6.46 E

Day 69

 

Fire. Fire for Manus. Fire from the skies. Fire, lightning, acid, fog, ice—the elements of the Dragons. And their children, flying through the skies, bringing death to Human lands. It had come to Riverfarm.

Laken could see it. The Drake was lighting up the entire countryside. This wasn’t undirected arson. There was a strategy to it. The [Emperor] spoke, his throat constricted.

“He’s—igniting every patch of forest in thirty miles. Not just around Riverfarm. Anywhere there’s a settlement. Cities, towns—some of the villages are already in the path of the flames.”

Laken couldn’t see into the villages he didn’t own. But he could see everywhere else. For now. Once again, his map of the landscape was burning. Totems made of wood burned like everything else.

It was too dry. The grass, the forests—everything—was fuel ready to go up without a drop of water in over a week. But that was by design as well.

“Your village must flee, Laken. Now.”

Yitton Byres snapped. The caravan heading towards Riverfarm was stopped, and the [Lord] stood, communicating with the [Mage] frantically sending spells. Laken shook his head.

“Where? And how, Yitton?”

“Towards us. Or towards Gralton’s lands. Anywhere out of the flame’s path!”

“But he’s still moving, Yitton. And he’s cutting them off.”

The [Lord] looked up.

“Who?”

The villagers. One group tried to flee as the flames sprung up near their home. Laken could see them fleeing their village, belongings on their backs, some with wagons hitched to frightened animals. They’d moved fast and left their village quickly, within less than ten minutes of the flames burning towards them.

But the Drake had seen them too. He simply flew down the road and set a fire in the direction of the fleeing villagers. Laken clenched his fists.

“That monster.”

There was a beautiful simplicity to it. Laken Godart didn’t see it, but the Oldblood Drake did. He flew up again, letting the fire do the work that would have taken dozens of Drakes. The villagers would run into the fire. Some might escape if they found a path through the flames or if they were lucky, had Skills; their homes would be gone either way. And so would their livelihoods, the value of the region.

And it had taken only one Drake to do it. One Drake, a few weather-changing scrolls, something to dry the land out, and the right timing. Not only that, he’d engineered the conflict with the Order of Seasons. Weakened the only spellcasters able to do something about this situation—and cast doubt on their actions. Now, the [Witches] were right in the path of the fire. The wind blew towards Riverfarm, fanning the blaze.

It had been less than twenty minutes since it had begun. Already, the fires were linking. Growing bigger and bigger. Laken had heard stories of wildfires before. Australian bushfires. Californian wildfires. But he had never been able to picture them. Now he saw them.

“There’s no way they’ll get through the flames. The fire’s already a hundred feet wide. The villagers aren’t going to make it. They’re turning left—”

But the smoke. The burning embers. Laken shook his head. And it was coming for Riverfarm. He forced himself to turn his attention back to the present. The caravan was staring at him. Goblins, Humans. The [Emperor] looked around.

“Yitton. We’re too far away. We won’t make it. Send word to every city and town in the region. Tell them to prepare for fires headed their way. Evacuate the ones I’m going to name.”

He began reciting names from memory, directing Yitton to find others based on their geography. Trying to find the safest routes away from the blaze. All the while, that damned Drake flew. He was still setting more areas alight.

And he wasn’t the only one.

 

—–

 

Tyrion Veltras’ ears rang. The lightning striking his family keep kept falling. The enchanted stones shook. The wards began to give way. The entire building was trembling, but the [Lord] ran.

“Ullim! Sammial! Hethon!”

He bellowed the names of his [Majordomo], his two sons. He found Ullim in his sons’ room. They were hiding under their beds, as if this were an earthquake. Lord Tyrion stared at them.

“Lord Veltras! What’s happening?”

Ullim’s shouts were half-lost in the roar of falling lightning. The room kept lighting up with blinding light. Tyrion bellowed.

“We are under attack! Get my sons into the safe rooms! Move!”

“Father!”

One of his sons shouted, panicked. But Tyrion was already whirling. He ran, shouting, as his servants and guards raced through the keep.

“Jericha! To me!”

The [Mage] raced towards Tyrion, half-dressed, a wand in hand. Tyrion pointed at the windows.

“Drakes!”

He didn’t need to see them hidden in the cloud to know what was causing the lightning. Besides a [Mage] as powerful as Archmage Amerys, only one species could fly and command that much lightning. Jericha nodded.

“There are at least four, Lord Veltras! They’re hitting a city and villages as well! There are two above—I will rally a force of [Archers] and hold the battlements!”

“No. They’ll destroy you. They’re using the storm. Get me the Banner of House Veltras! And my shield! Gather every [Mage] and prepare to sortie!”

Tyrion snapped. Jericha nodded, and both raced through the keep. Lord Tyrion himself strode to the armory where a portion of his house’s treasures were kept. The Banner of House Veltras could shield him from lightning. With it, he and his retainers could hold the keep.

But when the [Lord] strode onto the battlements armed for war, the lightning had already ceased. The Drake Oldbloods had failed to destroy the keep and the enchantments. So the lightning was already falling elsewhere. Tyrion stared across his countryside. And he saw the lightning falling, hitting fields, buildings. People—he raised his sword as Jericha hoisted the glowing banner.

“Warn every city in a hundred miles! There are Drake fliers in the air!”

“We can’t see them or catch them! Lord Veltras—”

Tyrion was already calling for his horse. But he could feel it too in the pit of his stomach. It was a trap. And he realized, as more frantic [Messages] came in, that he wasn’t the only one being targeted.

 

—–

 

“Lord Erill’s lands are beset by flame. Lady Ieka’s are suffering from lightning—as is House Veltras! Lord Erill is reporting multiple deaths—Tyrion Veltras is confirming it’s a Drake attack!”

Yitton read the [Messages] being transcribed with shaking fingers. He looked up, pale-faced.

“My home.”

“Does your wife report anything?”

“Nothing. She’s checked the weather, and my guards are on alert—”

“Then House Byres wasn’t considered important enough. Focus, Yitton! They went after me and Gralton instead of you! Can he send any [Riders]? Anyone who can fight a blaze like this?”

Laken snapped at Yitton. The [Lord] looked up. He reached for a message.

“Gralton—the plague. He hasn’t responded, Laken. We received word his kennels were filled with sick dogs—the Drakes must have—”

“Damn his dogs! People are dying!”

The [Emperor] shouted. He whirled. He could see Riverfarm coming alive. They had gotten his messages. But they were so slow. Fire moved too fast. Faster than people could run. Laken turned, his closed eyes seeking Yitton’s voice.

“The Drakes. Tell them to call the attack off. I know it’s them. Tyrion can’t prove it. I can. Tell them it’s the Drakes.”

The [Emperor] saw nothing with his eyes. He heard an intake of breath, Yitton’s voice issuing quick orders. In his head, he watched the flames moving. Saw the [Witches] gathering. Ryoka, Durene, Prost, Rie—his heart—and his people gathering.

Laken Godart waited. But he learned the same thing Ryoka had: it was not just his story. The purpose of [Witches], a pair of City Runners’ journey, the crusade of the Order of Seasons, the return of an [Emperor] and the fate of Goblins—and yes, even the vengeance of Drakes—was all part of a whole. Try as he might, he couldn’t change it all. He was only an actor.

After an agonizing wait that might have taken minutes or hours, measured only by Laken’s furiously beating heart, Yitton replied.

“A—an accusation has been leveled. But the Walled Cities claim ignorance. They reject the idea that Drakes are causing these incidents. Manus suggests this might be unusual Wyvern migrations combined with freak weather—”

Laken whirled away. He clenched his hands. And then he slumped.

“We can’t do anything, then. Just watch. Yitton.”

“Laken?”

“Get the caravan moving. Towards Riverfarm.”

“But the fire—”

The [Emperor] ignored the [Lord]. He turned his head back towards his empire, his home. His people. He shook his head.

“By the time we get there, the fire will be gone. Can’t you see? It’s everywhere. And there’s nowhere to run. Get the caravan moving. And tell Prost—retreat to the fields. The mountain’s no good. That Drake’s setting fire to the forest. The fields. Tell Durene I love her. To stay alive. And ask the [Witches] for help. It all depends on them now.”

 

—–

 

At first, the people in Riverfarm refused to believe Ryoka’s warning. They listened to the picture she had put together at last and laughed skeptically, uneasily. But even if they agreed with her—so what? They didn’t understand. After all, how many had even seen a Drake? They couldn’t imagine what Ryoka could, what Laken’s [Message] had made her realize what the [Infiltrator]’s plan was.

But then Mavika screamed as her crows burned, and the smiles left the skeptical faces. Riverfarm and Lancrel’s people looked up as Rie ran into the village, shouting for Prost and calling the alarm with Nesor hot on her heels. Then they saw the smoke in the distance. And above it, the huge, ominous cloud that filled the clear sky.

“Pyrocumulonimbus cloud. That’s what it’s called.”

Ryoka panted as she and Charlay ran towards the closest plume of smoke. Riverfarm was in a growing panic, and Prost was corresponding with Laken. But Ryoka had to see it herself. The Centauress stared at her. Charlay frowned.

“What?”

“The cloud. That’s what it’s called. It’s a cloud made of all the fire.”

It was the most useless piece of information Ryoka could think of in this situation. But her mind wasn’t being sensible. She was panicking. Because she could see the smoke. It was already in the air blowing towards Riverfarm. Ryoka wasn’t controlling it. Something else was. That Drake and his scrolls. Charlay coughed. The whites of her eyes were showing.

“Yeah? How’s that help us?”

“Doesn’t. The fire—”

Ryoka didn’t see it. There was too much smoke coming this way. Charlay groaned, and Ryoka crouched lower, as if that would help. The wind was blowing it straight at Riverfarm.

“That’s a big fire. Ryoka. That’s…really big. As bad as the jungle fires in Baleros. We have to get out of here!”

The Centauress was terrified. She began pawing at the ground, looking around frantically. Ryoka felt it too. Humans had used fire, but some animal part of her was terrified. It could sense the flames. Worse—the rational part of her agreed.

“It’s—there’s too many spots. Damn it, the fire’s everywhere!”

Ryoka pointed. The flames weren’t coming in any one direction. There was smoke directly ahead of them. And another patch to the left, a third far to the right—was that a fourth plume of smoke behind it? The young woman coughed as she turned back to Riverfarm.

It made so much sense. Normal fires didn’t happen like this. Wildfires happened in her world, but even arson was limited. Fire had been used in war, but this was different. That Drake could breathe fire and fly. Moreover, he was changing the wind to amplify the flames. The lack of rain had prepared this area for a truly deadly fire. This was beyond anything from her home.

“It’s coming.”

The two Runner girls felt the smoke intensify. Coughing, Ryoka turned.

“We have to go. Charlay? Charlay!”

The Centauress was frozen. Then she turned and galloped past Ryoka. But not before Ryoka had seen her head turning wildly, trying to find a path of escape. That was the problem. The fire had engulfed the north and was spreading east. But more fires were popping up. If they ran south—

The Drake was still out there. Ryoka could see it clearly. He wanted them to run. He could set a fire anywhere he wanted. If they stayed, they died. If they ran, they died.

But Riverfarm was innocent! She wanted to scream it at him. Riverfarm’s people hadn’t participated in the attack on Liscor! But Laken had. Riverfarm’s [Engineers] had made the trebuchets. And did it even matter? The Drakes wanted to hurt the Humans. What was easier than destroying villages, farms, cities? Destroying the infrastructure of the north with a single Drake?

They had to stop it. Ryoka ran back into Riverfarm with Charlay, coughing and panting. Now, a crowd had gathered and was staring at the horizon. Ryoka panted as Rie rushed out of the house, a slip of parchment in her hands.

“Is it…?”

“Fire. It’s everywhere. North, east—and more’s coming.”

Ryoka pointed to a smoke plume to the west. Encirclement. Lady Rie looked uneasily down the south road. Ryoka stared west. The mountain that had once buried Riverfarm lay that way. But to get to it, they’d have to go straight through a forest. And she wondered if the fire was already growing there.

It reminded Ryoka of the wildfires that would torch California back home. Prost was giving rapid orders, but Riverfarm’s people were trying to grab valuables, thinking of their village.

If they were not out of the reach of the flames now, they were dead. At the moment, the blazes might be small enough to avoid, but soon they would become a vision of real hell, a storm that would leave only embers in its wake.

How fast would the fires move? Ryoka had no idea how far away they were, but she feared the worst. This wasn’t an accidental fire; this was arson, and more and more patches of flame kept appearing.

“What did Laken say? Rie, is there any way for us to take?”

Ryoka looked desperately at Lady Rie. Laken could see the countryside! If they could make a break for it—there were thousands of people in Riverfarm. They’d lose everything. But…stay? Riverfarm was made out of wood.

Rie’s face was pale. She looked around. The crowd was pushing forwards. Someone screamed.

“What’s going on? We demand answers!”

Councilwoman Beatica looked as terrified as the rest. Ryoka spun. Beniar and the Darksky Riders were dismounted, keeping people back. Rie looked at Ryoka.

“The [Witches].”

“What?”

“His Majesty says flight is unlikely to succeed. He is calling upon the coven to stop the fires if they can. Can they?”

She gaped at Ryoka. And the young woman only gulped because she didn’t know. She turned with Lady Rie.

“Where are they?”

Then Ryoka really looked around. She realized the [Witches], always so noticeable with their pointed hats, were nowhere to be seen. And Riverfarm’s people, many of which would have given anything to see the end of the [Witches], realized that at the moment they were needed—they’d disappeared.

Fear began to turn into panic. And the flames came onward as the sky turned black and red.

 

—–

 

The coven was, by universal consensus, one of the worst covens to have ever formed in the history of [Witches]. No one would debate that. Mother and daughter? [Witches] at odds with each other? Having to meet to discuss crises instead of gathering for a monthly or bimonthly meeting at most? That was not the function a coven should occupy.

But sometimes, a coven handled disasters. And so they met. Eight [Witches]. Alevica had to be helped into a chair; the Witch Runner was still pale and weak. Even Belavierr looked focused. The [Witches] sat down, murmuring.

“Tea, anyone?”

“Just a cup.”

“Got anything to eat?”

“Stale jerky.”

“Pass it over.”

Rustling. Chomping sounds from Hedag and Mavika. Silence. And then a voice.

“Well, this is a mess, isn’t it?”

Wiskeria looked at Hedag. The [Executioner] leaned against the table, and her smile was bitter.

“Looks like it’s a mess of a war, then. The Drakes and Humans fighting. Messy business.”

“Not what we came for. But what we are needed for, clearly.”

Califor’s cup was steady in her hands, but she was glancing at Nanette. Belavierr just sat there, unmoved by the warring of species. Her eyes were focused on something else.

Her promised death—and her daughter, who refused to meet Belavierr’s eyes. Wiskeria glanced out the window. All the [Witches] could feel it. The fire was a distant power, growing in strength. Wiskeria shuddered. Alevica looked pale and weak as she met Wiskeria’s eyes. Nanette was frightened. The older [Witches] glanced at each other. Eloise put down her cup.

“The odds we could stop something like that?”

Mavika hissed.

“I cannot conjure rain. And that blaze the Drake sets would devour my flock. Him, I mark and blame. But I can do nothing of the flame.”

Hedag nodded.

“If it were a regular forest fire, I’d trust to fire breaks and the river. But the wind blows ill. I’ve seen it blow like this twice before, and both times the villages were lost in front of that fire. It will travel across rivers and consume before rains take it. And not a moment before. Califor? Could you wake the river?”

The [Witch] tapped a finger on the table as the others looked to her. Her voice was…cautious, which said a lot about the risks if a forest fire was bearing down on them.

“He’s slept long and deep, and the water’s low. Waking him might do little at all; the river might well flee. I would rather summon rain. A grand working.”

At this, the coven stirred. Alevica burst out, nervous.

“Wait, a real working? Oliyaya’s only ever taken me to one, and that was with two full moons and a place of power! We have none of these things, and it’s not even our land! Do we have the magic for it? Is this even our fight?”

The question went around the circle. The other [Witches] shrugged or frowned. Wiskeria held her breath. Califor’s gaze focused on Alevica.

“We have the need, Witch Alevica, and that must be enough. There is time yet to stop this—if the wildfires keep growing, it will become a force no [Witch] can stop. Before that moment—we will try.”

Her words about the wildfire becoming unstoppable earned a faint scoffing sound—from Belavierr. However, when Califor stared hard at her, the Witch of Webs simply nodded her head.

“Your plan is sound…if the goal were to save this village, Witch Califor. The coven came to entreat an [Emperor] on behalf of [Witches]. In face of this Circle of Thorns and old threats returning. But if there is no empire, our purpose is gone. Is the magic worth the cost?”

It was the most pragmatic thing anyone had ever heard from her—and at the worst time.

“Witch Belavierr! We cannot leave this village in front of the flames.”

Eloise snapped as she put down her cup. Califor faced down Belavierr.

