Well of Witches

by J. A. White

  “Please work,” he said. “Please work.”

  Taff slowly opened the door of the hideaway. As he did, the door to Safi’s cell swung open as well.

  Kara’s mouth fell open.

  “That’s a really neat trick,” she said.

  Taff shrugged.

  “It’s not a trick. It’s magic.”

  The three children exited the Stonehouse and followed a path north, away from the beach. By now, Kara hoped, the Children of the Fold had completed their hunt and moved on to the next village, but it was always possible that one of the townspeople, interested in joining the Fold and wanting to gain Timoth Clen’s favor, had mentioned Kara and Safi. Just in case, it would be wise to find a hiding spot as soon as possible. Until she knew the graycloaks were gone for sure, Kara didn’t like being out in the open.

  “I thought you were going to leave me,” Safi said.

  “Never,” Kara replied, keeping her voice low. “Besides, it was my fault you were in that cell. I should have trusted you, like you said.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe I would have hurt someone. I don’t know anymore. I’m so confused.”

  Kara took the girl’s hand.

  “We’ll figure it out. Together. But right now we need to—”

  She heard the nightseekers before she saw them, padded footsteps that were far too soft to be boots, the clink of claws on cobblestone. Stalking them from behind and getting closer.

  “Run,” Kara whispered, pushing the two children forward. And then, realizing that the time for whispering had passed, shouted, “Run! Run!”

  Kara could see them now at the bottom of the hill, four nightseekers sprinting at full speed, anxious to catch the girls who had escaped their test. The children ran. Unhooking the slingshot from his belt, Taff fired while moving. An invisible pellet clicked off the cobblestones. A second shattered a window. His third shot found its home. There was a crack of bone, a howl of pain. The lead nightseeker stumbled, its injured leg no longer able to support its weight.

  “Yes!” Taff exclaimed.

  His elation was short-lived, however, as three new shapes appeared at the top of the hill, cutting off any avenue of escape.

  They were surrounded.

  Behind them the approaching nightseekers stretched to their full height on narrow hind legs. They moved slowly, savoring the hunt. The lead nightseeker, larger than the others and with a silver thatch of hair on its chest, kept its eyes on Kara, as though claiming her.

  She tried the door of the nearest house, pounded on it fiercely. Safi and Taff did the same to other doors. No luck.

  Think, think, think. . . .

  The lead nightseeker slinked closer, a low growl in its throat. It scraped the translucent needle that had emerged from its paw along the cobblestones, the resultant scratching noise sending a shiver up Kara’s spine. She remembered what it had been like when she was five years old, her entire village watching eagerly as the needle pierced her skin. But I’m not a witch anymore. It’s Safi who needs to be protected. She shielded the girl with her body as the nightseeker, only a few yards away now, leaned back on its muscular haunches and prepared to leap.

  And then the night was alive with rattling wheels as a black carriage drawn by a pair of rampaging horses swung violently into the lane, tilting for a moment on two wheels. Regaining its equilibrium, the carriage barreled over the surprised nightseekers, running down two and clipping the leader before coming to a screeching halt just in front of Kara. Lucas turned in the coachman’s seat, the reins of Shadowdancer and a smaller horse clutched in his hands.

  “Get in! Come on! Come on!”

  Shadowdancer whinnied impatiently, seconding Lucas’s words.

  Kara opened the door and shoved Safi and Taff inside the carriage. She heard nightseekers just behind her, their violent panting. She doubted they would harm Safi—a prized addition to their master’s cages—but they might be frustrated enough to hurt a girl with no magical powers at all.

  Kara wondered what nightseekers ate.

  And then she heard the hum of Lucas’s bow, a gathering storm of energy. The boy stood on the coachman’s seat, the shaft of the bow gripped between three fingers while he drew back the bowstring with his good hand. He fired, and with a commanding whoosh! the glorb-powered arrow passed through the neck of the first nightseeker and into the silver-thatched chest of the second. There was a stunned silence, and both creatures collapsed.

