying to eject reality.

However, she had seen worse. Worse, and better. More glorious magic, more tragedy. She had seen a Dragon. Things sitting around a fire, reaching for the light. So it was Ryoka who stirred as the first rays of dawn crept into Rie’s home. She raised her hand as the light struck her face. Her two missing fingers made the beams blind Ryoka anyways. The young Asian woman sighed, then stood.

“Well, we’ve sent a message to Laken. And everyone’s inside, if not asleep. Rehanna’s being watched. So I think I’ll talk with the coven tomorrow. I mean, later today. Maybe I’ll take a nap before that. Unless anyone has anything else to say?”

She squinted at the brightening window. Ryoka stared at the rising sun and wondered if four hours would allow her to function. Maybe with a stamina potion. She’d trade someone else’s left leg for coffee. Then she realized everyone was looking at her.

“What?”

“We can’t just go back to work. We haven’t resolved this issue, Miss Griffin!”

Lady Rie was quietly horrified. She rose, smoothing her dress.

“Emperor Laken is sure to respond, but we must make some announcement or preparations—”

“About what? Belavierr? Wiskeria said she made an honest deal. We can watch Rehanna, and I’ll ask the [Witches] like I said, but what else can we do? Make plans against Belavierr? I tell you what, you can muster an army of a thousand. Ten thousand and ambush her as she sleeps. I’ll watch. Would that even work, Wiskeria?”

The Wind Runner turned to Wiskeria, and the [Witch] bit her lip to stop from laughing. Ryoka raised her hands, looking around.

“If you want to do that, feel free, Lady Rie. But I’m not going to. Belavierr’s not a threat right now. And I’d like to keep her that way.”

Lady Rie pursed her lips, gazing out the window.

“But if she were to endanger us—”

“We’ll do what? What plans could we make? If she attacks us, how many of us even get away? Will Riverfarm still stand?”

The City Runner stared around the room. Lady Rie went pale, and Geram, the [Fistfighter], shifted. He looked uneasily at one arm, as if trying to imagine stopping Belavierr with that.

There it was. A terror of the unknown. Fear of dangerous women. Or just women. From these things, Ryoka knew how witch hunts arose. It might have spread like a contagion out of this room, but Ryoka clung to something else.

“There’s one thing we can count on, though. And I think Prost will back me on this.”

The [Steward] had been grasping the edges of the table so hard his knuckles were white. He stared up at her, and Ryoka thought of the other [Witch].

“Califor. The rest of the coven. If we’ve got one…bad witch. Don’t you think we should rely on the others to reign her in? Or is Califor not someone famous, Prost? Trust in her.”

Califor had not yet returned from her own mission, but her name broke the tension in the air. Not completely, but Prost inhaled as if he’d forgotten she existed and turned to Wiskeria.

“That’s right. I knew I’d heard of her. There’s a—a good witch to balance an ill.”

“I don’t see much balancing going on.”

Geram muttered, but the tension eased. Rie looked exasperated.

“Witch Califor I don’t know, Mister Prost.”

“I heard of her, but never by name. Maybe you don’t know her by Witch Califor, Lady Rie. Would the woman who broke the Wellfar’s dam at Lake Roisemead ring a bell? The one that was set to flood out a dozen villages and dry out dozens more so they’d have an inland port?”

Ryoka’s ears perked up, and she made a note to ask Fierre about Califor. Rie’s eyes flickered.

“—That’s an older story. I, of course, remember the incident. It almost looked like it would be a battle. That was…eighteen years ago when my family—”

She broke off. Swallowed hard as Geram looked at her.

“Of course I know…Califor was the woman who did that? Wellfar is still hunting for the perpetrator!”

“Which is why she travels. She’s been to Baleros, Chandrar, Terandria—maybe even further. I know of her. I thought she’d hunt me down after I ran away from my mother. In the end, Mavika just found me. I thought, at the time, it was the better of the two.”

Wiskeria muttered. Califor sounded like some kind of wandering detective or problem-solver to Ryoka. Whatever the case was, her name was like a balm against Belavierr’s ominous presence. Ryoka nodded.

“Don’t forget Eloise, or even Hedag or Mavika. They might be dangerous in their own ways, those two, but Hedag would protect a child to the death, I’ll bet.”

She glanced at Wiskeria for another nod, then pushed herself away from the table.

“I don’t feel like making useless plans. Especially when we’re all tired. We have a lot of new arrivals in Riverfarm thanks to the aid mission. Mister Prost, they all have homes, but I’ll bet they’re reconsidering their choices. We should put them to work, even if everyone’s tired.”

The [Steward] started. He looked up and nodded.

“I can do that. We’ll all be sleeping in late, but—yes. We should get some sleep. All of us.”

He stood up. Lady Rie looked at him.

“Prost—!”

“Miss Griffin’s right, Lady Rie. There’s no sense in letting the fields go to waste or standing about. Work will keep folk’s mind off it. But I will tell Beniar to keep his [Riders] close to the village. The [Bandits] aside—”

He glanced at Wiskeria. Her walking out of a [Fireball] unscathed was small potatoes compared to the rest of tonight’s events, but it did merit some attention.

“—we’ll get back to work. Miss Griffin, talk to the [Witches] by all means. I’ll deal with what I can and wait for His Majesty’s orders.”

He nodded to the others. Lady Rie protested, but that was that. In truth, everyone was too tired to think. They just left the house. But sleep was hard to find, even exhausted. No one could forget the baby.

 

—–

 

The baby. Ryoka woke up in Durene’s cottage seven hours later. It was already late morning, so she got up cautiously, only to find Charlay staring right at her. The Centauress’ eyes were sunken.

“I dreamt about screaming babies.”

“You did?”

“Mhm.”

Charlay knelt on her horse legs as Ryoka got up. The City Runner stared at Durene’s kitchen and decided she didn’t have the strength to make a hot meal. It wasn’t that kind of day. Some days you didn’t want food to make you feel good because it couldn’t. She dug in her pack and pulled out some nuts and a couple dried fruits. Charlay copied her and came up with some dried oats and nuts.

They ate quietly. It felt like a wake to Ryoka. It was almost a relief when Frostwing dove from her perch and tried to steal all of Ryoka’s nuts. That woke Durene up. She joined them, and after tossing potatoes out at the Mossbear lying in the remains of Durene’s garden, they found Wiskeria.

She was lying in her tent. Awake. She crawled out and stared at them. Like Charlay, her eyes were worn by exhaustion. Perhaps not from nightmares; she looked worn by memory. Another familiar thing. Ryoka offered her a hand, and Wiskeria stared at her. At Durene. Charlay.

Ryoka could see the looks on her companions’ faces. They were remembering the baby. But that wasn’t Wiskeria’s fault. In no way had she condoned or helped that occur. It was only that Belavierr was her mother. And that she was a [Witch]. Ryoka looked down at Wiskeria’s face. To Wiskeria, it seemed, both meant she was partly guilty.

“Uh. Morning. Want some nuts? Charlay’s got oats if you’re interested.”

Wiskeria blinked as Ryoka offered her the travel rations. The comment Ryoka made was incredibly stupid, but it helped break the gravitas of the day. Durene snorted a bit, and Charlay eyed Ryoka.

“I thought you hated my oats.”

“I do. Maybe Wiskeria’s allergic to nuts, though.”

“Um. Thanks.”

The [Witch] slowly got up. She faced Ryoka. The City Runner gave her a half-smile.

“Shall we?”

 

—–

 

The strange mood filled the village. Not exactly horror, not in the light of the day. And not grieving; no one had died. But a strange, quiet mood. Like that after some huge tragedy too large to encompass. Unease, that was it. Ryoka looked at the quiet faces, the way no one, not even children, made loud sounds.

As if it were against the rules. As if they were all dreaming. But in time, people began waking up. Someone made a loud sound as she slapped two pots together, and everyone jumped. Someone else made an inane joke about oats and Humans, and no one laughed, but the world became normal. Ryoka and Charlay gave each other high-fives, and Chimmy was able to run up. Like that, Riverfarm became normal.

Ryoka realized she was actually hungry for food instead of a handful of nuts and fruit. She joined the queue in front of one of the cooking halls where food was being passed out. Today’s was, almost predictably, a stew. They were easy to make, but someone—Prost—had decided to let the [Cooks] add a generous helping of lard and some of the meat, and there was some really nice bread.

It wasn’t quite as well-risen as something from Ryoka’s world—she blamed a lack of baking powder—but it was just as tasty. And hot! She ate greedily and found Charlay stuffing her face as well.

“Charlay, can you eat all kinds of meat?”

“Don’t be racist, Ryoka. Of course I can. But I don’t eat too much; it goes straight to my lower belly.”

Ryoka eyed the Centauress’ lower half. She couldn’t argue with that. She saw people standing around, talking, until men and women began walking through the crowd with authority, shouting.

“Alright! Enough time stuffing faces! We need to get those fields tilled, or do you think our seeds will sprout in fresh air? [Farmers], with me! You new folk, anyone who’s got a farming class, come with me until Prost sorts you out!”

“Building team! Muster up!”

“Ladies and children, we’ll be setting up those drying racks. And washing clothes and seeing to the rest of our tasks! It’s a fine day to dry what needs drying, so we will be cleaning and letting the air do our work—”

Ryoka had another reason to admire Prost, then. The unsure crowd began to move with a purpose. From her seat, she watched a group of [Farmers] get up. Her hermit-friend, the spear fisher, was good-naturedly hefting his spear and arguing with Beycalt, who was clearly not about to let him wander off and pursue his passion and calling. A group of farmers, including Mister Ram, trooped past Ryoka, groaning.

“We’re going to have to water the fields, aren’t we? It’s too damn bright, and we need rain! At least the river’s nearby.”

“Stop complaining. We’ve any number of hands. And some of us have [Water-Retaining Soil]. But would you rather wait for rain with nary a cloud in sight?”

“It’ll be half a day of watering! We’ll have to do it all by hand!”

One of the female [Farmers] slapped a man on the back.

“Well, you were complaining about the rain right before this. Make up your mind, man!”

He groaned.

“Can’t [Witches] conjure rain?”

Everyone in earshot paused at that. The other [Farmers] scowled at the loudmouth, and half of them smacked or elbowed him. The woman [Farmer] glowered.

“Yeah. How much of your soul do you think they want for a shower? Forget it. Let’s get some buckets. We do need a canal or two, though…”

They moved out of the mess hall. Ryoka sighed. The village was still mostly in shock. She was certain that would change. She got up and bussed her and Charlay’s dishes.

Yes, shock. You could see that on most faces. With the daylight hitting them and the dark night behind, it was easy for people to laugh off what they’d seen. Or pretend it wasn’t as real. Just a doll, perhaps. Some trickery of magic. Not…

It was a bad memory. Until you heard a baby’s wail and looked about wildly for it. Twice, it happened, and both times everyone in earshot froze, then laughed. But no one laughed when they went past the house where Rehanna lived.

Rehanna had her own home. Of course she did; she had once had a family.

A family.

You would think, on this day, she would be cloistered away in her home with no one to see. Like, Ryoka had imagined, someone in a care facility in a padded room to protect herself. But when Ryoka saw the woman—she understood why the village was so unsettled.

“Time to work. Someone give me a hand with these linens? They need darning, all of them.”

A woman was trying to lift a basket of damaged clothing up onto a table as she sat outside her home. There was a crowd of people watching that Prost was trying to chivvy to work. But they could not help it. People passing in the streets slowed.

They stared at a woman, hair white, hands covered with liver spots and older—far older than she had been a day ago—trying to lift a basket. After a second, another woman hurried over and helped Rehanna put it on the table.

“Take care of your strength, Rehanna.”

“I…I used to be able to do that. My. How will I pull my weight? Thank you…Miss Eloise? Witch Eloise?”

Rehanna turned, and she seemed older, now, than the [Witch] with the flowery hat. Rehanna was still taller, but Eloise was the more—lively of the two. The woman rested on the table, clearly fatigued from that one exertion, then felt around for a needle. Thread.

A wail rose, then, and Ryoka felt her blood chill, and the crowd shivered. It was a baby’s wail. Nothing more. Nothing less.

“Oh, there he goes again. One moment. Mihka. Mihka, hush—”

And Rehanna hurried over to a basket and hamper. She bent over, looking, of all things, slightly harried, annoyed, like a mother at work would be to have to constantly attend to—

She lifted something up, and tiny fingers grasped for her as she adjusted her blouse, offering the wailing infant made of cloth a breast. Then the crying stopped, and someone retched quietly. But Rehanna just hummed and stood there until she placed the—her child down.

“I hope I’ll survive teething. I…I never thought I’d be so happy. Now, where’s the linens? Miss Yesel said I needn’t worry, but someone has to darn them. And I am a [Mother]. I levelled up last night, you know, Miss Eloise.”

Eloise. The Tea Witch slowly sat there as Rehanna sat back in a rocking chair and pulled the first piece of cloth over to her. She began to sew in a practiced manner, and Eloise watched.

The [Witch]’s face was very…very kind. And very old, Ryoka saw. Eloise patted Rehanna on the knee.

“That’s quite wonderful, Rehanna. I hope you don’t mind the staring. I will have something to restore your strength. You must take care of your body now, you understand?”

Rehanna’s head lifted, and her aged features swept the crowd. It was not, Ryoka realized, as if she hadn’t seen them. She gave her audience a tremulous smile and lifted a hand. When they flinched—she lowered it.

“I quite understand, Witch Eloise. I should just like everyone to know that I’m happy. I apologize for all the trouble I’ve been. I’m happy. So—”

Her eyes flickered.

“So please. Let me be happy?”

Her eyes stole to the basket, and Ryoka heard a slight gurgle from it in the silence. When Rehanna looked up, no one could meet her eyes. But it seemed as if Eloise, for all her own quiet grief, sat like a sentinel.

Only then did Prost raise his voice and order everyone to work. He shouted everyone along, then stood there in the street. Ryoka saw him take several huge breaths, square his shoulders—then march over to smile and take Rehanna’s hand and ask her how she was this morning.

That took a bravery Ryoka didn’t have this morning. She herself hurried away. Away from the smiling woman. Away from the infant made of cloth.

The mood was quiet in Riverfarm due to that, for all Rehanna tried to call greetings. But Ryoka was certain it wouldn’t last.

Shock would be replaced by other emotions, soon. People might avoid Rehanna’s house and the woman, but for how long? They could try to ignore her or pretend this was all a trick, but the thing about magic, real magic, was that it didn’t tarnish in daylight.

They would see and have to deal with it again, and then all the chickens would come home to roost.

Or crows. The streets were absolutely deserted around the houses as Ryoka and Wiskeria approached. And even the [Witches] looked—

Hesitant. Mavika, Hedag, and Alevica sat together, speaking quietly. They too looked uneasy. This magic was clearly not something they were used to, either.

The most…normal was Mavika. She was snapping at Alevica. She just looked unhappy, and when Ryoka trotted over, Mavika’s expression only grew more annoyed. Ryoka lifted a hand.

“Uh…”

“Go away, wind’s child. We aren’t in the mood to speak of what your eyes and ears can see. No more are we here to comfort thee.”

Mavika was feeding half her breakfast to the raven perched on her shoulder. She cast Ryoka a black-eyed glance, and Ryoka hesitated. But then she sat down at the table. Affronted, Mavika’s eyes narrowed, and Wiskeria hastily came up behind Ryoka.

“Ryoka has a few questions, Witch Mavika. On behalf of Riverfarm. They need some assurance.”

“Of what? The doll? It was—”

“—a deal fairly struck. So Wiskeria’s said, Witch Mavika. A good morning to you, by the way.”

Ryoka spoke tactfully. Mavika eyed her and clicked her tongue.

“Then why do you ask?”

Alevica grinned, or tried to, as Hedag grabbed the last heel of bread. They listened as Ryoka responded.

“To be sure it was fair. No offense to Witch Wiskeria, but Belavierr is a powerful magic-user. And I know some stories about [Witches]. Very few of them have fair endings.”

The trio of [Witches] fell silent. Mavika broke off some bread and ate it. She replied, chewing, as her raven snatched the last of the bread.

“And do you hold these tales to be true of all [Witches], wind’s child?”

“No. But I haven’t met any [Witches] before all of you. And Belavierr is unique.”

Not even Mavika could contest that. She sat back, annoyed, and Ryoka took that as acceptance. She looked around.

“The baby. I get that Belavierr traded it to Rehanna. Can you all tell me why? And how she struck the deal?”

The [Witches] looked at Ryoka. Then Alevica leaned over to Hedag.

“And here I thought she was halfway smart.”

Hedag boomed with laughter. She slapped the table, making all the cups jump, and leaned forwards.

“Don’t insult the girl, Alevica! Miss Runner! You want to know what bargain was struck? Can’t you see what it was? Or do you ask if there’s some other trick to it? If so, I’ll tell you what any [Witch] would: there’s not, and it was honestly done!”

She eyed Ryoka, her huge face smiling beneath her brown hat. Of all the [Witches], Ryoka had spoken to Hedag the least. Not at all, in fact; she’d been playing with the children all of yesterday. She looked at Ryoka, eyes bright beneath the huge grin.

“Califor said you understood our craft. So you tell me, Miss Runner Ryoka, what was the nature of the bargain? It should be plain to see.”

Ryoka thought for a moment.

“It looks like Belavierr made the doll for Rehanna because the woman missed her child. In exchange for part of Rehanna’s life. Or her lifespan. But—it’s not that simple, is it?”

“Why not?”

Hedag’s smile was challenging. Ryoka turned to look at Wiskeria and got a nod. That was what Wiskeria had said, but…Ryoka frowned.

“But it’s just a doll. What makes it worth…forty years of her life?”

“It looks like her child. Sounds like it too.”

The Wind Runner blinked. That made sense. But…it did feel too simple. She raised her eyebrows, meeting Hedag’s gaze.

“So it’s not going to disappear or fall apart or…suck the life out of her?”

“Do you believe the Stitch Witch is of so little skill? Did you not see her daughter’s clothing? Nothing Belavierr makes will come undone with age, for better or ill.”

That retort came from Mavika. The [Witch] looked peeved at Ryoka’s questions. The City Runner shook her head.

“But it’s just a doll. It’s not worth…does it eat? Will it grow up?”

The [Witches] shrugged, but they turned as a fourth figure joined their number. Eloise had returned from Rehanna’s side. She looked tired, and she did not greet Ryoka as she spoke.

“It will be a baby forever. It may even eat. I don’t care to know. I have studied the doll as much as I could. Rehanna did let me touch it. I had Prost set two of her friends to watch her.”

“Sensible. A fool might take that doll from her. What did you see, Eloise?”

Hedag leaned over. Eloise cast a glance at Ryoka, but was too distraught to obfuscate.

“I’m not a tenth of Belavierr’s skill, and needlework is not my exact specialty—but it is simple. Simple and damned elegant! It is a pure vessel, and it will take Rehanna’s grief. For her, it is her baby, and perhaps she might even dream her husband is just around the corner, laughing, as she holds it. It is…just that. Just that, but too much nevertheless. Just a spell. A Cloth Golem that eats grief. And provides a dream of happiness.”

She breathed, in and out, and it was Mavika who glanced around.

“Perhaps we should have…tea? I offer you my hospitality, Witch Eloise.”

Awkwardly, she produced a handful of what turned out to be broken acorns and what might have passed for the world’s first tea bag ever made. Eloise looked at Mavika, and Ryoka realized the Crow Witch was trying to be…nice?

Mavika’s glare said Ryoka wasn’t invited, but Eloise made a pot with Mavika’s dubious tea bag. It seemed to calm Eloise, or the ritual did. But her words were blunt.

“Sisters. I have failed. Let it be a lesson to you as well, Miss Ryoka. I strove against Belavierr, set myself against her, and I don’t believe I even had a chance.”

Set herself against…Ryoka remembered Eloise trying to talk to Rehanna, offering her tea and sympathy. Oh.

“You were trying to stop her from taking Belavierr’s offer.”

“Yes. Subtly. With small things to let her process her grief. A kind ear, a warm cup of tea, a snack—it feels like tossing crumbs into a storm. I have failed. Now, a woman has lost twenty—no, forty years of her life.”

Eloise’s lips were pressed tightly. Hedag slurped noisily and grunted.

“You hadn’t a chance, Eloise. That’s the honest truth. Perhaps if Califor hadn’t gone off to that village—”

“It is my domain, Hedag. My responsibility. Belavierr is practicing her craft; she is clearly wounded and has lost her magic, but she’s taken some of it back. How much forty years is, to her, is anyone’s guess.”

Forty years. Rehanna had obviously aged overnight, and Ryoka made an educated guess.

“So she’s using Rehanna’s age to fuel her…craft? I have that right? That’s what Belavierr gets out of this?”

The [Witches] nodded as one. Alevica joked, grinning, or trying to.

“Forty years sounds like a hell of a thing to me. I’d take it and be young for that long.”

Mavika stared at Alevica, and the Witch Runner glared at her.

“You could not use forty years if you had it, Witch Alevica. It is not something you can merely take and eat or wear like a pretty thing. Only the Witch of Webs can use what she harvests. Nor will she stop at one.”

That was…not good. Ryoka licked her lips as Alevica opened her mouth to argue—then sat back. For all her bravado, Alevica was clearly shaken. She muttered, directing her words at Ryoka.

“—Just so you know, the doll isn’t that amazing. I could probably do it in a few months. My master could probably make one that good. It’s just—doing it that fast. And taking age. I’ve never seen anyone take time like that. And it’s generating happiness, Eloise?”

The older [Witch] nodded grudgingly.

“Rehanna is happy. And, I hope, she will continue to be. The doll will help with that, I think. It will make tragic days hurt less. It is not all-powerful. But she will give it strength. Until she decides she has no need of it.”

“What if she doesn’t?”

“Then it will be her child, sweet and there for her to love, until the day she dies. Or it is taken from her.”

Eloise sat her cup down. She looked at Ryoka, her face tired. Her eyes direct.

“There is no trickery in the doll. No function in it to steal Rehanna’s life or emotions. She already gave Belavierr her price. Belavierr has no need to siphon her life away. Again—it was a bargain struck between the two. And things given willingly are worth far more than what can be stolen.”

“But—”

Ryoka struggled for words. She had seen worse, but this bothered her. Because this was no majestic Dragon and his hoard that could be bargained for, where even his smallest trinkets were things of incredible worth. And it was no Necromancer, who committed terrible evils because he could.

It was so…small. A petty magic in one sense. The doll wasn’t real. But it would make Rehanna happy forever. In that sense, it was grand. Petty and grand and—a [Witch]’s magic. Ryoka sat back, conflicted. She sipped the tea automatically, then looked up.

“Okay. Thank you for explaining it to me. I have only one last question. Was it a good deal for Rehanna? It seemed like Belavierr made the doll quickly. So did she pay too much? Was it fair? Was there a better deal she could have struck?”

The coven looked at her. Old and young. Even Wiskeria. For one moment, they were united. All seven smiled or laughed or shrugged. And they replied in different words, but with the same message.

“It depends on her.”

 

—–

 

[Witches]. They were about bargains and emotion. No—give and take. As Ryoka went for a run on the dry, warm day, she thought about Rehanna. It was too bright outside. The skies were too blue. It felt like summer had come, even though according to Prost’s internal calendar they still had time yet.

Either way, it was all too easy to run and forget about yesterday. At least for a moment. But the baby—Ryoka didn’t want to avoid it. After her meeting with Eloise, she had decided there was only one logical step. To psyche herself up for it, Ryoka went on a brisk run.

There was nothing eventful about the run itself. Just a big lap around Riverfarm, avoiding rocks or patches of nettle-like plants. What was interesting was the man she met who stepped out from behind a tree about two miles south of Riverfarm. Ryoka saw him, jerked in surprise, and doubled left as she reached for a potion at her belt.

The wind blew fiercely and then died. It was acting up here. At the worst moment. Ryoka was tensed—but the man held up two hands.

“Peace, Miss Runner! I come in peace, on my honor! Might I have a word?”

He smiled with all his teeth, and Ryoka instantly recognized him. The strange man that Charlay had met three days ago. The same one Rie had said was lurking around Riverfarm. She grabbed a Tripvine bag and held it, but didn’t yank it loose and throw it. She halted, panting.

“Can I help you, sir? I’m a City Runner, but I’m not looking for any deliveries—”

“Nothing of the sort, Miss! I’m just a wanderer, looking to speak to someone. Might I have a word?”

He stepped forwards, and Ryoka took his full measure now. Including his clothes. Instantly, Ryoka’s eyes widened. Because she recognized the style of the garb he wore. It was so easy for Charlay or anyone else to mistake. And their descriptions were all generic because describing clothing was hard unless you had the background and terminology.

The man had a hat, yes. Dark clothes. But the style was…Ryoka fixed on the long-sleeved, trench coat-like design. The gloved hands and what might have been armor concealed underneath the cloth. But light armor, nothing heavy. And the hat! That gave him away too.

It was a capotain, cylindrical and tall, complete with a buckle. It didn’t need to be a buckle. It could have been an insignia. Or left blank. But the hat, the style of it, was as iconic as if the man had owned two swords and possessed cat-eyes.