“Better we attempt to stop the fires to save ourselves, Witch Belavierr. Or do you believe we ourselves could escape this fire unhindered? It has the width and breadth of wildfire.”

“I could. I can.”

Belavierr looked unconcerned. However, it was Wiskeria who snapped back.

“Then leave, Mother. Run away again. But I’ll tell you this—I will stay with Riverfarm’s people. I’ll throw all my magic and craft into that working and face the fire alone, if I must.”

The Witch of Webs’ eyes shifted sideways to Wiskeria, and her look of impartiality faded. Slowly, she exhaled.

“Ah. And thus my death remains. Very well, Witch Califor, a grand working. It can be done, even with my reduced power. If there are enough catalysts; string and needle are my crafts. Fire I have never been proficient at. And that man who burned me…”

She grimaced, and for a second, everyone remembered the burnt effigy of a woman hidden by Belavierr’s magic. Califor nodded.

“One attempt. Let us attempt it—quickly. Mister Prost should continue preparing to evacuate the village. Witch Alevica, I have a job for you.”

“Who, me? I don’t have that much magic—”

“No. You are to take Nanette to Witch…Agratha would be the closest. Failing her, Oliyaya.”

The youngest [Witch], who had been listening to all this discussion, sat up, and Alevica blinked.

“What if that Drake tries to get me in the sky?”

“Outrun him. I will cover your escape with Mavika.”

The Crow Witch blinked and nodded, but Nanette protested.

“No, Miss Califor! I want to stay and help! You need me for the grand ritual! Eight is better than six! Six isn’t even a powerful number!”

On this, Califor was adamant.

“Fire moves fast, Nanette! It can outrun people on horseback if the wind is right. And this Drake has plotted his vengeance against this Emperor Godart and his people. If he is backed by a Walled City, it explains the magic that we were unable to move. With a ritual, we might defeat his control over the weather. But by that time, flight will be even more difficult. I will not risk your life or this coven’s should we fail to halt it. You are my apprentice—”

“No! I won’t go! This matters, and I won’t abandon Riverfarm!”

Nanette stubbornly dug her heels in, literally, when Califor tried to drag her towards the horses. Alevica hesitated. Califor’s voice was a snap.

“Nanette, do not argue with me when every second counts!”

“You told me a [Witch] has to be brave. And help people when it matters! I won’t let the villagers die, like Mister Prost’s family—or Durene or Ryoka—”

Nanette was begging to stay. She looked up tearfully at Miss Califor. The older [Witch] hesitated. Alevica made a clubbing gesture behind Nanette, and Califor’s glower made the Witch Runner back up.

For the first time, Nanette tore away from Califor’s grip. She held her hat tightly as she faced the other [Witches]. Belavierr’s stare might have been the first time she ever looked at Nanette, and the girl flinched. But she raised her chin and spoke, earnestly and nervously, vibrating with young courage. Even Wiskeria looked at her and remembered what it had been like to be…

Young. That was it. Pure earnesty shone from Nanette’s voice.

“I like it here. The people aren’t always good. But there are good people among them. They have been kind to us [Witches]. And—and if we could try, surely we should? I ask the coven to hear my request. To use everything to save Riverfarm! Please!”

“Nanette…”

Wiskeria breathed. But then she looked around. The other [Witches] exchanged glances. Belavierr paused and regarded her daughter. And Califor studied Nanette’s face and sighed. She stopped trying to pull Nanette away.

“I taught you too well.”

Nanette beamed at her and looked at the other [Witches]. One by one, they nodded. Mavika tipped her hat.

“By your request, Witch Nanette, and Witch Wiskeria’s, this coven will try. The fire builds with each passing second. So the ritual must be done within the hour.”

“If we must do it, we will need a place. A focus. And a purpose.”

Eloise spoke briskly. Califor was nodding impatiently. She sighed as Nanette beamed in relief.

“Hold on, what if we’re for leaving? I could, uh, get Agratha—”

Alevica’s protest was met by seven cold stares. The Witch Runner gazed around.

“Damn it. Fine. What about the river?”

“Sympathy. I agree. We have no place of power, so it will do. Even if we don’t wake the river, we’ll draw on its strength. The purpose should be to call rain, obviously. We don’t have the moons or anything else for a great working. And the focus? My staff may well do; it was made of a tree from one of the Great Forests.”

Califor looked around, hefting the staff. Hedag sighed and reached for her bag.

“I have something. I traded for this a time ago. It’s yet to be polished, but it might do if no one else has better to offer. ‘Tis no ordinary stone. A [Merchant] had it with thousands from Salazsar. This one alone had magic in it. The weight of time and power.”

She produced a small aquamarine, uncut and unpolished, but sparkling. A glow in the stone that drew Mavika’s eye greedily. Califor nodded. Belavierr peered at the stone, as if it were a curio, but produced something as well.

“In that case, I will add a binding of thread, a weather-pattern charm, to both. Flame Wyvern’s heartstring. Give me vessel and focus.”

Eloise produced a carved cup, large enough to be held in two hands.

“Sacrifice this. It was a gift from the Kingdom of Keys; a half-Giant’s cup. Weighty in value and age. Best used to save lives.”

Another piece of power. Mavika hesitated—then reluctantly produced something long and ragged, a piece of dirty orange-red. Yet when she said what it was, Nanette gasped.

“This is a Phoenix King’s feather. No more do they fly. For this, an appropriate sacrifice I give. For a [Witch]’s request, that the unworthy might live.”

She turned to Alevica, and the Witch Runner, red-faced, dug in her pouch.

“Argh! Fine! Here’s a stone filled with all my mana. It’s not that great.”

She slammed down a lesser piece of quartz, and Wiskeria produced all she had—

“A pristine piece of Ember Salamander skin. I have nothing else related to fire to use.”

Belavierr inspected each piece, before arranging them in the cup.

“It will do. Seven. Eight…”

She looked at Nanette, and the little [Witch] hesitated. She had no real possessions or old craft. So she produced a knife and sawed at one of her braids.

“If—if I can’t do anything else, will my hair do?”

“That or blood—”

Belavierr fell silent as her daughter glared, and Nanette’s hair went into the bowl. Hedag handed over the aquamarine. Belavierr produced a needle and, using Nanette’s hair as thread, wove a loop around the blue gemstone before beginning a complex pattern that tied it to the wooden vessel. To that, she added each gift until the brimming cup seemed to be one object, of mismatched parts, and kept sewing.

…Until it almost looked like the piece of quartz were part of the cup and the salamander skin was melding with the feather to create something brighter. The [Witches] watched for a second, then stood up.

“Thank you.”

Wiskeria said it to the others. Eloise smiled. Hedag laughed.

“I have given my word to protect the children here. And it is a Hedag’s word as well as a [Witch]’s. While Belavierr prepares the ritual, let us do what we can.”

Califor was urgent as she rose to her feet.

“I will prepare the site. It must be done quick; Witch Belavierr has our sacrifice. Nanette, pack your things. Then come and find me. Witch Mavika, if you would join me?”

“Yes.”

The two [Witches] headed out the door. Eloise, Nanette, and Wiskeria followed. Alevica hesitated until she realized Belavierr was staring at Alevica unblinkingly as she worked. She got up and hastily went after the two.

Panic in the streets greeted the [Witches]. Prost was shouting, trying to organize people to expand the firebreak while others tried to pack their things. But where would you go? Wiskeria saw smoke in every direction but the mountain and forest that bordered Riverfarm. And she had a feeling that fire was already building unseen there as well.

“Wiskeria!”

Ryoka and Rie found her. Califor and Mavika strode past them. Ryoka halted.

“Look—Laken’s asking your coven for a favor. Wiskeria, he knows it’s a lot to ask, but if you agree—”

“We’re performing a ritual. Don’t worry, Ryoka. We’ll fight the fire together. No one’s leaving.”

The City Runner sagged with relief. Eloise raised one finger, eying Lady Rie.

“Yet. However, I would not place all your hopes in this ritual, Miss Griffin, Lady Rie.”

“It could fail?”

Lady Rie looked sharply at Eloise. Wiskeria did too, heart pounding. She’d seen rituals go wrong. But they had so many powerful [Witches]. Her mother was on their side.

But it wasn’t the full moon, and they didn’t have a place of power…Eloise was clearly thinking the same things. The [Witch] shook her head.

“Wiskeria and Nanette have convinced some of the [Witches] to stay. And I have agreed to give the ritual an attempt. But should that fail, we must all flee or attempt to stand. And this fire would consume us all, I fear.”

“Laken’s told Prost to put everyone in the fields. He says that’s the safest space—cleared grounds.”

Eloise paused.

“Perhaps. Certainly, it has the river to its back. But the smoke the fires are giving off and the wind—I think many would die either way. In either case, if this ritual fails, the coven will leave. And we will only have the power to shield ourselves.”

The thought made Wiskeria cold inside. Lady Rie paused, licking her colored lips.

“Could you—take a group with you? If you left earlier?”

“If we had decided to leave now? Yes. But the fire is growing. And I cannot walk through flame unhindered. Belavierr might. Califor could ride through it, and Mavika fly. But Hedag and I will have to run or ride. We will try if it comes to that. But we must use every option. Have you any left? Hedag is going to clear more space at the firebreak.”

“She is? Durene’s there with some people. They’re trying to give us more space—”

Ryoka pointed towards the fields. She looked around. Then she slapped her forehead.

“Of course! Let’s call for help! What if we got a [Weather Mage] here?”

Wiskeria shook her head.

“They’d have to be present to call rains, Ryoka. And it’s not possible. Unless they could move like a Courier—”

“It’s possible! And there’s someone else who could extinguish the blaze!”

Ryoka suddenly seemed hopeful. She whirled to Lady Rie.

“Magnolia Reinhart.”

“Reinhart?”

Lady Rie recoiled, but Ryoka grabbed her shoulder.

“She can do it! She’s got a magical carriage! She could send it to Invrisil! Lady Rie, tell Nesor to send her a [Message]! Don’t argue—Nesor! Nesor!”

Wiskeria saw Ryoka race off, dragging Lady Rie with her. The [Witch] looked around. Nanette hesitated.

“I have to pack my things. And saddle the horses. I’ll—I’ll go help Miss Califor after that. We won’t need the horses, right?”

She glanced from [Witch] to [Witch]. Neither Eloise nor Wiskeria could find the words for reassurance. Nanette hurried off after a second. Eloise regarded Wiskeria. She seemed old. And worried. Wiskeria looked around. People were rushing down the streets, but some had stopped to stare desperately at them.

“What should we do, Eloise? Help Califor and Mavika? Or Hedag?”

Eloise pursed her lips. She shook her head after a moment.

“I’m not one for picking up sticks or digging, Wiskeria. And Califor and Mavika have the preparations well in hand. As does your mother. No, I think our purpose is to keep Riverfarm from falling apart. The people are split. Some would flee. They would die. The fire is too thick and moving too fast. We must keep them here. And calm. Draw on your craft.”

“I—I don’t know. I’ve never soothed a group, let alone so many people—and I don’t have magic to call on, Eloise.”

Wiskeria wavered. Eloise studied her.

“I cannot do it alone. And you have your craft. Or was earlier today a fluke?”

Wiskeria blinked. And then she remembered. Slowly, she looked around. The people were desperate. But the ones watching her—she spotted Jelov. And Chimmy.

“Miss Wiskeria? Miss Wiskeria, we ain’t going to have to flee, are we?”

Chimmy’s eyes were wide with fright. She looked up as Wiskeria strode over to her. The [Witch] hesitated. Then she knelt.

“We might, Chimmy. But my coven and I are doing our best to keep Riverfarm safe. Trust in that. And keep a calm head. Jelov, what are you doing?”

The [Carpenter] sucked at his teeth.

“Waiting, Miss Wiskeria. Not like I can pack up and move a second time. Emperor Laken made me his best [Carpenter], didn’t he? Reckon I’ll trust to him to get us out of this. Got all my stuff here, and it burns easy. Hey, what should we be doing?”

They looked at her. And Wiskeria felt something in them. Justice. Unity. She pulled on it, taking some of it. And she spun it, used it in her voice. In her craft.

“Help me keep people calm. Stop them from packing! We need people expanding the firebreak or gathering supplies under Prost’s direction! We don’t need valuables like clothes—we need barricades the fire can’t move past! Walls of dirt, even! You—Ram! Stop!”

She shouted, and Mister Ram stopped from trying to grab people and forcibly tow them towards the fields. And her voice was the voice of command. More people stopped, and Wiskeria shouted. Her pointed hat stood out. It marked her as [Witch]. And that wasn’t always a bad thing.

“People of Riverfarm! Stay calm! Don’t pack your belongings; there’s no time to waste! Help dig the firebreaks or follow Mister Prost and help evacuate what needs evacuating to the fields!”

“Stay calm. Follow us.”

Eloise’s voice was no less loud, but it had a confidence in it like steel. The [Witch] swept down the street, and people halted, their panic subsiding. It was a [Lady]’s presence and a [Lady]’s Skill mixed with a [Witch]’s craft. Wiskeria followed, shouting.

Some refused to go. People who were suspicious of [Witches] or too out of their minds with fear to listen. But more and more people stopped racing about, controlled by fear. Prost found Wiskeria and Eloise, and his expression was written with relief. He pointed as they came towards him.

“To the fields! Children, anyone who can’t grab something there first! The rest of you—we’re hauling barrels of water there! If you have a shovel, get to work on a wall or just clear away the brush over there!”

He pointed towards the hundreds of people feverishly trying to build a safe space around the fields. The watered and tilled grounds and crops were the safest place to be. Wiskeria saw the logic in that. And already, people were building a wall to keep the fire and smoke from hitting them. The firebreak, already wide, was spreading out.

In any regular fire, it would have worked. No—the firebreak around Riverfarm would have been enough with a vigilant firefighting team watching for embers. But the wind! Wiskeria felt it whipping hot air into her face. The ritual had to work. It had to.

An hour seemed to pass in minutes. Wiskeria was busy shouting at people, trying to use the emotions she was taking from them, suppressing fear. She only looked up when she saw her mother striding towards her.

Belavierr was holding the vessel of wood. The aquamarine hung in a web of threads, a magical design. Just in time; Wiskeria could see Califor striding towards them.

“I call upon this coven!”

And her voice summoned every [Witch]. From Alevica, surreptitiously holding her broom, to Nanette, leading two horses whose eyes were wide with the scent of fire. Mavika stood in front of the ritual place as Wiskeria walked with Eloise and Belavierr. And the people of Riverfarm watched, desperate. Wiskeria felt their hope.

She wished she shared it. None of the other [Witches] seemed as hopeful as the people watching them. Because—Wiskeria could see the others thinking it. [Witches] didn’t trust everything to magic. Against things like fire, they much preferred to trust to a bucket of water, a firebreak. Nature wasn’t something you could just order around.

But they had to try. Wiskeria stopped when she saw Ryoka standing close to the ritual spot. The City Runner’s face was pale.

“Ryoka. Is Magnolia Reinhart—”

The other [Witches] regarded the City Runner. Ryoka shook her head.

“She’s too far away by carriage. She says her [Weather Mages] will try to send rain. And the person I asked for—I think he’s asleep.”

“Then wake him up!”

Alevica snapped. But Ryoka’s expression was her only reply. The [Witches] paused. Califor glanced around, and her tone snapped.

“The ritual awaits. Take your positions.”

It was a simple working Wiskeria saw. Califor and Mavika had placed river stones in a diagram, laying out an eight-sided star on the ground with radial lines connecting to the center. In that center, Califor placed the vessel with the aquamarine and thread. She had filled it with river water. Then she planted her staff in the ground, like a lightning rod, and stepped back.

“That’s it?”

Wiskeria heard an uneasy voice behind her. It sounded like Charlay. The [Witch] bit her lip. She could feel the doubt. But this was all the coven could have prepared. And it was all they needed. She told herself that as the [Witches] took their spots around the octagram.

The ritual began as a hot wind whipped towards them. Smoke made some of the audience cough. But the [Witches] stood silent. Their pointed hats didn’t move in the wind. And their gazes were distant.

Their shadows deepened. They seemed to twist towards the circle if you stared at them long enough. And a silence fell. The coven breathed in. Breathed out.

Ryoka saw they were all breathing the same. Nanette to Belavierr. They blinked as one. Ryoka’s hair stood on end despite the desperation and fear of the moment. She felt a charge rising in the air, but not of static. Of intent.

Then a [Witch] spoke. Belavierr. Her ringed eyes were wide as she spoke, raising a cloth-bound hand.

 

“Someone tries to bring fire and flame to those without blame.

Whose malice brings death and grief without end.”

 

Two [Witches] spoke. Wiskeria and Nanette.

 

“Let crying earth mend

Let nature’s wrath end!”

 

The [Witches]’ gazes were fixed on the aquamarine stone. And it glowed. The water in the cup moved, restlessly, obeying neither the wind nor physics. Califor continued with Alevica.

 

“Magic bows before nature’s will

Let not it be used further ill.”