  The final nightseeker, upon seeing the result of this strange weapon, immediately turned back to its innocuous, doglike form and slinked away.

  Kara got into the carriage, which started to move before she even closed the door behind her. The compartment was clean and comfortable, with a bench on either side. She slid between Safi and Taff.

  On the opposite bench sat West.

  Drifts of white hair hung across his face like an untended garden. West wore no shoes, and his toenails were so long that they hooked downward like talons. Still, Kara thought he looked younger than when they had first met, as though the dangers of the night had rejuvenated him.

  “You three are an interesting bunch,” he said. “And not just to me. Someone mentioned your names, and now this man pretending to be Timoth Clen is obsessed with finding you. I fear he shall tear our entire town apart in his search.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Kara. “We never meant to cause any trouble. They’ll be after you too, now.”

  West waved away the thought.

  “What are they going to do? Kill me? They’re welcome to the last morsels of my life; the sweetest ones have already been eaten.” He nodded toward the front of the coach. “I’m more worried about my grandson there. After all this time, the thought of losing him again . . . He reminds me of myself when I was his age. Except I was much better-looking, of course.”

  The old man leaned across the empty space between the benches and took Kara’s hands. Thick veins protruded from his wrinkled skin, but his grip was still strong.

  “I owe you the deepest of apologies, Kara Westfall. I asked you to help our town, and you have performed your end of the bargain admirably. In exchange for this, you requested two things. The first was the return of your friend, which I’m glad to see you’ve accomplished on your own. No thanks to me.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “True as that may be, there’s nothing an old man hates worse than an unfulfilled promise. If I was young, and had the years at my disposal to amend such a wrong, that would be one thing, but . . . enough of all that. I’m here mostly about my second promise. Sablethorn.” He linked his long fingers together. “Why do you need to go there, if I may be so bold?”

  Kara saw no reason to lie anymore.

  “A witch cast a spell on our father and possessed him with the spirit of Timoth Clen. We aim to undo the curse, and for that we need to reach Sablethorn. There’s an entranceway there into the Well of Witches, back from when it was Phadeen.”

  West raised his bushy eyebrows with amusement.

  “You children really do lead the most complicated lives. That reminds me. Look under the bench there.”

  Reaching down, Kara pulled out the sack of magical toys. Taff screamed with delight and yanked them from her hands.

  “Lucas went back to get them,” West said. “He thought they might prove useful.”

  “Thank you,” Taff said, beaming. “I thought I’d never see them again.”

  “There’s something else,” the old man said.

  For a second time, Kara slid her hands beneath the bench. She withdrew a smooth object, oddly wet to the touch.

  The white grimoire.

  Safi’s body went rigid. It looked like it was taking all her willpower not to tear the spellbook from Kara’s hands.

  “Thank you,” Kara said. “I’m sure you took no small risk to retrieve this.” She turned to Safi. “I understand what you’re feeling right now. The pull of it is overwhelming. Like a man starving for days suddenly finding himself before
a massive feast.”

  “Yes,” Safi said.

  Kara placed a hand on the girl’s cheek. “You’re not alone,” she said, and the words, perhaps the most magical of all, caused Safi to shudder with relief.

  “I’m afraid that if I use it now I won’t be able to stop,” she said. Tearing her gaze from the grimoire, she looked at Kara with pleading eyes. “Could you hold on to it for a little while? Just until . . . until . . .”

  “Until you’re ready,” Kara said, sliding the grimoire beneath the bench.

  The wagon bucked up and down over an uneven surface; they had left cobblestones behind and were back on dirt roads.

  “Farewell, Nye’s Landing,” West said.

  “Are you taking us to Sablethorn?” Kara asked.

  “That brings us back to my original point,” West said. “I’m afraid you’ve been misled. As I said when you stood before the Mistrals, Sablethorn is not real.”

  “But you people didn’t even think magic was real!” Taff exclaimed.

  West leaned back in his seat, considering this.