The dress was a costume. A symbol. The hat alone—it probably wasn’t totally real to what pilgrims might have looked like in the 1600s. And it wasn’t a style that existed in Ryoka’s world except as an icon, a particular style as old as…[Witches]. But it told her something in silent words.

To her it said [Witch Hunter]. The man stepped forwards, smiling that strange smile. And Ryoka hesitated. Because his presence put pieces together in her head.

Bounty on Belavierr. The [Bandits] targeting Wiskeria, a [Witch]. The stranger asking questions about Riverfarm. The Circle of Thorns?

Pieces. But she wasn’t sure. So Ryoka warily rested on the balls of her feet, ready to move. She couldn’t see if the man was armed. His hands were spread away from his body. He was trying to be…friendly. He nodded to her, his eyes flicking to her belt.

“Good day to you, Miss Runner. I hear you’re having a bit of trouble with [Witches]. May I ask what they’re up to in Riverfarm? I’ve got my head against the ground so to speak, but rumor is hard to sort from fact sometimes.”

“Who are you?”

“Just a traveller—”

“Really? Because you look like a [Witch Hunter].”

Ryoka circled the man. He turned with her, raising his brows. And she detected a hint of wariness. The wind blew cautiously around Ryoka’s shoulders.

“That’s a bold assumption and claim to make upon seeing someone, Miss City Runner.”

“What about a man who’s been spotted around Riverfarm asking questions about [Witches]? Agitating people? And who dresses like half the [Witch Hunters] I’ve ever seen?”

Only if you counted movies and other media from her world. But it was a gamble Ryoka was willing to take. The way the man’s eyes flickered was a dead giveaway. He lowered his hands, sighing.

“Ah. You’ve caught me out, Miss. Are you from the north? Terandria, perhaps? Izril has few of my kind, I’m sorry to say, although we’ve been present in greater numbers in times past.”

Ryoka refused to nod or shake her head.

“Let’s just say I’m familiar with your look. Mind walking back with me to Riverfarm? The [Lady] in charge of this region would like to meet you. And have a chat with a real [Witch Hunter].”

The man glanced over Ryoka’s shoulder back towards Riverfarm. He shook his head, still slightly smiling.

“I’d prefer not to get closer. [Witches] tend to see right through me, and I think I’d be at odds with them. Which I’d rather not be, given which ones are about. I’m just concerned for the wellbeing of folks here.”

“So you’re after them? On the hunt?”

A slight pause, then that smile again.

“I prefer not to say, Miss. I’m just a traveller asking questions. If you take umbrage with me, I’ll gladly depart. But for your safety, it might be better to avoid that lot. I can’t say what I’m about yet, but I swear by my own hat.”

He tapped it, and Ryoka realized the buckle she’d seen on the hat was actually a badge. It looked like…three arrows? That was the symbol of some kind of guild. She just bet it was the Hunter’s Guild. For a [Witch Hunter].

Ryoka folded her arms, suspicious.

“So you’re a [Hunter]?”

“Again, Miss—”

“Is Noelictus or whatever kingdom hired you doing this? This isn’t their land!”

There was only one Hunter’s Guild in the world—at least, these days—and Ryoka didn’t know if they actually had the same system as an Adventurer’s Guild. But she bet they did!

The man paused a second.

“I cannot confirm who I am or my purpose, Miss Runner.”

“Oh? Then you’re unlawfully hanging about asking questions and stirring up trouble with the [Witches]. Would you start telling me what Belavierr’s done or the crimes of the other [Witches]?”

“Do you know what they are? It’s ghastly stuff, Miss Griffin. Heard of…Helpful Servants? Another thing Belavierr has done. Far less pleasant than even the baby.”

The way he said it made Ryoka pause a second—but she shook off her shiver.

“Well, you know about the baby. Sounds like you’ve been talking to a lot of people. Who are you? Also, you just said my name.”

The smiling man had been gesturing expressively, speaking quickly and fluently. But he had the slightest pause—and at this, his eyes flickered, and Ryoka saw him grimace.

“Ah. Well, everyone knows the Wind Runner of Reizmelt. I’ve done my research.”

“Bullshit. You’ve got two seconds to tell me what you’re actually doing, or I’m calling Laken to—”

The man sighed as Ryoka raised her voice. Ryoka was ready to dash back to Riverfarm; it wasn’t far at all. What she wasn’t expecting was to see a flicker from the tree—and for a woman wearing [Hunter]’s clothing to step out from behind a tree and shoot Ryoka through the chest.

The second [Hunter] lowered a wand as the first lowered his hands, cursed, and sighed. Ryoka landed on her back, a scream caught in her mouth—

Not bleeding. Not dead. A wand had struck her. Hit her and…paralyzed her?

Not killed her? The first was speaking to the second.

“That’s torn it. She’s an associate of the local [Emperor].”

“Yes, well, we couldn’t have her warn the [Witches], could we? What’s the call? Interrogation or disposal?”

Help! Help! Ryoka was trying to move, but her entire body was locked up; she could only breathe and roll her eyes around. Then she saw a third figure riding their way with two more horses.

“Orders, sir?”

There were more of them! The first [Hunter] looked annoyed. He glanced at Ryoka.

“[Witches] have tracking Skills, and I don’t like the rumors about the [Emperor]. Disposal. Make it look like birds pecked her to death. No, wait. Hang her by string as well.”

They were going to frame the [Witches]? Wind began to blow around Ryoka, but she couldn’t see the [Hunters] fully, and one of them sounded amused.

“I think she’s using her wind powers on us.”

“Be more professional. Get it done.”

“Sorry, sir.”

The third one aimed a crossbow at her without a word and fired.

Thunk.

The pull of the crossbow was loud. The [Hunter] with the strange smile glanced over and frowned. The crossbow bolt had landed wide of Ryoka’s head by an inch. He addressed the third member of his group.

“Skill?”

“No. The wind yanked my crossbow left.”

“Interesting.”

The second [Hunter] casually lifted her crossbow. The wind yanked her hand as her finger tightened on the trigger, and she steadied it. Ryoka stared at the woman. Something was off with all three of them. Her smile? Why her sm—

The woman pulled the trigger, and her crossbow exploded. The string holding the bolt snapped across her arm, so hard it tore at the leather, and she recoiled with an oath. There was a loud pinging sound, and the woman cursed.

“Another Skill? Her dossier says she doesn’t have any—”

“No. That was a curse. Finish the Runner and take evasive action! Regroup at rally point!”

Their leader shouted. He was staring at something hanging from his wrist; a glowing oval of stone. He whirled, lifting a crossbow.

This one exploded as well. And with it, something wet splashed over Ryoka.

Suddenly, Ryoka realized she could move. She tried to get up and saw one of the fake [Hunters] charging at her with a sword.

“Ryoka!”

A high-pitched, young voice screamed. Ryoka recognized it. Was that—Nanette? She saw the [Hunter] open his mouth, glance sideways—and a quarterstaff clipped him so hard he went sprawling.

Witch Califor rode past the man, staff in one hand, and a handful of leaves of all things in the other. She tossed the leaves into the air as she snapped at Ryoka.

“Run to Nanette!”

Ryoka scrambled to her feet as the trio of fake [Hunters] dove out of the way of Califor. She rode in a tight circle, striking left and right with the staff.

“Witch! Kill the Runner and—”

Their crossbows had all snapped to pieces, but the three were armed with swords, and they had another trick up their sleeves. One charged at Ryoka, slashing, as Ryoka saw Nanette waving her arms frantically. Ryoka ran backwards, and the cursing [Hunter] was slower than her. But the woman raised her wand instead of the crossbow and—

Shot fire?

A scorching jet of flames escaped the wand and nearly cooked Ryoka. The Wind Runner threw herself sideways, screaming as flames burnt her back, grabbing for a healing potion. Another [Hunter] shot fumes of green-black gas at Califor, who rode away from it instantly.

Poison? What the hell! They were using wands! Was that standard equipment? The female [Hunter] went to track Ryoka—then she coughed and gagged. The flames went out.

As she the [Hunter] had gone to inhale…a leaf had flown into her mouth and gone straight down her windpipe.

That wasn’t an accident. The air was suddenly full of leaves. They were blowing from the dry trees, a storm of thousands, obscuring vision and giving Ryoka a chance to run for it.

“Miss Ryoka! Miss Ryoka! Are you alright?”

Nanette rode towards her as Ryoka got out of the leaf-storm Califor had conjured. Ryoka turned back. Nanette had returned! She was on her pony, travel-worn and terrified. Ryoka spun.

“Califor! Get out of there! Nanette! We have to get Beniar!”

It was three against one, and they were three dangerous fake [Hunters] too. Califor’s leafstorm and charge had startled them, but they had too many strange abilities.

The flailing figures avoiding the [Witch] jumped onto horseback and scattered.

Two shot flames from their wands at Califor riding at them, and the last shot another cloud of gas—then pulled out an object and chucked it down.

Ryoka had seen flasks made by [Alchemists] that exploded—but the detonation of whatever this fake [Hunter] had thrown created a fiery orb of destruction fifteen feet wide.

“Califor!”

Ryoka shouted in horror. Nanette screamed—and the [Witch] emerged from the explosion mid-detonation. Her horse was screaming and trailing smoke, but Califor was just grim-faced. She had a knife in her hand, and as Ryoka watched, she cut the flames in half.

“Holy fuck!”

Ryoka scrambled for a weapon as the three [Hunters] recoiled. They were clearly wavering between retreat or attack; it was Ryoka they wanted. One tossed something at Ryoka, and a glint became a glass orb filled with a very bright, yellow liquid—

Ryoka grabbed Nanette and tried to drag her behind the girl’s pony. Califor shouted.

“Nanette, Ryoka—stay there!”

The [Witch] came to a halt as Ryoka slammed into the ground and covered Nanette’s head. The girl was shielding her own face, but the explosion or whatever that orb did never came. When they peeked up—Califor was holding the glass orb, inspecting the contents. At this, the fake [Hunters] clearly decided they were outmatched. They broke, each riding in a separate direction. Ryoka saw Califor glance at Nanette. Then, when she turned, Ryoka covered Nanette’s eyes.

She hadn’t seen Witch Califor angry before. The [Witch] leapt from her saddle, landed on the ground, planted the staff in the earth and let go of it. The staff remained fully upright, and Califor spoke to it.

“Grow a second.”

She plucked something from the ground as she stooped. Califor produced a piece of string, wound it to the glass orb, and flicked it.

“Return.”

Finally, she clapped her hands. Three quick gestures—Ryoka stared at Califor as the [Witch]’s head rose to regard the three fleeing figures.

Each one was heading in a different direction. One was riding into the forest bordering Riverfarm, already vanishing from sight, another shooting north, and the last heading south along Riverfarm proper.

The one going through the forest juked left as something shot out of the foliage and tried to hit them. They twisted right—and a tree, an actual tree, exploded around the rider and horse.

The growth of the tree was so fast and violent Ryoka could only imagine it was like being punched by a hundred branches at once. The figure went down; the second, speeding north, was also juking wildly. But the glass orb—Ryoka saw a flash, then an explosion that blinded her for a second.

As for the last? The figure riding southwards suffered neither the returning orb nor the wrath of trees. They just kept going until something hit them.

The wind. Ryoka felt the thunderclap of air blast the final figure, and they dropped like a stone off their horse, who ran for it. The Wind Runner stared at Califor as the [Witch] lifted her staff, ripping it out of the ground, and saw it had begun growing roots!

“Nanette. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Witch Califor! What happened?”

Nanette fought Ryoka’s hands off, and the Wind Runner stood. Califor was in the center of a sea of fallen leaves, leaning on her staff, grimacing. As if nothing had happened. Nanette stared about.

“Where did the [Hunters] go? Miss Griffin! Are you alright?”

She turned to Ryoka, and the Wind Runner caught Califor’s warning gaze. The [Witch] glanced towards Riverfarm.

“First, we reach the village. Then we investigate. To the horses, now.”

 

——

 

They lost about six minutes riding to Riverfarm, where Ryoka’s shouting had Beniar and his [Riders] in their saddles and chasing after them. Califor deposited Nanette almost on top of Eloise and Hedag.

“Keep her safe. Mavika, there are three of them. [Hunters], it seemed, but ones ready to kill rather than talk. There’s one in the forest that way. Beniar, take your riders north; I am after the one that might still be alive.”

The one she’d windclapped. Ryoka actually raced after Califor, but when they reached the spot where the third [Hunter] had been, all they found was…

 

——

 

“Hmm. Ash. We took too long.”

Not just the one Califor had incinerated with the orb; the second [Hunter] was nothing but ash when Califor found the body. Or rather, the remains.

“What? But you just hit him off his horse.”

Ryoka wiped at her brow, feeling at her knee and praying the potion had reversed the damage. Califor bent over a scattering of black soot; all the evidence of the [Hunter].

“Yes. I meant to take this one alive. He fell—here. Then he must have realized I would catch him. My guess is that he killed himself to avoid being taken prisoner. Odd, for a Hunter of Noelictus to do, but if he didn’t wish to be traced back to Noelictus…”

She trailed off, tapping her foot and frowning. Ryoka was still in shock.

“You saved my life. You came back just in time!”

“Or too late. I heard from one of Mavika’s crows about Rehanna and cut short my trip with Nanette. Too late for Rehanna. Too late to take one of these strangers alive. And the last is…fled.”

One of Mavika’s crows was circling the air, and Ryoka heard the screaming.

“Got away! Got away! No body! Hunting!”

Califor sighed.

“That must have been their leader. Higher-level. I thought I’d broken every bone in his body. I only wonder…”

“Wonder what?”

Ryoka was shaken from the experience, but Califor looked troubled almost as much. The [Witch] responded absently.

“[Witch Hunters], [Undead Hunters], and [Demon Hunters] make up three of the kinds of Hunter that Noelictus produces. But they hunt more regular monsters than my kind. It’s rare they’d be so aggressive or attack bystanders like you. These ones carried a lot of magic. Perhaps too much, but then again, if they were sent to deal with us or her…I can only wonder what Belavierr did to Noelictus. Many [Hunters] I have met were downright reasonable.”

“These weren’t. They were going to kill me!”

Califor nodded, checking Ryoka over. The Wind Runner was profusely thanking her when Ryoka saw a dust cloud as Beniar’s [Riders] headed their way. Explanations would be needed, and Califor was glancing at Ryoka and the village. But for this one moment…Ryoka felt like she’d found another piece of a puzzle.

A [Witch Hunter]. Trying to rabble-rouse or tell people about Belavierr. Also gathering information. Why? To stir up trouble?

Or because he was waiting for something? That certainty bothered Ryoka. What was he waiting for? She had almost died, but she was grateful for Witch Califor’s return. Ryoka only hoped that it spelled better news for the village. Rehanna, the fake [Hunters]—

It felt like a kind of chaos even Ryoka didn’t always bring. Swirling around the actions of one person who’d drawn all this trouble here.

Belavierr.

 

 

Day 60 – Durene

 

Telling Laken about all the trouble in Riverfarm, from Rehanna to the strangers Ryoka had met, made Durene feel better. But he didn’t have a magical solution to everything. The reply from Laken was simple. Durene squinted at it over Prost’s shoulder, trying to put the words he was reading to the page.

 

…Regarding Ryoka’s attackers, I could not find these ‘[Witch Hunters]’ anywhere. Continue patrols, but they may have evaded my sight. Keep vigilant.

Let no one strike a deal with Witch Belavierr. But do not try her yet. Collect evidence for a trial, which I will preside over. If this coven is to be trusted, see what they do when no bargains are struck. And give Rehanna every kindness. Do not take the baby away. Leave her be.

–[Emperor] Laken Godart

 

Just that. And it didn’t exactly fill Durene with confidence. But it was something. And Prost set out to fulfill Laken’s orders the instant he received them.

“Witch Belavierr!”

A group of men and women, Beycalt, Ram, and Beniar and his [Riders] among them, followed Prost as he confronted the [Witch] in the street. Belavierr was walking. Slowly walking down the street.

It was an ordinary thing, and obviously everyone did it. But Durene shuddered to see Belavierr even do that as she stood behind Prost. After last night, she couldn’t help but suspect even that innocuous action of some dark meaning. Belavierr didn’t turn as Prost strode towards her. The [Steward] called out again.

“Witch Belavierr! By order of His Majesty, Laken Godart, no one in Riverfarm is to strike a deal with you! Until His Majesty arrives, you are to refrain from attempting to bargain with anyone in the Unseen Empire! Is that clear?”

He hurled the last words at full-volume at Belavierr, barely ten feet from her. Not once did the [Witch] turn her head.

“Witch Belavierr! Do you hear me?”

She walked right past him. Prost’s voice gave out for a second. He faltered, staring as she continued down the street. Then he whirled.

Two of the [Witches] were gathered, inspecting a chess board. Eloise and Alevica. The older [Witch] and the Witch Runner were playing, much to [Carpenter] Jelov’s displeasure. But he’d retreated into his open-air studio rather than confront the two. Prost strode over, and Eloise looked up. She regarded him and the small crowd of Riverfarm’s authority behind him.

“Witch Eloise. I have a message from Emperor Godart—”

“I heard, Steward Prost.”

“Witch Belavierr does not appear to have heard me. Will she heed Emperor Laken’s request? If she refuses, we shall have to…”

Prost’s voice trailed off. And Durene wasn’t certain herself of what Prost would do. She’d been eying Belavierr. The woman was tall, but Durene was still taller and a lot bigger. She could surely grab Belavierr and restrain her. But somehow, Durene’s image of that scene never quite seemed to work in her head. Eloise shook her head in reply to Prost’s question.

“She may not have heard you, Steward Prost. But we shall attempt to remind her if she attempts to practice her craft again. That I may promise you.”

“Didn’t hear—”

Ram made a strangled noise. Eloise looked at him and adjusted her hat.

“That is who she is, I’m afraid. And I thank your [Emperor] for his considered response. We will attempt to honor his request.”

Attempt to honor. Even Durene knew that wasn’t a promise. But what could be done?

It was beyond clear that there hadn’t been a real hope of controlling Belavierr via this coven. She had arrived. The fact that she had arrived was an unexpected development for the coven’s plans, for Riverfarm…the other [Witches] were like leaves trying to stop a storm.

Yet for points Belavierr lost, and it was an avalanche of them, the other [Witches] did make up some with their actions. Califor had won praise for apparently reaching three other settlements in her ride before coming back here.

Her defense of Ryoka? Less praise. Few people would admit to having met the ‘[Witch Hunters]’, or that they’d believed what they said about [Witches] in general and Belavierr specifically. There was the faintest suspicion, even after Ryoka’s account, that Califor had attacked innocent people. Or, since there were no bodies, she’d made the entire thing up.

What was clear was that the coven was no closer to their goal of winning Riverfarm over than they had been. Laken? Well, only he could say how he felt.

Annoyed, Prost dismissed the crowd. Which left Durene to look for her house-guests as the sun set.

She’d been watering the fields all day. Some of the [Farmers] had been used to irrigation, but the newly-planted fields didn’t have that yet. It wasn’t too hard to draw water from the river, and in truth, the crops would have survived longer without rain—it was just that to grow them quickly, you wanted a lot of water. Which meant even Durene’s arms hurt from hauling wheelbarrows of water from the river.

That was what she had occupied herself with, and Charlay had actually pitched in! The Centauress had dragged water over to the [Farmers] and only stolen a few handfuls of wheat to snack on. On the other hand, Wiskeria and Ryoka had refrained from helping and instead gone off on their own ways. Durene had no idea what they’d done all day. But she found both at her cottage when she returned with food for a meal.

Ryoka was sitting in Durene’s cottage, staring at a wall. Frostwing was pecking at a handful of nuts. Wiskeria was in her tent. Durene hesitated, but decided to see Ryoka first.

“Ahem. Hi. I brought dinner.”

Durene hefted the basket as she came in. Ryoka turned. Durene was alone; Charlay had stayed in Riverfarm to eat food before coming back to the cottage for a second dinner. Ryoka blinked at the half-Troll girl.

“Durene.”

“Ryoka.”

The two regarded each other. After their last conversation where Ryoka had told Durene she couldn’t help Durene, the two hadn’t really spoken. But, strangely, after the [Bandits] and the not-baby, all their earlier tension had vanished. A large crisis was a wonderful unifier. Durene began unpacking her bag, and after a second, Ryoka got up and tried to help.

Tried, because Durene really knew her kitchen better than Ryoka. But the other young woman was determined, and she could peel potatoes—even if her first reaction was to throw away the skins.

“You can eat those, you know.”

“Oh. Right. Sorry.”

The two worked in silence for a moment. Durene was making a cheesy scallop dish, which was really exorbitant, but the first cheeses had been finished, and Prost had given Durene some to take back with some milk. It was going to be a lovely feast, and one Durene felt was needed. She was concentrating on that, but she knew Ryoka was deep in thought. The City Runner was absently working, her brows drawn. After a while, she spoke.

“Laken told you about my world, didn’t he?”

Durene jumped and sliced her hand with her kitchen knife. Ryoka hissed, but Durene waved her hand.

“It’s alright! Didn’t even get through the first layer of skin!”

“Oh. Right. [Iron Skin], huh? That’s a great Skill.”

“Um. No. Even before I had the Skill, I never cut myself.”

“Really?”

Ryoka looked impressed. Durene smiled. She clenched her hand absently as she got back to work. She could still remember the thump as she hit the [Bandits]. Strange, to be making food now. After a moment, she recalled what Ryoka had said.

“Your world?”

“That’s right. You know about it, right? Laken told you everything?”

Ryoka glanced up. Her brown eyes were searching. Durene paused. Ryoka had hated talking about anything from her world, especially possible inventions. The half-Troll girl nodded at last.

“A bit. Well, he told me lots of stories. I can’t believe most of it, but I know…about airplanes? Cars? Um…electricity and the internet? Guns?”

“Huh. Those are the basics, I guess.”

“Well, he talked about more, but yeah. Why?”

The City Runner was silent as she chopped a potato.

“I went to see Rehanna.”

Durene looked up, missed her potato, and brought the blade down on her fingers. Ryoka stared again. Abashed, Durene cleared her throat.

“Oh. Is she—”

“She’s okay. Actually, she’s pretty good. She was asking for work to do, so I…helped her find more things to do. She’s a [Seamstress]. Did you know that?”

“I didn’t.”

“Well, she’s making clothes. For the…baby.”

“The doll?”

“Her baby. And she’s going to make more for infants and newborns. Which is a good idea, to be honest. They need special clothing. So I got her what she needed.”

“Huh. That’s sort of ironic, her being a [Seamstress] and Belavierr—”

“Yes.”

Silence. Durene kept cutting, although it seemed like Ryoka was edging her hands away from Durene’s knife. After a bit, Ryoka continued.

“So. My world. Has Laken told you about modern medicine?”

“A bit. Just like…you can reattach hands. Or make these medicines—drugs—which aren’t potions, but can cure all kinds of things. But you don’t have potions, so you’re behind in a lot of ways.”

The comment made Ryoka smile, just like it had Laken. She put a few potato slices in the pan as Durene got some firewood out for her stone stove.

“Hm. Yeah, I suppose you could say that. But has he talked about how we deal with sickness other than, uh, physical?”

“No…”

Ryoka nodded. She watched as Durene began to strike her flint and tinder on the kindling. She crouched absently.

“I was thinking about the deal Rehanna made. And the effects.”

“She looks older. Is she going to die soon?”

“What? No. I think she’s about…fifty. And she was in her thirties, maybe. Maybe she’s lost more time, but she should have anywhere from a decade or more. But she will die earlier.”

“Yeah.”

“Even so. Was it a good deal?”

Durene paused as she put her milk and cheese-covered scalloped potatoes over the growing fire.

“What? That doll’s awful! Did you see it?”

Ryoka met her eyes and nodded.

“Yes. I did. And that’s why I’m thinking. Uh, your hand’s in the fire, by the way.”

“Oops.”

Durene put the pan over the hot fire. She’d have to watch the potatoes to make sure the part over the fire didn’t get too hot and burn. She tended to her dish as Ryoka went on.

“We don’t make things like that…doll. But we do prescribe medication for ill people. There are a lot of parallels between what we do in my world and what the [Witches] do. I think that’s what Eloise does, in a way. She’s a therapist. And a pharmacist, if her teas are magical.”

“I have no idea what those are. Are they like [Doctors]? Laken says your world has [Doctors] instead of [Healers].”

“Specialized [Doctors], yeah. But that’s my point. Belavierr—she’s a different sort. She took Rehanna’s life, yes. And her hate. But she gave her…in my world, we have medicines that really change you. Even our painkillers just…take away pain. Morphine. And we prescribe medicine for depression. Not for loss—unless we diagnose it as needing treatment. But medicine, therapy—magic’s different, yet similar, right?”

Durene didn’t know where Ryoka was going with this. But she nodded as she watched the fire and Ryoka out of the corner of her eye. The young woman was pacing.

“You could argue that Belavierr’s just a—a—she’s giving Rehanna a vision of her baby. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Yep. It’s not real.”