 

Hedag and Eloise chanted the next lines in tandem.

 

“And give us your blessing, by river’s flow

As from the sky we ask for the same, by a coven’s will, an [Emperor]’s name.”

 

Mavika raised her hands. Her voice hissed and called, like the birds flying overhead.

 

“So come water, come relief and rain!

Here to end Riverfarm’s pain!”

 

And all eight [Witches] drew a blade. Nanette, Califor, Hedag, Eloise, Alevica, Mavika, Wiskeria, and Belavierr. Ryoka knew what was coming.

All eight [Witches] cut themselves across the wrist. They sprinkled blood on the river stones. Belavierr continued.

“By blood we call water.”

“By river we summon rain.”

Who was speaking now? Ryoka couldn’t tell.

Now, the [Witches]’ lips moved as one.

“We call.”

“We implore.”

“We beg.”

Belavierr whispered with all their voices as a refrain.

“We demand.”

A second cut. So deep that Ryoka felt ill seeing the blood run down Wiskeria’s arm. Nanette stumbled. But she spoke with the rest.

“Rain.”

And the aquamarine shone. The water in the wooden vessel trembled. Ryoka looked up. She felt the winds pause. The hot, angry, controlled air shivered.

In the sky, the pyrocumulonimbus cloud formed by the smoke slowly changed. Ryoka saw the distant cloud begin to darken. And in the distance, moisture gathered. Days of unspent rain began to gather. The air grew thick with humidity.

It was so fast that it looked like an illusion. It didn’t seem real. The wind blew faintly, and Ryoka’s skin chilled as a vast cloud, dark but oh so merciful, filled the skies.

It was, she realized, coming from the cup. A near-invisible something—vapor—was billowing up, marshaled by the [Witches] into the air. Spreading out until it covered all of Riverfarm and was growing wider.

Miles wide. Filling the sky. Alevica’s eyes were wide, and even the older [Witches] seemed to be silent with the knowledge of what they were doing.

Changing the weather. Until their great working had the mountain in shadow. Ryoka looked at the people of Riverfarm, and many had their mouths open like her.

This was great witchcraft. Wild and wondrous. Then, Ryoka heard a rumble from the skies. A crackle of sound—something wet struck her on the shoulder, and she flinched.

A drop fell from that dark sky. One, then a dozen pelting down. The rumble came again, vast, as the cloud continued to expand.

It began to rain. Riverfarm’s people turned. In the distance, sprinkles of rain began to fall from the saturated sky. Ryoka heard a whoop of delight, then wild cheers. She turned, beaming. And saw the [Witches] had frozen. They were staring at the gemstone. The trembling water. And then Ryoka saw them each raise a hand as one and point.

“Rain.”

They spoke as one, continuing the chant. And the gemstone began to pulse. Ryoka turned. Something—

 

—–

 

The Oldblood Drake saw the rain begin to fall. He whirled, snarled with fury. He grabbed at a scroll from his belt, desperately unfurled it.

“Oh no you don’t. [Weatherchange]!”

The rain’s fall began to slacken. But the cloud formed by the smoke wanted to rain. And there were days of rain waiting to fall. But not now! Not now!

The [Infiltrator] dropped the scroll as the magic went out of it. Those damn [Witches] were casting a spell! But he had more scrolls. Manus had predicted interference with the weather. The Drake pulled them out, reading from the burning magical inscriptions, calling upon the magic contained within. [Witches] would not stop this fire! They couldn’t!

“[Weatherchange]! [Weatherchange]!”

The scrolls flashed and fell from his claws as they used up their magic. In Riverfarm, the [Witches] began to chant. And the rain stopped falling. Started.

“They can’t do this! They can’t!”

The Drake cursed as he battled the coven. With each scroll, the rain stopped, but the [Witches] were pushing. He could feel it, feel the cloud above him trying to disgorge its contents. But the scrolls were holding them off.

And yet—there was a limit to how many he had. The [Infiltrator] cursed as he reached for the last of his scrolls as the [Witches] silently battled him, pulling at the sky. He raised it desperately and pulled something out. A speaking stone reserved for emergencies.

“Requesting magical support. I need a dozen [Weatherchange] spells on my position—now! Hang the cost!”

He heard a terse affirmative. But even as he burned through his scrolls, a fortune from the City of War—the flickering air refused to change. The cursing Drake spat flames, howling as he saw the fires beginning to wane.

It couldn’t end, not after all this work! They almost had the damn [Emperor]’s lands and the Spider herself!

 

——

 

The first few spells they fought off, like someone shoving at them, hard and heavy—but unskilled. Eight [Witches] in unison could repel the magic of a scroll, even if it came again and again.

But then more spells began to activate, distant, yet fast, like a flurry of blows—and Wiskeria felt the strain. She tried to resist, fighting for minutes as the rain continued to intensify, but now every [Witch] was fighting.

So much magic! Far too much for any one individual to cast. Someone was unleashing spell after spell on them. If it weren’t for her mother, the coven would have failed then and there. Belavierr’s magic and craft was a deep web, even now, and she deflected spells trying to wrest control of the air from them.

This was not their land, but they had the river before them and drew on it, their will and unity. The river groaned and, Wiskeria thought, woke up a bit. The sky rained, and the [Witches] fought—straining—

“Hold fast and we will win! They cannot best us with mage’s magic alone.”

Eloise called out. Nanette was trembling with effort, her cut braids levitating with the force of the magic around her.

They could do this! The onslaught was slackening, but something was wrong. A whining sound filled the air, and at first, Wiskeria didn’t know why. Then, she looked up from her trance and gasped. The other [Witches] broke from their spell. Wiskeria pointed.

“No—”

Strain. The pressure of the conflicting magic, one to erase the rain, the other to bring it on, was pressing at each [Witch], but their will refused to break. However—the rest of their grand ritual was not as strong as they were. A weak point began to shiver in the cup in the middle of the octagram:

Hedag’s aquamarine gemstone. It hadn’t been cut. And perhaps it had a fault or it was simply that Hedag’s focus wasn’t strong enough to contain the magical battle. The aquamarine ensnared in the vessel of water cracked. The web of string binding it snapped apart. The [Witches] went flying as the magical backlash boomed and threw them from the circle into the river.

Wiskeria pulled herself out, screaming.

“No!”

She tried to get back, but it was too late. The octagram was shattered, and above—

The cloud began to fragment and dissolve away. The rain stopped falling.

 

——

 

In the sky, the Oldblood Drake went flying as well, the scroll bursting with the backlash. He was falling! He flapped desperately, righting himself before he crashed on the ground—and then gazed up and crowed triumphantly.

“Agent? Successful casting after 34 burnouts of scrolls. Confirm!”

“Confirmed! We did it! Going dark and—”

The gleeful Drake began to respond when he saw the fragmenting cloud above him. The raincloud had begun to dissolve in patches as fast as it had come. Literally breaking apart. His smile froze on his face.

“No. Wait—”

In horror, he saw a patch of cloud fading away stop—shiver—and halt. Then it joined the patch it had left as a strand of black laced through the sky. Almost like—

His eyes lowered to Riverfarm. And there she stood.

The Witch of Webs reached up—and began to stitch the cloud together.

 

——

 

They called her the Spider. Temptress. The Eater of Threads. The Witch of Calamity. Mistress of Strands.

She had many names, but she had never shown them any of it. Even when Ser Raim had come to kill her, the armies and monsters she had summoned had been defensive.

Not once had Belavierr worked her great magic a-purpose. So even the other [Witches] could be forgiven for forgetting her talent.

Only her daughter had seen Belavierr work. Now—the [Witch] stood on top of the river’s waters. She balanced on the surface, as if the roiling water were simply an uneven piece of ground. And her head was turned skywards.

Her eyes were aglow with wrath. Anger. The ritual was shattered, their raincloud dissolving. No one bested her.

So Belavierr reached up, and with a thread made of air and wind, something even Ryoka could barely comprehend, she began to reknit the sky, gathering the rain and clouds back together again.

Even the other [Witches] seemed unable to believe what they were seeing. Hedag, Eloise, Alevica…only Califor and Mavika traded significant glances.

“Rain. Come now, harder, to drown the land. Remember my name. I call you down. Pour harder, a storm for the ages. Harder, this witch calls! A maelstrom rages!”

Belavierr’s arms were thrown wide. She spun slowly, and the sky began to swirl like the beginnings of a hurricane.

Someone was laughing. Wiskeria realized—it was her. She looked up, and her mother was there, like the mother that Wiskeria had loved, who had called the moon and caught gigantic fish by the sea.

All for her. Belavierr’s eyes flicked sideways as Wiskeria stood there, laughing, hat raised. Then, for one good moment, the mother saw the daughter was proud of her, and the daughter could be so unabashedly.

The sky began to truly bring a torrent down, and smoke was rising in every direction as Riverfarm’s folk cheered wildly. The wildfires were going out! The dry land was begging for the rain, and Belavierr smiled at her daughter, beckoning.

“Come join me, Daughter, and I will show you how to command the sky.”

Wiskeria hesitated at the edge of the river and began to step onto it. Magic was flickering in the air; that damn Drake and his city were still trying to kill the rain, but they were up against Belavierr’s magic.

What could they do? Strike at her? Califor glanced up and seized her staff.

“Magic attacks.”

“Too far and too few. Guard me, coven. With me, Daughter.”

A bolt of lightning flashed down, and Califor tossed her staff like a spear; the bolt of lightning followed the staff as it landed a hundred paces away and struck it. Two more hit the staff like a lightning rod, and Belavierr smirked at the skies. Eloise lifted a hand.

“Valmira’s Comets, now. Oh my. I can do one…[Deft Hand].”

She was far less showy than Belavierr, but one of the two comets moved, and its trajectory carried it into the forest.

“Argh, a Hedag I am, not some [Battlemage]! Still—this one I can take.”

Hedag was more direct—she just picked up a crate filled with someone’s possessions, dumped the clothing and goods to the ground, then hurled the crate skywards. It hit the falling comet, detonated—

Belavierr, laughing, saw the last feeble attack coming her way. Mavika called upwards.

“[Flamestrike]. Guard her, flock.”

It seemed as though a cloak of feathers whirled across the air; birds by the hundred. They blocked a glowing jet of flames coming down and dissipated it high above. The birds circled, cawing victory, and Wiskeria began to cackle now, joining her mother’s voice.

All of this, and they couldn’t match a [Witch]’s might! The air was filled with rain and flame—she felt the unnatural fires in the distance, struggling, as Belavierr forced them to die. Water in the sky—triumph in her mother’s eyes.

Dying fire in the skies. The [Flamestrike]’s magic was just mage-magic; once defeated by Mavika’s magic, it became aimless fire magic, rapidly vanishing. Whorls of random fire drifting down amidst the rain.

A single spark drifted down as Wiskeria raised her eyes. A fading, dying ember. Just like Ser Raim’s eyes.

Wiskeria’s triumphant laughter halted. Why had she remembered that man’s face? Wiskeria looked up and then at her mother, and suddenly, her joy in her mother’s craft was bittersweet.

The spark fell down, then another, seeming to condense out of the air. Nothing like the spell itself…a tiny bit of light smothered by the rain.

But not going out. Belavierr was too busy luxuriating in her triumph, the power of the storm above, and her daughter’s delight. Yet Wiskeria’s eyes tracked a third falling spark, and her time as an adventurer told her something.

Strange. That magic shouldn’t do this. The sparks showered down—more, now—and Califor, watching for another attack, noticed.

“That’s not a spell. Witch Belavierr—”

She called out, but Belavierr didn’t hear. Wiskeria stumbled on the moving river; she couldn’t walk it like her mother so easily.

“Mother—”

Belavierr heard that, as ever, and saw Wiskeria point up. At a falling spark. She looked annoyed, at first, by the tiny thing and flicked her hand. The dying ember fizzed as rain struck it…spiraling downwards.

Straight at the Witch of Webs. Then Belavierr’s face grew puzzled. Her ringed gaze focused on the tiny fragment, and she stared at the burning spark for a second. Then her expression changed to one Ryoka had seen only once before.

Fear.

Horror.

Wiskeria remembered Ser Raim driving his sword into the Spider’s heart. A purifying flame. A burning torch, an inferno of her magic and tapestry of power, turning it all to ash.

Two deaths, Belavierr had said. The [Witch] tried to take a step back. She flung out an arm, and the needles shot forwards, trying to stab the tiny fragment out of the air. But the burning spark landed on her dress like a fragment of Ser Raim’s flame.

Like a match—

Belavierr burst into flames. It was as if she were made of oil; one second, she was recoiling, eyes wide, mouth open—the next?

Burning, like the moments before Ser Raim had died. Engulfed in horrific flames.

She stumbled and suddenly lost her footing. Belavierr splashed into the river, and Wiskeria, losing her mother’s aid, landed in the water.

“Mother!”

Above her, the clouds suddenly unknitted, and Califor shouted.

“No!”

She reached up, straining, trying to keep the rainclouds together, but they broke apart. And below? Wiskeria, treading water, thought her mother would rise, the flames gone out. Then she looked into the turgid waters and saw—

A burning woman flailing in the water itself. The river heaved—Belavierr stumbled out of it, pouring water and steam.

The flames refused to die. Then she was writhing on the ground, shrieking.

“She’s on fire! Help, put it out!”

Wiskeria was swimming for shore as Ryoka said the unnecessary, but the Wind Runner tried to help smother the flames—and recoiled from an insane heat. She looked around, grabbed a blanket someone had been meaning to use to carry their possessions, and tossed it, wet, onto Belavierr.

The blanket caught flame. And Belavierr’s scream was growing higher and higher pitched now.

“W-water! Get—”

The river water was useless and burnt into steam the moment it touched Belavierr. Wiskeria was trying to pull the flame off her mother with magic, but it was the same. The exact same.

An echo of Ser Raim’s flame. Her mother was still—

She was still burnt. And a single spark had the same effect as an ember to a vat of oil. Wiskeria was about to leap forwards and use her very body to try and smother the fire when someone shoved her aside.

“Move!”

Eloise tossed what turned out to be a full pot of tea over Belavierr. It was a good toss; the tea extinguished much of the flames, and Belavierr ripped at her dress, tossing the fragments away. She was burnt; not badly, but burnt, and she leapt away, unnaturally quick.

“His flame—”

Califor strode forwards to grind her boots over the burning dress. She snapped at Belavierr.

“Get back!”

The Witch of Webs did just that. She backed away—and Ryoka saw the same thing happen again. A spark, multiple sparks, burning from the dress flickered into the air. And instead of going out—

They homed in on Belavierr. Hedag grabbed one with her bare hand, grimacing, and Eloise trapped another in her pot—

The rest of them set Belavierr aflame. Once more, the [Witch] was screaming. And now—she was running.

Not back towards the river. Towards Riverfarm, through the village. Wiskeria ran after her, calling for Belavierr to come back, but her mother was fleeing. As if trying to outrun the fire itself clinging to her.

Running through the village, and as she passed by abandoned houses, Wiskeria saw a lantern in a window flicker as she passed. A fire from one of the kitchens blazed—

Anything, a candle, an oven’s fire—jumped to her and added to the [Witch]’s agony. Belavierr left the village, fell to the ground, and began to roll—then stopped.

Burning as the rain stopped, the skies cleared, and a Drake shrieked triumph—

Her daughter halted in horror as Belavierr lay there, burning, burning, eyes wide, mouth open in incredible agony until slowly, slowly, the fire died. She lay, smoking, skin charred black, eyes too-white in a body filled with ash. No magic to cloak her injuries this time. Belavierr lay there, then flinched as she stared at the sky.

Smoke was rising again, and now? She reached for the sky, and her arm fell back, limp. She lay there, and Wiskeria spoke.

“Mother?”

“Ah. I see my death remains. So that was how it came.”

That was all Belavierr said. So this was her second death. She looked up towards the skies and waited. The fires resumed burning. Her eyes stole to her daughter, and she lay there, now, seeing it.

Fire. Flames she would have laughed at a week ago—now, each spark a mortal conflagration. Death for the Witch of Webs. Death for Riverfarm.

Here it came.

 

——

 

The disappearance of the stormcloud seemed like a trick, at first. However, as the minutes grew, the flames that had almost been smothered regrew. Some had gone out entirely, but the embers had lingered under peat or other burnable fuels.

It would have taken more than a brief shower to end this. Yet it almost had ended—the Drake didn’t understand what had happened. He put it down to providence as he relit flames and watched them grow. If this was some trick of the [Witches]—no, he doubted they were willing to let the fires rage. Something had taken out the Witch of Webs.

The sky was dark with smoke, but no rain fell. The Drake breathed out, and he unsteadily glared at Riverfarm. Then he unfurled the last two scrolls and nodded. His expression was dark as he watched Riverfarm, no longer confident. Wary.

He bared his teeth as he flew, searching for the final spot to finish his mission. Almost…then it would be over. Ancestors, he was weary, but he murmured a promise.

“Time to end this.”

