by Jen Holling
As he dug through his bag for his spoon, he asked, "Has a young woman been through the village recently?"
She gave him a sharp look and her thick chin raised a notch. "Now, what would a young woman be doing traveling all alone?"
Stephen’s brow arched. "I don't recall specifying that she was alone?"
The woman was not so easily trapped. "You didna say she weren't either. And ye asked about no one else."
He inclined his head. "Very well. Has a young woman with dark curly hair—traveling alone—passed through here recently?"
The woman's brows drew together into a single furry line. "Why would a young woman be traveling alone? 'Tis just not safe."
Stephen was growing mildly irritated at how she avoided answering the question. Her avoidance also indicated that she probably had seen Deidra but didn't want to tell him. That could mean nothing good.
"She's daft, a wandering idiot. Well. Not usually. We try very hard to keep her from wandering."
She stared at him blandly. "Or maybe she's running away from something."
Stephen shrugged. "Mayhap aye...mayhap no."
"Mayhap she's not daft. Mayhap she's running from you. It wouldna be kind of me to be giving up a woman on the run. Mayhap you'll knock her around a little for wandering off, or kill her."
"Mayhap she's my wife or daughter? Then by rights I own her and can do whatever I please."
The woman snorted and planted a hand on her hip. "You're too young to be her father, and—"
"Hal" Stephen pointed at her and laughed with victory. "You have seen her! Where is she?"
The woman's lips pursed, her expression sour. She crossed her arms over her chest and said grudgingly, "We're not to speak of it."
Stephen's heart skipped. That sounded very bad. Worse than he'd feared if the whole village had been instructed not to speak of it.
Working to keep the urgency from his tone, he asked, "Why is that?"
Her mouth pursed even tighter, becoming a thin, wrinkled slash. But her throat worked as if she was about to burst with the desire to spill everything she knew.
Stephen removed his purse and dumped the contents on the table. The woman's eyes grew round at the sight of the pile of shiny coins. It was probably more coin than she had seen in her whole life.
He met her gaze, his own serious and steady. "What happened to the woman?"
The woman looked from the coins to Stephen and licked her lips. When her eyes met Stephen's again, they held, and he could that see she was about to give him the information he sought. But then something changed. Her gaze rose to look at something above his head. Her face closed. She lowered her eyes and mumbled something, then turned away and left him.
Stephen sighed grimly and glanced over his shoulder, scooping up his coins. A tall, narrow man stood in the doorway, his shiny bald head brushing the top of the doorframe. Cold gray eyes fixed on Stephen. Chips of dirty ice. Stephen met the man’s gaze, then noticed the rough-looking men who had entered before him. Mercenaries. They situated themselves strategically around the room.
A knot of foreboding formed in Stephen’s gut, but he was no stranger to such situations- It had been awhile, back when He’d been a whole man, but there had been a time when he hadn't been able to stay out of trouble no matter how hard he'd tried—and the odds had never been good. Of course, that's what had gotten him cripple. Lousy odds.
He located his spoon. This might be his last good meal for a while, and he was not about to let it go to waste. He turned his attention to his food and, after taking a deep pull of ale, began spooning down the thick soup.
Within minutes the robed man circled the room, coming to stand in front of Stephen. Stephen continued to eat, acknowledging the man only with a nod. He knew his dismissive attitude would not dissuade the man, but he nevertheless continued to ignore him until he had finished his meal.
As he washed his coarse bread down with a swig of ale, the man said, “Are you finished?"
Stephen slammed his tankard down with exaggerated force. Aye."
The man did not appear intimidated. No doubt it was his lurking mercenaries—either that or he knew Stephen was a cripple—because Stephen knew that he was formable sitting down. He continued to keep his body in the best condition possible, focusing primarily on his upper body, for if his legs finally went, that would be all he would be left with.
"You've been looking for someone," the man said.
Stephen wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. “Aye. What care you?" But before the man could answer his query, Stephen added, “And who are you, eh?"