“No—that’s not the problem, Durene. It’s what Rehanna paid. She gave up part of her life. That’s the real problem. Otherwise, what’s the problem with the baby if it had been given freely?”

Durene opened her mouth to protest that the baby was creepy, had given her nightmares—but Ryoka was right. It hadn’t done anything to anyone. Except Rehanna.

“Isn’t what it’s doing to Rehanna bad?”

“What? Making her happy? I was thinking about that. It’s a mental crutch. She’s dependent on that, and anyone could tell you that’s unhealthy. But—”

She shook her head.

“The main problem is what Belavierr took from Rehanna. She thought it was fair. But she wasn’t in her right mind when she made that deal. Again, not everyone is. If we fault Rehanna for making a deal while she’s grieving, what about someone who…drinks when they’re depressed, or if they’ve just lost a friend? A wife? They have a right to do what they want to themselves. If they endanger themselves, that’s another thing, but is this wrong? Rehanna’s harmed herself. But then again—”

Ryoka had never talked this much in Durene’s presence. Ever. The half-Troll girl said as much as she carefully checked her baking scallops, all without gloves. Ryoka smiled bitterly.

“I’m a regular chatterbox when it comes to debates or issues like this. Moral ones, I mean. I’m just trying to work out whether it’s right or not. Objectively. Is the baby good for Rehanna if you take out the cost of the deal?”

“It looks wrong, Ryoka. How can you look at that and be okay?”

Durene objected as she found a spoon. She directed Ryoka to a cupboard with plates. Ryoka sighed as she set four. She looked back.

“Have you looked at Rehanna’s face, Durene? Today, I mean.”

“No. I didn’t even see her once.”

“Not everyone did. But they’re not locking her up in her house. I visited her, Durene. She’s smiling. She’s happy. Genuinely. This isn’t her being high on a drug or delusional. She got mad when I annoyed her, and she’s not delirious. But she is happy. How is that wrong?”

Durene had no answer. Silently, she put the scallops on a table. Charlay was trotting towards the cottage, but she’d stopped to get Wiskeria out of her tent. Bismarck was staring through the kitchen window as Frostwing choked on a nut and then spat it out. Ryoka sighed.

“I don’t think it was a good decision, what Rehanna did. If I were in her place, I would never do it. But I’m not a mother. I haven’t lost a husband. Part of me—most of me—says that regardless of what she thinks, that there’s a cost beyond Rehanna cutting her life by twenty years or in half or whatever she did. But what if there’s not? What if it really is fair? In that case, why not take it?”

She leaned on the table, staring at the scallops as if they were a gateway to the soul. Durene silently checked to see if she had any alcohol. She did not. Ryoka sighed.

“I want to believe we can’t run away from our problems, can’t rely on things or use magic to…escape. Back home, I relied on coffee to get up. I needed my medication, or I had a bad day. I…relied on my parents’ money. On the government and laws that surrounded me. I leaned on all these things. If I could have something that made me happy—would I pay ten years of my life? Twenty? What about just one?”

“Hey, Ryoka! Hey, Durene! Ooh! Are those cheesy potatoes! I’m not a fan of cheese.”

Charlay trotted into the cottage, practically dragging in Wiskeria behind her. Ryoka didn’t look up from the table.

“If you could be happy whenever you wanted, Durene, would you give up ten minutes of your lifespan? If the answer’s yes, isn’t giving up more for less or anything else just…haggling? Do we have a right to condemn Rehanna for her decision to choose happiness? If she were permanently sick and decided to trade half her lifespan for being well for the rest of her shorter life, would we fault her? Can we blame her for wanting to see her child again? What right do we have to choose for her? Or judge her?”

They stared at her, Centaur, half-Troll, [Witch], Mossbear, and blue bird. Charlay silently opened the door and trotted out.

“Bathroom! Tell me when she’s normal.”

“I don’t think there are good answers, Ryoka. Nice potatoes, Durene. But I know that I can’t forgive my mother for what she does. Maybe Rehanna’s happy. But my mother still stole her life. She does that.”

Wiskeria answered as she sat down quietly. Ryoka glanced at her. And then she sat down across from Wiskeria. She shook her head, and Durene closed the door in Bismarck’s face.

“Your mother preyed on Rehanna in a moment of weakness, Wiskeria. That’s true. But she also gave Rehanna something. If she asked for one year, could you live with that?”

Wiskeria had been relaxing; now, she clenched a fork in one hand and spoke slowly. A note of real vexation entered her tone as she met Ryoka’s gaze.

“You don’t know what she does. This is the least of what she’s capable of. I appreciate your philosophy, Ryoka. I don’t think it’s needed right now.”

She stared at Ryoka, her eyes flashing. The City Runner did not look away.

“I’m just asking if, in this case, it was at all reasonable from her perspective—”

“Reasonable?”

Wiskeria slammed one hand on the table. Durene nervously tried to put a plate down.

“Um—let’s have some potatoes, everyone. Ryoka, we can talk about this later—”

Too late. The [Witch] was on her feet in a rare show of anger, and Ryoka was raising her hands.

“I’m not saying it’s good—”

“You think you can moralize with my mother? With the Witch of Webs? ‘Reasonable, says the louse to the spider!’ You’ve seen one of her smallest works, that took her five seconds to make, and you just found some grand, philosophical argument to resolve? She gave Rehanna’s deal less attention than you would to scratch an itch! Enough.”

Ryoka colored as Wiskeria sneered at her.

“But she did help Rehanna. Wiskeria, I’m just trying to figure her out.”

“She made a deal. No more, no less. I know you like to think you know all, Ryoka—don’t try to figure my mother out. You don’t know her. You don’t know her stories.”

Wiskeria whirled away to help Durene with the cooking, and Ryoka snapped back. She’d recently been nearly killed by those [Witch Hunters], and she had a temper, Durene knew.

“Oh, and you’re so sure she’s completely crazy and unchangeable? Have you actually, seriously talked to her? Because I haven’t seen you talk to your mother!”

“We have nothing to talk about.”

“What about Rehanna?”

The blue-haired [Witch] closed her eyes.

“Why would I talk to the end product of something I have seen too many times? Talk to my mother. Hello, table. How are you doing?”

Wiskeria stared sarcastically down at the table. She stood there as Durene nervously put the potatoes on a plate. The steaming scalloped potatoes grew colder. Wiskeria’s glare could have burnt them to a crisp. Ryoka cleared her throat after a few seconds.

“Listen, I know it’s pers—”

“Shut up! If I speak to this table long enough, it will probably answer, even if it takes an age for it to regrow into a tree, then a Dryad. I will enjoy that. More than my mother.”

“I’m trying to help, Wiskeria. I just think you’re being unreasonable. And I can tell; I’m often unreasonable too.”

“Yes. You are.”

Wiskeria met Ryoka’s eyes, and the Wind Runner exhaled, then glowered over the table at her.

The door cracked open, and Charlay peeked in.

“Um. Everything okay?”

“Yes.”

Ryoka and Wiskeria glared at the Centauress. Durene decided to start ladling food out before someone threw a dish.

The dinner was silent. Wiskeria, not exactly happy beforehand, looked angry and distraught. Ryoka was still thinking. Twice, she tried to keep talking, and Durene interjected with a loud joke, or Charlay decided to regale everyone with one of her famous runs. Wiskeria and Ryoka just stared at each other.

It wasn’t even as if Ryoka had been angry at Wiskeria. But—who was right and who was wrong? As Durene let Frostwing and Bismarck finish off the scraps of scallops, the half-Troll girl had to think that was Ryoka summed up. Someone had to be right and wrong. And Ryoka was thinking about Rehanna. She had visited her. Where the others shuddered and drew away, Ryoka looked at the crying child made of cloth. And at Belavierr. She did not draw away.

That night, Durene was exhausted. She still hadn’t caught up on sleep since the…baby. So she retired early, and everyone was tired enough to join her. Wiskeria left the cottage, and Ryoka and Charlay bedded down with Durene.

The three bodies made the cottage smaller and warm. But it was still comfortable. Durene lay in her kitchen, staring at the ceiling. She was ready to drop off and get some good sleep. Tomorrow would…well, tomorrow would be different. Hopefully. But as she was closing her eyes, wondering if she’d level as a [Farmer], Durene heard Ryoka’s voice.

“If you could give up a toe, an arm, fingers, or years of your life, gold—anything, Durene. If you could give it up and be Human or change how you looked. Who you were. Would you do it? Is that worse than Rehanna?”

Durene’s eyes shot open. She stared at the ceiling. Then she sat up. Ryoka was sitting up in bed, head in her hands. The half-Troll stared at her. Then she reached behind her. She threw her pillow at Ryoka as hard as she could and lay back down.

Ryoka did too after a moment. She had never known that feathers could hurt that much.

 

 

Night 60 – Wiskeria

 

The [Witch] did not go back to her tent immediately. She stared at the cottage for a long time. And her stomach churned despite Durene’s cooking actually being good. But Wiskeria hadn’t tasted much of it. Ryoka’s words had bothered her too much.

The pretentiousness of someone to lecture Wiskeria on talking to her mother! The worst part was that it stuck a bit because there was truth in the statement. Even if it was an idiot’s point…it was a point.

It felt, to Wiskeria, like when she had observed someone locked out of their home in a city, trying the doorknob as they felt for their pockets, looking for a key, figuring out what to do. They kept rattling the doorknob as if expecting it to unlock. Hoping it might.

Now…she understood how they felt.

So Wiskeria walked into Riverfarm. The journey from Durene’s cottage was silent. Few people were about on the streets. Two of the Darksky Riders passed her, doing sweeps, but they saw her clearly in the darkness and only greeted her quietly.

Wiskeria knew where Rehanna’s house was. A light still burned in the window. And another Darksky Rider had been posted outside the door. The man let Wiskeria in after a moment’s conversation. She had been a [General].

But it was a [Witch] and a daughter who went to see Rehanna. Wiskeria paused when she came in through the doorway.

The woman was…working. Quietly, humming to herself. She had some cloth spread out on the table, and she was neatly pinning sections together, ready for sewing. She was making something small. Very carefully creating…Wiskeria’s heart twisted.

“Baby clothes?”

Rehanna looked up. Wiskeria braced, but the woman’s face lit up. She stood.

“Miss Wiskeria! What brings you here?”

She curtseyed. That was the worst part. Part of Wiskeria wanted to run. Just seeing Rehanna’s graying hair, the way she was slightly stiff as she tried to offer Wiskeria a chair—all of it hurt. She shouldn’t have come here, no matter what Ryoka had said.

Then Rehanna surprised her. The woman smiled as she pointed back towards her room.

“I would offer you tea, but he’s sleeping. How can I help you? Or are you checking up on me like the rest?”

She smiled as she went back to pinning the clothes together. Wiskeria stared at them, at the needles and thread. Then she looked at the woman.

“The—your baby’s sleeping?”

She’d meant to say the doll, because that was what it was. But she couldn’t. Not in front of Rehanna. The woman nodded.

“Mihka. That’s a name my husband and I came up with together. He’s Mihka. The very same. I don’t know how Lady Belavierr did it.”

She used your memories. Wove them like a thread into the baby. You’re making him as much as her magic. Wiskeria bit her lip. She paused.

“I—I just came to see you, Rehanna.”

“I’m glad you did. I wanted to apologize for how I have behaved.”

“No—you have every reason.”

The woman paused.

“I might. I was angry at you for being a [General]. For not being punished. But I still attacked you for doing what you did. I regret it now, because it was senseless. I ruined friendships. I hope I can mend them. And I am so grateful to your mother.”

“Don’t say that. Please.”

The [Witch]’s head sank. She tugged her hat lower, as if it could hide reality. Rehanna looked surprised.

“But she’s done me such a favor. I only wish you could see it. You, Mister Prost, and the others. I understand you fear Mihka, but he’s no threat to anyone. You mustn’t take him. I couldn’t bear it again, Miss Wiskeria. Tell the others. Please.”

She looked at Wiskeria, and there was a bright sincerity, a pleading in her eyes. The [Witch] hesitated. She looked at the table, at the cloth, the baby’s clothes.

“Are you happy, Rehanna? After making the deal?”

“Can’t you tell? I actually want to work. And I’m happy. Actually happy. I didn’t think I’d ever be happy again. Not after Mihka—and then the news from Lancrel.”

The woman smiled. She was teary-eyed. Wiskeria clenched her hands.

“But Rehanna. I—no, I have to say this. The baby. Your Mihka. He won’t ever grow up. You understand that, right? He’ll always be a baby. And your life—”

Rehanna took Wiskeria’s clenched fist and put her own hands on it. She was frail, now. The vigor of a younger woman—and she had been younger, still with decades to go before this point—

It was gone. Wiskeria saw time pressing down on Rehanna, so hard that the woman had to feel it and suffer. But even now? Her smile was so bright it was painful. Happiness…Wiskeria saw it in Rehanna, painful, paid for at a great price, but there. To Rehanna, purely genuine.

“My life’s shorter now. I know that. I know that too. She told me all of it. Mihka won’t grow, and I’m close to my grave, if sickness or accidents or monsters don’t take me first. And that’s fine. I’m still eternally grateful for what she did.”

Rehanna looked at Wiskeria. The [Witch] paused.

“Then—why the clothing? He’ll never wear it!”

The clothing Rehanna was making was too large. It was for an older child, one that needed more than swaddling. Rehanna shook her head, smiling.

“It’s not for Mihka. It’s for another child. I don’t know who. But more than a few women are pregnant, and children will need clothing. I can make that for them. That’s what I can do. I think I’ll be happy. No—I am happy already.”

“But it’s an illusion. A spell. It’s not real, Rehanna. That baby isn’t—”

Rehanna stopped her. The woman shook her head. Now, her bright eyes started to overflow.

“I know that. Do you think I don’t? Lady Belavierr showed me what she would make. But I said yes. Because when I held him, he turned into Mihka. The same baby from my dreams. The exact same. And I think my man—I couldn’t pay the second price. I wouldn’t. But sometimes I can hear him, or I feel him. Lady Belavierr did that for me. And more. The baby’s more than just a…fake thing, Wiskeria.”

Tears ran down her cheeks. Rehanna placed a hand on her chest.

“Wiskeria. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Don’t you understand? Do you know how angry I was? How sad and angry and—have you ever felt that way? So much so that you could die?”

Of course. Wiskeria nodded.

“Your mother took that pain away. It won’t come back. For that, I’d have paid almost anything. And I did. She told me she wanted a fair deal. And it was fair. For me, more than fair. I know you might think of me as a fool. But I am happy. Please. Let me be happy.”

“And you will be?”

The woman gave her a tearful smile as she dabbed at her eyes.

“I think I will be. I made a choice, and Mihka will help me no matter what comes. It’s better this way, Wiskeria. It truly is. Thank you for coming, but I must be abed if I want to work tomorrow.”

She politely but firmly showed Wiskeria to the door. It was only after she’d closed and bolted it that Wiskeria realized Rehanna had kicked her out. The [Witch] stared at the closed door.

There was some of Rehanna there. Even happy as she was. But how much? How much was there, and how much had Belavierr torn away? There was no answer. But the second question Ryoka had asked Wiskeria burned in her mind. So she turned as the light in Rehanna’s house winked out.

Wiskeria stomped into the street, foul of mood. She began to curse as she walked ahead. Few people were even awake this late at night, but one group, having been drinking late after working ‘hard’ all day, saw Wiskeria as she stalked away from Rehanna’s house.

“Damn you, Ryoka Griffin. Damn your fickle words and philosophy half-baked for a scene you saw play out, as if it were the truth to every piece of her and me.”

Councilwoman Beatica was never one to run from a fight, you had to give it to her. She and a gaggle of her Lancrel cronies spotted Wiskeria and were about to accost her…until they heard Wiskeria’s ranting. Well, almost a chant now.

“A curse on you, Griffin, who sees a pebble and says she knows the mountain whole. I curse you by moon-filled nights, twice over by each moon, thrice by fake [Hunters] and ill-deeds and iller-conceived plans. I curse your false pretenses, as Lesegoth before the fall. I curse your haughty attitude and arrogance.”

Wiskeria hadn’t cursed like this since she was small, before she knew what it meant to curse someone. She hadn’t done a blood sacrifice or invoked a name of power; she wasn’t even in a ritual place. Councilwoman Beatica opened her mouth—then saw shadows twisting around Wiskeria’s boots.

Bile dripping from Wiskeria’s mouth. Beatica pressed herself against a house, eyes wide, as Wiskeria continued.

“—curse you from the Kingdom of Shades and grave soil and each and every grief my mother’s caused. I curse you by her victims, you feckless, windblown shit. I curse you to rue the day you take your knowledge as gospel and curse you to regret your arrogance in preaching your pathetic truth. One day, you shall defend monsters like and kin to my mother, if any could ever be worse than she. Let there be no peace between you and others till you humble yourself off your highest horse or it kicks you into the dirt.”

She savagely kicked a piece of dirt to end her cursing. It was, perhaps, the least-effective curse the world had ever seen, but it made Wiskeria feel better. Ryoka Griffin had no idea, none, why Wiskeria had cut ties with her mother. She thought Rehanna was debatable? Maybe it was.

Maybe it was. If all Belavierr did was steal age for pained happiness, she would be a fine mother. The best. Wiskeria closed her eyes.

At least Rehanna was happy. How many others could say that after they got what Belavierr offered? Ryoka had no idea, which was only partially her fault.

Wiskeria could have told her the entire story, but why should she? The [Witch] stood there, thinking back to the girl who had once thought much like Ryoka. Then she wearily decided to try the doorknob one more time.

Partly so she could just rub it in Ryoka’s face.

 

—–

 

Wiskeria didn’t know where her mother was. Or if she even had a house to sleep in. Wiskeria doubted it, but she didn’t need to ask. All she had to do was lift her hat off her head and toss it.

It was a dark blue hat. Not as dark as Belavierr’s own clothing, which could be black if you had no eye for the color. But dark blue. A simple hat, meant for a [Witch], with minimal flair. And that was what Wiskeria had wanted. But the hands that had sewn it had not been simple. They had mimicked unoriginality so well that sometimes Wiskeria forgot.

But the [Fireball] that had nearly killed her had reminded her. Where her clothes had burnt away to protect her as part of Belavierr’s charm, the hat had remained.

And it had one other trick. One other element, besides the fact that it had grown with Wiskeria since she was six to always fit her head. A long time ago, a humble [Stitch Witch] who worked across no-name villages in Terandria had sewn something for her daughter. For the tearful child who was afraid of being lost and not finding her mother, who could be forgetful. Ever since that day, Wiskeria had never been lost again.

So for the first time in eight years, Wiskeria lifted her hat and tossed it up. And the hat flew. It caught a breeze, and Wiskeria cursed and chased after it as it was blown across the street. She ran after it, her replacement robe catching the same dry wind.

The hat tumbled down onto the street and around a corner. Wiskeria ran after it, her legs burning, cursing as the hat eluded her time and time again, blown by the infuriating breeze. At last it stopped, and the [Witch] snatched at it, picked it up, and glared at it. Then she put it on her head and looked around.

The street was gone. So was Riverfarm. Wiskeria’s legs hurt, and she was breathless. She realized—in that way memory has of catching up—that she’d been running for seventeen minutes, almost. Quite some distance. But she was where she needed to be, because here was a slight hill. Beyond it, the two moons rose, one waxing, the other waning. Sitting under a tree, her wide hat lowered, her knees partially stretched out, was Belavierr.

Wiskeria caught her breath as she saw her mother. Belavierr’s clothing was as dark as the night. Her head bowed. Her huge hat covered all but the bottom of her face. But one hand was extended. It held something. And the midnight stallion, a giant of his kind, bent and ate from the palm.

Even this was uncanny. Because the stallion made no sound. Nor was what he ate food. Wiskeria was almost certain he was the same horse that had used to carry her about. The same one that had never been bothered when she’d pulled at his ears and had carried her and her mother about the village. And hadn’t it been a surprise when Wiskeria had ridden her first horse who objected to ear-pulling instead of taking it as a sign of affection?

This one was dark. Larger than the horse in her memory as a child, but her mother could have altered him. Wiskeria was almost positive the horse was a thing of cloth. Or if it had been alive, she had stitched him together. He didn’t look up as Wiskeria walked forwards. Nor did Belavierr. Few things could attract Belavierr’s attention.

Even at the end, when the mob had chased them away, Wiskeria remembered it. Screaming for her mother to run, reaching back from the horse’s back, looking behind at the villagers burning their cottage, the child Belavierr had made as the father shouted and strained in the arms of the people who held them—even then, Belavierr’s gaze had been distant, absent as she walked away. She had only looked up when she heard Wiskeria cry and seen the tears. And then—

“Belavierr. Witch Belavierr.”

The hat didn’t rise. The hand didn’t move. Belavierr was still, like a statue—no, a tapestry. Because the wind still moved her dress. The horse still pretended to breathe. It was a scene. And as Wiskeria drew closer, she saw what Belavierr was doing.

As she gave her horse the loose thread it was eating like a snack, her other hand was held out, dangling something in front of Belavierr’s bowed head. She was inspecting something. A bit of thread, tied up in a complex fashion, but still just a single unbroken thread.

Wiskeria recognized it. One of her mother’s ward-spells. She had no idea how powerful it could be. Normally, she’d want to make a spell or ward out of strong emotion and magic. Conventional artifacts of great power, for instance, were never made of pot metal or clay because those were weak materials. Of course, you could make a very specifically powerful wooden enchanted sword, but material mattered.

Unfortunately, Belavierr’s craft was such that logic stopped applying to her abilities. Grand magic could turn even weak thread into powerful tools. It was probably a thread made from a Griffin’s mane or something, anyways.

It was also trembling. Wiskeria paused. That usually meant the magic was being used. She didn’t know what this ward spell did. Perhaps it had stopped some bird droppings from landing on her mother’s hat? Or…it had done something else.

It was just more of the same. Wiskeria squared her shoulders. She had come here for a reason. And she should have done this long ago. Ryoka was infuriating, but she was also right.

“Mother.”

The head rose, and Wiskeria felt a bitter pleasure. She had loved, in that long ago, that only one word and one voice could ever make Belavierr react consistently. But now she looked down and saw that ringed gaze, the orange, luminescent eyes, and she saw…

“Daughter. Do you need something of me?”

Belavierr stood in one motion. She looked down at her daughter, and Wiskeria stared up at her. And just like that…it was like she was a child again.

Without hesitation, despite her task or work—Belavierr stopped and put aside her craft for only one being ever. Her daughter.

It used to make Wiskeria feel so special. Even now, she understood what it meant.

Do you need something of me? Ask and you shall receive. Wiskeria was tempted to ask for a fish or to see the moon and show Ryoka what such requests meant.

But she didn’t.

She sat, regarding the charm, and Belavierr sat too.

“You’re making a ward.”

“Yes. Many of my magics were shattered. Lost. Burnt away or ripped to shreds. You see?”

Belavierr lifted an arm, and Wiskeria saw it. The same strands of broken fiber, like a spiderweb but infinitely more thin and vast, trailed behind her. Wiskeria’s breath caught.

“So it’s true. How many is…? What did that? An Elder Creler?”

“No. That would not be enough. See, Daughter? I have not been so weak in mortal ages. It will take aeons to rebuild. But I begin with thread by thread. As we must.”

Belavierr went back to working, and Wiskeria could admire that. Kick over a sandcastle and Belavierr would rebuild it grain by grain. If it mattered.

“Who did this? What did? What happened in Noelictus, Mother?”

The Stitch Witch’s lips pursed.

“It is a long story. I do not wish to tell my part of it completely. I shall, if you ask.”

“Is…someone going to tell a famous tale about it? A [Bard]?”

Wiskeria would actually prefer to hear it like that than from her mother, who told complex stories, much like the thread she wove. Belavierr stared at her thread, and Wiskeria saw an actual glower.

“Perhaps. But not in song. I would be displeased by a song.”

Now that…that was interesting. Wiskeria raised her brows.

“Someone bested you with a song?”

Dead silence. Wiskeria crossed her legs. She refused to give Ryoka any credit, but seeing her mother so upset gave her a kind of schadenfreude.

“Mother, I ask you tell me the story in its entirety.”

And because she asked—Belavierr did. The Stitch Witch looked up, sighed as she wove her anger and annoyance into the charm, and began to speak.

“It began when I sensed ghosts.”

“In Noelictus?”

“Yes.”

“What…actual ghosts? You couldn’t ever summon them for me; you said they were hiding from you and something else. You found actual—”

“Daughter. I am trying to explain. It began with ghosts.”

“When was this? Give me a date.”

“After you left.”

“Everything is after I left, Mother. Years? Months? A decade?”

“…After you left, I noticed ghosts.”

“How many?”

 

——

 

It was hard to say who grew more exhausted from listening to a story from Belavierr. Wiskeria interrupted constantly, but she had to.

Belavierr had no sense of time, distance, or even…people. When she said ‘I went there’, did she mean she walked a thousand miles, projected herself, or something else? When she said ‘there’, she might mean palaces or forsaken bogs.