  “Your point is well struck. Who can say for certain what is real and what is make-believe in this changing world? Books grant magical powers. Storybook beasts hunt witches. Why shouldn’t Sablethorn exist as well?”

  “Where would it be?” Kara asked. “If it did exist.”

  “Beneath the Forked Library in Penta’s Keep. A long journey. Months by horseback.”

  Kara remembered her last dream of Father. He had seemed so close to realizing that he was trapped in an endless cycle. Once he did, his sanity would disintegrate until there would be no saving him at all.

  “We don’t have months,” Kara said. “Maybe not even weeks.”

  West smiled.

  “Then you’ll just have to ride something a lot faster than a horse. Luckily, we’re only a three-day carriage ride from Ilma Station. From there getting to Penta’s Keep is easy, providing you can supply the fares—which I can. Months of travel shortened to a day.” West leaned back and crossed his ankles. “Chins up, children. You’re going to ride the Swoop!”

  They traveled through the night and deep into the next day before Kara insisted that they stop to rest the horses. She stroked Shadowdancer’s flank and fed her wild carrots, the simple trust in the animal’s eyes calming her. Kara was in a foul mood and knew it. They had passed through Denholm earlier that morning, one of the villages that Timoth Clen had “saved” from a witch, and she had seen boys and girls dressed in gray cloaks waving hastily made ball-staffs. At the edge of the town, a sculptor had been chiseling away at a statue of Timoth Clen himself. No one spoke about the nightseekers, or the three girls who had been dragged away in iron cages, innocent except for a certain unused talent.

  What is wrong with these people? Kara wondered, her face burning. Don’t they see what he really is?

  But they didn’t, of course. All they saw was a savior.

  When she felt more like herself, Kara helped the others set up camp for the night. Once they had a strong fire burning, West broke a branch from a tree and led them over to a large patch of dirt.

  “Timoth Clen will be looking for you,” he said. “Rygoth as well. When you get to Penta’s Keep you’ll need to blend in as best you can. There are certain things you need to know. We can’t have you acting like three children who grew up in seclusion and are completely ignorant about Sentium and its history. The last thing you want to do is raise any eyebrows.”

  “What’s Sentium?” asked Taff.

  West stared at him in disbelief. “This is precisely what I mean.”

  “Sentium is what people call the World,” said Lucas.

  “The World has a name?” Kara asked.

  “Sentium,” Taff said, trying it on for size. “Sentium, Sentium . . .”

  “It sounds strange at first,” Lucas said. “You get used to it.”

  Holding the branch with two hands, West traced a rudimentary map in the dirt: a large, oddly shaped continent broken into four major sections. He pointed at the heart-shaped center where the regions intersected. “Let’s start here, at your destination. Penta’s Keep. Thousands of years ago, King Penta, tired of the wars that kept tearing Sentium apart, decided to abolish his small, squabbling kingdoms and split the continent into four parts. Instead of kings he installed his greatest scholars—we call them scientists, these days—to rule each realm. Each of these regions would dedicate itself wholly and completely to a specialty that complemented the other three regions, forcing them to rely on one another. It was King Penta’s hope that this interdependence would end all wars.”

  “Did it work?” Taff asked.

  West sighed. “King Penta was quite wise for a ruler, but no man has ever been wise enough to abolish war forever. There was peace for a time—a long time, by Sentium standards—but these days the realms are more worried about what happens inside their own borders than working together for the common good.”

  Though Taff’s eyes were rapt with fascination, Safi looked casually interested at best, her eyes sunken from lack of sleep. Kara was exhausted as well. She had sat by the girl’s side all last night, keeping vigil in case Safi gave in to temptation and tried to use the grimoire. I wish she could get rid of the thing altogether, but I’ll need her magic if I’ve any hope of finding Grace. She looked over at Safi, her once luminous green eyes like the faded embers of a dying fire. Am I doing what’s best for her? Or what’s best for me?

  If only I still had my own powers. . . .