The man smoothed a hand over his black robes, clean and crisp and entirely out of place in this Highland hamlet. Impossibly, the man squared his already square shoulders and announced, "I am Luthias Forsyth, a visitor to this village. And you are?"
"Stephen Ross. A visitor also."
“Ah, good." The man smiled, a per-functionary stretching of thin lips, completely devoid of any real feeling. "We are both strangers here. We should be friends."
Stephen glanced over at Luthias's thugs, who were unsuccessfully trying to blend into the shadows at the back of the room. "You have enough friends, methinks."
Luthias's smile grew, but it was still empty. Stephen imagined that it hurt him to smile that way, as if his lips would split from the strain.
"One can always use more friends," Luthias said through his smile, "when doing the Lord's work."
Stephen considered Luthias, more uneasy than ever. By words and attire the man was clearly a holy man of some sort—or at least imagined himself to be. Stephen’s dealings with holy men were generally disastrous. They didn't agree on much past the idea that there was a god, and that's where any similarity in philosophy ended.
Nevertheless, with a blackened corpse on the crossroad and Deidra's whereabouts still a mystery, Stephen couldn't dismiss the man as he'd like to.
He waved a hand at the bench opposite him. "Have a seat then, friend."
Luthias slid onto the bench across from Stephen. "I was told you are a witch hunter.
"News travels fast!”' Stephen murmured. The tanner must have run straight out his back door to tattle as soon as Stephen was out of sight.
"Its a small village and they feel particularly...indebted to me today."
"That was your handiwork at the crossroads, aye?" Stephen queried.
Luthias inclined his head.
Stephen thought he was beginning to understand Luthias's interest in him. Perhaps this wasn't as dangerous as he had initially assumed. If he played the man right, he would get out of this with his skin intact, and a bit of information to boot.
He kept his expression bland. “Am I encroaching on someone's hunting grounds?"
Luthias held up a placating hand, his chin dipping as if to protest, but Stephen pressed on.
"I am not hunting a typical witch—not the kind that sours milk or causes crops to fail. No, I am hunting a rare breed. The baobhan sith"
Luthias's smile returned, but this time it was not entirely dead. There was a spark of something in his eyes. Interest. "I am not concerned, friend. I welcome more warriors in God's army. I only wish to assure myself we are both achieving the very best results for the Lord. The only way to be certain is to share information."
Stephen narrowed his gaze. "What sort of information?"
Luthias spread his palms on the table-top. “A witch is a complex creature. They can disguise themselves and appear quite normal. Because of this one must have a care not to inadvertently harm the innocent."
Stephen nodded, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. He could no longer guess where this conversation might lead. Since when was a witch hunter concerned with the innocent? It set him off balance, and he didn't like that.
Luthias continued. "I have spent more than a score of years educating myself, and honing my knowledge of witches and their ways. But I freely admit that there are areas where my expertise is sorely
lacking. I'm sure the same applies to you, Mr. Ross. I would very much like to learn more about the baobhan sith. If you are willing to share, that is."
Stephen frowned, continuing to rub at his whiskered jaw. He thought it unwise to appear eager. After a long moment he said, "So you want me to teach you what I know?"
Luthias gave a dry, humorless laugh. "Well, aye. But more important is what I can teach you."
Stephen smirked. "You believe there is actually something you know that I am ignorant of?"
"Most assuredly." Luthias glanced around them, then leaned forward slightly and said in a low voice, "I am writing a book...a sort of...supplement to Malleus Maleficantm, if you will."
“A book, eh?" Stephen was mildly amused. But this man’s knowledge could be useful on many levels, and since he was clearly the source of the villagers' odd, subdued behavior, he was likely the only one who would actually tell him Deidra's whereabouts.
Stephen nodded slowly, as if the decision had been a weighty one to consider. "Very well. Show me what you've got."
Stephen didn't know what to expect of Luthias's "teaching." Considering the subject matter and the tavern wench's reluctance to talk about Deidra, he feared the worst.