Plus, she didn’t know the minutiae, the drama of the Kingdom of Shades, and had mentioned an entire war…and had no details on what had actually happened. Wiskeria was sure there was a better version of the story out there, but she got pieces.

“Alright, so there were ghosts, a [Singer], a lot of angry [Knights] and [Hunters], a war…and they ruined your big plan. The one you were working on when I was a kid. Those stupid Helpful Servants.”

Belavierr paused as Wiskeria summed up what had taken hours in this place away from places to retell.

“My great work.”

“Your stupid Helpful Servants. I never liked them. Even less when I learned who they were. There was a reason you never showed them to me until I was older, Mother.”

Belavierr didn’t dignify this with an answer. She sat, the loop of thread she’d begun now so complex it resembled a creature of its own, which flexed and moved with each new loop. Perhaps it would be alive; Wiskeria could imagine this ward protecting Belavierr from…well, anything.

“And they beat you. I can’t understand how.”

“It was not they who did it. A few were dangerous. But when I strove against them, my magic was shambles, Daughter. I told you: the tale of the others matters little. It was what ate my magic as I worked.”

“As you were distracted. Mice, you called them?”

“Yes.”

Belavierr’s eyes were wrathful. Mice. Something had stolen away with her mother’s power. Whoever they were—Wiskeria didn’t envy them. She got up and paced around.

“So something took a lot of your power, and it allowed your plans to fall to dust. Now, you’re on the run from them, and you chose to come here and bring all this trouble down on the Witches of Izril. And me! And Riverfarm!”

“I wished to see you, Daughter. I have grown more…awake with my protections ruined. I lost much, and I wished to see you.”

Wiskeria turned away. Belavierr might mean it. Or might think she meant it. It didn’t matter. Wiskeria took a huge breath. This was—hard. Hard, but it had been her idea, and so she turned back. There was no point beating around the bush; her mother didn’t care.

“Mother. I need a favor of you. A big one.”

“Of course. Name it, and I will do it if it is within my power.”

Wiskeria nodded. She looked into Belavierr’s eyes, and they were familiar. She didn’t know why people shuddered. If you stared long enough, you could see what was in the ever-smaller rings. Deeper and deeper. Wiskeria hesitated. And then she spoke.

“Mother. Please stop using your stitch-magic. Please throw away your creations of thread. I—I beg you, as your daughter. Stop using your charms and curses of needles and cloth. Don’t use any of it.”

It was hard to say. Harder than Wiskeria had thought. But it was a relief to come out with it, even if Wiskeria knew the answer. She lowered her head. Belavierr paused. But then she nodded.

“Very well, Daughter. For how long?”

Wiskeria’s head snapped up. She gaped at Belavierr.

“What? You’ll do it?”

She hadn’t expected that! But if Belavierr said it, it was true. That—that would change everything! Laken, Riverfarm, the hostility against [Witches]—for a second, she grew excited, and she searched her mother’s eyes for a hint of a lie.

The bright gaze never wavered. Belavierr inclined her head slightly.

“Of course. For you, Daughter. How long do you ask this of me?”

Oh. Of course. Wiskeria closed her eyes. But—could she live with that? She looked up, biting her lip.

“Two hundred years. Can you do that, Mother?”

“Of course. If you wish it, for two hundred years I will use no spell of stitching, no cloth artifacts or magic of thread and needle. Does this satisfy you?”

Belavierr said it as if it were the lightest thing in the world. Even her daughter had to stare. But then Wiskeria nodded. She even smiled.

“Yes! Yes! Of course! Thank you, Mother.”

For a moment, she envisioned throwing her arms around her mother, like she’d seen other children do. But Belavierr’s face didn’t change one whit. Wiskeria hesitated, and the moment was gone.

Belavierr bent forwards and regarded her daughter. She paused again.

“It is what you wish, Daughter. But why do you ask it of me?”

“Because I don’t want you to take lives, like you did to Rehanna, Mother. So—you will do it? For two hundred years, you won’t steal life or trade curses? You’ll be better. Maybe I could learn from you or help you. Without all that, I could be proud of…”

“Ah.”

That one sound pierced Wiskeria’s heart. Belavierr straightened. And then slowly, she shook her head.

“No. I’m afraid you misunderstand me, Daughter. I will not do that. I will give up my stitch-spells and pacts of thread. But the deal I made with the woman Rehanna I will continue to make. Else I would die.”

“But—you promised!”

Wiskeria stared up at her mother, shocked. Belavierr never lied. Yet the Stitch Witch didn’t appear guilty.

“I promised to give up my magic. My spells and lore. For you, Daughter, I would give it away and seal my knowledge for two hundred years. But what you ask is different. You ask that I would change my craft. The very essence of what I am.”

“Yes! Will you do it? I will never ask you for anything again, Mother! Please?”

“No.”

The word echoed. And the face that delivered it never changed.

Then Wiskeria felt something hurting in her chest and cursed Ryoka. If she hadn’t tried…Belavierr gently drew out Wiskeria’s pain and regret and, yes, damned love and wove it into her charm.

“I do not understand why you are sad, Daughter. Is this not what you wish? I could capture another fish for you. Would you like another dress? These are easier things to do, instead. I cannot change my nature.”

That was what was the worst of Belavierr. Not her magic or her deeds. It was the way she moved through life, uncaring. Uninterested. It hurt to argue with her. Wiskeria clenched her hands, her nails digging into her flesh.

“But that is all I want. All I want from you, Mother. I would be happy if you did this.”

“It is my craft.”

“It hurts people. You take their lives, Mother. You take their emotions. You take. And you hurt people. Sometimes, you kill—because someone asks it of you.”

“Yes. Because we make a fair deal.”

Fair. Wiskeria’s head snapped up, and then she raged at her mother. She stood, shaking.

“Don’t talk to me of fairness! Don’t talk like Ryoka, who’s grown half a brain and thinks she can talk about good and evil! Fair? What about Ostevien? You don’t even remember him, but do you think that was fair?”

Belavierr paused in her sewing and seemed to check something in the air. A thread only she could see.

“Ah. Now we come to the heart of it, Daughter. Though which heart and why, I know not. You are angry. I do not know why. You speak a name, and I…remember it?”

She raised a hand to her head, concentrating.

“There was a boy.”

“He and I grew up together. He was my only friend!”

“Ah. Yes.”

She didn’t care. Or maybe she did care, but only for Wiskeria. Belavierr shrugged.

“He pleased you.”

“He was brave, honest, and the only person who was willing to trust you—and me! His mother, his entire damn kingdom offered you—me—the chance of a lifetime.”

“Of their lifetimes, yes. It was a bargain for them. Did I not save his life when we first met?”

Wiskeria was fuming, but she knew she had to explain—again—the past so her mother would even understand why she was upset. She stabbed a finger into her palm.

“Let’s get one thing straight, Mother. Yes. You saved his life when you met him because he fell off a Griffin. And the entire Kingdom of Kaliv was in your debt! But Oste trusted you. He liked me. When he offered me friendship, not just a bargain, it was the happiest time of my life.”

“I recall taking a bargain to protect Kaliv. For you, Daughter. That was my love. It was unprofitable, save where you were happy. Thus, I balanced the scales.”

That was her love. Wiskeria closed her eyes.

“Yes, and I still thank you for it, Mother. Because that, of all things, made me a person. Oste and I had so much fun.”

“I see. This is good. Why do you hold it against me?”

“Because of how it ended.”

The Stitch Witch stopped sewing and looked up. She held a needle in her hand that looked like it had been cut from the moon itself, a sliver of reality. If she willed it, she could have pulled down the moon like a balloon and attached it to a string.

Or so Wiskeria believed. So a child had believed, and who knew? It might have been true. But the one thing Belavierr could not do was understand her daughter.

This troubled her so much that, again, the Stitch Witch put aside her work and rested her chin upon her hand.

“I shall think on the matter.”

Wiskeria waited, pacing back and forth, as Belavierr mused out loud.

“It ended in flight. Hunted as a thousand Griffins bearing riders took to the skies. To fly against me in violation of their treaty and die. But I killed them not, for my daughter begged—”

“No. Before that.”

Belavierr sat there, puzzled. Then her eyes whirled, and she stared back through time as though it were a looking glass.

“Upon her throne, the Griffin Queen, Novakya, wept. She exiled her only son.”

“Why, Mother? What did you do?”

The Stitch Witch sat there, and at last, her eyes brightened. She looked up and, with a smile, answered Wiskeria’s crime.

“My beloved Daughter came to me with a request. So I fulfilled it. As I have always done. Ostevien was the boy’s name. I offered him a pact of old, a great pact, at no cost, which endures to this day. Only for you.”

She looked at Wiskeria, and the younger [Witch] wept. Tears fell from her eyes; the tears she had only learned to cry on that day. First in her life, a young woman of sixteen. The day she became a [Witch].

“Daughter. Why do you cry? I still do not understand.”

Belavierr lifted a finger as if to stem the flow of tears. Wiskeria answered in a choked voice.

“Because I ruined his life. Because you did, Mother.”

“The opposite is true.”

“No. No. He did not know what he asked for. I didn’t either. That day, I beheld your cruelty. Ryoka can talk all she wants about the good and ill you do—the Helpful Servants? Is that fairness?”

“It is a pact they agreed to, Daughter. If you are sad, I would undo my promise with the boy. However. It was sealed in the old ways. For you? I could try?”

“Would it destroy him?”

“Perhaps.”

Wiskeria turned away. She couldn’t do this. Once, she had thought she understood her mother, and it had been perfect and fine what Belavierr did. Trades that you could not regret for they were fair.

Now? She knew she was still Belavierr’s daughter, but she could not forgive. Either herself or her mother.

“There is no kindness, mercy, nor equality in what you do, Mother.”

“Of course not. It is an exchange. When one wishes, another’s wishes are destroyed. That is how all things are done, Daughter.”

She paused. Belavierr glanced up, and a slight frown crossed her features.

“We have had this conversation before.”

“Yes. We have. And I still can’t accept it, Mother.”

Wiskeria was crying. But she refused to sob or scream. Belavierr would not understand. She tried one last time.

“Mother. I want you to change. I want you to stop killing because you’re asked. Stop stealing life and—and offering these deals. Stop your craft. Practice other magic. No—keep using your stitch-magic. But don’t—take like you do. Can you do that? For me?”

Belavierr paused. For a moment, for one wonderful, frightening moment, Wiskeria thought she might agree. But at last, she shook her head.

“No, Daughter. You ask for more than I can give.”

“But why—”

“Because I would fight for you, Daughter. I would take lives for you. I would use my magic. Defend. Protect. Seek what you desire. But you ask me to change my craft. To change who I am. If I did so, I would not be Belavierr. I would not be your mother.”

She gazed down. Wiskeria saw Belavierr’s lips move. She saw, but it took her minutes to understand. When she did, her eyes did fill with more tears.

“Oh.”

Belavierr was trying to smile. But she had forgotten how. Wiskeria’s eyes ran, and wetness trickled down her cheeks. Belavierr’s smile vanished. She reached down.

“Daughter. You are crying again.”

“I know, Mother.”

“Why are you crying? Are you hurt? Do you need something?”

“No. No, I—”

Wiskeria brushed away the hand. She gulped, then looked up. It had been like this once. And then, Wiskeria had left, gone so far she’d hoped she’d never see Belavierr again. But that had been running away. This—she wished she’d done this.

“Mother. Let me say this so you understand it. I…”

She searched for words. Belavierr waited, patiently, standing impassively as her horse stood by the tree. And the night shone down on the two. Wiskeria sighed. She took her hat off and was a girl again, standing before her mother.

“It was good to be your daughter growing up. When we lived in the village, before Kaliv, I thought you were the most wonderful mother ever. I wanted to be like you. I thought the other [Witches] who told me how grand and terrible you could be all admired you, even if you could be scary. I saw the darkness in your craft, but also the good. You helped people. And yes, you were…distant. You could be thoughtless or unkind. But I was happy to be your daughter.”

Belavierr tilted her head sideways. Her hat moved with her, and Wiskeria couldn’t help but smile at the uncomprehending look on her face. She went on.

“But, Mother. One day, I saw you for what you were. When you made a daughter for a father out of thread. Something—horrible. Something with no life that looked like what he wanted. And I realized. I asked, and I found out what made you—you. The dead you took life from over the years. The deals you made for your power. The dead, Mother. The dead you left hanging because they opposed you! The threats you made! The people you killed! How old are you?”

“I do not recall, Daughter.”

“That’s not the point!”

Wiskeria stamped her foot and screamed. The night took the scream. Belavierr looked down at her, and the horse shook its head.

“Then what is the point, Daughter? You know what I am. Sometimes, I believe I do not know what you are. But you are my daughter and I, your mother. Is that not enough?”

Wiskeria put her hand over her heart. She closed her eyes. When she looked up, her eyes were clear. It still hurt to say. More than any words. But she said them.

“No, Mother. I wish it could be. But it’s not. Because what I never told you when I saw what you are is this: I hate it. And Mother, I hate you.”

The glowing gaze widened. The wind died. All things paused. There was only Wiskeria and Belavierr. And the [Witch] looked up at the [Witch]. Her words continued.

“I hate you, Mother. I hate what you do. And because you will not change, because what you do sickens me to my core, because I cannot ignore what you do and what you have done, I hate you.”

Belavierr stood stock-still. She didn’t move. But her eyes were wide, wider than Wiskeria could ever remember. And she looked—Wiskeria would have rejoiced if it didn’t hurt. She turned away.

“I’m sorry. But I hate that I’m your daughter. And if I could stop you, I would. If I can, I will.”

She reached for her side as she stumbled away back towards the quiet village far from the hill. And she turned back with wand in hand. Wiskeria’s hand shook as she pointed it at Belavierr. But that was all. She couldn’t, so she lowered it and turned away. She walked, then ran away. Leaving her mother standing on the hill.

If Wiskeria had looked back, she would have seen no horse. Nothing save for her mother standing stock-still. Staring at her back. As still as a statue. But there was nothing blank, nothing timeless about Belavierr’s stare. She watched her daughter disappear. Then Belavierr blinked.

“What?”

After a moment, she touched herself, two fingers on one hand resting on her cheek. Belavierr’s voice was…hesitant.

“Me?”

 

 

Day 61 – Ryoka

 

Ryoka had no idea how everyone else had fared last night. She herself had been up far, far later than she would have liked trying to figure out whether what had happened to Rehanna was…but when she woke up, she felt a certain schadenfreude in seeing that Wiskeria looked as tired as she did.

Everyone else was more rested, purely by virtue of being so tired that they’d slept like rocks. And that had the secondary effect of giving them the time and energy to process Rehanna’s deal with Belavierr. The result? When Ryoka, Charlay, Durene, and Wiskeria went into Riverfarm, they found the mood in the town was distinctly changed.

Towards the [Witches]. No one had forgotten two days ago, of course. But now—people were visiting Rehanna. They were talking, not just numbly shocked. And they had heard Laken’s pronouncement, seen Belavierr’s uncaring face. You could find that unsettling—or you could hate the impassiveness.

That is who she is. Eloise’s words were another double-edged sword. Belavierr’s actions reflected on the others as well. If that was whom she was, what were the other [Witches]? They all occupied their own bubbles of space that day. Even Eloise; few people stopped to have tea with her, and then only quickly, furtively.

You could feel it in the air. A word unspoken. It wasn’t about classes, but a superstition across worlds. A word. Condemnation. Fear and loathing.

Witch.

However, what it changed was actually very little. The eight [Witches], even Wiskeria, went about their business as usual. Despite the lack of visitors, Eloise brewed her tea and chatted with anyone who wanted to talk. Hedag spoke to children and occasionally some parents, laughing when no one was about. Alevica went flying, ignoring the muttering. Mavika sat on a rooftop for an hour while her flock patrolled the fields, then she vanished. Califor and Nanette took their lessons—none of the [Witches] reacted to the hostile looks.

It was something Ryoka didn’t know about [Witches], but which she should have understood. A fundamental quality of their natures and class. When they were pushed, [Witches] did not give in or change. They doubled down.

And that went for more than just outside hostility. Because the most notable thing Ryoka saw that day was at midmorning. She saw Wiskeria striding down the street, peeved. But that was one thing. Seeing Belavierr following her daughter, matching Wiskeria’s two strides for every one of hers, made Ryoka choke on her lunch. Wiskeria glared up at her mother.

“I told you, Mother. I hate you. Stop bothering me!”

“Why?”

Belavierr followed Wiskeria, tall, silent but for that one word. Wiskeria rounded on her.

“I told you.”

“But my nature is who I am, Daughter.”

“Well then, maybe I hate your nature, Mother!”

Belavierr blinked. She was more immediate, more in this world than Ryoka had ever seen her. She seemed genuinely confused as she regarded her daughter. Ryoka was edging closer. Her and a number of people, including a crowd of Lancrel’s folk that Ryoka was vaguely uneasy about. But Belavierr only had eyes for Wiskeria.

“But—why? You did not hate it growing up.”

“Because I did not know who you were, Mother. As I said. Now leave me alone. I don’t want to talk with you!”

Wiskeria stormed off. Belavierr made to follow, but perhaps even she sensed how futile that would be because she stopped. Ryoka stared at her back. Belavierr seemed bothered. No—Ryoka turned to Wiskeria as the younger [Witch] hurried off. She would have given gold to know what Wiskeria had said to Belavierr!

Then Ryoka heard a voice.

“Excuse me! Miss [Witch]! We must have words!”

“Uh oh.”

Ryoka turned around. A familiar woman was striding forwards followed by at least two hundred of Lancrel’s people. It was a sizeable crowd, but how Councilwoman Beatica had thought it was a good idea to lead them against Belavierr was beyond Ryoka. Maybe she was just deliberately suppressing her sensible instincts. Either way, the woman came striding up just as Belavierr was watching Wiskeria’s back.

Normally, Ryoka expected Belavierr to walk off without another word. But as Ryoka had noticed, Belavierr was in the world of reality. Her head turned as Councilwoman Beatica snapped at her.

“Your behavior has been unacceptable! You have assaulted one of Riverfarm’s citizens! For this, you must issue an apology and forthwith cancel the mag—”

Beatica got that far when her tongue gave up in her head. Ryoka, who’d been looking around to find Beniar, Prost, Rie, or Durene, froze. Her head turned back to Belavierr. Because something was different about the [Witch].

An intensity. A shift in her posture. Her gaze swept across the crowd, and the angry people from Lancrel froze. Ryoka felt her stomach drop. Because there was no blank stare. The glowing eyes had force behind them. It was simple but terrifying when Ryoka realized the reason behind it.

Belavierr was angry.

No. Vexed. It wasn’t true anger. Ryoka couldn’t even imagine what that would be. But vexation—annoyance? Yes. Belavierr’s eyes, immortal, magical, and ageless, still held that familiar emotion. And Ryoka, the mob, and Charlay, who’d trotted over to see what was happening, all paused.

Unfortunately, Beatica wasn’t able to back out and save face so easily. Her mouth dried up, and she backed up. But her plan—which might have been hurling insults at Belavierr while being safely ignored—was suddenly derailed. All she could do was plough ahead.

“Miss Belavierr. I said that your—your behavior has been unacceptable. We, the citizens of Lancrel, are censuring you. You—you must issue a formal apology. Or else we will find you…”

She trailed off. Belavierr was staring at Beatica. And she was seeming more annoyed with each word. She peered at the crowd behind Beatica. Their anger turned quickly into a terror that made them still, rather than flee in fear.

“No.”

“I warn you—”

Beatica’s high-pitched voice broke off in a small scream as Belavierr lifted a hand. The [Witch] crooked a finger. Then she turned and strode off. Ryoka, who’d ducked along with Charlay at the gesture, breathed a sigh of relief. She straightened, and Beatica, looking pale and relieved, stood taller. She glanced around, then turned to give a speech as Ryoka prepared to run after Belavierr.

At that moment, every stitch in a three hundred foot radius suddenly unraveled. It was abrupt, and so fast that all the clothes just dropped off the crowd, Ryoka, and Charlay. Bits of fabric fell to the ground in its component parts as the stitching neatly fell into spools of thread as well. Ryoka blinked as her clothes fell off her body. It was actually sort of nice for a moment; the day was sunny, and the skin could breathe in the mild wind that followed her about. Then her eyes went wide, and everyone processed what had happened.

“Dead gods!”

“What the f—”

“My clothes!”

It was probably telling what the first action of each person was. Whether they covered themselves, gawked—and who they gawked at and where—or immediately tried to show off, like one muscular [Blacksmith]—it was all pandemonium.

Ryoka, for her part, glanced around just to make sure everyone was similarly undressed as she grabbed at her clothes and tried to cover the essentials. Charlay wailed as she grabbed at her shirt. Then her belt! Even it had fallen to pieces!

“Don’t look at me! I’m naked!”

The Centauress wailed as she raced off, clutching what remained of her shirt to her chest. Ryoka stared after her.

“You’re naked? What about me?”

She screamed, but Charlay was already running. The crowd was in chaos. People were bending over to pick up clothes on the street, then realizing that was a very exposed situation. There were red faces, tears—Ryoka saw Councilwoman Beatica running into the nearest house. Ryoka looked around, then realized something.

“Oh. Bag of holding.”

She pulled out a change of clothes and breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever Belavierr had done, it hadn’t hit the bag of holding or the stitches in the magical bag itself. That was a relief. Ryoka hopped into some pants, forgoing underwear, tossed on a shirt, and then ran like hell as more people came to see what was happening and stare. She was laughing. Right up until she made her mistake.

 

—–

 

Belavierr was standing in the same spot where Ryoka had visited the picnicking [Witches] a few days ago. Right in front of the tree where she’d been resting, close to the river. Only, she was standing. And she seemed annoyed. Her back was also turned, so Ryoka was too hesitant to walk up and tap Belavierr on the shoulder. She elected to call out instead.

“Um—excuse me!”

The figure was silent. Tall. Her shadows seemed too long. When she turned her head, the orange eyes glowed beneath the brim of her hat. Belavierr’s voice was cold.

“I do not wish to speak to you.”

Ryoka halted, her bare feet in the grass. She felt a leap of apprehension, but Belavierr was gazing at her. Talking to her. So she smiled. She had met immortals after all, befriended a Vampire. She had to try.

“I understand that. And I beg your pardon, Witch Belavierr. But I’d like to speak to you. You might remember—”

“Leave me.”

The words made Ryoka stumble over hers. She tried again, more desperate.

“I know Wiskeria. And I can talk to her. I know you two had an argument. I asked Wiskeria about it. She’s angry at you. And I think I can—”

“Now.”

Belavierr’s eyes were very bright. Ryoka took a step back. But then she gritted her teeth. She had bargained with a Dragon. She studied Belavierr. Try. If she didn’t respect Ryoka, acknowledge her, there was nothing Ryoka could do.

“Witch Belavierr, I can help. Listen, about Wiskeria not liking you—”

Belavierr moved. Ryoka blinked. She tried to continue, say something. But her lips were glued together. She looked down, but she couldn’t feel anything. Then she felt pain. And she raised her fingers to her mouth and felt something thin and hard.

Stitches.

“—!”

The scream was muffled. Ryoka’s lips were sewn so tightly together that she couldn’t even move them. And the pain—it had been so fast—but Belavierr was standing in front of Ryoka. In one hand, she held a bloody needle.

She’d sewn Ryoka’s lips shut.

Ryoka tried to scream again. The needle had gone through her lips! It had been so fast—but now she felt the pain and gathering blood from the places where the needle had pierced her skin. She stumbled back, clawing frantically at her mouth, then her belt.

Blood was dripping into her mouth from the perforations. And the thread—Ryoka desperately sawed at it with a knife. It didn’t break. Not even when she cut hard.

Belavierr watched it all impassively. Ryoka was breathing desperately through her nose. Her eyes were wide, her mouth filling with blood. She tried to open her mouth a crack, and the thread pulled at the holes in her lips. She screamed again, muffled.

The [Witch] bent. She met Ryoka’s eyes. The City Runner stared up at her. Belavierr’s whisper echoed.

“Leave me.”

Ryoka ran.

 

—–

 

The coven of three [Witches] was Alevica, Mavika, and Wiskeria. They were cheering up Wiskeria. Or just entertaining her presence. Either way, they were first to see Ryoka running towards them. Blood was trickling from Ryoka’s mouth. The red thread—even Mavika paused.

“Dead gods! What happened, Ryoka—”

Wiskeria caught herself as she shot up. She stared at Ryoka, then cursed.

“Belavierr.”

“Wow.”

Alevica blinked. Mavika stared at Ryoka as the Runner frantically gestured at her face. The [Witch] peered at the red stitches. The bloody holes. She nodded to herself.

“You must have truly angered her. She’s put a small working on the thread. You won’t be able to cut it without a magical blade. A decent one. It is not my craft. A pity; you should not have scorned Belavierr’s wrath.”

“Mavika!”

Wiskeria snapped at the other [Witch].

“I’ll find my mother and have her undo it. Just wait—”

“What? Now? She’s peeved at you already, Wis. And Ryoka must have annoyed her. She might sew Griffin’s eyes shut if you word it wrong. Here. Don’t bother. I’ll do it.”