  Noticing that Kara’s attention had wandered, West tapped her with his branch and she wondered, not for the first time, if he had been a schoolmaster in his younger days.

  The old man pointed to the southern region of the map.

  “This is our realm, Ilma, founded by Landris Ilma, one of the original four selected by King Penta. Our job is to create new power sources for the rest of Sentium. Coal, kanchen, firetops, wind—and now glorbs. Our methods, always improving, are essential for the other realms to function. West of us, across the Longing Currents”—the old man drew two new lines, sanctioning off an area that was larger than Ilma, though not by much—“is the realm of Lux, populated by master glassblowers who can bend light to their will. Glass farmers refine sunlight to perfection and grow the finest crops in Sentium, and Luxsmiths create glass swords light enough to be wielded by a child but strong enough to meet the strike of any steel. It is also rumored that they can create mirrors that show more than just your reflection.”

  “That sounds like magic,” Kara said.

  “As does much of science. If you hadn’t seen it with your own eyes, would you have believed that a little orb could make water glow and an arrow fly faster? Nothing magical about it, though. In fact, according to recorded history, there has never been a single act of magic in Sentium.”

  “But that’s totally wrong!” Kara exclaimed, crossing her arms. “You’ve read Sordyr’s letter. There were wexari under direct command of the king! And Timoth Clen cleansed the world of witches—we know that’s true! And what about Sablethorn? How can you claim there was no magic when there was an entire school for—”

  West held up a single finger, and Kara instantly fell silent, a slight bloom of color darkening her cheeks.

  Definitely a schoolmaster.

  “I said recorded history. Correct me if I’m wrong, but did you not grow up studying a text that taught you all witches were evil? Just because it’s written down does not make it true. But let me finish my initial lesson before my thoughts flutter into the night, and I promise we’ll circle back to this. Agreed?”

  Kara nodded, surprised to find a smile creeping across her face. It felt like school, and there was something oddly comforting about the routine.

  West made some more quick lines. “In the northeast, past the Echo Mountains, is Auren. Their specialty is sound. Excellent hunters. Instead of trapping their prey with nets or steel claws they use special bells to replicate the cries of the animals’ you
ng and draw the parents out of hiding.”

  “That’s cruel,” said Kara.

  “But effective. The very nature of Auren. Their children are blindfolded in their formative years and taught to hear an iron filing drop to the grass, determine the weight and gender of a foe from a single footstep—as well as which sword hand they favor—and distinguish between lies and truth from the tone of voice.” West chuckled. “They have a motto in Auren: ‘Eyes are the great deceivers.’ There is some truth in that, I think.”

  West drew the last line, creating a small area in the northwest.

  “And finally we have Kutt. The less said about them the better. They study ways to cure disease, heal wounds. Make medicine.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” said Taff.

  “It’s how they’ve made their discoveries that’s the problem. There’s been talk. Experiments on living animals, even people. They’re the ones who caused the Clinging Mist, too, though they deny it, of course. It’s under control now, except for the Plague Barrier.”

  Kara’s head began to throb. Clinging Mist? Plague Barrier? Instead of satisfying her curiosity, each answer seemed to produce more questions.

  All of this can wait. Right now I need to remain focused on saving Father.

  “How does Sablethorn fit into all this?” she asked.

  “As I said, the schoolbooks teach us that magic never existed.” West paced back and forth, thinking as he spoke. His bare feet left light impressions in the dirt. “However, there are a handful of people who believe in an alternate version of history, and in light of recent events I think we have to consider their views more carefully. According to them, the great wars that caused King Penta to divide his kingdom into four parts were actually fought between man and witch. It was a hard-won victory, leaving countless dead, and afterward the king declared that any mention of magic be struck from the records completely. This meant that Sablethorn, for countless centuries a school for good wexari, had to be destroyed as well, though when the king tried to do so he found it impossible to shatter a single brick. Instead he built the Forked Library right over it.” West shrugged. “As I said, none of this is proven. There is every possibility that Sablethorn never existed to begin with.”