They stepped out into the cool, moonlit night. Duke rose from where he had been waiting patiently and danced around Stephen's legs, yipping. Stephen scratched his head and crossed to Countess. He removed his ebony cane from where he'd tied it to the saddle.
"Where are we headed?" he asked, leaning on the cane.
Luthias surveyed him critically, his gaze lingering on the cane. "I do not believe a walk to the crossroads would be wise tonight. I can gather the ashes tomorrow."
Stephen couldn't fathom what he meant by that, but he was glad he wouldn't be forced to hike back to the crossroads tonight. It was cold, and his back throbbed angrily. What he really wanted was some whisky and a bed—and maybe a whore willing to rub the knots from his back for the right price.
They made their way slowly down the dark, dusty street. Luthias kept pace with Stephen's slower, limping gait. Stephen considered asking about the ashes but decided against it. Luthias assumed he was also a witch hunter, which meant he expected Stephen to be knowledgeable in matters of the hunt. Since Luthias offered no further explanation on the gathering of ashes, Stephen could only conclude it was a common aspect of witch hunting and not worthy of comment. He would only reveal himself as a novice or, worse, an imposter, if he asked about it.
"What brought you here?" Stephen asked. "Yon witch at crossroads?"
"Not precisely!”' Luthias said. He strolled beside Stephen, tall and ramrod straight. “I actually came for another witch but did not find her immediately." He held up an instructive finger. "However, God always provides. He made my visit purposeful. He placed another witch in front of me to detain me here, keeping me in the path of the one I sought."
The uncomfortable uneasiness returned to Stephen’s belly. Whatever it was that Luthias wanted to show him would not be pleasant. "How do you mean?"
"I arrived here to find that several local rustics had fallen ill with a strange malady. Strange because it was unlike aught Id witnessed before—"
"You're a physician, too? Have you seen a great many ailments?"
Luthias hesitated, frowning with disapproval at the interruption. "No," he answered, drawing out the single syllable. "I am not a physician, but I have seen much illness and death in my life."
Caused it, no doubt.
"The victims' eyes were swollen shut and their entire bodies had swollen like bladders," His lip curled. "It was really quite disgusting."
"What led you to believe this was an act of witchcraft?" Stephen pointed the tip of his cane toward the crossroads, invisible in the darkness.
"I questioned one of the victims, then others, and discovered that all of the men had fornicated with the witch. During the questioning it was revealed that she had bewitched them—"
Stephen put his cane out, stopping Luthias. "These men were all married, correct?"
Brow furrowed, Luthias stared down at the cane held across his chest, then fixed his gaze on Stephen. Aye."
Stephen lowered the cane. "Why do you ask?"
Stephen smiled. "I have found that married men are unusually predisposed to bewitchment."
Luthias nodded wisely. “Aye, I have noted this too."
And yet the witch hunter had drawn no other conclusion than believing that the men must have been telling the truth. They couldn't possibly have been lying to keep their wives from gelding them.
Stephen limped forward. "How did you discover the fornication?"
"The witch attempted to bewitch me during the interrogation, but I am immune to such magic. So I inferred that she had done so before. When I probed deeper, I found that aye, it was so." His narrow chest puffed out when he said the last.
Stephen raised his brows and nodded appreciably. "Immune, eh? Interesting. Once she realized you were immune, she then told you everything?"
“Aye—and with a wee bit of help from the Lord."
"Prayer?"
“Ah, no." Luthias seemed confused by Stephen’s question. Apparently prayer was not an aspect of witch hunting.
Stephen stopped in his tracks. "What then, if not the Lords word?"
"I never said that I didn't use the Lord's word—just not that alone. I also dunked her in the loch and laid stones on her chest." He cocked his head to the side. "Do you use prayer alone?"
Stephen nodded. "Naught else works on the baobhan sith. You see, you cannot harm them. They heal rapidly and do not die. So torture is useless. But they are evil, and God's word curdles their blood."