 

—–

 

“She has been marked for death by flame. It has burnt away every protection Belavierr had, made her weaker to it. A single spark carries a dead man’s vengeance. Should the fires reach her, even she would not remain.”

It was Mavika who diagnosed what had happened hours later. Belavierr, the Witch of Webs, sat in the house allotted to her.

In a bed.

Ryoka had never actually seen Belavierr lying down. It had felt like she didn’t need to sleep, and in truth, she was not really sleeping. She was staring blankly ahead, fingers twitching, so badly burnt that they hadn’t even been able to undress her; her clothing had fused with her skin.

She looked…horrible. Like she had after fighting Ser Raim, but the difference was that this time, she didn’t disguise her ruined flesh. The fires had burnt Belavierr badly. Worse, in a way, than Ser Raim.

No, this was all his doing. It was clear Belavierr was now weak to flame in an extraordinary way; a single spark would actually follow after her and try to set her on fire.

If that wasn’t vengeance, Ryoka didn’t know what was. It was odd to think the [Knight] had cursed Belavierr in a way that even Mavika found impressive. As it was, the Crow Witch’s voice was flat.

Grim.

“Each flame saps her power; if it were mere flesh, she would endure.”

“Is this—is this permanent?”

Poor Wiskeria. Ryoka was here to observe and report back to Riverfarm. All the hope and jubilation of the ritual succeeding had turned back to fear. The [Witches] had called the rain; the Drake had broken their magic. They might have bought time with the brief rainfall, but not much.

And now Belavierr, their trump card, if a deadly one, was almost comatose. Mavika hissed a reply.

“I doubt it is. Your mother can remake any ward, repair any damage, from flame to sword. But that takes time she does not have.”

Time none of them had. Wiskeria took a breath and nodded.

“You’re—you’re right, Mavika. She’s mentioned being cursed like this before. Of all the times—!”

The irony was that Raim’s vengeance had come at the one moment when Belavierr was doing something good. And now—Ryoka got it.

Belavierr’s second death was more dangerous than the first. She would have laughed at the wildfire before this. Now? It was the most deadly thing imaginable.

We’re screwed. No—Ryoka was determined to do something. She cleared her throat, looking around.

Almost all the [Witches] were here. However, Hedag and Califor weren’t present. Hedag had gone to help with Riverfarm’s folk, now digging desperately along the riverbank, and Califor was outside, though for what, Ryoka didn’t know.

Perhaps they had seen Belavierr’s injuries and just didn’t…care. Wiskeria did, and she bent over the bed.

“Mother? Can you hear me? How dangerous is the fire to you? Mother?”

Belavierr didn’t answer. She might not have been able to; her face was barely a face, save for the eyes staring out of burnt-off eyelids. Her fingers, though, were moving despite the trail of ash and blood they left.

She was still moving, though this time, she was…stitching? Sewing something together. A bunch of failed tries lay around her, and as Ryoka watched, a promising bundle of thread that moved like an odd, twisting symbol of magic—fell apart.

“Her flame wards are failing. I doubt she can mend her weakness easily. It will take weeks, perhaps months.”

Eloise observed, not without a bit of satisfaction. Wiskeria’s head rose, and she snapped.

“Well, now she’s unable to give us aid when it matters most! Mother! The wildfires are coming. Can you help stop them? Califor’s trying, I think.”

Belavierr’s vague gaze turned Wiskeria’s way, but for once, she was silent. The burnt witch simply stared at her daughter, and Wiskeria’s hand hesitated. She was holding onto Belavierr’s shoulder, burnt cloth and skin, and the woman flinched.

“Mother, you have to have some artifact or relic in—”

“Wiskeria. You’re hurting her.”

“Hurting?”

Wiskeria saw her mother’s flinching and suddenly let go. She stared at her hand, her mother, and backed up a step.

“Witch Wiskeria, you will do no good here. Leave her.”

Mavika advised Wiskeria. Alevica was just shaking her head as Belavierr tried another ward, a knot, and it just…fell apart. The charred Witch of Webs stared at the mess on her lap.

Fear, defeat, mortality. All things not usual to Belavierr clung to her. Ryoka gave her this: no normal woman could be that badly burned and, without painkillers, just sit there and look a bit upset.

But Wiskeria looked completely torn apart, and only the reminder of Riverfarm’s danger—and now the threat to her mother—got her out of the house.

“This isn’t going to end well. It’s all gone bad. We should get out of here…”

Alevica muttered. She cast around the dark house—all flames had obviously been banned—then hurried out, hunching her shoulders.

Ryoka was tempted to say something to Belavierr in this moment. Perhaps something unneeded, but maybe something about mothers and daughters. One look at Belavierr’s features, which became a grimace of agony, and she decided to leave.

The Witch of Webs actually glanced at Ryoka as the Wind Runner backed up. And her gaze seemed to invite…what? Pity? Ryoka wasn’t sure she could manage pity. Even now, she remembered how Raim and Tagil had died.

If only you had been able to do a good thing. Now you’re in it, with it. That was the kind of—of feeling some of the [Witches] and even Ryoka had. Only one person actually seemed to have pity for Belavierr. Even Wiskeria had only shock.

“U-um, Miss Belavierr? I’m awfully sorry about how hurt you were. You tried to make it rain. T-thank you.”

Nanette approached the bed cautiously, and Ryoka hesitated. Belavierr’s gaze swung to Nanette; she was stitching again, painfully trying to make something, anything. The smallest [Witch] tipped her hat, eyes wide.

Nanette was tough too—she didn’t flee shrieking at the sight of Belavierr. But her eyes had tears in them.

“You got hurt trying to save Riverfarm. I—I tip my hat to you. And this is from me. It’s not much, but Miss Califor made it for me. A cream for burns.”

She offered a tiny, half-empty jar of something herbal to Belavierr. It was probably like putting a bandaid on a cut artery…but it seemed to move Belavierr. At the very least, her fingers stopped desperately dancing, and she stared at Nanette, looking her over.

Slowly, very slowly, Belavierr accepted the jar. Then she patted Nanette on the head. The girl flinched, but Ryoka saw Belavierr hesitate…then produce something and twist it together. She beckoned and offered Nanette something.

It was…a ribbon. Brown, the same color as Nanette’s hair; the Witch of Webs had seen Nanette’s hair, lopsided from Nanette’s sacrifice, and motioned.

“Oh. For me? I, um—”

Nanette hesitated, but then she turned, and Belavierr gingerly, but with some expertise, wove the ribbon into Nanette’s braids. She did it fast, undoing and redoing Nanette’s hair like, well, another type of thread.

When she was done, it was almost invisible, but it had restored Nanette’s braids, so her hair looked as if it hadn’t even been shorn. It was so well done that only if you stared really closely would you see the braid.

“My hair! Thank you, Miss Belavierr!”

Nanette seemed touched by the gesture. She curtsied, remembered to raise her hat, and Belavierr sat back. She held the jar of ointment in her hand and stared out the window, no longer trying to sew wards.

Somehow…that made Ryoka realize how desperate things were. The Wind Runner beckoned, and she and Nanette left the house silently. Belavierr sat there as her death came for them all.

Fire and flame.

Was she afraid? Ryoka glanced back once, and the witch was staring at her and Nanette. Even now…she was a bit terrifying. But Ryoka thought—yes.

She was afraid. But one thing occurred to Ryoka.

Belavierr hadn’t left.

She was still facing this for her daughter.

 

——

 

The fires were spreading across the land. Merging. Becoming a single blaze surrounding Riverfarm. Oh, they spread in every other direction too, but the wind was being used to send the fire one way.

It might have hit Riverfarm that very night, but the rainstorm and one other factor kept the wildfires back. The flames slowed in gathering ground over the briefly-wet terrain, and so Riverfarm dug like mad.

No magic, but just what the [Witches], villagers, and Ryoka knew. Fire breaks. Cleared terrain that would hopefully keep a fire back.

…Unless the heat and wind just murdered everyone standing downwind of the fire, even if they were thousands of feet or a mile away. The smoke might kill them, but the hour had passed for anyone to run.

Groups had gone out, desperate, and many had come back, including Councilwoman Beatica, finding fires in the ways they had hoped to flee. As if someone—that bastard in the skies—was igniting any escape route.

Three times now, the orange glow of one of the wildfires itself had been spotted. Twice in the forest, once rolling down from the northern road. Riverfarm had been given time to lug their possessions away to continue clearing land by the other factor holding the fire back.

Witch Califor. She had taken a position in an ironic or perhaps fitting place.

The hill where Ser Raim had died. It gave her a larger view of the area, and the [Witch] stood there, staff in hand. When the third blaze appeared, she thrust the staff down into the ground.

“You, who knew the great forests. You, the last fragment who remains. This is not your land. These are not your people. But I ask you in mercy’s name—burn. And spare them all this flame.”

She lifted her quarterstaff up. When Califor drove it down, for a second, you could see the forest it had once been part of. A vast land untouched by any buildings of wood or metal. The power of that ancient earth coursed through the wood of the staff, and it flexed and burnt as flames scorched the ancient wood.

A relic of old. A memory—the ash had consumed two-thirds of its length. The third time Califor performed this spell, the fires engulfed the quarterstaff entirely. She held it as it crumbled to ash and looked up.

Sweat was pouring down her face, matting her grey hair. Her hat was lopsided, but Califor’s gaze was triumphant—and regretful. And despairing.

The fire had gone out. In the distance, the patch of burnt land smoldered, but Riverfarm was spared. A third time.

—There were too many blazes. Califor could sense them coming. Her staff had eaten three great fires away. Now, she bent, picking up some of the ash and scattering a handful in the air. The rest she put in a pouch of her belt.

“I am sorry. I should have carried you a hundred more years, found a way to regrow you. Forgive me.”

She said that, then looked around.

“Forgive me.”

The second time, she said it to the land, to Riverfarm. And perhaps…to the young woman who halted there.

Ryoka Griffin had wanted to speak to Witch Califor for a while. When she stopped, wide-eyed, Califor sat down.

“That was all I had left. My staff is gone. My cloak frayed. Too many fires remain.”

“You—you just erased the fire?”

Califor didn’t respond. Ryoka had seen the flames, thousands of feet wide—just disappear. She stood there looking at Witch Califor. The Witch Califor, Alevica had said.

“We have failed Riverfarm. At least, I have. I do not see a solution, Ryoka Griffin. Without Belavierr—we have been bested. Bested by the Drakes, the Walled Cities. Unless the Wind Runner of Reizmelt has an idea. Great magic cannot solve every issue.”

Califor sat with her back to the burnt tree as Ryoka opened and closed her mouth. Then squeaked.

“Me?”

Witch Califor was rubbing at her face, leaving trails of soot on her skin. She was distracted, clearly, exhausted.

“Where’s Nanette? I…I should return.”

She tried to get up, and Ryoka bent to offer her a hand. Califor was lighter than she looked, and Ryoka stuttered.

“I—I was checking on Belavierr. Nanette’s fine. She’s helping dig. I wanted to find you to ask…isn’t there something else?”

“She does what she can. No, Ryoka Griffin. I am out of magic. All I have left is…me. Tricks. Enough to kill that Drake, perhaps. Not halt nature itself. That is the hardest thing for [Witches]: to halt what should happen.”

“But that bastard started the fires! This isn’t nature!”

“Fire is nature. The hand that started it might well have done so for selfish, cruel reasons. Fire does not care. The dry wood that yearns to burn will do so for whatever task it is about. Be it to burn an innocent woman or boil water. It is hard to oppose fire. True, the storm that we conjured was sent away. It might be back with a vengeance. But not today.”

Califor was so tired she was rhyming a bit, like Mavika. She looked at Ryoka.

“Belavierr is wounded; the flames shall be her end. Mavika is the least-suited of all of us to oppose a natural disaster with her flocks. Eloise and Hedag are powerful [Witches], but not in grand scales. That role falls to me. And I have failed.”

She sounded so bitter about it Ryoka hesitated.

“M-maybe I could help? I’m—you know my name?”

“Wind Runner of Reizmelt. Yes, you’re the wind’s friend. Perhaps…though a wind will stoke most flames. And that Drake has control of it with spells. Can you best him?”

“I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Ryoka had tried to free the angry wind under his command. Califor’s voice rasped.

“Not your fault. Though I would have asked where the power came from. It’s not witchcraft nor the magic of druids nor a Skill nor regular spell. You’re an odd woman, Ryoka Griffin. I meant to ask where you came from. But it was never the right time. Now?”

“I…could tell you. We have time, a bit.”

As if to defy Ryoka’s words, the dark sky grew with another glow. Califor’s head rose, and Ryoka saw another fire, smaller but no less deadly, creeping through the forest.

“Fuck.”

“I am curious. But no…I think it has to wait. I do not know you, and you do not know me, Ryoka. If I could—ah, well. What about this?”

Califor suddenly seemed to have a thought. She produced something and handed it to Ryoka. It was a tiny finger…saucer? Yes, just a dimple of beautiful porcelain.

“What’s this?”

It looked vaguely familiar to Ryoka. Without a word, Califor produced something and poured it into a copy she held balanced on two fingers. Then into Ryoka’s.

“A thought. You don’t recognize it?”

Her glance at Ryoka was quick, and Ryoka stared, and the almost odorless smell…her tongue tasted the liquid in the tiny bowl on her fingertips.

“Wait, is this…sake?”

Califor looked amused.

“Ah, I don’t know that word in Drathian, but you recognize the custom.”

Ryoka did a double-take. She stared at the way Califor held the saucer towards her—then took a sip.

“I’m not from Drath. Not exactly—”

“No. You don’t have the accent. But you recognize this. You’re a strange woman. If I had time, I would ask you all of it. Right now? You’re clumsy, like Nanette. But you’re good-hearted and brave. The wind sings your name. You would have made a good [Witch], Ryoka. Though I say that of most women I’ve ever met.”

Witch Califor sipped, and Ryoka took a gulp of the liquid, which was actually fairly mellow. It warmed her up, and she glanced at Califor.

The moment of weakness was gone. Califor stood there, merely regretful as she studied the blaze.

“They turned to me, you know. Prost, those who heard my story. Hoped that Califor could save them. As if I were the better [Witch]. Belavierr has a thousand stories for every tall tale about me. I never relied on my reputation because I couldn’t answer it.”

Califor glanced at the trees near them for some reason, and Ryoka glanced at the shadows, but sensed no lurking Drake. She took another sip as Califor refilled their tiny cups.

“I’m—but you have done great things?”

She was hopeful, and Califor looked at Ryoka.

“Say, rather, I am capable of it. As are you.”

The Wind Runner flushed, both in embarrassment and gratification, and scuffed her foot on the ground.

“I haven’t done much great with the wind. I—I was trying to think of something I could do.”

Her eyes rose towards the flames now consuming the forest in the distance. Wind. Fire. Usually complementary forces, unfortunately. She couldn’t create a void, and failing that, wind only turned regular fires into hellstorms. Like fire tornados. She’d seen one of those on the news once…

Her mind was racing with ideas, a helpless desire to answer all the witchcraft and effort she’d seen.

Califor looked at Ryoka, and her eyes softened.

“You are a brave girl. I wish I had the time to have actually taught you anything. If you have an idea—do it.”

Ryoka hung her head, embarrassed at even suggesting it.

“I can’t. I don’t know how. It’s not like something I can just…push and achieve. And even if I could, I’m not strong enough.”

The [Witch] exhaled.

“I know the feeling. Witchcraft is not strong, Ryoka.”

At the Wind Runner’s incredulous look, Califor clarified.

“Not strong like [Mages]. Compared to an Archmage? One of them could snap their fingers, produce rain, and all of this would be over. A lot of my magic revolves around sympathy. One thing affects another. Like my staff. I made it burn in the place of the forest. Sacrifice is part of witchcraft. Emotion, too; ritual.”

“You do a lot with that, though. Heck, you hid all of Riverfarm! Isn’t that powerful sympathy?”

Ryoka protested, and Califor smiled.

“I have Skills. And experience. But yes…where I come in is providing the answer to that gap between a single staff and a wildfire. It is not enough. Yet if I may—”

Her head turned, and she lifted the cup to her lips, sipping. Looked Ryoka in the eyes.

“—The secret to success in my magic, and perhaps yours, is to take the tiniest of things. A bit of leeway. A chance in a million. Then you grab it and twist until you do what you must. However hard it must be.”

The Wind Runner stared at Califor, and her eyes flickered.

“…I—I can try. If it comes to it.”

“That’s all a woman can do.”

Again, Califor glanced sideways, then at the flames, and Ryoka knew she should go. To practice or…Califor exhaled, dropped the little saucer, stumbled, and Ryoka reached for her. But the [Witch] just caught herself, held up a hand, and Ryoka stopped.

“I truly have let Alevica down. She knew stories of me. In my experience, Miss Ryoka, it isn’t wise to walk about claiming you’re a woman who does great things. Or else everyone expects it of you.”

“Right. I get that.”