Alevica stood up, yawning and stretching. She walked over to Ryoka. The City Runner was waving her hands and making small sounds. Alevica saw why and winced.

“Ouch. Those are pulling your flesh. That has to hurt. Well, I can cut it. I think. Give me a second.”

She pulled a knife from her belt. Then she clenched her shortsword.

“Hm. Better steel in the knife. Alright. Here goes. Ryoka, don’t move or squirm. I might slice a lip off.”

So saying, she laid the knife on her arm. Ryoka watched, trying not to choke on the blood running from her wounds. She was half-mad with needing to open her mouth, the shock—but she still stiffened as Alevica chanted, her voice harsh but triumphant.

“Grudge, fester. Knife, cut. Anger, grow. Envy, grate. Slice sharper. Prick harder. Hate. And the honed edge—make.”

The knife didn’t move or flash or do anything else on her arm. But with each sentence, the edge seemed harder to find, thinner.

Sharper. But the chant was quick. Alevica plucked the knife from her arm and grinned at Wiskeria and Mavika. Wiskeria looked somewhat impressed. Mavika did not.

“A simple chant for a simple working.”

“And a simple task, Mavika. We don’t all need to write poetry in verse. Now, hold still, Ryoka.”

Alevica turned back to Ryoka. She raised the knife, and Ryoka froze. She felt the blade working at the tight thread, and Alevica cursed.

“This is enchanted! But that’s some thread—I have no leverage. Hold on—I think it’s giving—”

Alevica kept sawing away. Then she stared at her knife.

“Uh…hold on.”

She adjusted her angle, and Ryoka, who had tears in her eyes, made an articulate sound of pain. Alevica was pushing at the threads. It hurt! The Witch Runner cursed.

“It’s not—what’s going on? This could cut Mithril.”

“It isn’t, Alevica. I warned you, Ryoka.”

Wiskeria’s voice was too satisfied for Ryoka’s liking. Alevica swore.

“There’s no way she can make a thread I can’t cut! Even Oliyaya’s best charms I could—hold on. Little knife, little—”

She bent over the knife, then produced a flame and whetstone. Twice more, she tried to re-charm her knife to cut, and each time, it failed. In the end, Alevica hurled the knife down with an oath, and it went straight into the floor and vanished from sight.

“You have angered the Witch of Webs. But she seldom has such spite.”

Mavika observed, looking between Wiskeria and Ryoka. Wiskeria just sighed.

“She’s angry because of me. I can make her undo it.”

“That is not needed; this magic I shall undo. A favor from me, and a punishment to you. And you.”

Mavika replied. Alevica broke off from trying to fish her knife out from the hole in the floor.

“What? Think you can make a better knife than I?”

“I do not contest, Witch Alevica. Now watch. Griffin? Will you take my cure?”

Mavika hopped closer to Ryoka, and the desperate Wind Runner nodded. So, Mavika tapped her on the brow and produced something. A feather…and a piece of what looked like chewed up cardboard.

A huge feather, brown and dandruffy. Mavika stuck it onto Ryoka’s head and whispered.

“Griffin in name, Griffin thou art! Fierce of body, and fierce of heart! Fight pain with all your might!”

Another rhyming-charm. This one did something weird to Ryoka. She didn’t turn into a literal Griffin; she just felt—

Fiercer. Just like Mavika had said; suddenly, the pain was vexing, but not all-consuming. Ryoka sagged in relief. Mavika nodded in satisfaction as Ryoka gave her a thumbs up.

“Now, we come to it. Alevica, your knife.”

Alevica handed over the sharp knife, and Mavika held Ryoka’s mouth carefully. Ryoka waited for another sp—

Mavika sliced Ryoka’s mouth vertically, then made two more cuts, and one of the strings snapped out of the holes in Ryoka’s flesh, and the Crow Witch pulled the rest of the strings out.

It hurt. Not as bad as it could have, thanks to Mavika’s charm and Alevica’s sharp blade, but only Mavika’s hand like steel kept Ryoka’s face from jerking.

“Oooh! Dead gods!”

Even Alevica covered her face. Wiskeria just nodded.

“Yep, that’s what I would have done.”

My mouth! My mouth—Mavika pocketed the bloody string and then offered something. It turned out to be Ryoka’s own healing potion.

“Drink. The string I take as payment for my services. You did not even need a sharp knife, Witch Alevica.”

Healing potion spilled from Ryoka’s cut lips before they began to heal. Alevica was spluttering as Mavika strode away. Ryoka tried to focus.

I’ve had worse. I’ve had…

The Frost Faeries tormenting her? Things around a fire?

My lips just got sewn together then cut apart! This might have been one of the worst things in her entire life! And that included the leg smashing! Ryoka stood there, shaking, until Wiskeria spoke.

“So would you say, despite my mother’s magic, on the whole, it was a good thing for you, Ryoka?”

Her sardonic look would have gotten her punched if Ryoka could make a fist. Alevica strode back into the house, swearing.

“That damn Mavika. She’s—she’s—she’s almost as good as my mentor. Oliyaya will love that tale. Hey, Windy Girl. Oh, your lips aren’t messed up. Cool.”

She was twirling the knife she’d gotten back from Mavika. The Witch Runner clapped Ryoka on the shoulders.

“Don’t thank me. I’m only too happy to help a fellow Runner. And now you owe me a favor. Remember it, Ryoka. Because I’ll call it in.”

“What favor? You didn’t do anything.”

Alevica shrugged.

“But I tried. My magic doesn’t come free. Favor from me—you’re lucky Mavika didn’t ask for something. She just wanted to one-up me. Remind me not to cross her. Or Belavierr.”

With that, she left. Ryoka was speechless. In outrage, shock—when she turned to the last person left, Wiskeria, the [Witch] managed a bit of sympathy.

“Listen, I did warn you. I guess my mother is upset. She never does that normally; it’s a waste of good thread. What did you need to speak to my mother for? Why did you try without me?”

“I—thought I could get her to listen to me. I wanted to talk to her about you. Try to patch things up between you. Or convince her to help…I thought I could reason with her. I’ve done it before.”

Ryoka muttered, tasting more blood. She got a water flask and spat out bloody water. Wiskeria paused. She closed her eyes, then looked around. She began to pick up one of the regular kitchen knives in Alevica’s shared house, then sighed and tossed it down.

“What’s that for? I don’t have more thread in my face, do I?”

Ryoka needed a mirror. She saw her features were all correct—or so she thought—when Wiskeria flopped down in a chair across from her.

“No, I was going to stab you. But I suppose that would just add to the trouble Riverfarm’s facing. Say that again? And if I don’t like what I hear, I will break a knee.”

“What? What did I do?”

Wiskeria stared at Ryoka, expression hardening.

“Why are you so determined to force me and my mother to talk? What gives you the right to interfere in our lives? Say she’s an ambivalent person who makes fair deals again. Say it.”

Her hand was twitching for the knife. Part of Ryoka, the part that challenged Minotaurs to fistfights, wanted to say it. The rest of her dragged that part back, locked it in solitary confinement, and tried to answer Wiskeria honestly.

“I—look, I was wrong.”

“Thank you for saying that. Go on?”

Ryoka edged back an inch in her chair. Wiskeria inched forwards and put her hand around the knife.

She’s not really going to stab me or break a knee if she doesn’t like what she hears, right?

She’s a [General] and Belavierr’s daughter. And a [Witch].

Nothing would save Ryoka but honesty, so she blurted it out, turning red-faced with embarrassment.

“I—look. It’s not just me wanting to know right from wrong, okay? I just see you and Belavierr—and believe me, Belavierr is not the same—but it reminds me of my mother.”

Wiskeria’s arm relaxed. She stopped leaning forwards, unhooked one foot she’d snaked around Ryoka’s chair leg, and stared at Ryoka.

“…What?”

Ryoka turned red. This was almost a hundredth as bad as having your lips sewn together. But since she’d just had that happen—this was almost easy. Almost. She spoke, trying to say what she’d been trying not to say.

“Look…I don’t like my mom. You’ve never met her. Heck, no one—I mean, no one I know around here has ever met her.”

Because she’s in another world. Ryoka never talked about her family. It didn’t mean she didn’t think of them, and she did, especially now. She looked at Wiskeria.

“My mom—well, my parents are both wealthy. My dad’s a business tycoon—”

“What’s that?”

“Uh…a super [Merchant]. He’s into politics, too. Likes to put his thumb or a damn weight on the scales. He talks to slimeballs like Mayor Whatshisface and that Councilwoman Beatica. My parents are wealthy. My mom? He married her when he was abroad. She’s kind of a trophy wife, but she’s also rich in her own right.”

“Thank you for explaining. What does this have to do with me?”

Wiskeria seemed genuinely interested as she watched Ryoka’s face. She had her mother’s blankness, Ryoka realized. Ryoka had…well, she had a lot of things from her parents. Hair color, eyes.

Alcoholism she wasn’t sure about, but there was always time. Certainly other things. She lowered her head.

“Listen, my life story’s probably boring compared to yours. But the long and short of it is that my mother…sucks. It’s not all her fault. I realized that later. Part of it is just—well, if we talk about my dad, we’ll be here till fall. But the point is that she’s like Belavierr.”

Wiskeria raised her brows, and Ryoka clarified.

“She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand me. I hated her guts, of course, most of my life, but I’d try and help. Sometimes, I’d get in trouble for covering for her mistakes, and I just wished, sometimes, she could be—better. You know?”

Ryoka’s eyes stung unaccountably, and Wiskeria’s semi-hostile look softened. Ryoka shook her head.

“It’s stupid. But when I saw you and your mother—I sort of felt like there was the same thing. If I could meet my mother and make peace, even if we didn’t like each other—or better yet, change her? I guess I projected too much. I’m sorry.”

She hung her head. Belavierr was definitely not Ryoka’s mother. But now she said it out loud, she realized how much she’d projected onto Wiskeria. Her own hopes and regrets—and denial, probably. Certainly, Wiskeria adjusted her hat and sighed.

“You’re right. You’re completely wrong about my mother, and you stuck your nose into our business, and you had no right.”

Ryoka hunched her shoulders, and Wiskeria paused.

“…But you are right that we’re a bit alike in how we wish things were different. I just wish you’d led with that.”

The Wind Runner glanced up, and Wiskeria offered her a handkerchief.

“For your face. It’s covered with blood. Listen, Ryoka. My mother is purely dangerous. Don’t bother her. But—thank you. I guess I can respect that kind of attitude.”

“Thanks.”

Ryoka took the handkerchief, and after a second, Wiskeria sat back and smiled as if she’d thought of something funny. When Ryoka glanced at her quizzically, she spoke.

“Oh, nothing. I just thought you were only the second person who ever bothered my mother that much for my sake.”

Ryoka grinned, hiding her embarrassment. Then she saw Wiskeria’s eyes grow serious.

“Just be sure you don’t end up like Ostevien.”

“W-what happened to him?”

Wiskeria leaned forwards.

“That’s a long story. The end of it is ongoing. They call him the Griffin Prince of Kaliv. The Cursed Prince. The exile.”

Ryoka’s heart leapt. An actual—she leaned forwards.

“What’s the curse? Belavierr did it?”

This explained everything. Wiskeria exhaled and, with infinite regret, whispered in Ryoka’s ear.

“Simple. He will never die.”

She stared at Ryoka until the Wind Runner’s smile vanished. Then Ryoka got up in the dead silence, walked to the door—stared at Wiskeria—and left.

 

——

 

Ryoka was wandering around Riverfarm, trying to think, when she saw Nesor hurrying towards her, waving a bit of parchment.

“Miss Griffin! Miss Griffin! There’s a message for you! A [Fence]! He’s dead! It—”

“The [Fence]? In Filk?”

And Ryoka heard of the dead Ratwhisperer, his mouth and nose sewn shut. Her own mouth throbbed and burned. To her credit, even Alevica looked uneasy.

“Don’t let your [Opener] friend talk about Belavierr, Griffin. That’s a curse Belavierr’s used. And I don’t think many people could dodge that. Even if they’re [Mages].”

Ryoka agreed. She looked at Nesor and sent a swift reply.

 

Everything’s fine. She’s dangerous, but I think it’s safe for us. I’ll be here a bit longer. Don’t cross her, Fierre. And don’t worry about me. I have to do this. Thanks for the help.

 

A lie. Because Ryoka wasn’t fine. That night, she kept opening her mouth, running her teeth along her healed lips. Shuddering. And she stayed away from Riverfarm, using Durene’s cottage to sleep. Refused to go near the village. Or the [Witch] with the glowing eyes and wide-brimmed hat. If she hadn’t run—Ryoka’s dreams were filled with a man she’d never met, mouth and nose sewn shut. Staring into oblivion as blood ran down his throat. And Belavierr’s blank, impatient stare watching as he died.

 

 

Day 63 – Ryoka

 

For two days, Ryoka ducked at every passing person wearing clothes that were even remotely black. A pointed hat and she fled the other way. The worst part was that no one, not even Charlay, called her silly for doing that. In fact, everyone took the time to tell Ryoka how stupid she had been for crossing Belavierr.

They were right. Right and wrong. Because Belavierr might be—probably was—a monster. But one who obeyed her own laws. She was like the fae. Or Teriarch. A mix between him and Az’kerash, perhaps. So what anyone with sense would do was avoid her until Laken returned. Let him handle her and not provoke her wrath.

Yet Ryoka had never been accused of having sense. And the issue of the [Witches] was greater than just Belavierr. That was what Prost didn’t understand, or Rie, or anyone else. They had come to Riverfarm, this coven, to ask Laken to grant [Witches] sanctuary. And if Emperor Godart was anything like the Laken she remembered, Ryoka expected him to honor that vow.

The problem was whether it would be safe. Half of the [Witches] seemed fine. Califor, Eloise, Nanette, even Alevica could behave. But Mavika? Hedag? Belavierr? It was a quandary. And the only person who could solve it wasn’t Ryoka.

It was Wiskeria, Belavierr’s daughter. But the irony was that the daughter wanted nothing to do with her mother. She hated her mother. And—thanks to Ryoka—she had said it at last. That bothered Belavierr.

She followed Wiskeria until her daughter told her to leave her alone. Asked questions as Wiskeria shouted at her. Listened. Until that glacial face hardened and became angry. Frustrated. Uncomprehending.

“She hates Belavierr for who she is. But Belavierr won’t change her craft. It’s like watching two trees hit each other.”

Charlay summed up the conflict as Ryoka hid behind her on the third day after a one-sided shouting match. Wiskeria stormed off, and Charlay, Ryoka, and everyone who’d stopped to watch fled as well. Because Belavierr was angry. She stood in the street, her head bowed, gazing at Wiskeria’s back. And undone clothes were the least of what Ryoka feared from her now.

There was something else that was brewing in Riverfarm as a consequence of these fights. No—of Rehanna. The woman sometimes went outside, holding her baby. And that was a terrible sight, in daylight or at night. Belavierr’s encounter with Councilwoman Beatica had also caused trouble. The woman had shown more sense than Ryoka and refused to engage with Belavierr directly, but bad will towards Belavierr and [Witches] in general had spread across the village.

Into that confused tangle of events, a mother and a daughter’s war, and the hot days without a hint of rain that continued to roll on, the dark looks and trouble brewing, there was Hedag. Ryoka had paused from a day of trying to talk with Wiskeria and hiding from Belavierr as people trudged back from the fields.

No one was happy. It was hot, and the river that fed the village was now being used to partially irrigate the fields. But hand-watering still had to be done, and it was hot. The [Witches] had kept to themselves today, mercifully, and Eloise had even relegated her tea service in lieu of helping Califor teach Nanette how to make some bread that may or may not have been magical.

Mavika and Alevica were nowhere to be found as dusk settled, then night. Ryoka ate a meal with Durene and Charlay, on the lookout for Wiskeria and Belavierr. That’s when she saw her.

Hedag. The woman was sitting at a table, laughing, drinking, and eating with [Forewoman] Beycalt and a few other laborers. Completely at ease. She ignored the looks she was getting as she poured a generous drink from her flask into each cup. Despite the volume of the flask, she filled each polished wooden cup to the brim. Ryoka didn’t have to see the way Beycalt brightened or how the others lifted the cups to know it was alcohol.

“To your [Emperor], then! And a hard day’s work!”

Hedag laughed, and her voice boomed through the mess hall. She lifted the flask and drank with the others. Ryoka blinked. She glanced around.

“What’s Hedag been up to all day, Durene? Charlay?”

The Centauress shrugged. But Durene leaned over.

“Haven’t you seen her? She’s been helping build houses.”

“What, with magic?”

Ryoka turned back to Hedag. The woman’s plain brown hat and travel-worn clothing made her seem the most normal of all the [Witches]. She was a big woman, bigger than Beycalt, and she looked strong. And she had chopped off a man’s head with her axe. Yet here she was jovial, smiling. Durene shook her head.

“Nope. No magic at all. She just helped. She’s good with a hammer, and she knows how to put up a house.”

“Huh. Interesting.”

Ryoka watched Hedag drinking with the other villagers. She had an infectious laugh and an openness about her that was the exact opposite of what Ryoka was used to. She reminded the City Runner of Erin, actually. Only, an Erin of a different sort.

And yet, she was a [Witch]. No one had forgotten how she’d walked into Riverfarm and pronounced judgment. Many of the people stared and murmured, and few would drink with Hedag, despite the free liquor. If the [Witch] noticed—and she surely did—she paid no mind. In fact, she noticed more than Ryoka thought, because though she never turned her head, after the second round, she raised her voice.

“Share a drink with me, Runner-Girl?”

Ryoka jumped. Hedag turned and waved a hand. Ryoka felt a stab of embarrassment as everyone glanced over at her. But there was nothing for it. She stood up and walked over.

“I didn’t mean to stare.”

“Ah, what a kind lie. But you don’t fool me! Come, sit. And perhaps you won’t be as wary of Hedag as you are of my coven!”

Hedag’s slap nearly catapulted Ryoka into her seat. Ryoka blinked as the woman grabbed a cup from the table behind her. Someone had used the cup, but Hedag sloshed in a bunch of pungent…rum? Ryoka inhaled it. Certainly not just an ale or mead.

“That’s a hard worker’s drink there. Hard to get and expensive! For us at least. But a reward best used, not hoarded. Stand a round?”

Hedag grinned. Ryoka was surprised, but she wasn’t about to refuse. She raised the cup and downed half with the other drinkers. After some of the coughing and laughter, Ryoka lowered her cup.

“That burns! What is that, a magical flask?”

“This? Naught but a little trick. It’s wider than it seems. I don’t do grand magics, if that’s what you’re asking, Miss Ryoka. And if you’ve been wondering whether I’m a threat to your village, have no fear. A Hedag is justice, not aught else. I don’t use my craft for myself like young Alevica, or in spite as Mavika does. Nor am I Belavierr. But I am a [Witch].”

Hedag casually drank from her flask again, her eyes twinkling beneath her hat. Ryoka studied her, embarrassed.

“I’m sure you’re not. I’ve only—”

“Been asking? And talking with your [Emperor], haven’t you? What a slow lad! I thought he’d be here days ago! Tell him to hurry up!”

Hedag laughed, ignoring the askance looks some of the other villagers were giving her. She spread her arms, sloshing some of her drink. She was actually drunk, Ryoka was sure of it! But the [Witch] wasn’t ashamed.

“What’s the point of holding a drink if there’s no fun in it, Runner-Girl? I work hard, I sweat, and then I drink and sleep! Occasionally, I eat, and I’ll own to a few other things. But I don’t want for anything else. I am a [Witch], but I’ll work for coin when my craft doesn’t call.”

“But what is your craft? Justice?”

Ryoka tried to press Hedag. But the [Witch] only smiled and filled Ryoka’s cup.

“It calls me sometimes often. Sometimes once a month or even a year. And what it is is justice.”

Beyond that, she wouldn’t say. And Ryoka realized after the third cup that Hedag was just as crafty as Eloise in her way. She’d bought goodwill with her strong drink. And she was content to just let people drink and insult each other and…be people, unlike Eloise. She was amid them, challenging Beycalt to an arm-wrestling competition or laughing uproariously at a bawdy joke. But what did she do?

Ryoka had to excuse herself from the table to sit back and think. She was sure she was holding her liquor well—until Charlay pointed out Ryoka was about to fall out of her chair. The young woman sat up and tried to think.

She had seen Mavika selling crow’s feather charms to a few brave people. Eloise sold her tea. Alevica was a Runner, and Califor seemed content to teach Nanette. Belavierr and Wiskeria were their own thing.

But Hedag had been the real mystery. Day after day, she’d been talking with children. Letting them show her a ball or a doll, playing with them by pulling up a stone so they could scream at the bugs, or giving one a ride on her shoulders. The parents had been uneasy, but Hedag had just been kind. Then she’d stopped and begun helping out in the village.

“Why? Is she collecting fun? Goodwill, like Eloise?”

Ryoka muttered as she inspected Hedag with one bleary eye. Charlay shrugged.

“I have no idea. But she’s fun to be around.”

That was true. Hedag’s laugh filled the hall into the night. And she drank like an alcoholic and laughed without guile. Not once did Ryoka see anything ‘witchy’ about her.

Because there wasn’t. She was looking in the wrong place, at the wrong person. It wasn’t Hedag Ryoka should have been watching. So she only saw the end of it when the fire in the mess hall was low and most had taken to their beds. Hedag sat, smiling, pleasantly drunk, at her table, occasionally belching.

She was waiting. That night, her craft did call. It was no large thing. Rather, it was a young boy Ryoka had never met. She had never seen him. To her, he was a face, one of Riverfarm’s many families displaced. She couldn’t have seen anything unique about him. Her eyes were on the [Witches]. She did not know the young boy, who had shown a leather ball to Hedag and heard her promise. Ryoka did not even know his name. His story.

But here it was. The young boy had had a fulfilling day. He’d been corralled into a work force of boys all bursting with energy around his age, too young to take up a task that involved anything bladed, but too old to stay with the young children. He’d been sent, under the eye of a pair of [Hunters], to the forest near Riverfarm to gather some edibles.

Of course, the boy had played with his friends, but they’d all come back with some edibles or bits of bark and kindling to appease Prost and the supervisor in charge of them. But responsibility wasn’t something the boy had a grasp of yet. He was a city’s child, and he’d laughed at the diligent villager-children who refused to so much as try and catch a rabbit barehanded and gathered most of the day.

And then he’d come back and eaten a hot meal, which he liked. He missed his home in Lancrel. Terribly. The fascination of a new village, the relief of fleeing the Goblins was worn off. Riverfarm was boring where Lancrel had been huge and exciting, a proper city. In his way, the young boy had been contemptuous of Riverfarm’s villagers.

The only exciting thing was the visitors. The Centauress, the strange-looking City Runner. And the [Witches]. They were terrifying and exciting to someone his age, and he’d tried following around the young [Witch] until the old one snapped at him. Or the Witch Runner until she’d conjured a swarm of stinging bugs and scared him and his friends off. The young boy had gotten into a fight twice with the villager boys and a girl named Chimmy. And he’d been told off and slapped hard for each.

Misery. Fun. Boredom and joy. That was his life in the day. But at night—on this night in particular, the young boy sat in his newly-made bed and listened. He shook, because he heard a man’s voice. Familiar, rough. And yes, drunk.

It was a story Ryoka didn’t know, but that she knew.

The young boy listened. He had a mother and father. She was often impatient with his father. The boy’s father had expectations and didn’t like being here in Riverfarm. The father was a [Jeweler] by class, and he didn’t take well to the work he had to do since he couldn’t pursue his class.

So he was impatient. Annoyed. And that night, drink provided by Councilwoman Beatica at the Lancrel gatherings, fueled a long-burning fire. An old problem. The boy listened as the voices murmured, then grew loud. And he was afraid.

Dark thoughts. A temper. Bitter words, perhaps over losing his home, his family moving here. Grievances at work. Councilwoman Beatica’s words. The lack of rain. [Witches].

The first shout made the young boy’s heart jump. He prayed he wouldn’t hear another. But he had no one to pray to, and he didn’t even know how to pray. It mattered not either way. He heard a quarrel. Another raised voice. And then a slap. A cry.

Heart racing. Hands clenching the sweaty sheets. The boy got up and searched his bed desperately. He found what few things he owned. A leather ball he’d won from a friend. A bit of quartz he’d tried to polish. Three copper coins. He grabbed the ball and squeezed it. But then he heard more fighting. And another cry.

Now he was standing. Shaking. But he knew what was going to happen. It was a pattern. Not the first time, either. The young boy stared at the light through the door. And he was afraid. He’d been out there before. Tried to block the man, his father. Fight back. Last time, he’d lost a tooth. He was afraid.

Because the wrath would turn towards him soon. Already, his mother was sobbing. The boy, desperate, wanted to hide under the bed. Or go out the window. But to where? This was home. So he shuddered.

And he remembered something. A smile. A huge face. A booming voice and a promise. A [Witch]’s promise. She’d sworn on her hat. And she had told him if, if he needed her, to call her name. And she would come. She’d touched the ball, and he’d seen no magic. But she had promised.