They stood beside a large house, the largest in the village. On the ground at their feet was a wooden grate. Luthias stared down at it, deep in thought, and too late Stephen realized the error of what he’d said.
"Blood witches have healing magic?" Luthias asked in a tight voice, his eyes locked on the grating.
Stephen gritted his teeth, but there was no turning back now. To recant would only introduce suspicion.
“Aye," he answered faintly.
Luthias's nostrils flared. He was breathing hard, impassioned. "What you are about to see is the culmination of more than a decade of work. The final chapter in my book."
Stephen nodded at the grating. "That? In there?"
Aye, I was a godly man before I became a witch hunter, but I found my calling when our parish became infested with witches and I was recruited to help smoke them out. I realized then I had a gift. God would not give me such a gift, then not expect me to use it in his service. But one day I was presented with a dilemma, something that in all my years of interrogating witches I had never encountered. White witches. Until that day I would never have believed such a thing existed. But their child..." His gaze turned back to the grate. "Their child was the spawn of evil. It taunted me, tried to kill me. But God protected me. Saved me so that I could keep the evil in check.
Brought me here so that I could finally smote it out."
He gestured into the darkness, and three of his mercenaries materialized. "Bring her up. It’s time for a little talk." One of the men reached for the grate, but Luthias held up a hand. "First lock up the dog."
Duke sat beside Stephen’s cane and looked up at them, as if he knew he was being discussed.
One of the mercenaries looped a rope around Dukes neck. The dogs lip immediately curled, and a low growl emanated from his chest as he set his haunches to resist.
Stephen placed a hand on Dukes head to soothe him. "Its all right, laddy—go on.
Duke whined but let the man lead him away.
The other two men descended into the hole. Stephen’s jaw grew rigid. If Luthias's story hadn't convinced him, the removal of Duke made it clear that the witch being held captive in the hole before them was Deidra. This might go very bad for them both if she recognized him.
His pulse sped up as he waited for the men to
emerge from the hole with Deidra. Though he schooled his expression to show nothing, his mind played out various scenarios. In his mind he was able and quick: heroic. But he knew the truth. In every scenario he could imagine they both ended up dead because he was a cripple.
The ladder creaked as they ascended. His mouth dried out when the first head appeared. One of Luthias's men crawled out of the hole. He turned and grasped a pair of delicate wrists, forcibly hauling a slight woman out of the hole and setting her on her feet in the moonlight.
It was Deidra, looking as skittish as a rabbit. She shrugged the man's hands off her and turned, her gaze passing over Stephen to Luthias before jerking back, eyes wide with shock and recognition.
Stephen's heart sank. He turned to gauge the damage, but Luthias had not been watching Deidra. His gaze was on Stephen.
"It calls itself Deidra MacKay. Have you heard of the Strathwick MacKays?"
Stephen nodded, frowning. “Aye, I have...In fact," he said, getting an idea that he hoped would buy them some time, "I've seen this woman before."
Luthias drew back, looking from Stephen to Deidra with suspicion. "You know her?"
Nothing showed on Deidra's face now except fear. She huddled back against the man who held her, watching Luthias.
"I don't know her. I've seen her before. Her father is a healer, known throughout the Highlands. I went to him to cure my mangled back, but, as it turned out, he was naught but a charlatan!”'
He hoped that his statement would fix any damage he'd done to the MacKays by his earlier careless remarks, as well as explain Deidra's recognition of him.
"Charlatan?" Luthias said dubiously. "I don't understand why William MacKay could not heal you, but I have seen the MacKay magic with my own eyes. It is not false."
"Really?" Stephen said, and this time it was his voice that held doubt and disbelief, though in reality he was dismayed. "Hmmm...are you certain of what you saw? Some frauds are gifted in the arts of
Luthias shook his head. "No. I saw it. With my own eyes. Do you not believe me? Do you think I do not know what magic looks like? What do you think it is I spend my life doing?"