Ryoka thought about reputations. And it made sense. Califor was murmuring, hand on the tree for support. She had the little bottle of alcohol in her hand, and she stared down at the delicate piece of porcelain from the Empire of Drath.

“…I also don’t want to give Nanette the wrong idea. I am not that strong or wise or good. The secret, though?”

She pushed herself upright and exhaled. Her chin rose, and she touched the brim of her hat. Her eyes, like a grey storm, glittered in the darkness. Califor Weishart lifted her hat, and her voice sounded resonant.

“The secret is being able to do great things. Then you seldom have to.”

The Wind Runner looked her in the eyes, and the [Witch] smiled. Then she raised her foot—and shattered the beautiful bowl into pieces on the grass. It made a soft cracking sound, and Ryoka stared.

Califor tilted her hand—and the bottle of spirits from another land poured onto the pieces on the grass—and behind her, the sky bloomed.

Ryoka whirled. The fourth fire coming her way suddenly roared into the air. Terrifying Riverfarm. A blast, a pillar of heat and sound—burning high, high—

As if someone had just poured something flammable on it. Califor lifted her hands, as if compressing something, and Ryoka saw the fire burning a hundred times stronger halt—

Raging fire. Incinerating wood, turning it to charcoal—burning out even the embers. Until Califor released her grip, and the wood was smoking—burnt black—

The fire extinguished by its own volatility. Witch Califor leaned back against the tree. In the silence, the Wind Runner offered her the remainder of her drink, and Califor took a sip from the saucer.

“The fires will reach Riverfarm soon. What time, I cannot say. I will find Nanette in a moment. Will you have her meet me at our cottage?”

“O-of course. Thank you, Witch Califor. For the advice and—”

Ryoka stared wordlessly at the woman. Califor simply tipped her hat to her.

“Don’t thank me, Miss Griffin. All I bought was time. Tomorrow—”

Her eyes were faraway.

“—I will let you down.”

 

——

 

The Wind Runner had nothing to say to that. So Witch Califor leaned against the tree until Ryoka had gone, a breeze flowing with her. Then, Califor slowly slid down the trunk and onto the burnt soil.

Showing off to younger women. She would have chuckled if it were not so dire nor things so weary. Califor waited as the second person trudged up the hill to find her.

“Witch Califor. I didn’t want to interrupt. That was splendid magic.”

“Your mother could do better.”

Wiskeria bowed her head, not denying that, as she sat down. Califor wearily opened her eyes. At this moment, the wariness between the two was gone, any gap closed.

“I neither helped nor hindered her greatly when the Order of Seasons sought to end her. Had I done either, we might not have come to this.”

Wiskeria shook her head, shamefaced.

“I should have been more honest with you. I should have—done more with my mother when Ser Raim appeared. I just didn’t believe she could ever lose. Witch Califor, I’m sorry. I know you must disapprove of me, being such a poor [Witch] despite my mother being—and not stopping her.”

Califor’s head rose slightly, and she gave Wiskeria a startled look.

“I don’t disapprove of you, Witch Wiskeria.”

“Really? But I thought…”

Wiskeria trailed off. Califor shook her head, sitting more upright.

“You did what you felt was right. Few children could find it in their hearts to oppose Witch Belavierr, and she was your mother. You saw her; you regretted what had been done. Could you have done something later or as she came here? Perhaps. But no one in the coven, be it Mavika or Eloise, will judge you. Least of all me. I am a selfish witch, as we all are.”

Wiskeria protested.

“You? You’re the least selfish. You’ve been doing nothing but helping Riverfarm! That’s why I came to—to—ask if you’d teach me magic. My craft. Make me your apprentice.”

Witch Califor blinked. She turned to Wiskeria, actually surprised, and Wiskeria blushed.

“I know this isn’t the right moment, but I—you’re the only [Witch] I’d want to teach me a craft.”

“I am honored. But Witch Wiskeria—”

The rejection in Califor’s gaze was faster than Wiskeria had anticipated, but they were [Witches]. They didn’t like prevaricating, and Wiskeria hung her head.

“It is nothing to do with your mother. Or even you.”

Califor clarified, and Wiskeria glanced up.

“Then it’s because Nanette’s better?”

Her look was annoyed, competitive, and Califor clarified with a smile.

“Nanette is my greatest and only apprentice. If you and I had met before her, for you, I might have reconsidered my policy on apprentices. But as I said: I am a selfish witch. Tomorrow, you shall see that, Wiskeria.”

The younger [Witch] tilted her head, but she didn’t try to gainsay Califor like Ryoka. At last, she looked at Califor. Staff gone. Cloak gone. These were just things, but Wiskeria knew she was greatly spent.

…She had not bled for Riverfarm, though. Merely wearied herself in its defense. That was selfishness. For Mavika, or even Eloise, it was understandable, but the Califor of stories should have done more.

“Ask.”

Califor whispered, and because Wiskeria was a good [Witch], however young, she asked the right question.

“Is—is it talent, Witch Califor? The reason Nanette’s your only apprentice?”

At this, Califor laughed. She laughed so ruefully, with such amusement, that Wiskeria stared, then began to bristle in Nanette’s defense. But there was nothing unkind about it. Califor shook her head, chuckling.

“No. It is the most obvious accident and reason in itself, Wiskeria. Your mother might understand. Nanette is my apprentice…and you will be a great [Witch]. I am sorry you did not meet the Witch Califor. I am indeed a coward.”

With that, she rose and bowed to Wiskeria. The younger [Witch] looked up, eyes flickering, and Califor wondered if Wiskeria understood. When she rose, she tipped her hat to Califor.

“I’m grateful. I have admired [Witches] since meeting you all.”

That hurt most of all, but Califor embraced the pain and bowed.

“May it continue.”

Then the night fell, and she turned her head towards the smoky landscape. By the time dawn rose the next day, the pale summer’s light caught on vibrant orange and flaring red, on murky ash and carmine and crimson oblivion.

Then the landscape caught flame.

 

 

Day 70

 

When dawn came and they saw the fires that Califor had delayed on the horizon, the people of Riverfarm digging along the riverbank put down their shovels. They gathered in the village with their belongings taken from the houses.

Some people had found horses and were prepared to ride again rather than stay. Mister Prost did not gainsay anyone, save for people trying to loot what didn’t belong to them.

Yet his eyes were on the [Witches]. So were many of the villagers’.

It was so close, hope and hatred. Distrust became desperation—and they had seen Belavierr almost stop the fires. But while Belavierr had regained her feet—

She was hunched, hat hiding half-fixed features. Good skin seemed to sag and reveal the burnt flesh beneath, and she was hiding, huddling away from the oncoming flames.

At least she had solved her immediate burning issue: the few sparks did not ignite her. They swerved towards her, then extinguished themselves on her clothing. But it was clear she was still a match ready to go up.

—Besides, it was not her that Prost and others looked at, but Witch Califor. She stood there as morning dawned, reading each and every fire from the smoke they sent up, vast trails through the sky. Nanette was coughing as a wet handkerchief covered her face; Ryoka herself had woken up choking on the smog.

Califor looked around, meeting Prost’s eyes, the gazes of children, folk of Riverfarm, the rest of the coven, who watched her curiously, or in Eloise’s case—a kind of calm, smiling resignation.

Last of all, Wiskeria’s and Ryoka’s gazes. Then Califor’s gaze travelled lower. Her apprentice looked up with wide, worried, trusting eyes. Califor gently bent over, and her grip tightened on Nanette’s shoulder.

When her eyes rose, they were filled with grim resolve.

“I am leaving, Steward Prost. I regret that I could not do anything more. Nanette, mount up.”

Her apprentice’s mouth fell open in horror, Califor glanced at her hair with a frown. But the little girl’s eyes were wide with shock—then she saw the pony and horse trotting towards them, saddlebags made up. Ryoka couldn’t believe it. Neither could Nanette.

“What? Miss Califor! But the flames—”

“Nanette. We are going. We can do nothing more here.”

Prost lowered his head. He looked at Califor, and the woman’s face was impassive. Nanette tore away from Califor.

“You can! We might not be able to do another ritual! But we can use smaller spells! Hold the fire back! If we raise the wall higher, we could hold the flames away, conjure enough cool air to outlast the fire—Miss Califor, please!”

Wiskeria pleaded with the older [Witch]. Califor hesitated again. Wiskeria held her breath. So that was what she’d meant last night.

Was she just leaving? Alevica was incredulous. Even Mavika looked shocked. This was Califor. Hadn’t she heard stories of the [Witch] pulling off feats just as grand? Surely—

But then Califor shook her head. It was at Nanette she gazed. And she shook her head as she addressed Wiskeria.

“I am sorry. But Nanette comes first. In that, I understand your mother. You should go with her.”

She pointed. Belavierr was walking towards Wiskeria. And her face wasn’t expressionless. It was intent. Wiskeria gazed at her.

“Mother.”

“Wiskeria. It is time for me to leave. I cannot halt the fire any more than my death. Come. I will bear you out of this place. I have the strength for that.”

Califor’s decision had, it seemed, helped Belavierr come to a decision. A low moan rose from the people of Riverfarm. They had no horses or magic. Belavierr ignored them. she reached for Wiskeria. The [Witch] drew back, horrified.

“We can’t just go!”

“You must. Or you will die. The chance of surviving this is slim to none. Wiskeria, listen to Witch Belavierr. She speaks with your interests at heart.”

Califor snapped as she crooked a finger.

“No arguments, Nanette. I will not risk your life.”

“But I want to stay! They’ll die! Miss Califor, please!”

“No.”

Nanette sobbed, then began to kick and struggle, but Califor picked her up and put her on the horse. The other [Witch] mounted and glanced down. Wiskeria looked up helplessly at her.

“There’s a chance.”

“There is. But part of raising a life is putting that life first. Witch Wiskeria, you may hate your mother. You may disagree with her. But she has ever put your life above her own. She has tried to protect you. And I cannot fault that. I would fault the rest of Belavierr. But never that.”

Califor studied Wiskeria and met Belavierr’s eyes. The Stitch Witch dipped her head slightly. Califor raised her hat.

“I am sorry. But this day, I am a coward first. I cannot let Nanette risk her life. Goodbye. I hope you all survive.”

“Miss Califor!”

The plea came from the [Witch] girl. Nanette made to jump off the horse, and Califor reached out to snatch her back, but Prost interrupted.

“Go on, Miss Nanette. I can’t fault Miss Califor her decision.”

The rest of Rivefarm clearly could, but Prost had something in his eyes. He nodded to both Califor and Belavierr for some reason. Nanette hesitated, and Ryoka called out.

“Go, Nanette.”

She didn’t get it, not right now, but she couldn’t bear the little [Witch] getting hurt. Nanette hesitated, and Mavika spoke.

“Go, child. Do not argue with your master!”

“But—”

Nanette whispered, and Califor ignored her. She steadied Nanette, then pointed and whistled, and the horse and pony took off. They shot past the crowd, out of the village, and Califor didn’t look back.

Ryoka respected that, at least.

 

——

 

Califor raced south with Nanette following. Nanette shot one agonized glance backwards. And then they were moving south between two plumes of smoke. And Belavierr’s gaze followed them.

“She is right, you know. She understands what it is to be a mother more than I. Daughter, come with me. I can protect you. You and perhaps a few others. Is that not enough?”

She reached out to Wiskeria. But her daughter recoiled. Wiskeria still couldn’t take her mother’s hand. Too much lay between them. And she gazed around and saw the desperate faces.

Stories. Once, Wiskeria had watched an army die. They had called her their [General]. And she had seen them buried. She had come to Riverfarm and protected it. And she had once loved her mother. For this and so many other reasons, she couldn’t. So Wiskeria begged.

“Mother, please stay! Please! For me?”

Belavierr hesitated. She looked into Wiskeria’s face. And she hesitated. The immortal, distant gaze was gone. A far more mortal one was there. Uncertain. She looked at Wiskeria and stepped away.

“I see it now. You are my death as surely as the fire. If I…no. Daughter, come. You have done all you can here. Come with me and take other lives to save. They will certainly live. If you stay, you risk everything.”

Wiskeria knew it was true. But she clung to hope. And she glanced around. At Chimmy. At Prost, Ram, Durene, Rie, Nesor—and she knew what her answer was. Had to be. She regarded her mother, tears in her eyes.

“I can’t. I can’t abandon them. We can still stop the fire. The fields—”

She couldn’t finish. A chance. She reached, but Belavierr stepped back. The Stitch Witch hesitated. And then she turned away. She looked back just once as she began to stride away.

“I must go. Daughter, please come with me.”

Wiskeria shook her head.

“No. I have to try.”

Belavierr paused. She almost smiled. Strangely. Awkwardly. But she just seemed…sad.

“I never did understand you. But D—Wiskeria. My beloved daughter. I do not want to end. Even for you.”

For a moment, she hesitated, and Wiskeria looked at her. Belavierr, who had faced down Raim and the [Witch Hunters], who had remained and worked great magic for her daughter—surely she would stay. Surely…

The Witch of Webs turned away. Just like that, as if Wiskeria were suddenly, like Raim, a lost memory. She ignored her daughter’s call, her cloak whirling, her burnt features set.

Then she was gone, walking away towards a black horse that rode towards her. She mounted it and rode away like Califor did.

And then it did feel like the…end. Ryoka Griffin looked around. The villagers stared after Belavierr. Their panic turned into a cold certainty. They looked at each other. And they began to flee.

“If you run, you’ll burn! With me! Everyone, dig, with a spade—with your hands if you have to! We need that wall and fire break to be as long as possible! Move!”

Prost roared, trying to regain control, but now it was a panic of people, many fleeing in every direction. Some of Lancrel’s folk and the outsiders stayed, like Jelov, and almost all of Riverfarm ran towards the river. They listened to Prost and believed this was safest. But others just ran.

The coven—the coven was breaking. Alevica was next. Ryoka saw her call her broom towards her. The Witch Runner grinned shakily. She was still pale and clutching her stomach where she’d been stabbed.

“Alevica.”

“Wotcha, Ryoka. Hey, listen. It’s been great, really. But it’s time to go. Catch you later if you make it out, okay?”

The [Witch] stopped as Ryoka grabbed her shoulder. She spoke urgently, trying weakly to prize Ryoka’s hands off her.

“Look, our debt’s settled. Me helping you with the charm? All settled! I owe you, even! But—I’m not staying. Not for this. Not if you paid me two thousand gold pieces. I—I don’t want to die, Ryoka.”

She tried to take off. Ryoka let go of her. Alevica flew upwards. And then her broomstick wobbled.

“No—no!”

The [Witch] crashed down to earth. Alevica rolled, tried to get up. She cursed. Eloise walked over towards her. The old [Witch]’s face was grave.

“You’re out of power. You spent it in the ritual. And your wound’s taken the rest.”

“No! I can do this! I just need a potion!”

Alevica stumbled unsteadily to her feet. Eloise shook her head. She slapped Alevica across the face. The Witch Runner stared at her.

“Alevica. If you fly, you will die. That Drake will pick you off. They’re trained in air combat, and you’ll run out of mana, even with potions. Come with us. Mavika has agreed to fly with us.”

She pointed. Hedag stood with Mavika. The [Executioner] was speaking with Miss Yesel. The woman’s face was white. She was pushing a screaming Chimmy towards her. More parents were clustered around Mavika, Hedag. Holding children. Ryoka’s mind went still when she saw that. Alevica looked up, desperate, relieved.

“You won’t leave me?”

Eloise shook her head. She pointed south, the way the other [Witches] had gone.

“Califor can ride through the fire as it hasn’t fully spread yet. But it will be far harder for us. I propose fire-resistance charms. We move in a group. We can take children, some villagers perhaps. No more.”

“Eloise—!”

Wiskeria’s voice was pleading. The [Lady] turned [Witch] peered at her and shook her head. She walked back towards Hedag. Mechanically, Wiskeria and Ryoka followed.

“We cannot take all the children.”

Mavika hissed impatiently. Hedag cradled an infant in her arms. Her eyes were unblinking. And there was that same terrible light in them as when she had swung her axe.

“No. But your crows might lift some. Some might fall and die. ‘Tis up for the parents to decide. Those that can run will come with us. No more than fifty.”

Mavika paused and nodded. Eloise’s gaze was distant. She bowed her head.

“Very well. We can try to part the flames for that many. But there are more that will follow. They’ll try to stop us.”

“Let them try. My flock will chase those who follow away.”

Mavika’s eyes were dark. Wiskeria glanced around. The hope and panic had turned dark. People were watching. Listening to the [Witches]. More were congregated around the river. Some had gone back to the village, returning with hammers, wood.

Galloping hooves. Ryoka spun. Charlay stopped in front of her. The Centauress gulped, coughed. The sky was orange. The flames had turned the sky glowing. In the distance, everything was smoke and fire.

“Ryoka. I’m going. Are you coming?”

“Charlay?”

Ryoka looked up at her. And then she looked around. Wiskeria was watching her. Ryoka hesitated.