In that dark night, the boy had no one to turn to. His father was passing from drunk into a dark temper. Beyond just fury, in fact. The brooding, bitter rage that wouldn’t end in slaps or tears or even blood. So the boy hesitated. He grabbed the ball and clenched his fists. He had to be a man. A man wouldn’t let his mother cry out like that.

But he was small. Afraid. So the boy grabbed the ball. He hesitated and then raised his prized possession and cried out. His father heard and tore towards him. The boy heard the furious pounding on the door and hid under the bed. Praying without words. But there was no one in his house besides him, his father, and his mother. His neighbors were quiet, asleep or silent. There was no one to hear him.

Except the [Witch]. In the mess hall, nodding off, Ryoka saw Hedag’s silent form move. The hat, which had partially slipped off Hedag’s head, rose. And the [Witch], who had fallen asleep, looked up. There was no laughter. No smile.

Hedag was on her feet in a second. She ran. Ryoka jerked upright. She was quick, but Hedag was out of the doors, tables and chairs still tumbling aside as she charged outside. Ryoka stumbled after her, the alcohol in her veins disappearing. What? She hadn’t heard a thing!

The [Witch] was outside, head turning. She looked left down a street of houses with few lights flickering behind the shutters. Then she ran. Ryoka shouted.

“Hedag! What is it?”

The woman didn’t respond. She kept running, and Ryoka chased her. But Hedag was fast. She ran without form, holding her hat on her head, pounding down the dirt street. But she was still faster than Ryoka. She ran until she stopped. Ryoka nearly missed her. Hedag stormed up to a house with a faint light flickering behind the door. Ryoka heard a few sounds from inside, a raised voice, a pounding sound.

“What—”

Hedag’s fist struck the door. The [Witch] bellowed into the night. And her voice was like thunder.

“You inside! Touch not that child! Step away from that door!”

Ryoka heard an oath from inside, and then a muffled voice. Hedag’s fist slammed into the door.

“Step away, man. And leave him be. Open this door or I will open it myself!”

She roared the words, heedless of the doors opening, the people stirring. Ryoka stared. She did not know what was happening. But then she saw Hedag lower her shoulder and slam into the door.

The wood was solid. The frame was sturdy. It had been made by good [Builders] out of strong wood, and it was fresh. It held, but Ryoka heard the creak. Hedag didn’t stop. She backed up and struck the door again, hurling her entire weight against it. The door cracked.

“—off! This is my house!”

A man’s voice was audible now. He was shouting in a fury. And Ryoka heard a woman’s voice. She understood. But Hedag didn’t stop. She rammed the door a third time. Then she raised her foot, kicked, and the door broke. Ryoka heard an oath and exclamation. Hedag strode into the house, knocking the broken parts of the door aside.

“Step away from the child and woman.”

There was a shout. Ryoka saw a flicker of movement as she ran for the doorframe. She watched Hedag step back, move—the man was swinging at her. The [Witch] blocked the blow and struck back. Ryoka heard a cry—and then a thump. And then another one.

“Listen to me, you poor excuse for a man. You’ll never touch her or him again. Do you hear me?”

“Let go of me! I’m—”

Ryoka heard a slurred voice and then another blow, so loud her own teeth clenched at it. A cry of pain. Hedag sounded like thunder still, rolling and distant.

“Never again. This is a lesson. So pay heed: never again.”

A giant wearing a hat stood in the kitchen. Tall, taller than the mortal man she held. She raised her hand, and the man screamed. Ryoka saw a woman grabbing Hedag, pleading. A boy—perhaps eleven—standing and watching, wide-eyed. Watching his father’s pain. Ryoka grabbed at Hedag’s arm as the woman raised it. And the backhand that struck Ryoka sent her stumbling into a wall.

“Don’t interfere, Runner-Girl. Nor you, wife. This is my craft. My business. And this man will not touch you or his son so again. Or the next time I return, I will break his bones. And he will remember it. A Hedag’s promise is never broken. So remember this. What you were going to do to a boy less than half your size. Remember this.”

Ryoka stumbled upright. She saw Hedag standing over the man. There was a terrible light in her eyes that scared Ryoka. Hedag moved, grabbing the father as he tried to run. And the next blow doubled him over.

“Hedag! That’s enough!”

Ryoka called out. But the [Witch] did not stop. The father tore away from her with animal strength and ran out the door. Hedag caught him in the street.

A crowd had gathered. Most in their night clothes. They stared at Hedag as she caught him and delivered another blow. The father gasped.

“Help—”

And he was struck again. He made a wild sound, and that moved the crowd. Some of them stepped forwards, but stopped when Hedag looked at them.

“Here now! What’s he done? You have no right to attack a man in his house—”

“Silence.”

Hedag barked the word. It stopped Ryoka behind her. The crowd. Prost, approaching with Beniar. Hedag glanced around, and the [Witch]’s eyes were wide under her hat. She spoke, her words tearing the illusion of the peaceful night apart.

“I am Hedag! And I am teaching a man who would beat his wife and child a lesson. He will suffer for it. He will not die of it. But he will suffer. And no one will stop me. I am Hedag, and this is my right. This is justice. Will any woman or man gainsay it?”

She stood, holding the whimpering man in a grip of steel. The crowd protested. But it was at Prost the Hedag was looking. The [Witch]’s eyes met his. And the [Steward] stopped. He gazed at Hedag.

“Hedag the [Executioner]. Do you say this is just?”

“Just?”

The exclamation came from a dozen voices, outraged. But Hedag just nodded. She glanced around. The outraged people hesitated.

“Should I show you the wife’s bruises? The cuts? Or should I show you the way he beat her? Should I reveal his sins? I will, if you wish it, and you will see what sort of man you call neighbor and friend.”

No one spoke at that. Hedag’s eyes blazed as she lifted the man. He made a sound between terror and pain.

“I don’t need to. And better left, those sins are. Each one has their own. But this one I do not stand. Come, you gathered folk. If you didn’t know what a Hedag’s justice was, you know now. It is this. No man or woman will beat a child. No crime will be done that is not punished. And the punishment is this.”

She raised a hand and struck the man across the face. Ryoka saw a spray of blood and heard a mortal groan. It might have come from Ryoka. Hedag dropped the man. He was alive. But the suffering—she stood over him, and the crowd flinched from her gaze. Hedag continued calmly, her voice ringing in the night.

“Time was, a village wouldn’t sit by to see such things done. When worst came to worst, they’d gather. Go in and see justice done themselves. But they say civilization and progress put an end to those times. Now people wait and pretend not to see bruises or a blackened eye. Tears or torment. But Hedag sees. And wheresoever Hedag walks, she carries the old ways right here.”

She touched her chest and hat. The [Witch] looked around. And Ryoka understood. It wasn’t a story she knew. But it was a universal story. Hedag had seen it a thousand, ten thousand, a hundred thousand times.

She ignored the protests. She left the man where he lay. Her lesson was done. And it wasn’t him she’d ever cared about. It was the young boy in tears Hedag walked to. The [Witch] was not guilty or remorseful, and she grabbed him where he might have struck at her and talked.

“It was a harsh thing, young lad. But better your father learned it. And it was bravery to call me. If you ever need help, call my name. And listen, because I tell you this plain: your father was wrong. The poorest of people beat their kin, let alone a child. And also know this. You will be safe. I swear by my hat on it.”

That was all. Prost stood over the man, and the city folk saw what the oldest justice was. What a Hedag was. [Executioner], yes. But also judge. Protector. Some shouted it was not right. Or just. But Ryoka looked at the wife, who was bleeding and bruised. And then at the man Hedag had left on the ground.

This was Hedag’s craft. She talked to the boy. And he hit her, then cried, and he listened as she held him and told him it was going to be alright. No one was asking him to grow up yet. But he’d been a man tonight. And—Ryoka saw—he was years and centuries older than the boy he’d been yesterday. Then Hedag talked to the wife, and the woman was just as conflicted.

That was what Hedag took. That was what she offered. As she left the house, Ryoka saw hundreds of years on her. Men. Women. Children. All of whom saw and heard her promise.

“Call my name. And I will be there.”

That was this [Witch]’s craft. She took gratitude, pure and simple. Simple gratitude. Innocence lost. Pain and fear and regret too, though. But part of it was gratitude. For being there.

And yet, what a cruel justice. Ryoka stared at the man. He wasn’t broken. But he was bloody. No one had healed him with a potion. Even if they did, he would feel the blows she’d dealt him. He would remember. Ryoka stared at the man as he made faint sounds. And then she went after Hedag.

The [Witch] sat alone, calmly drinking in the mess hall. She glanced up as Ryoka hesitated behind her.

“A Hedag has eyes in the back of her head, Ryoka-Girl. Literally. It’s a Skill, not magic. Useful, too. Sit.”

Slowly, Ryoka did. Hedag gazed at her. Ryoka hesitated. Then she pointed towards the door, the commotion growing. Another night of peace turned to unrest. But this one of a different kind.

Justice? The City Runner spoke, meeting Hedag’s gaze.

“You know they’ll turn on you. That husband you beat down. He’ll do it again as soon as you’re gone, if his wife doesn’t divorce him. Even if she does. And he has friends. They could come after you.”

The [Witch] laughed. It was coarse, almost mocking. But then gentle. She tipped the flask up, and it was empty. She sighed and tossed it on the table.

“Of course I know. I’ve been doing this for decades, Runner-Girl. But what’s the better way? To stand here and listen to a big, strong fellow beat his wife bloody? Is that just? While I’m here, folks will think twice about doing what he just did. And by the time I leave, he will know better than to touch a child. Because I will only leave when I am certain he will not. Elsewise, I will come back again and again. And every village hereabouts will know the same. That’s my craft. What do you think of it?”

Ryoka paused.

“I—I think it’s—you didn’t have to beat that man so badly.”

The [Witch]’s eyes glinted.

“Wrong. I did.”

“You could have stopped him.”

“And what would that do, Miss City Runner? Would that have stopped him from trying again? Would he think twice if I’d have paddled his rear and given him naught but a warning? No. Now, he will think many times.”

The young woman saw the logic. But she shook her head.

“You just made him angrier. Violence begets violence. He’ll take it out on the kid if he can.”

“And if he does, I will break his arm.”

“But that won’t change—”

Hedag’s fist slammed on the table.

“Change? It won’t change him. But who said I must be the one to change him? I will stop him, and stop him cold! My craft is not to coddle, Ryoka Griffin. It is not to show mercy to those who do wrong. If that man strikes a child, I strike him. If he kills a neighbor, I will judge him. And if a man or woman commits a crime as warrants it, I fetch my axe. That is justice. It is my craft. Not change.”

Ryoka paused. She studied Hedag. The woman had abandoned her first flask. She was rummaging around. And she pulled out a second flask and began drinking from it.

“So that’s a Hedag.”

“That is my name. My purpose. There have been Hedags before me. And perhaps there will be some after. But perhaps I am the last. I think every Hedag has always said that, though.”

The [Witch] drank. Ryoka hesitated.

“I understand. You’re the law in far-off villages. That’s what Prost said. A Hedag. A wandering [Executioner] and…but what gives you the right? If you weren’t as principled as you were—”

“What? You mean, if I wasn’t as ‘principled’ I’d do what? Ignore a child’s cry? Punish a man harder than I ought to? Say, ask for those who might pay me and protect only them?”

Hedag’s eyes flashed. Ryoka nodded.

“Yes.”

She waited. Hedag gulped down her mouthful, then lowered the flask. She reached out and grabbed Ryoka’s shoulder before the young woman could dodge. Hedag’s grip was steel. Her voice a rumble.

“In that case, I would be a monster. Some call me that anyways. But I carry my justice here. And here. And in my axe.”

She tapped her hat and heart and then let go of Ryoka. The young woman felt at her shoulder.

“I understand that, Hedag. But you still went into that man’s house and beat him. If—Riverfarm has laws. The boy could have called for help. The man could have been locked up. We have laws for a reason. They prohibit abuse. Prost would, if he’d been there. Why not trust him?”

She didn’t know why she was arguing. But she had to, to understand. Hedag snorted. She poured herself a third drink from a third flask. It was water. She gulped it down, looking at Ryoka. Shaking her head.

“You speak of the law as if it were some grand thing, Runner-Girl. But to me, the law is a man or woman with a stick or sword. They wield it, and if you cross them wrong, they beat you. In cities, it’s a pack of folk. Humans, Drakes, never mind if an [Emperor] lays down the law or a [Mayor]. It’s all the same. What’s so different with what I do? In your cities, the law is a uniform and a book. Out here, it is one woman. And she calls herself Hedag.”

“But we have law in Riverfarm. That man—”

“Would be punished after. If his neighbors had the heart to stop him or call out. Or if your [Steward] saw the woman’s bruises. Or heard of the boy’s broken arm. But that would be after, Miss Griffin. You say the law protects. But that is not what I hear of your cities.”

Hedag tossed down the water.

“Your [Guards] patrol the streets. [Watchmen] man your walls. And you say if there is crime, there will be punishment. But where is the law on a dark night when a man has been drinking? Where is the law when the girl hides under the bed and the father stumbles in, full of wrath? The law waits. But if that girl calls my name, I am there.”

She stared at Ryoka with such a piercing look that Ryoka had trouble meeting it. But then Ryoka looked up.

“In my…home, we have a system. If a child is in trouble, she can call. And our law will save her.”

“And if she is too bruised to speak? Too terrified to call? Or perhaps she just loves the father when he doesn’t hit her. What then?”

“We…have people who investigate. Or a neighbor can call. Anyone who sees it.”

“And if they do not see? Or they do not look?”

Ryoka didn’t reply. No system was perfect. Hedag nodded.

“That is better. Better than most villages and cities have. But, Ryoka-Girl, it is not enough. Because your system waits. I do not wait. I am Hedag, and I have been that girl. My craft made me a [Witch]. So where I go, I do not just wait. I go to villages, large and small. Far and wide. And I look at every child, every wife and husband. I stare into their faces. And I bring my justice. That is my purpose. That is what I can offer your [Emperor]. That is what he must accept. What say you?”

She watched the City Runner, and Hedag smelled of alcohol and sweat. Blood and dirt. And she was just a woman with a pointed hat. A drunk. A laugh louder than reality. And sometimes, a giant in the night. Someone who could hear the voices no one else could. Ryoka gazed back at her.

“I won’t try to stop you again. I just wish you didn’t have to exist.”

The [Witch] stared at Ryoka, and then she laughed. She slapped the table and howled with laughter. Ryoka listened, waiting, for minutes until Hedag had stopped. Then the woman pulled herself up, adjusted her hat, and grinned.

“I cannot argue with that. Nor can I say I’m perfect, Miss Griffin-Girl. After all, there have been poor Hedags. And I will not be here forever. I am no Belavierr. Someday, I will batter down a door and find a knife in my gut. Or a few folk will gather around to end me. I know that. But this is my craft. And Riverfarm has need of me. It is the biggest place I’ve had to ply my craft yet. I only hope I’ve the strength to do it.”

She poured herself another drink and raised it. Ryoka watched Hedag drink. Content. Tired. So this was what she was. And she thought of all the other [Witches]. Ryoka realized she understood Hedag the most, because she was simplest.

So Ryoka got up. Hedag watched her calmly. Ryoka hesitated. And then she bowed to the [Witch] and heard her laugh. She bowed and wished there were a thousand Hedags. A million, the world over, dispensing their flawed justice. Or none at all.

The old ways.

 

 

Day 64 – Wiskeria

 

“Call it what you will. But it is the old justice. And I have granted Hedag her right. It is old. Older than cities. Until His Majesty returns, she is free to enact her justice. No man died today. And no child was beaten. His Majesty has been told of it, and he will rule on it as well as Belavierr when he returns. But I say it is justice.”

That was all Prost said to Beatica. For once, the Councilwoman’s indignation and protests fell on deaf ears. Because it was a balance. If Belavierr was one thing, Hedag was another. You could protest she was a law unto herself. Because she was. You could worry about corruption or bias, but the [Witch] had the support from every side. From children and adults who had grown up wishing for a Hedag. For those who cried out.

The coven could be proud of her. They might be different in nature, but Ryoka spotted Eloise helping patch a hole in Hedag’s clothing the next day, and Califor herself nodded to Hedag, who smiled at her as they sat together. Nanette was in shy awe.

Mavika wasn’t as impressed. She gave Hedag the same look, as if Hedag had brewed a cup of tea. It was part and parcel to her. And Alevica wasn’t as moved either as she explained to Ryoka.

“Hedag’s a legend, yes, yes. She goes around beating evil parents and killing murderers. She’s not my kind of [Witch]. I get along with her because she’s free with alcohol. I don’t kiss her shoes like you do, Ryoka.”

The City Runner glared at Alevica. It was custom, now, for Ryoka to try to have a lunch with any [Witches] willing to suffer her. Today, Wiskeria had cooled down enough to have a civil conversation with Ryoka. But they were still at odds. Ryoka regretted how she’d brought up Belavierr to Wiskeria, but she had hope that Hedag’s moment had given them an opportunity to mend the gap. But Wiskeria didn’t seem as impressed as Ryoka either.

“I have to agree with Alevica, Ryoka. Hedag’s practicing her craft. It’s not as noble as you think. She does it because she needs the power she derives from it.”

“But she uses that to help people. Children!”

Wiskeria shrugged.

“And helping children is her selfish choice. Don’t let’s talk about morality or I’ll stab you. I told you, [Witches] are inherently selfish. Good [Witches] obey the law, or they make them, like Hedag. But she could just as easily be called a bad [Witch] because she imposes her craft on people.”

“Like me. We’re not so different, Hedag and I. The only difference is that I only bother [Bandits] with my evil craft, and people who annoy me. Hedag’s a tyrant in a hat.”

Alevica winked at Ryoka. The young Asian woman didn’t wink back.

“I disagree. I understand she’s flawed, but what she does is…”

Ryoka grasped for words. It spoke to her. It wasn’t acceptable, not in the society where she’d grown up. Hedag would be jailed in a moment on Earth. But it was what should be right.

That was how Ryoka felt, even if she couldn’t articulate it. Wiskeria and Alevica exchanged a glance. The Witch Runner rolled her eyes.

“Well, looks like Hedag’s got another follower. I can’t fault her for being popular. Although, you know she has a bigger bounty than mine.”

“Really?”

Ryoka looked up. Alevica grinned as she summoned her broomstick.

“Of course. Do you think villages are happy to see her? She’s not just some amazing crusader who stops wife-beaters, Ryoka. She’s left dead in the villages she passes. People who won’t change. Or who committed old crimes. She’s an [Executioner]. She’s got a bounty. Only about three hundred gold pieces. Poor folk can’t afford more. But think about that. Wipe the awe out of your eyes, Ryoka. If Hedag judges someone, she’ll kill them. Her law doesn’t bend. Belavierr’s not the only person who needs an [Emperor] to protect them. ‘Specially because Hedag’s slow. Me? I just fly off when I’m in trouble. Like so.”

Before Ryoka could reply, the [Witch] flew off, laughing merrily. Ryoka clenched her fists and turned to Wiskeria. The other [Witch] shrugged, a bit embarrassed.

“She’s right, you know, Ryoka. Hedag’s just a good [Witch] with good principles. But it’s—”

“Selfish. I get it.”

She was biased, Ryoka realized. But she couldn’t help it. Wiskeria eyed Ryoka’s expression, but she didn’t say anything. The two watched each other in silence. The Wind Runner cleared her throat.

“If you were willing to talk with Belavierr about—”

“Talk to her about what? Noelictus? She told me the entire story. She messed up, now she’s here.”

“You don’t want to ask her to make amends? Or—or—try to show more willingness to help Riverfarm?”

Wiskeria laughed shortly.

“Ryoka, from what I understand, the only ‘amends’ would be a crossbow bolt through her head. As for willingness—you saw Rehanna. She’s making deals to regain what she’s lost. I tried to forbid her from doing any more. That failed.”

“So you’re giving up on her?”

Wiskeria glanced under the table as if to see where to kick Ryoka.

“You’re implying I haven’t done this a hundred thousand times before. Don’t be dense. You said it was like your mother. How are you doing with her?”

“I—I just think maybe—”

“You think you can fix the problem in one go?”

Ryoka was saved from a kneecapping when a quavering, timid voice interrupted the staring contest.

“Please don’t fight. You two are friends, aren’t you?”

Both Ryoka and Wiskeria paused. They turned and saw a young [Witch]. They’d completely forgotten about Nanette. The youngest [Witch] looked wide-eyed at the young women. Abashed, both sat back. Miss Califor, who had been silently eating at the table, cleared her throat.

“Nanette.”

“Yes, Miss Califor?”

The [Witch] broke off eating a jam-covered biscuit that Eloise had made. Ryoka waited for a grain of wisdom from Miss Califor. The [Witch] paused, eying her and Wiskeria.

“You have jam on your face. Eat more carefully.”

Ryoka blinked. Nanette felt at her face and squeaked. Miss Califor produced a handkerchief and cleaned the jam off Nanette’s cheek.

Abashed, embarrassed—they’d forgotten Califor was there too—Ryoka and Wiskeria settled back. Ryoka thought Califor was another mystery. She’d saved Ryoka’s life and shown off some amazing magic, but she did everything sort of…low-key.

As if she were trying not to be impressive. Plus, she had no side work in Riverfarm, unlike even Belavierr. Califor was focused on Nanette almost to the point of exclusion. Teaching the girl everything from how to bake to casting spells was Califor’s obsession and craft, it seemed. And cleaning jam off Nanette’s face.

Even so, it wasn’t a completely harmonious relationship. Nanette was a growing girl, and sometimes it seemed like Califor’s mentorship chafed at her. On the other hand…Ryoka also saw that she respected Miss Califor and hung on the woman’s words. Nanette always had a truism of Califor’s to repeat. And she valued the older [Witch]’s approval more than anything else.

Sometimes, that could result in tears, especially today. It was an inadvertent slip up as Ryoka and Wiskeria tried to be civil.

“I guess I have been a bit annoying about Belavierr. I just don’t want to make a mistake. I feel like I have to address her. Or what’s the point of me being here?”

The City Runner muttered into her tea cup. Wiskeria hesitated and tugged her hat down.

“And—I could talk about my mother without threatening to injure you. It’s just that it’s hard, you understand? I’m sorry for snapping, Nanette.”

Miss Califor nodded approvingly. Nanette seemed happy to see the two making an effort. She smiled as she reached for another biscuit.

“I’m so glad. You two were ever so nice when we were on our walk. Miss Califor, Ryoka even healed my hand when I—”

Nanette’s face went pale. Miss Califor’s brows snapped together.

“When you what, Nanette? Did you injure yourself so badly you needed a healing potion? And you did not inform me?”

Ryoka felt like every teacher in the world was giving her the death glare. And that was nothing to the way Nanette stammered and tried to lie. Ineffectually, of course. Nanette was hiding under her hat as Califor prised the truth out, and Ryoka took a quick bathroom break, following Charlay’s example.

When Califor finally found out about Nanette slicing her palm open with the sickle by accident, she did just what Nanette feared. She took the sickle away. Ryoka returned to the table a few minutes later to find Nanette sobbing at the scolding she’d received. She wasn’t being punished beyond having the sickle confiscated, but Miss Califor’s disappointment was enough.

Wiskeria gave Ryoka a look that said she’d hex Ryoka into oblivion if the City Runner left her alone. So Ryoka sat back down as Miss Califor left to put the sickle in a safe place until Nanette was older and ‘knew how to respect it’.

They had to comfort Nanette, of course. Although, Ryoka had to point out that neither of them had actually told Califor (mainly because they’d forgotten to), and Nanette had let it slip. Wiskeria glared and kicked Ryoka under the table. Ryoka considered that she’d deserved that.

“Look, I know Califor can be harsh, Nanette, but she’s just looking out for you. It’s actually touching, really. Parents are strict because they love you. Generally. I mean, I know Califor’s just your teacher, but—”

Ryoka lamely attempted to comfort Nanette. The young [Witch] gulped as Wiskeria kicked Ryoka under the table again. Wiskeria nodded.

“Califor’s like every [Witch]’s mother. I know I wanted to make her proud of me. She taught me, Nanette. She’s not mad. In fact, she’s pretty caring of you, like I said.”

“I just don’t want to disappoint her.”

Nanette gulped, her eyes watery. Ryoka patted her on the back.

“You didn’t do that. Sickles are dangerous. One time, I nearly cut my hand to the bone when I was trying to cook by myself. And Durene—you should see her handle a knife!”

Nanette smiled, but she shook her head again as Wiskeria poured more of Eloise’s fine tea.

“I know. I know, but…I think I’m Miss Califor’s worst apprentice. I’m always causing her trouble, and she’s always having to help me or fix my mistakes. And she always does! I’m afraid she won’t keep me around.”

The two young women blinked and looked at each other. Ryoka hesitated.

“Nanette. Aren’t you her only apprentice?”