“Charlay, the fire’s everywhere. I’m staying. The [Witches] might not give you safe passage. If you helped carry them, maybe—”

“No. I’m going. I can run faster than anyone else. If you wanted to come with me—”

Ryoka hesitated. She felt it too. Fear. She was afraid. But—it was already too late. She shook her head.

“The fire’s already surrounding us. The safest thing is to go with the [Witches] if they’d let us, Charlay. And that’s…we could survive here. I’ll try to blow the fire away when it gets close. With the river, there’s a chance—stay here!”

But the Centauress shook her head.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to die either.”

She turned. Ryoka shouted desperately.

“Charlay! Don’t! No matter how fast you run, the smoke will kill you!”

There was no way the Centauress could break through that much fire. Charlay glanced back once.

“I’m sorry!”

Then she ran. Ryoka wavered. And then she ran, shouting.

“Charlay! Don’t! It’s—”

Seeing Ryoka run after Charlay was the last straw. Wiskeria saw the last group of people not frantically working with Prost run to the river. But why there? The [Witch] saw as she spotted a group of makeshift boats. And leading them, at the head of a group of Lancrel’s folk, was Councilwoman Beatica. The woman was shouting at Lady Rie, who was arguing with her.

“You will not make it down the river, Councilwoman! Listen to me, all of you!”

Lady Rie was shouting to make herself heard. But no one was listening. Panicked, they grabbed for the overladen, crude boats. That was what Lancrel’s people had been doing rather than working on the firebreaks. Wiskeria felt a surge of fury. And then she heard Beatica’s high, panicked voice.

“We are leaving! We’ll go down the river in boats! The water will give us safety!”

“You’ll die! Do you think the river will protect you? The water will boil you if you swim, and if you go in boats, you’ll die to the heat and smoke! The wind is blowing—”

Lady Rie’s voice fell on deaf ears. Beatica screamed, and the first boat shoved off. A huge crowd of people followed it into the water, grabbing at the other boats. Several capsized; the rest shoved down the river, overladen. More people followed, swimming, trusting to the water. Wiskeria looked up and saw Lady Rie’s pale face.

“They could make it.”

“No. I spoke to Laken. The fire engulfs the river on both sides. The smoke is too thick. Some may survive. But they will be far too few. We may have to retreat to the river ourselves. But—”

Rie turned away. She slowly walked back towards the field. There was fire on the breeze now. Fire and ash. Eloise, Hedag, Mavika, and Alevica stood with a group of children and a few parents, all laden. They watched her.

Wiskeria wavered. She searched for Ryoka. For Durene and Prost, still desperately working. Frostwing was screaming as she flew in a circle overhead. Even Bismarck was pushing dirt towards the wall the villagers were trying to build.

Then someone cried out. Ram turned and pointed. And everyone looked up. Wiskeria didn’t see it at first, lost amid the lurid orange glow on the horizon. And then she saw the movement in the skies. Hope finally extinguished itself in her.

It came out of the storm cloud fueled by smoke. A shifting at first. And then a clear, moving, black and red shape. Everyone turned to watch. [Witches]. Villagers. Wiskeria. Ram’s face was white as he stared up at the writhing pillar of wind and fire.

“Dead gods. What is that?”

“A twister. One made of flames.”

Eloise spoke quietly. The old [Witch] gazed up. It was coming straight at Riverfarm. So fast that Wiskeria could see it travelling across the ground. The flames were coming with it. Embers flying through the sky. And the Drake was laughing as the last scrolls fell from his claws. The [Witches] glanced at each other. Mavika spread her arms, feathers emerging from her robes.

“I am sorry. But I cannot shield you from that.”

Eloise nodded.

“I understand. Go.”

The Crow [Witch] hesitated. Her crows were flying off, led by her raven, fleeing the approaching tornado. Wiskeria looked at Mavika. And then she felt her mother’s name on her lips. Eloise and Hedag were gazing at her.

“Wiskeria!”

A voice bellowed her name. Wiskeria turned. She saw Durene. Durene and Ryoka. The half-Troll girl was carrying a limp shape. Charlay. Wiskeria ran over to her.

“What happened?”

“She tried to go south. The wind is throwing embers at us. The smoke—she passed out.”

Ryoka was burned across her shirt and face. She peered at Wiskeria. And then back at the twister. Wiskeria’s voice was numb.

“I can try to get you out. And Charlay, if she wakes up. Maybe my mother can hear me still. But I don’t think she can stop that.”

The City Runner nodded.

“Do what you have to do. But I still think there’s a chance.”

Wiskeria laughed. The laughter was high, hysterical. As close to cackling as she’d ever come.

“How? How can anyone flee that?”

The young woman didn’t answer. She was looking at the twister. And Mavika hadn’t fled. She was watching Ryoka. Dreamily, Ryoka got up. She glanced at Durene. Charlay. Prost, who had gone to his family. Rie, the [Witches], and then at Wiskeria.

“Stay here. The land’s cleared. The fire can’t spread. It’ll throw embers and smoke, but you might be able to make it, like Laken said. Stay low to the ground. The smoke goes up. Get in the water, maybe, although it could boil. Either way, there’s a chance. If you can make oxygen, air, do it. Shield everyone here.”

She pointed around. More than half of Riverfarm hadn’t fled. Perhaps because there was nowhere to go. Perhaps because they still believed in an [Emperor]’s words. Ryoka took another breath. Coughed. She was shaking. She looked at Eloise, Hedag, and Mavika. Alevica was sitting on the ground, her head in her hands.

“You—[Witches]. If you stay, could you protect them?”

“We might. We could try calling air and redirecting the fire. But we could also run.”

Hedag leaned on her axe, eying the flames to the south. She was watching Ryoka too. So was Eloise. And even Alevica looked up. Because Wiskeria felt it too. Ryoka’s fear had subsided. A calm resolve was in her. She was still terrified. But she was calm. Ryoka nodded. She addressed Hedag, gesturing the way Califor had gone.

“The fire’s too wide to break through. If you could fly, you might make it. You’ll never do it on foot. Califor? Maybe. You’re on foot. And the horses will panic. This is safest. You know wildfires.”

Hedag’s eyes glinted.

“Aye, I do, Runner-Girl. There’s sense in what you say. Stay. But that whirlwind of flame will be our end either way.”

“Not if I stop it.”

Ryoka gazed up. And her expression was bleak. But she smiled. Wiskeria looked at her, disbelieving.

“Stop it? You?”

“Wind’s child.”

Mavika murmured. Ryoka nodded. She stood up, remembering what Califor had said, and suddenly she was as light as a feather. Relaxed.

She was going to fail.

But she had to try. Ryoka spoke to the witches, to everyone.

“I came here for a reason. It might have just been because Laken asked me. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe it was this. I’ll try. The wind listens to me. If I can’t change the direction the tornado’s coming, go down the river. And tell Erin—tell Laken—I did my best.”

She turned. Wiskeria shouted at her back. But Ryoka was already running. Running straight ahead. And the wind blew faintly at her back. As the tornado raged and came towards her.

 

—–

 

“You will never thank me for this, Nanette. Nor will I be proud, but perhaps, someday, you will understand why I did it.”

That was all Witch Califor said as she drew a blade. She swung it and cut through a wall of fire and parted the inferno for her rearing horse. Then dismounted to drag both her horse and Nanette’s pony through the ash.

Behind them, the fires advanced, and Nanette felt the wildfire raging. The tornado had come to earth. And the witches and Riverfarm were trapped.

Nanette was crying. The burning fire dried her tears. But the flames never touched her. She rode, clutching Miss Califor’s dress. The [Witch] rode the stallion through the flames. Behind them, Nanette’s horse had fallen.

But they were free of the fire. They broke through the fire and burning skies into ash and clearer skies. Califor was breathing hard. But as she slowed the dark horse, she was untouched. She gazed down at Nanette.

“Nanette.”

The [Witch] girl’s eyes and nose ran. She looked back at the fire. She could see how far it stretched. And in the distance, the whirlwind of flame.

“They’re going to die. All of them.”

She’d thought Califor could save them. Do anything. Now, Nanette knew how Wiskeria felt, and it was too painful.

Califor didn’t reply. She just leaned on her horse, panting. And she seemed tired. The two glanced around the ash and smoldering landscape. They had made it. Califor had ridden through the flames, refused to let them take her.

But how many had her magic? Who else could run away? Nanette looked back desperately. But no one else broke through the wall of fire. Califor dismounted and gripped the horse’ reins.

“Stay on the saddle, Nanette. We must keep moving. And keep an eye on the skies for that Drake.”

The [Witch] cautioned Nanette, and she urged the horse forwards. Nanette was still crying. She didn’t respond. The two cut out of the fire as Califor slashed a hole onto a cleared section of burnt road. No one would be able to follow; it was too deadly.

However, someone was ahead of them, standing on the road.

Belavierr halted next to her dark horse, who stood there, stock-still, not even pawing the ground despite the flames being so close. Nanette blinked incredulously.

She’d made it! No—she looked burnt; getting through the flames had to be dangerous, but the Stitch Witch would live if she fled.

But her daughter was in Riverfarm. Nanette gave Belavierr a betrayed glance, almost as much as her feelings towards Califor.

—Until she saw Belavierr’s face. The Stitch Witch had halted in the burnt road, her eyes cast backwards. A flaming tapestry was burning on the ground away from her, and the beautiful piece of magic…a twisting girl was caught in the flames. Then, a woman.

Belavierr didn’t move. She stood there and watched them. Califor and Nanette halted.

“Belavierr. Your daughter wouldn’t come?”

“No. I escaped, but she would not run. She will die there, wind or not. For the lives of the villagers. I foresee it. Witch Califor—you had the strength to escape the fire.”

“The others might, if they stick together.”

Belavierr raised her hat, giving Califor a lost stare.

Nanette saw Miss Califor grip the reins tighter. The horse Nanette rode snorted, eyes wide. It was as wary of Belavierr’s beast as the fire. Nanette froze. But the Stitch Witch didn’t say anything more. She just sat astride her horse, regarding them. And then she spoke.

“Witch Califor. The fire is vast. A blaze without magic. But in its way, more terrible than a [Knight]’s fire. Few Archmages I remember could defeat such a blaze alone.”

“Perhaps you remember them. But fewer still could put out a fire today.”

Califor’s voice was sharp. Tired. Belavierr paused, then nodded.

“My daughter remains. She refused to leave. I cannot save her. Not without facing—”

She stared at the flames and shivered. They seemed to reach for her, even as they advanced, and Belavierr’s gaze swung to the tapestry. Her death.

Nanette’s breath caught. She looked at Miss Califor. The older [Witch] bowed her head.

“Stubborn girl. She made her choice. We are all selfish witches in the end.”

Belavierr’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Yes. She is a fool, but my daughter. Ever my daughter. I have never counted the cost of her to me. We are one thing.”

Almost, she turned back, but the flames were licking higher, and in the distance, a tornado rose. Belavierr shrank from the flames.

“Tell me, Witch Califor. Do you know of a way to stem the fire? I can think of only one way.”

Miss Califor paused and nodded.

“I know of the same way myself. But the cost is not one I would pay. Nor do I think you wish to pay it. But it is possible.”

“Yes.”

Belavierr whispered the words. She looked back, and Nanette saw she was afraid. Her eyes turned back, and Nanette stared into that ringed, orange gaze. Belavierr paused.

“She is my daughter. But the choice is mine. I do not wish to pay it.”

Califor’s voice was sharp. She sat on her horse, wand raised, in, Nanette realized, a standoff. The smoke was choking the air, and Nanette reached up and felt at her burnt, messy braids. They itched and seemed to rustle as Belavierr glanced at Nanette, then Califor. Califor put her own hand out, shielding Nanette.

“That is every [Witch]’s decision. I would not fault you either way. To protect Nanette, I abandoned the coven. I would do it again.”

Miss Califor’s voice was quiet. Belavierr nodded. She paused—then reached out—and Califor caught her hand. Belavierr had taken a step forwards, a dozen feet—and Witch Califor had rode forwards as well. Passed eight feet in a single horse’s hoof—caught Belavierr, and rebuffed her, so the other [Witch] rocked on her feet.

“Let us part ways now, Witch Belavierr. Fire surrounds us. Not your element. We have seen too much loss. Do not push it further.”

Califor’s eyes were warning, her voice overly loud. Nanette saw Belavierr staring at her, and the Stitch Witch’s eyes swung to Califor.

Califor twisted Belavierr’s arm, and Belavierr grimaced. She backed up.

“I merely wished to ask—”

“I decline to talk. Nanette, don’t let her touch you.”

Now, the two were circling, eyeing Nanette, but the flames were making Belavierr flinch. Nanette didn’t know what to do, so she lifted her hat.

“I—I bid thee farewell, Witch Belavierr. If I should meet other [Witches], I will speak your name.”

A traditional farewell. But it came out of her throat hard. She felt a cold shiver, like something running down the back of her neck, as she saw Belavierr’s eyes on her. So desperate, now.

So very afraid. Belavierr’s eyes flicked to the fire, her daughter’s burning tapestry. Nanette’s face.

“Once, Wiskeria was as small as you. I remember those days.”

She waited as Nanette put her hat on her head. And then she turned. She seemed old and tired as she sat on the saddle. But she straightened. And the Stitch Witch, Belavierr, looked back at the fire. It blazed behind the three [Witches]. Belavierr sighed. And she turned and nodded at Miss Califor.

“For my daughter, Witch Califor. I might do anything.”

Califor only nodded in reply and gripped her wand tighter. Belavierr tipped her hat, then bent over the tapestry. A burning Wiskeria stood there, and Belavierr reached for the dying flame.

All will die. None will remain. Nanette was weeping again.

Witch Califor had no time to watch Belavierr hesitating. She jerked her head urgently.

“Move, Nanette.”

She led her apprentice past the Stitch Witch, watching Belavierr, but the Stitch Witch just raised her head and looked at Califor, defeated. And now Califor was urging Nanette to gallop, carrying Nanette across the burned land to safety. Miss Califor kept her gaze ahead as her apprentice kept crying.

“Miss Calif—”

Nanette’s voice cut off. The girl made a strangled noise and scrabbled at her neck. Califor halted.  Califor, heart pounding, stared at the little, brown ribbon and fumbled for a knife.

When she looked up, a woman stood behind Nanette, tipping her hat.

 

—–

 

Ryoka saw it burning ahead of her. So much fire that it didn’t seem real. It looked like the entire world was on fire. It was like staring at hell. A vision of it.

She was afraid. Terrified. The wind wasn’t coming to her aid. It was shackled. Forced to blow against its will. But fire and pressure had created that tornado. And now it raged, hurtling towards Riverfarm. Ryoka had struggled to stop strong breezes. How could she stop this?

The City Runner ran on. Coughing, choking as the smoke grew heavier. She tried to keep low, but beyond this point had been when Charlay passed out. She tried to call the wind—ran on.

Past a hill with a burnt stump and ruined grass. A bit of unmarked soil marked a traitor’s grave. A [Witch] with a huge hat sat at the base of the hill. Her clothes were dark. Her eyes orange and ringed. She glanced up as Ryoka passed by.

“Oh, hello. Terrible weather, isn’t it?”

The City Runner stopped. She stared wide-eyed at Belavierr. The Stitch Witch was just sitting there. She nodded ahead at the burning oblivion and tornado growing in the distance.

“Miss Ryoka Griffin. Would you like to speak for a moment? Or is now a bad time?”

Ryoka nearly laughed. It was the same Belavierr. The same—but different. She still didn’t know what to say. She still guessed at being normal. But she was Human. And she looked weary as Ryoka halted.

“I can stop for a moment. But I’ve got a date with the fire.”

“As do we all. You run towards it.”

“Yeah. I guess I think I can do something about it. Why’re you here? I thought you left.”

“I have not decided yet. My death comes. But my daughter stays. So I wait. I am wondering. If.”

“If?”

Belavierr’s eyes glinted.

“If I should take her by force. If I can avoid my death.”

Ryoka glanced at the tornado. It hadn’t grown larger. So she hesitated. Gestured back towards Riverfarm.

“You seem certain. Aren’t there a lot of ways you survive?”

Belavierr shook her head.

“No. My death is fairly certain. I have seen it. I wove the tapestry with a [String of Fate] that I might see my deaths. And I saw the [Knight] and fire. This is the second of my deaths.”

“Yeah, but you could leave—you don’t have to stay for Wiskeria’s sake. Or abduct her.”

The [Witch] sighed. Loudly. She glanced up at Ryoka again.

“If it was that easily avoided, it would not be my death. I know myself, Ryoka Griffin. So long as my daughter remains, I do too. I only wonder if my death would save her. Or if there is a way to escape it. The last time took the death of a man. A traitor’s choice. And my immortality. This time, I have neither to give.”

She stared at the fire in the distance. Ryoka watched it. But—she still had time. So she walked over to Belavierr. She looked at the Stitch Witch. Belavierr glanced at her. She was holding threads in her fingers. Was she playing some…convoluted game of cat’s cradle? It seemed like it, with threads as thin as hair. She noticed Ryoka staring at it, and the threads vanished into one sleeve. Belavierr paused, peering at the City Runner.

“Tell me something. Once, before, you called yourself my daughter’s friend. And you proposed to help us reconcile. How did you intend to do that, Ryoka Griffin? Or was that a lie?”

Ryoka shrugged her eyes on the fire. It had slowed down, definitely.

“I had a plan. I was going to get you to do some magic with Wiskeria. Something positive. Like—making more charms. She’d have to help you and maybe learn something. And you’d show her you could do good. I thought that was worth a try. I mean, I know I’m not an expert. But no one else was trying to help.”

“Hm. Strange.”

“What is?”

“You. Few people wish to aid me. My daughter has told me she hates me. What makes you wish to help me?”

The young woman hesitated. She sat down across from Belavierr, keeping one eye on the fire.

“I don’t agree with Wiskeria. I don’t think you’re good or evil. And I think…it’s good you survived. I just wish Ser Raim didn’t die. And the [Hunters]…”

She paused. Embarrassed. Ashamed. But that was her thing. She liked immortals. Despite herself, she still liked Belavierr. Vampires, Dragons, the fae—there should be a place for them in this world. Even for the [Witch] who sat there.

“All you do is offer deals. And it’s the people who take them that suffer. There’s a justice in that.”

Belavierr half-smiled.

“I’m capable of offering poor deals, Ryoka Griffin. Of making threats. I sewed your lips together, as you recall.”

Ryoka ran a tongue over her lips.

“True. Do you do that often?”

“No. My craft demands I am fair. Things taken by force have less value. But my daughter does not lie when she calls me a monster. I think.”

“Right. But I can’t help…respecting what makes you not fit in my world. My best friend was like you, in a way.”

“Hmm. Strange. You are much like my daughter, Ryoka Griffin.”

“How so?”

Belavierr looked up. She shrugged.

“I do not understand you. Nor my daughter. I do not understand her. Despite losing my immortality. But I would rather she lived, especially now that she has found her purpose. I was…happy to learn of it.”

“What? Her craft? You mean when she hit you with lightning? And she used justice against you? You liked that?”

Ryoka had her own opinion of that moment. The idea of calling on a collective will like that made her feel uneasy. It spoke to her of lynch mobs and public will. But she was hardly about to debate that with the tornado—Ryoka cast a quick glance ahead. It hadn’t moved? Or had it barely crept closer? What was going on?

Belavierr just smiled, though.

“Justice? Oh, that. Well, Wiskeria is free to make mistakes.”

“You think it’s not her craft.”

Ryoka blinked at her. The [Stitch Witch] nodded back the way Ryoka had come.

“Justice is a fickle, untrustworthy thing. It twists and bites, and it is a harsh ruler. It can consume everything or ignore half-wrongs. It is a stupid choice for a [Witch]. But that is not what gives me joy, Ryoka Griffin. It is my daughter discovering she could take it.”

“I don’t follow.”

The Stitch Witch paused. She glanced up and shook her head.

“When she took it from the villagers, she did what no [Witch] could. Not one of us. She became a new [Witch] in that moment. A [Witch] for the new era. One who can harness the power that belongs to law. The power of order and rules. That is Wiskeria’s true craft. It will make her strong. Perhaps—stronger than the old ways ever could. And most importantly—I know what drives her.”

Slowly, she tapped her chest.

“Me. Her hate for me let her find her craft. And it was what made her a [Witch]. And what stopped her from finding her path before now.”

“But that’s…”

Ryoka held her tongue. Belavierr glanced at her.

“What?”

“It’s so…isn’t it painful?”

The Stitch Witch paused. For a second, something like that flitted over her face. Then she just shook her head.

“Better that I am the source of her strength. Far better that I know it. I…have given her nothing. My daughter. From the day I found her and took her as my own, I tried to give her many things. I have given her food. Shelter. What I knew of…love. But poorly. I know that now. And I have given her nothing since we parted. If I could—if she asked—I would give her what she desired.”

“What, exactly?”

Belavierr stretched her hands out.

“Gold. Fame. Power. If my daughter asked, I would find it and give it to her. Whatever the cost. Because she is my daughter. But she does not ask. And she never will.”

Ryoka paused. She sat across from Belavierr. She studied the Stitch Witch.

“Can I have—”

“No.”

“What about a little charm? Like the one you put on Wiskeria…?”

“No. I offer nothing for nothing. My daughter is the one exception.”

Ryoka sighed, staring at the distant fire. Time hung still around the two of them. At last, Belavierr seemed to notice Ryoka’s worry.

“Do you wait for the fire?”

“Yup. I’ve got to do something before it gets to Riverfarm. But it’s not moving closer. Are…are you doing that? Or is that Drake out of wind? It’s still blowing. So why…?”

Ryoka frowned, licking her finger and feeling the air. Belavierr smiled.

“You need not worry. We sit together in an [Immortal Moment].”

Ryoka jumped.

“A—?”

“A useful Skill. I learned it the last time I leveled up. Recently.”

Ryoka hesitated, then bit her tongue nearly hard enough to break the skin. Belavierr turned her head.

“What?”

“Nothing. Uh…Wiskeria doesn’t want gold. Treasure? Power? She never asks for any of it? Not even once?”

The [Witch] stared at Ryoka. And then she shook her head slowly.

“When she was young, she asked it of me. Toys. Small things. I gave them to her. And then—she asked a favor of me. On behalf of a boy she knew. On the day she became a [Witch].”

“Will you tell me what happened? Since we have time?”

Belavierr nodded. She gazed up at the burning sky.

“It was a different time. We had fled the village where she grew up. My craft had enraged the villagers. Perhaps she hated me then? But she never said it. And I found a second home. One in a city. I believe she struggled then, because of me. But for her, I used my craft for gold. And I attracted attention. I cared not for it, but for her I worked my spells. And she made friends. One of them was a boy. I do not remember his name. But one day, my daughter came to me with a request.”

Ryoka waited. Belavierr’s eyes were lost. She spoke on dispassionately. Her face unchanged as it glowed in distant fire’s light.

“She wanted me to grant his request. For he was a [Prince]. The prince of his nation. The Griffin Prince? That was it. The new one. And she called him a dear friend. So I agreed. And the boy told me he wanted to be proof against blades that he might be the mightiest [Prince] his kingdom had ever seen. A worthy [King].”

She paused. Her face changed not one whit. Ryoka spoke.

“And? What did you do?”

Belavierr looked at her oddly.

“I did it, of course. I gave him his protection against blades. To do it, I cut him apart, piece by piece. And I wove him of my magic again. So long as my craft endures, he will be proof against blades. I did that for my daughter, but she fled me. And she cursed my name. That was the day she told me she hated me, Ryoka Griffin. That was the day…she became a [Witch]. And she left my side thereafter. Then, I did not understand why. I am trying to remember why it could be now.”

She paused, frowning. Ryoka just stared at her and felt cold. Here sat a monster. Or if not a monster…someone else. Mortal, yes. But…she cleared her throat, coughed.

“Was he screaming when you cut him apart and…sewed him together?”

“Who?”

Another blank expression. Ryoka paused.

“The Griffin Prince.”

Belavierr stared at Ryoka. And then she blinked and sighed.

“Oh. That was why she hated it.”

She shook her head. Ryoka was silent. Belavierr looked at her hands, mystified, and then tired.

“It has been a long time since I took my first life. So long that I cannot even remember who it was or how. Or why. But—I still remember a young woman who swore she would never forget that day. Yet that day itself? I am old. Too old to have been a mother to my daughter.”

“Why did you do it, then?”

Ryoka was endlessly curious. But she felt the moment coming to a close. The fire tornado was moving again, ever so slowly. But she and Belavierr clung to this conversation. Both feared the future. Belavierr shook her head.

“I don’t know. But there she lay. And she looked up at me. And she would have died had I not picked her up. So I did. Because it filled something in me.”

That was it. A monster. Immortal. Unfeeling. Distant. A [Witch]. But it was her, Wiskeria, alone who grounded Belavierr. Ryoka just didn’t understand why. So she asked.

“Why? Why are you going to die for her? Why can’t you leave her or let her die and not care like so many others? Belavierr the Stitch Witch, why does Wiskeria matter to you?”

The Stitch Witch peered at her. And she took a long time in replying.

“In any sewing, there is a first stitch and a last stitch. And there must be a knot. An ending, or else what is made must unravel.”

Ryoka nodded.

“So is Wiskeria the first or last stitch?”

Another look.

“She is my daughter, not a thread. I am making a comparison. We each are a tapestry, a weaving. And she was not the first or last thread in mine. I am my own work. And yet, somehow, though my first stitch was sewn long before hers, her threads and mine are interwoven. We are tangled together. But separate.”

Belavierr wove her fingers together, staring at them. She went on quietly.

“And yet, somehow, despite my daughter’s youth, despite that she and I share no blood save for the original blood of humanity, she matters to my tapestry. She is bright color on darkest cloth. Without her, night is the same as day. Without her, contrast fails. And I would have no meaning.”

She looked up, seeming slightly…

“It is how I can explain it. Does that answer your question, Ryoka Griffin?”

“Yeah.”

The City Runner glanced away. And she stood up. She avoided Belavierr’s eyes as the [Witch] looked questioningly at her. Then Ryoka turned and nodded.

“I wish my mother had said she loved me like that. So that’s why it’s your death.”

Belavierr nodded. There she sat. And the moment passed. Ahead of her, the tornado burned. Ryoka gazed ahead. Belavierr spoke.

“I would like to be loved. I am afraid of death. My daughter must live. But I fear death. So I search for an alternative. Perhaps there is one. But a mother’s love holds me here. But you. You have no child. Why do you run to your death? You fear it too, don’t you?”

“Oh yes.”

Ryoka looked ahead. And the fire howled. The wind blew hot on her face, and she shivered. She was afraid.

“Then why do you run to yours?”

The young woman turned. And she smiled at Belavierr. At the curious face. Ryoka breathed in. And she sighed. She reached for her belt and touched a bit of frozen courage. A bit of friendship.

“Because I have a choice. And I’m afraid of who I would be if I left. I’d like to be a good person.”

“How strange.”

Ryoka laughed. Then she began to run. She left the [Witch] where she sat. And she ran forwards, trotting, jogging, and then running. Ahead of her, a twister of ash and flame bore down on her.

“Wind. Come on. I know you’re more than a tool for someone to use. You’re free. Come on. Run with me.”

Ryoka whispered. She shouted. And the wind blew around her, clearing the ash. It was all fire. Embers blew past Ryoka, smoke and sparks mixing. The ground burned. Ryoka’s soles blistered as she came close to the blaze. But she looked up. The tornado was blowing waves of heat at her. She raised her arm. And she shouted.

“I am the Wind Runner! And I call the wind! Be free!”

She turned. And she began to run. Fast. Faster than she had ever run. The wind howled behind her. And the tornado raged. It blew towards Riverfarm, caught by the wind that pushed at its back. Until it sensed the second breeze. And the young woman who called it.

The whirlwind of fire turned. It began to blow after Ryoka. And she laughed. She ran, trying to outrun the pillar of flames that swerved after her. She had never known the wind could turn to fire! She ran, and the ice in her hand froze her as the fire burned behind her. Chasing her.

Once, Ivolethe had told her that she didn’t understand the wind. And Ryoka still didn’t. She could not fly. She could not run with the wind. But she could lead it. And she did.

She ran. The tornado of fire raced after her over barren grass, turning away from Riverfarm. Chasing the young woman who dared it. She ran on, laughing, screaming as it burned her. Carrying it as far as she could with every step. Faster and faster until she ran with the racing fire. Across scorched ground. Through ash and embers.

Faster. The wind howled at her back. And the fire caught her. It touched her and embraced her, but she did not let it consume her. And she ran with fire. Until the fire was spent and flickering, far from its fuel. Then the young woman stopped. She glanced back and saw the trail she had run. And the fiery winds had nothing left to burn. Ryoka Griffin spread her arms, laughing. She looked at her charred body and fell.

“Impossible.”

Overhead, the Oldblood Drake stared as the whirlwind of fire changed course. He stared as the young Human woman ran and it followed. She should have died in that first hundred feet. But she ran on. And the tornado blew after her. It lost the fire that gave it strength and heat. The winds refused to blow to Riverfarm! The Drake screamed his fury. He watched the City Runner fall. And he contemplated her death. But she was already burnt.

The Drake turned his gaze towards the village. The wind now blew where it pleased. And the tornado was gone. But the fire was still advancing, devouring the dry landscape. He whispered as he flew lower. He had long since used his fire breath past its limit. But he had a mission to finish.

“It will still happen. The village will still burn. And so will they. If I have to finish it myself.”

So the Drake dove. He breathed, and the fire raged. It raced over the fire break, fanned by his breath, which set the very earth alight. Until it met the five [Witches] who stood against it.

 

—–

 

“Hold it back. Hold. It. Back.”

Wiskeria stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Hedag, Eloise, Mavika, and Alevica. The [Witches] faced the flames as they raced across the edges of the fire break. Wiskeria’s palm was raised. And all of her force was directed towards the fire.

Embers burned as they flew towards the villagers. Sparks and smoke parted as the [Witches] held their ground. The people of Riverfarm were gasping, falling back towards the river. They were surrounded by fire. On the other side, the fire was licking at the village’s wooden buildings. When they went up, the inferno would trap them on both sides.

It was hot. Wiskeria was trying to hold back heat and ember and smoke. She could feel the blood vessels bursting in her eyes, her nose. She staggered. The four other [Witches] stood with her, combining their power. They wavered, and the fire advanced.

Durene was still trying to fight the fire with dirt and a shovel. The others had fled backwards towards the center of the fields. A shrinking circle of people huddled together as the smoke and heat drove more and more towards unconsciousness. Wiskeria gritted her teeth. Just a bit longer. A bit longer and the flames might extinguish themselves! Run out of fuel!

Then a spark of light made her turn. She looked across the river and saw it. Bright flames. Burning brighter for what they consumed. A low groan escaped her lips. Riverfarm was on fire.

But the fire could not spread by the wind. Ryoka had set it free. Wiskeria watched the village begin to burn. Then she turned her attention ahead. The fire had halted. The fields gave it so little to consume, and the firebreak had stopped it. Wiskeria held her ground. And she held it. They could do this. They could!

Then her death fell from the skies on copper wings. The Drake breathed fire, and his breath ignited the earth itself. The [Witches] glanced up and scattered. And the fire, unblocked, raced forwards.

“Burn! All of you!”

The Drake roared his fury. Wiskeria fell to one knee as the other [Witches] dodged. She saw Eloise raise her hand. Together, they tried to stop the flames. And the fire’s backlash set Eloise aflame. The old [Witch] screamed.

Wiskeria saw the fire racing forwards, burning and adding to the Drake’s flames. They went straight for Riverfarm’s folk, who cried out in fear and despair. The Drake laughed. Wiskeria lay on the ground, spent. She looked up as the fire touched her and began to burn her.

“I tried.”

She tried to cry. But it was too hot. She lay there, burning. And the scream bubbled at her lips. Her people were screaming behind her, catching flame as the Drake burned them, as the fire burned them all.

Riverfarm.

People.

[Witches].

 

——

 

The flames were covering the people, the [Witch], and embers fell from the sky like a mockery of rain. An inferno that would kill even if the fire didn’t burn; the very air was impossible to breathe.

An [Emperor] was screaming, unable to do a thing. A Drake was laughing as he looked down at enemies he had never met before this month.

Fire. It could not be stopped, but perhaps—

Perhaps it did not have to kill all.

Wiskeria, burning, saw a figure riding towards her across the river. The river was almost gone, yet the horse leapt across the gap, and a woman lifted her glowing gaze. The inferno did not touch her. The horse she rode was black. And she sat on it, her hat pointed. Her eyes flashing. Her voice was like thunder.

“Halt, fire! You race and burn everything away! But I? I have a life I must save! So burn and follow me!”

Choking. Flames covering her, searing her with an agony—Wiskeria’s eyes were blurring. She could barely hear; her hair was on fire. She whispered.

“Mom?”

The [Witch] rode forwards. Her voice called the flames.

They halted, across the river, as they licked at Riverfarm’s houses, and the tornado caught the Wind Runner. The flames on Wiskeria stopped burning and—turned.

Towards the [Witch]. She lifted her hand, beckoning them, spreading her arms wide, welcoming them, and the fire ran. It leapt off Wiskeria. She felt her agony cease, saw Prost, shielding his family with his arms, turn as flames jumped off his back.

Such a cry of relief. Of life. Wiskeria’s voice was the same until she saw where they headed. Then she grabbed at them.

The [Witch] was riding past Wiskeria. Her back was straight, her blue dress fluttering, the only color in a world of opposites. Red and black, streams of orange and yellow, flashing around her. Then it was as if the entire world followed after her.