“Yes! And I’m the worst one! All the other [Witches] say I ought to be talented, but Califor says to ignore them. But wh-what if she decides someone else had better teach me? Like Witch Agratha? I like Witch Agratha, but Califor’s my teacher!”

“She’s not going to get rid of you for the sickle, Nanette.”

Wiskeria encouraged the girl, but Nanette was sobbing again.

“But she might! Everyone says Witch Califor doesn’t do grand things because she has to mind me! Some of them call her a coward!”

“Coward? She rode down three killers for me—”

“But she used to be so much more amazing, Miss Griffin! You know her stories, right, Witch Wiskeria?”

Nanette turned, and Ryoka gazed at Wiskeria. The [Witch] coughed, but to cheer Nanette up, she dutifully reported some of the tales.

“Oh, you know. That she’s tougher than nails. She could eat nails and teach an Ogre manners. Cross her and you’d better put the noose around your neck and jump. Once Califor decides to deal with you, you should deal with yourself just to save yourself the misery. She’s the most powerful [Witch] in generations…”

“Does that count Mavika or Belavierr?”

“Generations, I said.”

“Oh.”

“But she’s nice! She’s as good—better than any mother! I can prove it!”

Nanette banged her hands on the table. Ryoka and Wiskeria turned back to her, embarrassed again. Red-faced, the [Witch] girl took a deep breath. Then she looked abashed.

“This is a private story, alright? You mustn’t tell. But it’s about Miss Califor. She raised me since I was very small. In a cottage, in fact! I learned from her, and she was strict—but also kind. Back then, before she travelled and took me as her apprentice, she had a cottage by the High Passes. She did some work from there, and she had goats. I had a special one named Belfaus who watched over me.”

Wiskeria blinked as she mouthed at Ryoka over Nanette’s head as the girl went on. Califor owned goats? Ryoka was busy listening to Nanette. The girl closed her eyes solemnly.

“When I was small, I made a bad mistake. The worst I ever made. I don’t know how old I was. But one day, I was very bored, and Miss Califor had to see to someone who’d broken both legs in a fall. So…I left the cottage with Belfaus. I thought it would be fun to go exploring, but I forgot to tell Miss Califor. And I went far. So far I couldn’t find my way back.”

She looked up, and Nanette’s face was very pale. Wiskeria and Ryoka stopped and started paying more attention at the look on Nanette’s face.

“Miss Califor always said the land around the cottage was warded, so I shouldn’t wander too far without her. But that day I did. And Belfaus didn’t know better. I kept looking for the way back, but I’d forgotten it. And I went further and further—and I went into the High Passes. Because we lived right near the mountains, you see.”

Ryoka inhaled sharply. Wiskeria glanced at her. Nanette’s voice was lost.

“They said it was a pack of Gargoyles. One of them snatched Belfaus. And the other grabbed me. They—they must have been hungry, because one of them ate—ate Belfaus—but they took me to a cave. And—and I was in the cave for ever so long—and there were so many Gargoyles.”

“How many?”

“Many. Dozens.”

Nanette’s voice sank to a whisper. And her eyes were wide, her hands clasped together. Ryoka remembered the giant stone creatures, the monsters of the High Passes. The girl’s voice went on, conjuring a story until Ryoka could see the huge shapes, snapping, devouring Eater Goats and Belfaus, saving her for later.

“I thought I was going to die. Because even Gold-rank teams won’t enter the High Passes. And there were so many Gargoyles. But I called out. I begged Miss Califor to find me. Save me. And she did.”

Children were poor storytellers. Ryoka and Wiskeria stared at Nanette. Ryoka blinked.

“Just like that? She did? How?”

Nanette looked up and shook her head.

“I don’t know. I was in the dark cave and was trying to hide beneath a rock. And then I saw the light. And I heard terrible fighting. And then Miss Califor was there. She picked me up and scolded me. Then she brought me back, and we buried Belfaus. And that’s when she taught me to use magic to defend myself. But I never knew how she did it. I asked everyone, but no one said they knew. Only that Miss Califor tore up half the mountainside looking for me. And she found me.”

“How? How’d she beat that many Gargoyles? A decent Gold-rank team could only get—three. How’d she do it? Scare them off? Is that—could Mavika do that?”

Ryoka demanded incredulously. She looked to Wiskeria for confirmation, but Wiskeria seemed surprised herself.

“That’s powerful magic if she literally just beat them in a fight. Any [Witch] can trick monsters, but if that story’s true, she’s definitely one of the best. Any clues, Nanette?”

Nanette shook her head, eyes wide and earnest.

“She never told me how she got rid of them all. But everyone says that it was a grand feat, even for Miss Califor. And it wasn’t easy. She still has a scar from that day. Right here.”

She pointed at a spot just above her hip. Ryoka gazed at Nanette. The little [Witch] concluded, folding her hands on the table and looking at them earnestly.

“I never forgot. And Miss Califor’s always been there. She’s the best. I want to be like her when I grow up. I don’t want to disappoint her. I’m sure Witch Belavierr cares about you just as much—almost as much—as Miss Califor cares about me, Wiskeria. And your mother too, Ryoka.”

She couldn’t have known how those words went through Wiskeria and Ryoka. Or why they looked at each other, and for a moment, each wished they had a story they could tell like that. Something so pure, so simple. And why it hurt that Nanette could tell that tale of Califor with such sincerity.

Ryoka thought of her own mother. She tried to imagine her mother—she had disappointed her parents greatly. But they had also disappointed her. Even Ryoka the adult wished they had been more, even if they’d been people, not perfect paragons. And she saw something similar in Wiskeria’s gaze. Similar, but different. But there they were. They got along and annoyed each other because there was something similar.

Of course, Nanette had no idea why Wiskeria and Ryoka started crying. Neither Ryoka or Wiskeria could explain the pure, contemptible jealousy in their hearts. And Nanette eventually began sobbing in sympathy.

That was how Miss Califor found them. The old [Witch] stared down at the three crying girls at the tea table. And she sighed.

“Up, the three of you. We have business.”

Nanette scrambled up, remembering her fear. But all Califor did was take Nanette to Eloise’s house, and to her delight, the [Tea Witch] had something freshly-baked.

“Shortbread slices with a dash of forgiveness for girls like you.”

It was a treat! Nanette took a piece and looked up at Califor, and the [Witch] patted Nanette on the head.

“You’ll get your sickle back in time, Nanette.”

All was forgiven, and the little girl hugged Califor and promised to be more careful. Ryoka and Wiskeria snuck pieces of the bread, and it was delicious.

 

——

 

“You know, Witch Califor, I thought you’d hunt me down.”

“Truly? Why?”

Witch Califor was walking down the streets of Riverfarm with Nanette tipping her hat and waving to the villagers of Riverfarm with Ryoka and Wiskeria. The little witch would greet people by name, and they would wave back, wary.

It was hard to be on-guard around Nanette. Every other [Witch]? Yes. But the little twelve-year-old girl had happiness under her hat. She was innocent, and Califor herself?

Some people eyed Califor, but she just walked sedately along, and Wiskeria seemed to be reconciling her reputation to the woman herself.

“I…well, when I first came here, I was worried people would take offense. Because I am my mother’s daughter. I thought you might come to deal with me. When Mavika found me, I thought it was all agreed upon.”

Califor shook her head, looking faintly amused.

“You think too much of our schemes. We [Witches] squabble. If I recall right, Mavika expressed to me that she would seek out Belavierr’s daughter and see who she was.”

“So you did talk about me!”

“When we knew you existed. But not to control. In my experience, for what little it’s worth, guidance matters more than control. We are [Witches]; we try not to meddle in each other’s business. We thought you needed help. Mavika has offered to teach you, hasn’t she?”

Wiskeria made a face as Ryoka listened.

“And put me in her coven. She’s pushy.”

“But she does not force you?”

“No…”

“Then your decision stood. I imagined that if you had the need, you would seek me out. But I would have been a poor teacher even if circumstances threw us together. As you can see, Nanette fills my attention.”

Califor gestured, and Nanette was following a cat around, grinning in delight as it noticed her. Wiskeria shook her head.

“The great Witch Califor raising a single apprentice.”

“A great witch should be able to do that, if anyone can. We shall see if I have the right to that title.”

Califor’s neutral response made Wiskeria flush. Ryoka eyed Califor, wavering between saying anything, but Califor just glanced at Ryoka.

“Miss Griffin, I would caution you to stay clear of Belavierr. But since that would be wasting my breath, I will just ask where you hail from?”

“Me? Oh, Reizmelt.”

“And before that?”

Ryoka grew a bit tongue-tied as Califor began to press her about her origins. As it turned out, Califor was mostly interested in how Ryoka had met Laken, but the [Witch] seemed altogether too knowing.

“Liscor? I have heard Liscor has some oddities of note. I might go there after Riverfarm—if I could find a place and community fit for Nanette. She doesn’t wish to part from me.”

Wiskeria and Ryoka, mindful of their conversation with Nanette, exchanged glances, and Califor noticed.

“I simply cannot take her into danger. If I had known this was the situation at Riverfarm, I would never have brought her. My own peril is one thing. My apprentice’s—unacceptable.”

That was so responsible a position Ryoka was surprised it came from a [Witch]. But then again—she glanced at Califor.

“Do you think you can convince Riverfarm to let you stay, Witch Califor?”

“That depends on who Emperor Godart is. I am taking a measure of him as well as Riverfarm. We shall see.”

Califor’s tone was neutral. Wiskeria looked around at the people staring at them.

“I think my mother’s jeopardizing those chances, for all she swore to be part of the coven, Witch Califor.”

Here, Califor did pause.

“Yes…she’s every bit the Belavierr of legends. I thought she might be different, but her very presence meant it would never be anything normal. However, we do what we can. It is good that the people and the [Emperor] see who [Witches] are. An honest pact will rest on nothing less.”

That was one way of looking at it. Ryoka hesitated.

“So are you doing anything to win over Riverfarm or show who you are, Witch Califor? Besides delivering aid and saving me. Thank you for that, by the way.”

Califor raised her brows, amused once more.

“Of course. We’re doing it right now.”

The two women looked around, and Wiskeria actually peered at Califor’s hat before Califor nodded to Nanette.

“Taking the air. Walking through Riverfarm. Helping if we see someone who needs a pair of hands. That is witchcraft, and for that, I am glad Nanette is here. We have too many great [Witches] and not a single one who is like most [Witches]. Agratha would have been perfect here.”

Wait, was that what she was doing? Ryoka glanced at Nanette and realized—it might be working. There was nothing to make you think a [Witch] could be innocent like cute, little Nanette. And Califor wasn’t beating someone down with her bare fists or summoning flocks of crows.

“[Witches] are sometimes normal as well, Miss Griffin. Belavierr is still a mother. And she can still be petty. Extraordinarily so, according to story.”

Califor’s voice made Ryoka jump and blush. Wiskeria glanced at Califor, tugging at her hat, as if about to ask something.

“Witch Califor…about my craft. I don’t have one, but you’re said to not have one either. Do you think we could be alike?”

She looked wistfully at Califor, and the older [Witch] raised her brows.

“I do have one, Wiskeria. Or rather, I’ve had several. I used to wear happiness, like Nanette. Then I went to passion, great deeds; it’s more that I’ve shifted focuses over the years. These days, you could say much of my craft is Nanette and teaching. I think your issue would be finding one to begin with. You are allowed to change. But it must be earnest.”

Oh. Was that why she didn’t do great magic anymore? It wasn’t what Wiskeria wanted to hear, clearly. Witch Califor looked at the two, as if thinking. Whatever she might have said as advice never came out, though.

Califor slowed as she saw Nanette standing in place on the road. The girl had the cat she’d been following in her arms, which was surprising. But maybe cats liked Nanette just like people?

…Or maybe the cat had climbed into Nanette’s arms to escape the [Witch] standing like an obelisk of cloth, hand outstretched to a man on his hands and knees in the center of the street.

Belavierr.

“Oh no. Mother!”

Ryoka’s good mood vanished instantly. Belavierr was there. And she was standing in front of a man who had collapsed in front of her. Almost in a sick pantomime of a kindly woman helping someone who had fallen up.

But there was nothing kind nor natural about Belavierr’s half-smile, all fakeness, nor her swirling robes. And the man? The man looked up, shaking, unable to stand. With a terror in him that was all the worse for how strong Ryoka knew he could be.

Mister Prost. His eyes were wide with terror and—desperation as he stared up at Belavierr. Oh no.

No, no, no. Ryoka saw another woman covering her face as she stared, flinching away. Miss Yesel. They were in the street, cowering away from Belavierr. Why?

Mister Prost lost children in the avalanche in Riverfarm. Ryoka felt the pieces of a puzzle fall into place like thunder as she started forwards. Someone grabbed her arm. Califor.

Wiskeria had no such arm to block her path. Califor moved Ryoka back, bending down to shield Nanette, as Belavierr spoke.

“Let me show you more, Prost Surehand.”

“Leave. Leave—don’t show me that. Stop.”

Prost couldn’t stand. The same man who’d shouted at Belavierr to her face couldn’t push himself up. All his anger and authority—

Replaced by a terror of something Belavierr was holding. Ryoka couldn’t see it. Was it a baby? A…?

“Mother!”

A picture frame. Belavierr turned, and Ryoka caught sight of a simple, framed picture in glass as Belavierr looked at Wiskeria. Just a picture.

Of a boy. Hands pressed to the glass of the picture. Waving at Mister…Prost…

The picture was moving. And Ryoka would just bet it had a face she had never seen before. Belavierr lifted her hand, and the picture vanished.

“Anything can be done at any price. Mister Pr—”

“Mother, stop! You swore! Laken has ordered you to make no more bargains!”

Wiskeria ran forward, interposing herself between Belavierr and Prost, and tried to get the man on his feet. But he couldn’t move, and Yesel was sinking downwards.

“I must continue to rebuild what I have lost, Daughter.”

“No! I forbid it! Mother, don’t do this!”

Belavierr hesitated. But when she shook her head—she moved Wiskeria aside gently.

“Even for you, Daughter, I must be who I must be. As I said. Take my hand, Prost. There is no cost to seeing what I offer.”

No cost—but the man’s haunted eyes that were both filled with horror and longing. Ryoka was paralyzed. The memory of having her lips sewn shut wasn’t the only thing rooting her in place.

She’d wondered what a deal with the devil looked like. Prost was staring at his wife. He couldn’t want to take a deal. Not for something like Rehanna’s baby. But Belavierr crooked a finger.

“A picture is so very, very inexpensive. A speaking stone? For you, servant of an [Emperor], I will offer something better.”

“No. No…”

Prost groaned, and Wiskeria seized her mother’s arm, but Belavierr just kept moving, slowly reaching into her robes, as if Wiskeria were lighter than a feather. That was when Ryoka felt anger.

Poor Mister Prost, who had worked for Riverfarm. Kneeling there with grief, an old wound—surely not healed, but at least older—reopened. Tormented by what might be.

That was Belavierr. That, Ryoka realized, was the Witch of Webs. That contempt, not even conscious, for someone else? Ryoka balled up her hands. She wasn’t sure what the consequences would be for leaping in—

Ryoka took a step and nearly tripped as someone grabbed both legs. She flailed, and Nanette hauled her back.

“You can’t, Miss Ryoka!”

“Nanette! Let go!”

The girl had grabbed Ryoka’s legs! She’d lost her hat, and her pigtails shook with her head.

“You can’t! Miss Califor told me to hold you!”

“Let go! Let—”

Ryoka took a step as a red-faced Nanette tried to hold the much bigger young woman back. Ryoka stopped—and realized Califor was gone.

And so was Nanette’s hat. Ryoka’s head swiveled around, and there she was. Striding down the street, her apprentice’s hat in her hand. Califor reached into the hat, then flung it back towards Nanette.

The girl jumped up, caught the hat, and she and Ryoka saw Califor gesturing. Wiskeria let go of Belavierr, backing up to Ryoka and Nanette, and the Stitch Witch paid no attention to Prost. She was bending down, smiling, paying the rest of the world no heed.

—Until she heard a voice.

“Father!”

A girl’s voice. No, two girls and a boy raced forwards. The girls were both over ten, the eldest fifteen, and the boy was younger than Nanette. He might have been only six.

They ran down the street, and Prost looked up. His sightless gaze of horror fixed on his children, the three of them, and Califor came to a halt, her black hat blowing in the wind.

“Finnon. Margery—”

Prost’s voice broke. He stood unsteadily, and they grabbed him—then flinched back from Belavierr. The Stitch Witch was no longer smiling. She glanced at the children—then at Califor.

“What are you doing, Witch?”

“Preventing you from striking a pact. As the [Emperor] of this land has requested, Witch Belavierr.”

Califor tipped her hat gently to the woman. One of her hands was clenched, and Ryoka saw Nanette holding up her hat and inspecting it. Belavierr’s voice was cold, impartial.

“I was negotiating with the [Steward] on that very subject.”

“You were. As head of the coven you joined, I say it is against the spirit of the request. Nor does it serve our cause in Riverfarm. A cause you swore to uphold, Witch Belavierr.”

Califor’s voice was polite and crisp, but Belavierr’s orange eyes seemed to glow under her shadowy hat. A shadow…that Ryoka saw was deepening, concealing her features, spreading down the street. People backed away, and Ryoka realized as Wiskeria retreated, eyes wide—

Belavierr was not happy about having someone interrupt her deal. Ryoka almost went to support Califor with the power of her bare feet—but they wouldn’t move.

Even from afar, her legs were shaking. Belavierr’s eyes seemed larger now, beyond vexed, hidden under the brim of her hat.

“Out of my way, Witch. My magic has been lost. Replacing it serves myself, and thus the coven.”

“I find that argument pedantic, Witch Belavierr. Will you not heed me? I say again: I lead this coven. I did not interfere with your business with Rehanna, for a witch is a witch, and we should not meddle in each other’s business. Now, I have cause. Perhaps [Witches] should have done so before, for I have heard grave things of Noelictus. I would speak to you of both this and your actions in Terandria.”

Califor’s voice was polite, clipped, and Ryoka saw the rest of the [Witches] walking in a line down the street. They halted where Nanette and Wiskeria stood, facing Belavierr; Alevica was licking dry lips. Mavika was just eying Belavierr as Hedag rolled one shoulder. Eloise’s eyes were flicking from Belavierr to Wiskeria—but Belavierr ignored them all.

“My affairs on Terandria are my own. Witches do not meddle in each other’s affairs, woman.”

“Largely. Unless we find what other witches do to be distasteful. Or beyond condoning. I confess—we did not know where you were or if you even existed until recently.”

Califor cast a glance to Wiskeria. It seemed to be an admission of fault, and Belavierr laughed. An unpleasant laugh that dug beneath the skin and squirmed there.

“My affairs. If you could not even tell if I was alive, you had no right to interfere with my affairs.”

She sneered at Califor, and the other [Witch] nodded.

“True. I now know, or suspect, you are alive. Your business is now that of the Witches of Izril. Desist, Witch Belavierr. You are not a [Witch] alone.”

Her voice rose, and despite herself, Ryoka wanted to whistle. Belavierr just turned away from Califor and addressed the people in the street.

“I am Belavierr. I offer you who gather here a boon like no other. I am the Witch of Webs, the Spider of Terandria. You may know my name. My tales. They are true.”

The people stared at her as she swung her cloak, and a shadow lengthened across the street. Belavierr, already towering, seemed to grow even taller as she turned.

“I offer you a boon. For a price. Have you ever known loss? Have you lost love, friendship, a child? I can restore all things. Do you wish for a potion to besot the heart? Mine shall never run dry. Do you wish a cure for your eyes? I can mend bone, make beauty out of stone. Simply speak my name, whisper it in vanity or shame. And I shall offer you what Djinnis cannot. At a price. Speak your wishes to me. This is the one chance you will have in a lifetime.”

Her eyes were hypnotic, and when they passed over Ryoka, even she felt a whisper in the back of her mind.

…could fix those fingers. New ones, ones that no one can ever bite off or hand back to you again. Love? You could walk into any room and have anyone, man or woman, with the right trinket. You could run faster than anyone in the world.

For a price. For a terrible price. Ryoka tried to put her hands over her ears. But the entire village was surely hearing Belavierr; she was growing taller, taller than houses, and her voice was in every ear.

How many people might take her offer? Who wanted new looks or a reminder of a friend? A piece of magic? If you could buy it for one year of your life, what would you trade?

Ryoka was cowering, and she heard a moan from Prost again. Belavierr’s voice rang in her ears like chanting—and a single [Witch] stood in the shadow of the Witch of Webs and looked up.

Witch Califor stared up past Belavierr at the sky. It was dark; a shadow had fallen across the very summer sky, but Califor took her hat off her head and fanned her face.

“It’s a hot day. Blazing, until now. It should have been drizzling, I think. Someone’s dried the air out.”

The Stitch Witch, Belavierr, heard the comment and paused as she turned. Her eyes met Califor’s.

“Yes. And?”

It was the one and only unguarded statement Ryoka had ever heard Belavierr make. A note of surprise in immortal tones, as if Belavierr was shocked Califor had noticed.

For answer, Califor gently opened her closed hand. She tossed something straight up.

“Let it be.”

Something glowing flew upwards past Belavierr’s face, slowly at first, weaving past the [Stitch Witch] as she snatched for it. A glowing, shimmering bit of…

It flashed up, and the black sky cracked. Pieces of shadow fell, and one part hit Ryoka in the face. She recoiled with a cry, flailing. Then she realized it wasn’t shadows but…

Rain?

A drop of rain hit Ryoka in the face. A little speck of water. Ryoka blinked as it ran onto one palm.

“Orange?”

An orange drop of rain in her hand. Then another bounced off of Nanette’s hat, and a blue teardrop landed in her hands. A green patter of raindrops rained off one of the houses’ roofs—and Belavierr stared as multi-colored drops of rain began to fall.

They landed in the pooling shadows, interrupted the whispers in Ryoka’s ears. Rain…just a drizzle. But on this hot day, the people of Riverfarm looked up and felt a refreshing downpour on their skin.

Just for a moment. But that was all it took. Belavierr swished her cloak and began to raise her voice. Then she whirled, and Califor was standing there. A satisfied half-smile on her face.

“She just—called a rainstorm? Wait, is this her big craft? Really?”

Alevica looked up, shielding her face from the colorful raindrops. However—Hedag just nudged her.

“It’s working. Look.”

Like people waking from a nightmare, Riverfarm’s folk stopped cowering from Belavierr and blinked. Prost, holding his children for dear life, was hit by a shower of red droplets and spluttered.

“My clothes! Your clothes, Prost! They’ll all stain!”

Yesel shouted reflexively—then looked at the man. Of all the things to care about with Witch Belavierr looming over them—Prost turned to Belavierr. Then looked at Yesel. The tears in his eyes were invisible with the falling rain.

“Look! Look! Rain! Hey! It tastes like colors too!”

His son ran around gleefully. Prost blinked at him—then a bewildered laugh escaped Prost’s lips. Rain.

It washed away more than just Belavierr’s voice and the shadows. It felt like…Ryoka closed her eyes a second, wondering why it was so familiar. Then she turned to Nanette, and Wiskeria mumbled.

“She did all that with just Ryoka’s happiness?”

My—Ryoka blinked. She stared down the street, and Witch Califor lifted her hat and nodded to Nanette. Nanette, from whom she’d borrowed some of her craft.

Then Califor whirled a hand, and the drizzle spiraled down in a gust of wind, and the skies cleared. The people gasped and shouted—and the sky was bright and clear.

“Well, that was shorter than I’d like. It seems it really is unnaturally dry. A refreshing shower, though.”

Califor stood there, and Belavierr glanced left and right—and people stared at her and backed away. But her voice, her offer? It was like a memory from last night, and she turned, frustrated.

Then glanced down at Califor’s hand. The other [Witch] had hold of Belavierr’s arm.

“I would stop there if I were you, Witch Belavierr. It would not do for you to be thought of as a woman who breaks her word.”

The rest of the coven approached, and Belavierr stared from face to face. Alevica tried to hide behind Eloise, but Belavierr only exhaled.

“Who are you, Witch?”

“I’m sure it doesn’t matter.”

Witch Califor smiled. Wiskeria shot her a wide-eyed look of delight and hid a smile. Belavierr glanced back at her daughter’s face—then whirled away. Without a word, she stalked out of Riverfarm. The people waited until Belavierr was gone before they began cheering.

“They cheer as if this weren’t our mess to clean up. Nanette. Why are you applauding?”

Califor shook her head, and Wiskeria stood there, demanding to know how she’d done that with Alevica. And Ryoka?

 

——

 

Califor came over to apologize to Mister Prost, who thanked her. The brief shower of colored rain wasn’t staining clothing; it was just water, but it had refreshed the village and cleared troubled faces.

“That Belavierr—”

“I believe she will stop. If not, I will oppose her with the coven. My word on it, Mister Prost. I can only apologize for what she put you through.”

“I’ll trust that, Witch Califor. No harm done from you. Thank you.”

Prost shook her hand a few times, and Wiskeria whispered to Ryoka.

“I’ve never seen anyone best Mother! Mavika apparently knew her, but she’s old. She never—did you see Califor do that? No wonder they tell stories about her!”