A stream of blue and her ringing voice and the hoofbeats sweeping through all the death, drawing it away from the others. Now, she was riding, fast, racing ahead—but the fire was faster.

It caught the [Witch] in a moment. Raced up her horse, and the stallion caught fire. Then the flames touched the woman and covered her in burning light.

The [Witch] screamed. Wiskeria was screaming too, running after her, reaching for her. But it was too late.

The flames on her had gone out. The [Witch] rode on, and the fire leapt from the people. It abandoned the ground and raced after her. She clutched her hat to her head as she galloped, a fireball.

“Come, flame, I offer my magic and craft. I offer a [Witch]’s bones, a mother’s love! I offer my life to turn your wrath! So come and burn away. That my daughter might live one more day.”

“Mother!”

Wiskeria shouted, but the [Witch] didn’t look at her. She was riding away, now, towards the open fields with nothing left to burn but her.

The flames burning the forest, the village—the entire region ablaze followed after like a stream of destruction. Bound in a single woman’s wake. Still, the [Witch] rode on, though the horse was stumbling, and her skin was immolating, turning molten. She was pulling, now.

Pulling the flames—all of them—after her. They roared across the ground, leaving the village, leaving the [Witches]. Burning her.

And still, her back was so straight. Her head rose, despite the agony, and she sat, dignified. Proud.

A [Witch] of legends. Wiskeria’s eyes were blurring with tears, but she had to see. The [Witch] rode ablaze with light, slower, now, the horse stumbling through that empty field. And she laughed. She cackled. With triumph and regret and all her craft. Wiskeria sobbed.

“Mother. Mother!”

The tears ran down her cheeks, and she screamed. Far ahead, the rider was slowing. The horse was failing. And the woman slumped in the saddle. But on they went. A blazing pair, their steps slowing as the flames found nothing left to take. They burned the [Witch]. Devoured her down to her bones, now. And there she stopped. Still sitting upright in that saddle, a skeleton holding onto a burning hat.

Wiskeria ran towards her mother, weeping.

“No. No.”

The Drake flew downwards, screaming. He was spent, coughing. But he had his spear. He dove. And Alevica’s crossbow bolt struck him in the chest. The Drake twisted, and the [Witch] slashed at him, cutting his arm. He snarled and slashed at her, and she flew backwards.

A shriek pierced the black sky. Mavika dove, a monster of wings, and the Drake screamed and struck at her. She ignored the jabbing spear and tore at him.

To earth he fell, snarling. He stood, bleeding, and drank from a bottle. He charged with his spear raised at the old [Witch] who he saw first. And the [Executioner]’s axe caught him across the neck.

“[Headman’s Last Cut].”

The [Infiltrator] jerked. The Oldblood Drake, the smiling man, twisted. He looked into Hedag’s eyes as the axe cut into his neck and shoulder. He jerked away, stumbling. His life’s blood spattered to the ground. Hedag lifted her axe for a second strike, but the Drake spat one last plume of fire, warding her off.

“Healing potion. Healing…”

He reached for it. And he drank it. Splashed it on the wound. But it refused to close. The Drake gazed up into Hedag’s eyes. And she smiled like the sun.

The Drake searched around. The [Witches] stood around him. He reached for his spear. But his arms were out of strength. He gasped, trying to slow the blood with one claw.

“I am one. Just one. Someday, Humans. We will bring you all to justice. Every last one.”

The [Witches] said nothing. They watched as the Drake slowly sat down. He gazed at the blood on his claws. Faintly, slowly, the [Infiltrator] looked up.

“I’m cold.”

He stared up at the sky and died. The [Witches] watched. Then they turned as Wiskeria wept and the last of the fire went out. They bowed their heads and removed their hats.

Rain began to fall.

 

—–

 

Charlay found Ryoka. The Centauress was weeping, running from burnt logs to felled trees, calling Ryoka’s name. She found the young woman lying on the ground. Her potions had been destroyed by the fire. Her clothes were barely intact, more fused to her charred flesh than anything.

But she was alive. Charlay hugged her and gave her potions, her hands slipping. It was wet. The rain was falling on the charred landscape. A light drizzle. It hurt Ryoka until the potions did their work. Gently, Charlay carried her back to the others. Ryoka muzzily kept asking whether the others were okay.

Some had died. Two-thirds of the people who had tried the river had perished. Mayor Rodivek had died along with many of Lancrel’s folk. Somehow, Councilwoman Beatica had survived. As if to prove that the fire had taken lives without discrimination.

Those who had fled by ground had perished almost down to the last person. The fire had been too much for anyone on foot or even horseback to outrace. Only Riverfarm remained.

What there was of it. For the fire had eaten away at a number of houses on the edge of the village of Riverfarm, but it hadn’t consumed the village. Nor had it touched the people who’d sheltered in the field. Between the [Witches] and the…end…Ryoka found most alive. Many were burned, but there were healing potions and bandages.

She saw the corpse and rider and the gathering as Charlay brought her through the crowd. Durene helped Ryoka off Charlay’s back and carried her. Ryoka asked to be put down, though she had to lean on her friends. She had to see. She stumbled forwards as the people parted. And her sigh was the only sound in the world.

“Belavierr.”

The fire had burnt her away. Her and the horse. It had made her thinner, burnt at her flesh, reduced the horse into barely…but still she sat there. There was no orange glow in her sockets. No clothing left. Just a body. She and the horse still stood upright. Two charred figures fused into one.

The [Witch] had died mid-laugh, her head thrown up to the sky. Ryoka wondered what Belavierr’s last expression had been. Happy?

People were kneeling around her, staring up at the woman. Not a single person had been spared the flames—but she had taken their death. Ripped it from them. Saved them all.

A bad witch? Ryoka had never seen a better one. She had saved Ryoka, too. The Wind Runner whispered numbly.

“I thought I could stop it.”

One of those gathered around the body glanced up. Wiskeria was kneeling by her mother’s corpse, unmoving. Mavika looked at Ryoka. She bled, but the poison had been tended to. Her expression was sad. Nothing more. She nodded at Ryoka as the other [Witches] gathered around her. Eloise was speaking to Wiskeria, her eyes on the corpse disbelieving—but her words resolute.

“You could not prevent her death. But without you she might have died in vain. She made her choice. And she died a true [Witch].”

Ryoka regarded what remained of Belavierr. It was true. It had been a truly epic magic to end it all. She had contained a wildfire’s inferno in her body and carried it away from Riverfarm. All of it. The fire that had spread for miles had gone out with the [Witch].

And she was dead. Ryoka didn’t know what to say. Searching around, no one did. The people of Riverfarm silently looked on as Wiskeria wept for her mother. They had hated and feared her in life. She had killed Ser Raim, turned Tagil against his companions and to his death. She had manipulated, stolen life, and she had committed atrocities Ryoka couldn’t even imagine. But she had died for her daughter.

Her coven stood around her. Mavika watched in silence, her crows circling, her raven perched, watching. Eloise gazed at Belavierr, mystified, her hat resting in her hands. Hedag leaned on her axe, seeming old and tired and full of grief. Alevica was just sitting, staring up at the [Witch].

Wiskeria wept until there were no more tears, and she just lay there. At last, Prost spoke. He jerked his eyes away from the corpse.

“She deserves to be put to rest. We’ll cremate her? Or should we bury…?”

He looked around. Ryoka stared at him, and the man regarded her blankly.

“She deserves a proper funeral.”

Wiskeria raised her head at that. Her eyes were swollen, but she had finished weeping. At least for now. She stood, Mavika and Eloise supporting her.

“Fire is fine. She won’t mind. It’s only her…body. Besides, it was her death. She wouldn’t care.”

The villagers looked at each other. And slowly, they found wood. Still—glowing embers. They took the remains of houses. Built a pyre larger than any Ryoka had ever seen. It surrounded the [Witch], still mounted. And Wiskeria herself lit it. She had no words to say beyond a whispered goodbye. No one else could say anything.

“Goodbye, Mother.”

Ryoka watched the fire burning upwards, licking at the wood that refused to burn in the light rain. The fire slowly, reluctantly, built.

A pyre for a great witch. One last painful flame…and as they were about to light it, one last time, the last of the coven appeared in the distance.

A woman on horseback and a short figure on a pony. Ryoka had hoped—expected that if anyone had survived, it would be these two.

It gave her a slight smile, and she raised her hand. Riverfarm’s people murmured, without surprise, and Ryoka wondered how Witch Califor would arrive. Ashamed? Unapologetic for riding away?

Ryoka could not blame her. The two rode forwards, the girl on the pony riding hard. The older [Witch] rode slowly, a strange languid motion to her passage, and Ryoka’s lips moved to shout.

“Nanette! Calif—”

A sudden hiss from beside her made Ryoka pause. Mavika, eyes shaded, had stared at the two distant figures. Her crow-eyes had seen something Ryoka had not, and as the Wind Runner turned back, she saw Eloise blanch.

“No. She didn’t—”

The [Witches] looked ahead, then behind, and Ryoka, like a silly girl, stared at their faces. Then the racing girl, riding on horseback, leaving the [Witch] behind. Then—Ryoka heard a shout from Nanette, who rode, crying something out.

A horrified, weeping shout from a daughter. A desperate scream.

“Mother!”

The fire was rising around the burnt [Witch]. As Nanette rode towards Riverfarm, she saw the blaze rising higher. But she almost threw herself onto the flames. Ryoka stared at her until Hedag seized the girl, and the pony reared, screaming, and fled from the flames. But Nanette kicked and tried to leap onto the pyre. Hands outstretched, tears in her eyes.

“Mother! Mother! Mommy!”

The sound broke the silence. It twisted the solemnity, turned it to confusion and discord. Ryoka raised her head. She saw Nanette struggling, tears running down her face.

Wiskeria stared at Nanette. She looked at the burning corpse. Her mother.

“Mother? Nanette, that’s Belavierr. Wait, was she your…?”

No, that couldn’t be right. Belavierr, Nanette’s mother? Wiskeria stared at Nanette without comprehension. There was nothing to support…

Ryoka turned slowly. She felt it. The coven gazed up. Wiskeria held Nanette as the blood drained from her face. Slowly, Ryoka looked to Hedag, who had let go of Nanette and stepped back. And Hedag’s eyes were fixed on the woman riding towards them in the distance.

“Miss Califor?”

She was so distant, yet. Unhurriedly returning after it was all over, sitting tall on her stallion. A tall, imposing woman. Robes so dark as to be almost midnight, but blue, with a splendidly large hat.

Witch Calif—Ryoka’s head swung back to the burnt figure on horseback, to Nanette, screaming as she reached for the dead [Witch]. Then back to ‘Califor’.

And her treacherous eyes revealed the truth: it was not Witch Califor, a tall woman, but not that tall. Face calm as she surveyed the devastation and death.

Relaxed, even triumphant. Regarding the ash-filled sky and mourning people as if they were amusements she were passing by.

Then, Ryoka understood and lost the ability to speak or even think.

Belavierr rode back into Riverfarm as the people looking for Miss Califor turned and saw not the woman who had saved so many, but the Spider, the Witch of Webs. They fell back in shock, turned to statues themselves. Looked up and met her callous eyes. And she?

She smiled in the best of moods and tipped her hat, and they flinched and fled. Stumbling away from her like scattering leaves.

Wiskeria’s eyes were locked on her mother’s face. The coven turned to the burning witch—and now Ryoka saw Nanette’s face. Filled with tears and grief and guilt. And her throat—

A brown choker, a ribbon, tight around Nanette’s neck. As Belavierr dismounted and lifted a hand, it unravelled, and Ryoka recognized it. The ribbon Belavierr had given Nanette.

Hidden in her hair. Then—Ryoka was sick enough to vomit, and only the horror kept it in. Belavierr walked forwards as the ribbon slithered away from Nanette and towards her. She tucked it into her cloak.

When she halted, she just stood there. In front of the coven. Surrounded by Riverfarm. Facing the burning [Witch]. A monster dressed in darkness, the greatest smile of satisfaction on her face.

Belavierr spread her arms wide, wide, and her beaming grin grew. She turned to Wiskeria, the folds of her robes fluttering in the breeze. With ash and death drifting from the folds of her dress. With damnation falling with each word from her mouth.

“My beloved daughter.”

The mourners looked up. Then they turned to the burned [Witch]. And they understood. Ryoka stared into Belavierr’s eyes, and she saw Belavierr’s true heart. The Stitch Witch’s spread arms beckoned Wiskeria, a mother inviting her daughter to leap to her arms.

“I found a way to live and save you, Daughter. Come to my arms.”

Wiskeria stood there, looking back at the real Miss Califor. The burnt witch. At Nanette, who had begun to scream until she had no voice—and then at her mother.

Her mother who had done what she always did: trade.

In this case, a life for a life. Nanette’s…the brown ribbon…for Wiskeria and all of Riverfarm’s. And Belavierr’s.

A glorious bargain. She looked so satisfied with herself. So pleased—

Belavierr didn’t react to Ryoka until the Wind Runner was almost on top of her. Then her gaze flicked sideways, and Ryoka, screaming, punched Belavierr in the chest. She drew something—a knife—and stabbed Belavierr in the side.

Or tried to. Her blade skidded off Belavierr’s dress. Ryoka punched Belavierr in the face, in the chest, and her fist nearly broke. Belavierr tilted her head.

“Ah, Ryoka Griffin. What a fine day it is, isn’t it?”

The Wind Runner tried to murder her—and Belavierr stared at Ryoka and flicked her aside with one hand. Then she looked up.

“Hello, my coven.”

The [Witches] looked at her. A [Witch]. A fellow [Witch]. They had not judged her, not before this. Now?

Alevica drew a wand and sword. Mavika’s claws were talons. Eloise drew a wand, and Hedag lifted her axe.

Mavika slashed across Belavierr’s face. Eloise fired a glowing, pink spell into Belavierr’s side, and Hedag brought her axe down as Alevica fired two shots from her wand at Belavierr’s leg.

The Witch of Webs did not react. She tilted her head as Mavika slashed through her features, claws rending her nose, tearing apart her face and eyes—

And in the next second, Belavierr’s features were whole. The three spells struck her robes and did nothing. Hedag brought her axe down—and it bit deep. Belavierr lifted a hand and caught the axe as Hedag tried to drive it deeper through her shoulder to cleave her in half.

She gently removed the axe and tossed it aside.

“Ah, a coven no longer, I see. I grant you those blows, sisters, as proof of the friendship we shared. But I tell you it was the best deal I struck. For Riverfarm, for me, and for thee. Now, begone, little women. I wish to speak to my daughter.”

They kept attacking her, and Ryoka, sobbing, tried to tackle Belavierr, grab a leg—move her. She could not. Belavierr’s head swung down towards Ryoka, and she gently picked Ryoka Griffin up. Put her on her feet.

Even patted her on the head, and a finger lifted Ryoka’s chin. Belavierr whispered, a smile on her face.

“Do not make me angry, girl. You are alive, and I am in the finest of moods. Step back, be silent. Or I shall make a new pact.”

She caught Mavika’s hand as the crow-witch began to grow.

“The same to you, sisters. In this place, at this time? You have everything to lose. I swore to let Califor’s daughter live in exchange for one great deed. Nothing else.”

Belavierr pointed a finger at Nanette, who didn’t move, reaching toward her mother’s corpse. The [Witches] hesitated.

“Belavierr. You will pay for this. No [Witch] in the world will give you shelter or aid, I swear it by my hat. You have a witch’s grudge—you wretched thing. You worthless pile of shit.”

Eloise was trembling with fury, her voice ringing like someone else—and Belavierr glanced at her dismissively.

“From Mavika that might be a threat, but she knows better than to earn my grudge. The only other woman who could make it well is dead. Begone, broken [Lady] and humbled, little witch. Now see, my daughter, what I have wrought? I am my old self, as you never knew. Do you see? I did it all for you.”

Belavierr swung one arm out, and her smile was a terrible thing. She walked forwards and bent towards her daughter. She reached out, and Wiskeria raised a shaking hand. It had a knife, but Wiskeria was shaking so badly that she could barely hold it. Belavierr captured Wiskeria’s hand, ignoring the blade. Her voice was soft, delighted, as she stroked her daughter’s head. Gently. So lovingly.

“My beloved daughter. You will remember this day forever. You have found your craft, and you will be the first [Witch] of a new era. One of law. Of order. And you will be the greatest [Witch] of us all. This is my love for you, Wiskeria. This is what I can give you. I will be your craft. Stop me. Hunt me.”

Belavierr bent. She kissed her daughter on the forehead. Then she held Wiskeria’s face in her hands, turning it right and left, as if memorizing it. Belavierr’s hands tightened a second—and for a second, she seemed to hesitate, as if about to do something else. Twist? Then she let go.

“What a strange weakness you are, my daughter. I do not hate it. I have enjoyed being a mother. I will watch you grow and delight in your every stride. Until the day I die, we are mother and daughter, Wiskeria. Until the day I die.”

And then she turned and walked away. She looked back once at Wiskeria, waved, and then she was gone.

 

 

 

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