“I just hope Laken can deal with Belavierr.”

Ryoka was relieved, but worried now about how Laken would do. Wiskeria waved this off, which Ryoka found odd.

“He’s an [Emperor].”

“He’s from my w—he’s just like you and me, Wiskeria.”

The [Witch] gave Ryoka such an arch look that Ryoka got annoyed.

“He’s an expert, Ryoka. At least, in dealing with unnatural things.”

“Wh—Laken is the expert?”

That stung so much Ryoka instantly called bullshit. But Wiskeria gave Ryoka a deadpan nod as the Wind Runner stared at her.

“I actually think he might be able to persuade Mother when he gets here. You see, he’s done this before. I heard tales about it, but once, just once, I saw him greet these…people. His [Lords] and [Ladies]. Visitors. But they were like us, but not.”

Wiskeria leaned forwards. And Ryoka felt a jolt of adrenaline run through her. Laken had offered Ivolethe—

“Wait. What visitors? You mean, they came here? In the winter?”

“No, the spring. They were these strange, dangerous folk—”

“The fair folk? Wait? Are they here? What did they do? They came here in the spring?”

Her hands were suddenly gripping Wiskeria hard enough to bruise. The [Witch], alarmed, tried to pull away. But Ryoka was staring at her. The [Witch] felt it from her. The strongest emotion she’d ever sensed from Ryoka.

The desperate longing. Hope. She stammered as Ryoka asked—practically shouted questions. Ryoka let go and stood up.

“They’re here. Laken can summon them? Or—they have ties to this place?”

Her eyes flickered. She reached into a belt pouch and grasped something. Wiskeria, coughing, saw Ryoka murmuring to herself.

“Maybe a ritual? A faerie mound? No. The Summer Solstice. If it’s here—”

She turned. And Wiskeria felt a surge of hope and desperation bordering on madness. She coughed.

“Ryoka.”

“I’m going.”

Absently, Ryoka walked off. Wiskeria tried to go after her, but Ryoka broke into a run. The City Runner was filled with maddening thoughts. Hopes. A single one. And suddenly, she had every reason to talk to Laken.

But before that came her. Belavierr stood alone far outside the village. She looked annoyed. Angry. She turned, and her eyes fixed on Ryoka. The City Runner slowed.

“Begone.”

Ryoka hesitated. She was afraid. But she clutched the bit of frozen water, and it gave her strength. A hot wind blew around her. She had to try. And she raised her voice.

“Hi. I’m Ryoka Griffin. A friend of Wiskeria’s, or at least, I hope.”

Belavierr paused. She stared at Ryoka, fingers twisted as if to do something. Ryoka went on, speaking clearly, meeting the [Witch]’s eyes.

“She isn’t certain you love her, you know. And you drive her away every time you seal yourself.”

The [Witch] said nothing. Ryoka went on, trying to speak from the heart.

“You have to change. So does she. But neither of you can do it alone. And the other can’t do it without you trying. That’s all I have to say. And if I can help you two, I will. Please don’t kill me.”

Belavierr peered at Ryoka. The City Runner braced. After a second, Belavierr lifted a finger. She pointed up. Ryoka felt her clothes move.

“Wait—wait! I only—”

Belavierr ignored her. She stared at Ryoka. She flicked her fingers, and the clothes hurled Ryoka through the air.

About four hundred feet away, Mister Ram and some [Farmers] were working the fields, grumbling about dry soil. They looked up as they saw a big shape flying towards them. Ram stared up and swore as he heard a screaming voice.

“Ohgodohgodohgod—”

Ryoka didn’t die when she hit the river. Her fall wasn’t at terminal velocity. But she still sank to the bottom and swam out, gasping at the cold shock. She looked around wildly as Ram and everyone who’d seen her flying rushed over. Ryoka clambered out as Ram reached for her.

“Dead gods! Miss Griffin! What happened?”

“Belavierr.”

Someone uttered it like a curse. But Ryoka just nodded. She gazed at a distant figure. Belavierr was still standing there. Ryoka felt at her wet body. Then she crawled onto the bank and lay on the grass. She looked up at Ram, wide-eyed.

“I’m not dead. That probably means progress.”

He gaped at her, and she smiled. Then put her head down on the grass and passed out.

 

 

Day 65 – Ryoka

 

Waking. Explaining what had happened to Prost. Talking with Wiskeria, who marched off to shout at her mother. Sleeping and waking in a cold sweat. The next day, Ryoka still shuddered. But she thought she’d made progress. She still wasn’t sure if the wind had saved her, blowing her into the river, or if Belavierr had aimed for that.

But it was something. Ryoka had hope. Because the day was clear, if too hot. And she could try again, this time with Wiskeria. A mother-daughter talk with her acting as intermediary, for what it was worth.

And she had no idea what was happening. Because in Reizmelt, a Vampire girl wrote down Belavierr’s name and was attacked by sewing needles. Across the ocean, the Order of Seasons waited, and a group of [Hunters] and a [Knight] stood, hoping for confirmation. A single name.

On that day stood a [Witch]. Belavierr. She might have slept. She might have woken. But how she lived was a mystery to most. It made sense to her, though. Her actions had purpose. Her magic was connected, a product of thread and skill and power.

This is what she saw. The [Witch] held up a ward. A needle tied with a thread. The needle tied with thread vibrated and twisted and turned as she held it. Moving despite the absence of wind. Belavierr watched as it stabbed. And Fierre screamed. The Stitch Witch waited. But the stabbing needle kept moving. Desperately.

Then it stopped. The magic was gone. And Belavierr saw the needle snap. She stared at it.

“Hm. Four. The last is failed.”

Her head turned. The wide brim moved towards the sun. Belavierr, staring straight into it.

“Death is hunting me. Flame, this time.”

That was intuition. But the Stitch Witch had certainty as well. She abandoned the failed ward and reached into her sleeves. From somewhere, she brought out something.

It was a tapestry. A small woven scene on a fabric. Silk, or something just as fine. Belavierr looked at it.

She had not woven it. It had woven itself. What it showed her was a burning figure. And fire. Fire, a burning figure. She touched it, and the very fabric was hot.

“So. Two deaths.”

To Belavierr, it was clear as could be. And the Stitch Witch did not question. She knew, and so she acted. She walked, and a thread in her mind, in reality, a bit of magic, led her straight to a [Witch] taking breakfast with Ryoka. Belavierr’s attention was on her daughter. She only vaguely recognized Ryoka; she had forgotten all but the other [Witches]. And she spoke.

“Daughter. I am leaving. There is danger following me.”

That was all. And it was a clear message. But her daughter, the one thing in the world Belavierr couldn’t understand—tried to understand but was incomprehensible—spluttered and asked questions. Belavierr only said what she knew.

“It is too dangerous for me. I will return for you. And the pact with this [Emperor] if there is time.”

“Mother! You can’t just run off! Hold on! Wait! I want to speak with you!”

Belavierr was already leaving. But she paused. Because of Wiskeria. Only for her, despite the danger. The tapestry was smoking. Burning. In Reizmelt, Fierre stomped into the tavern and grabbed the [Mage].

“Daughter. I must go.”

“Mother—what have you done?”

“Nothing?”

Belavierr had no idea. She did not ask the origin, only sought the nature of the threat. She showed Wiskeria the tapestry. Her daughter was uncomprehending.

“I don’t understand.”

“It is a warning. Like other wards, but prophecy. You would know this if you had continued studying your craft, Daughter.”

Belavierr frowned. And she was distracted. Wiskeria glared up at her mother. Someone else spoke urgently by her shoulder.

“Witch Belavierr? What kind of threat is it? Can you tell us if it’s aimed at us? Or just you?”

Belavierr’s eyes swung to Ryoka. In annoyance. The City Runner froze, but Wiskeria blocked Belavierr.

“Don’t glare, Mother! This is Ryoka. My friend. I want you to listen to her, understand?”

“I understand. But, Daughter. I must leave. The death follows me. It may affect you—”

Across the world, the Knight-Commander spoke an order. The [Autumn Knights] called on their grand ritual.

Belavierr’s head snapped up. Across Riverfarm, seven [Witches] looked up. Wiskeria. Nanette. Califor. Hedag. Eloise. Alevica. Mavika. Even Nesor felt it.

So did Ryoka. She gazed up. The wind had changed. It blew, suddenly a gale. Belavierr sighed and turned.

“Daughter. I must go.”

“What is that?”

Wiskeria was gaping. The air was shaking. Ryoka heard a voice. A thunder, like the cracking of the sky. Her hair was standing on end. Prost and Rie gazed up and called the alarm.

They all felt it. And then they saw it. The sky and ground were merging. Outside of Riverfarm, the air warped. Ryoka, turning, saw them.

Ranks of armored Humans. [Knights], hundreds of them, standing in line. Some were dressed like the spring, in green. Others blazed. Still more were dressed in robes or wearing the russet colors of fall. And few stood like ice. One of them was closest, standing on a dais. He pointed, his sword aimed straight through the disturbance in the air. His eyes found Ryoka and moved past her. They widened with hatred. And Belavierr blinked.

Ryoka saw a band of seven in the center of the disturbance. Seven figures, all on foot. Six wore dark clothing, the same capotain style hats on two. Set faces. Each carried weapons. A pair of crossbows. A golden axe. A wand and rapier. A longbow, already nocked with a shimmering arrow. A hammer and shield.

The last was a [Knight]. He walked forwards. He was at the very edge of his forties or the end of his thirties. And his armor was yellow and orange and gold. It shone. But brighter still, the burning in his gaze, as if fire itself flickered in his pupils. He walked first, and the six [Hunters] were behind him.

Through that disturbance in the air where magic itself was affecting reality. Behind him, the Order of Seasons roared. Ryoka froze.

“What’s happening? Dead gods, what’s happening?”

Someone was shouting that. Riverfarm’s people couldn’t have ignored the magical disturbance. They flooded towards the rift, staring. Mister Prost, Beniar and his [Riders]. Lady Rie.

And the coven. The [Witches] came forwards. Even Mavika and Califor stared. Alevica’s jaw dropped. Ryoka’s head spun. She gaped at Wiskeria. The [Witch]’s face was white.

“What kind of magic is this? A Tier 7 spell? Tier 8?”

Ryoka turned back to the rift. Then she glanced around. Her eyes found Belavierr. The Stitch Witch was staring into the rift, at the band slowly walking towards her. The [Summer Knight]’s gaze was blazing, the [Hunters]’ intent. They never looked away from her as they crossed that divide. Nor did Knight-Commander Calirn. He stood with three of the four Grandmasters of the Order of Seasons. And the ranks of the [Knights] beheld her. Belavierr.

“Why is this happening?”

There were many answers. Ryoka thought of a [Witch Hunter]. If she had known more, she might have thought of Fierre. Or Belavierr’s ward spells. And perhaps she might have seen the larger picture if it was explained.

But she didn’t. Because Mavika’s words came back, echoing.

This is not your story.

“Belavierr. This day has been ages coming. Stand and face your fate!”

Knight-Commander Calirn bellowed across the rift. The [Hunters] and [Knight] were closing on her, stepping into Riverfarm. One held a scrying orb. And even as the grand ritual’s magic began to fail, the rift began to close, the [Hunter] lifted the orb. She tossed it, and it paused in the air. The Order of Seasons was reflected there.

The [Hunters] and [Knight] stopped on the grass. The magic vanished from the air. Ryoka staggered back. They had crossed from that other place over to here in less than a minute! She could still feel the shuddering in the air. And now—they were here.

Silence. Nobody could speak. Ryoka’s eyes were wide. How could this be happening? But she was a bystander. And this was not her final act. The [Knight] had no eyes for her. He drew his sword. A greatsword, two-handed. And he spoke.

“Belavierr the Stitch Witch.”

There she stood. Tall as midnight. Dark as shadows. Her glowing eyes fixed on the man as the [Hunters] spread out. And there was a flicker of recognition.

“Do I…know you?”

The [Summer Knight] didn’t blink. He only smiled. And his eyes blazed.

“Belavierr, the Witch of Webs. The Hunter’s Guild of Noelictus and the Order of Seasons ordain your death. Come to execute this duty are six [Witch Hunters] from Terandria. And myself. I am Ser Raim, [Summer Knight] of the Order of Seasons. Today, for the dead, for those who still suffer from your deception and malice, I will bring you to justice.”

He lifted his sword and saluted her. Ryoka was frozen along with the coven. Wiskeria looked at her mother, but she too was transfixed. It was all happening too fast. And it was not her tale.

Belavierr paused for a moment after Sir Raim delivered his vow. She stared at him. And then the six [Witch Hunters]. They were spread out in a semi-circle, flanking her. Four women, two men. One of them looked up. The sun was at her back. And she lifted her weapons in both hands.

A pair of crossbows, bolts tipped with silver. The string was metal, the weapons shining with magic. She aimed at Belavierr as the [Witch] considered.

“I have no quarrel with the Order of Seasons.”

That was what she said. The [Witch Hunter] called out.

“[Magicslayer’s Shot]. [Seven-League Bolts].”

Ryoka saw her pull the triggers at a distance. She never saw the bolts fly. But she saw Belavierr stagger. Wiskeria cried out as Belavierr stumbled back. Two bolts were lodged in her chest. She stared down as the [Witch Hunter] flicked her crossbows.

“[Automatic Reload].”

The crossbows drew back, cocking themselves. Two new bolts appeared in the grooves. The [Witch Hunter] raised the crossbows again. Belavierr stared at the bolts in her chest. Slowly, she touched the liquid running down one bolt.

Red blood. The Stitch Witch looked up and spoke normally. As if the crossbow bolts weren’t there.

“I possess the life of the [Prince] of Kaliv—”

The second pair of bolts struck her right arm. Belavierr stumbled back. She stared at her arm. Tried again.

“His fate is—”

Her hand rose. Two more bolts appeared halfway through her hand. They would have struck her face. Belavierr gazed at them. At blood, which spattered as her arm jerked with the impact. Wiskeria made a sound. Belavierr frowned as the [Witch Hunter] with the crossbows paused.

And then the [Witch] twisted her fingers and flicked a needle.

Where had she pulled it from? Ryoka had no idea. But one needle suddenly shot across the ground at the [Witch Hunter]. Then it multiplied. A hundred. A thousand shot across the ground at the woman, like hail. She cursed.

“[Perfect D—]”

“[Shield of Valor]!”

The [Hunter] with the hammer and shield slammed his shield down in front of her. Ryoka saw a barrier of light. Heard and saw the needles snap as they struck the shield in the air. Belavierr paused.

“Tagil! Attack in tandem! Watch her threads!”

Another [Hunter], the one with the axe, called out. She advanced as the two other [Hunters] aimed. One with a bow, the other with a wand. The [Summer Knight] was still as Belavierr turned. She pulled a bolt out of her chest easily. And then she flicked her hand.

More needles. This time, ten times as many. They sprayed outwards, striking at all the [Hunters] and Ser Raim. The six [Hunters] shouted, but they were equal to it. They dodged or blocked. One simply took the hits; the needles stood out on her leather armor as she blocked the ones aimed at her face. She ignored the metal lodged deep into her armor.

Advancing. The silvery needles flew, trying to shred the hunters. But there stood Ser Raim. He wore no helmet. As the sewing needles shot at him, he spoke.

“[Aura of Righteous Fire].”

And he burned. The air ignited. The area around Ser Raim turned to flame. The metal needles melted before they touched him. The [Summer Knight] walked forwards. His steps lit a trail of fire. His armor burned with it. For twenty feet, fire burned. And it walked with him as he advanced on Belavierr.

Seven. They came forwards. Belavierr abandoned the needles. Frowned. Then she inspected Ser Raim again. Recognition flickered in her eyes.

“Have we met before? I almost remember…no. Nevermind.”

She shook her head. As Ryoka watched, breathless, waiting to see what she would do, Belavierr turned. And began to walk away.

“Belavierr! Hold!”

The [Hunters] advanced faster. One of them, the one with the longbow, raised it and aimed at her back.

“[Hunter’s Quarry]!”

The arrow sped towards Belavierr from behind. It never struck her. It did hit a face that pulled itself out of the earth. A huge, misshapen face. Staring button eyes. A golem of cloth. The [Hunters] charged, but two more golems rose out of the ground. And more needles flashed through the air. One as thick as Ryoka’s arm, a javelin of a needle—

“Halt! Belavierr!”

The [Summer Knight] was charging. But the Stitch Witch was just walking away. Calmly as you please as her creations screened her. But each step seemed to carry her far farther than they should have. She was walking towards a black horse who galloped to her, a giant of a stallion. Ryoka saw she was going to mount it. And ride away.

“Give me a clear shot! I have to mark her!”

The [Hunter] with the longbow was screaming. The other [Witch Hunters] were carving down the cloth golems. Ser Raim swung his sword; the golem blocking him burned, and his sword cleaved the thing in two. But Belavierr was far away. So far, she was a speck. In moments! He charged after her. But it was too late.

Too late—until a voice rang out. A [Hunter] had fought clear of her golem. She saw Belavierr departing. And she changed targets. Instead of running at Belavierr, she ran straight at Ryoka. Ryoka and Wiskeria. The City Runner jerked back, but it wasn’t her the [Witch Hunter] was aiming at. The woman swung her axe.

“Belavierr! Hold! Hold or your daughter dies!”

And the black speck paused. Wiskeria froze, eyes wide. The [Witch Hunter] panted, a needle buried in her cheek. She spoke, her eyes dispassionate, locked on Belavierr’s distant form.

“We know you have a daughter. So hold, and return to face us. Or she dies.”

“[Hunter] Gaile! Enough!”

Ser Raim whirled. His eyes blazed with fury. He lifted his greatsword, but Gaile pressed her axe into Wiskeria’s neck. The blade dug into Wiskeria’s skin, parting it without effort.

“Don’t move, Ser Raim. You can’t stop my blade. No one here can.”

“Lower your axe, [Hunter]. Should Witch Wiskeria die, you will ere my crows fly.”

Mavika hissed at the [Hunter]. Alevica lifted her wand, and Califor turned, her gaze flashing. The coven of [Witches] faced the hunters and [Knight]. But Gaile didn’t move.

“Our quarry isn’t you, Mavika the Crow.”

“Nor is it the child! Leave her, Gaile!”

A [Huntress] called out, shifting her bow to aim at Gaile. The [Witch Hunter] just shook her head. She spoke. To the crowd. To her comrades. To the coven. And to the distant [Witch].

“This goes against your pride, Ser Raim. Your honor. But I am tired of this chase. If I swing, I die. But I will swing before any of you can stop me, even the Stitch Witch. This is our chance. If she refuses to do battle, she flees again. As she always has. But this time, I will take her daughter from her. That, at least, I can do.”

She looked at the blazing [Summer Knight], unafraid. And then at Wiskeria. The [Witch] was frozen, her eyes wide. Gaile’s gaze was distant. As distant as Belavierr’s.

“I’m sorry, girl. You did not choose your mother. But for her, I would break my honor. Because of her, I buried my own daughter.”

That was all. There she stood. And Ryoka, who had been part of this play, stumbled. She might have gone forwards, but the [Witch Hunter] was looking at her.

“Move closer and I cut. Step back.”

Ryoka hesitated. But Wiskeria was bleeding. Blood ran down her throat, soaking her robes. So Ryoka stumbled back. She glanced around. The [Witch Hunters] were paused. Two were aiming at Gaile. But the rest were staring past Ser Raim, who’d turned back.

Watching the distant speck that was Belavierr.

She had not moved. Nor had she come closer. And Wiskeria’s eyes shifted. Her head moved, cutting into the axe slightly. Looking at her mother.

“Belavierr.”

Ryoka didn’t know when she started running. But she was. She ran after Belavierr. Would Belavierr run? She wouldn’t leave?

But Ryoka felt it. A terrible feeling in the air. Belavierr had fled. She had sensed the danger. The [Hunters] and [Knight] had been sent for her. What was more—

They were all watching. Ryoka had to fight free of the crowd. Run past them for Belavierr. Everyone was there, an audience of thousands. And more. She bumped into a figure, heard a curse.

 

“Watch it, ye daft cunt. We’re trying to see!”

 

“Sorry, I—”

Ryoka turned her head. And then there they were. Standing. Sitting on the roofs of houses. A gathering of bright figures. Individuals who had no place in this world. But they had come. The young woman stopped, and her heart paused.

The fae looked down at her. Then up. They watched the [Summer Knight] and the lone figure. Belavierr. And Ryoka understood. They had come to see something even the fae deemed worthy. A story.

Perhaps only Ryoka saw them. Only she could see the watchers gathered invisibly among the others. But then—someone else saw. As Ryoka tore herself away, running, she saw a black figure. And two ringed eyes, glowing orange.

Belavierr looked past Ryoka. At the watching fae. She saw, and she knew. For a moment, she hesitated. The fair folk looked to her, waiting. And Ryoka, panting, saw the Stitch Witch hesitate.

Was that fear in her eyes? She looked back at her daughter, at the [Witch Hunter] holding her hostage. Ser Raim called out.

“Belavierr! If it is in my power, I will not let your daughter come to harm! But I cannot stop my companion. Should she strike, I will cut her down. I cannot save your daughter where I stand.”

He planted his sword in the ground, burning. And the world waited. Ryoka looked up at Belavierr. The Stitch Witch sighed. She gazed back at Ser Raim.

“Your word on it?”

“I swear. Return and she lives.”

Gaile called out. Belavierr peered at her. Then she dismounted from the horse. Ryoka’s breath caught in her chest. The [Witch Hunters] paused, incredulous. But Ser Raim nodded. He looked at Gaile.

“Gaile.”

“No. End it, Raim. While she lives, the axe stays. And if Belavierr flees, her daughter dies. If she lives, I’ll lower my axe and submit myself to justice.”

The [Witch Hunter] gritted her teeth. Ser Raim bowed his head. Then he turned. Belavierr was walking back towards them. Slowly. But she seemed to grow with every step. Her shadow grew longer despite the day.

Four [Hunters] and a [Knight] barred her way, blocking Wiskeria and Gaile. To the side watched Riverfarm’s people, the coven. Ryoka and the fae. Behind the [Hunters], an orb floated in the air, and there watched the Order of Seasons, Wistram. But no others.

Ser Raim stepped forwards. He blazed brightly. But Belavierr’s every step called darkness. The ground shook. And Ryoka saw him smile wistfully.

He was not her match. None of them were. But they didn’t flee. The [Witch Hunters]’ faces were set. And then Ser Raim gazed up. He pulled his greatsword out of the ground. The flames around him, his very aura, were flickering out as the shadows seemed to eat at the fire around him. He called out though, smiling.

“The sun is bright today. Glorious. Look—the sun shines!”

The [Summer Knight] pointed up. He spread his arms, as if embracing the sky. Then he glanced around. At his comrades, half a world away. His audience. And the fae stirred. Ser Raim looked back at Belavierr. His voice rang, building.

“I am a small flame. My worth is but kindling before the darkness I face. But even the smallest fire may blaze bright. So, to face this foe, let me offer a sacrifice worthy of the deed!”

He raised his sword. And the fire around him faded. And then a brilliant flame slowly engulfed his armor. Incomparable to the fire before. It burned brighter than the sun’s light.

“I carry the last torch of Paladin Arteis—hallowed by her name. For this act, I offer time. I offer my life! [Lifeburning Flames]! Come, [Witch]! Watch, fate! Let me burn the Stitch Witch until nothing remains!”

And there was fire. Pure essence of flame. It burned everything by sight alone. Ryoka felt it scorch her. The fae stirred. Hundreds of miles away, a Dragon woke. In Reizmelt, Levil the [Pyromancer] turned and felt the heat.

“Flame.”

It burned the crowd. Mavika shrieked, her crows screaming and fleeing the flames. Alevica stumbled away, her robes and hat smoking, crying out. Some in the crowd fell. Others burned and fled.

And Belavierr? She shaded her eyes. Ser Raim advanced. He looked up at her, she down at him.

“Is that all?”

“No. I offer everything.”

The [Summer Knight] raised his sword.

“[My Life, be Thou My Fire].”

Then the flames were all-consuming. They burned the shadows themselves. Spreading. Ser Raim charged, and Belavierr flung up her arms. He struck at her, struck at her body, the invisible threads running from her through the sky. The flames consumed both.

And she screamed. The thread burnt. The shadows fled. Belavierr screamed, and the shriek was the sound of immortality dying. She struck back at Ser Raim, and he struggled. The air shifted. Threads reached down, claws of fabric.

The [Witch Hunters] attacked and advanced, battling monsters that stepped sideways out of the world. A screaming apparition tore open the sky, and a [Witch Hunter] shot at it. Another battled a giant as tall as a hill made of cloth.

In the center of it stood Ser Raim and Belavierr. They struck each other, one burning, the other aflame. They tore at each other with spell, with Skill and steel and rage. And Belavierr burned.

She could have run. She could have fled. But her daughter stood hostage, so the mother refused to flee. She walked through fire as the [Knight] burned her. And her blood was red. Belavierr fought and burned.

The fire met thread.

 

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