A Ragged Magic

by Lindsey S. Johnson

  I shudder, breathe through my teeth — the guardsmen tighten their hold and I gag, swallow pain and shrieks and tears together. The ocean of crowd echoes silent, then cautiously jeers louder as the priests call out the judgment. A small child cries out forlornly in the crowd and is hushed.

  I close my eyes and think of Linnet. If only I believed they will not harm her. Priests lie with such calm faces. Dorei, Grace of Night, protect her.

  We pass out of the crowds and climb the slope toward the castle. Whitewashed towers looming, we pass leering gargoyles and crenellations. My breath goes ragged as we turn past the barbican, the castle walls, descend a slope.

  The Inquisitor’s building is squat, brooding in the shadows, nursing a grudge against the tall grace of the castle. The carriage from the square stands in the courtyard, the bay horses pawing at the ground, restless.

  My long ginger hair snags across my mouth as the wind shifts, the sun sets over the crimson sea. So I am to be tried in darkness. If I am to be tried at all.

  Ah, Keenan, if only I had run sooner, farther. If only I’d kept my mouth shut to begin with, the priests would never have hung you. I can still see your body jerk behind my eyelids.

  I slump across the cantle, trembling. A large guard pulls me from the horse roughly. I wobble and fall on my side on the gray courtyard stones. Still warm from the sun, they smell of rain and brine and muddy feet.

  The guard yanks me up and slings me over his shoulder like an empty sack, strides into the Inquisitor’s building, my bonds slapping down his legs. My head bumps against the guard’s back.

  The air grows dark and cool, and I shudder in sudden chill. Tightening his grip on my sore and scratched thighs, the guard shifts and jumps me farther up his shoulder.

  Breathless nausea blossoms, and I nearly let go of my bladder, grunting. My arms hang painfully from my shoulders, but I dare not move again.

  I see black flagstone with no pattern, hear the footsteps echo sharply into darkness. Growing dizzy from blood rushing in my ears, I try to focus on our path.

  Why? my head whispers. There isn’t any way out of the Inquisitor’s building but through Justice. The priests have said that often enough.

  I hang limp, desolate in the guard’s grip.

  The air grows dank: the smell of stale water and mold overpower even my fear-soaked odor. We pass through twisting halls, doorways — a torch flares, and the guard dumps me in a corner. Benches and knives and metal spikes dance dully in the light.

  I scramble to sit, my bound hands slipping on gritty damp stone.

  “So, this is the witch of Weaver’s Guild,” a nasal baritone declares above me.

  My back against the cold wall, I look up into flat blue eyes, no emotion: a boy studying a fly whose wings he’s torn off. He bends down to examine me more closely.

  “Yes, Bishop Gantry. She is accused of consorting with demons, summoning the Wasting, and of the spell-killing of Pastor Seaton.”

  “Of course she is. And does she have the Sight?”

  “As reported, sir.”

  The Bishop’s hand slowly wraps, long-fingered, around the rope still at my neck. Suddenly he yanks my head toward him, smashing my ear into his knee. “And do you confess, witch?”

  Stars dance around my head; my mouth is too dry to answer.

  His mouth turns up in a vague smile as he straightens, his dark robe rustling and billowing. Letting go of my harness, he turns to a bench, gestures for the guard to place me there.

  Shackles, sullenly picked out in the torchlight, await my arms and legs. Sweat breaks out on my cold skin.

  No trial, then. But a while yet before I die.

  Chapter Two

  I don’t know how long it has been. My hands burn, my feet shoot pain up through my body, my throat is raw. The questions make no sense, and they will not take no for an answer.

  But I didn’t say no, not after they skinned the first hand. I stopped saying words after my feet.

  “She cannot sign the confession, my Lord Bishop.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Witness it and go.”

  “Shall I have her brought to a cell?”

  “No! No, I will summon a guard to do that. Go back to the town, and tell that guildsman it is done. And tell him I expect his report by tomorrow.”

  “I can —”

  “Go.”

  “Yes, my Lord Bishop.”

  I shudder and try not to whimper at the voices. I don’t allow myself relief. I am not dead, yet.

  Bishop Gantry moves around the chamber. I can hear him when I can’t see him. I can’t keep my eyes shut — they keep opening to find him, seek out the danger. But there’s no way to avoid him, no way out. His face looms suddenly over mine, and I flinch, cry out.

  Without comment or notice, he uses a knife to slice off the remains of my gown. I gasp, sure this is it, not ready, ready, not ready — but he just rips and tears away the cloth, careful not to cut my skin. I weep and shake.

  He lights candles that smell acrid and strange, traces symbols in the air. He chants sharp, biting words, hissing words. I do not know this spell, but the air feels wrong, wrong, wrong.

  There is a knife. I see it descend. I feel the bite and pull of it on my leg, the sting, the pain. I am screaming, but there is no sound. A throbbing burn kindles deep in my bones. I can’t move, I can’t speak, I can only weep and suck air in and out.

  Out of the air, the symbols he traced begin to glow a pale purple. A kind of smoky fire fills the chamber, shapes writhe and hiss in the air, whispering words it hurts to hear. Gantry’s chanting has not stopped, and the shapes surround me, the cuts he is making on my body. Evil eyes glitter, mouths lap at my blood.

  I cannot move, I want out, out — why can’t I pass out?

  He moves me when he needs to, rearranging my body, cutting careful shapes, and I feel my soul leaving me, draining into the growing monsters. Demons, I think and try to jerk, try to do anything.

  The knife carves up my skin, all my skin, and I am not yet dead. I cannot stay here, cannot live here. I struggle to move, to die.

  My body shudders as the demons come closer to my face. Gantry curses, the ghostly flames surge and I gasp, gulp in bael-fire, choke.

  I cannot breathe, I cannot see. I am afraid to die, now — what happens to my soul? But I don’t want to stay here.

  Gantry curses and shouts. Ruined! I have ruined something.

  A small coal of triumph burns bitterly under my fear. Good, I managed something, anyway.

  Gantry rips at my bonds, shaking me.

  Bright pain burns everywhere, and still choking, rushing in my ears, I spin away into the dark.

  ～

  My wrists burn, I am panting, pulling, shackled to a stone wall to await further questioning or death.

  But there weren’t any questions before, only pain, and screeching, and chanting. The knife cutting deep in my body, carving and twisting my skin for an eternity. Gibbering cries fill my mind again and I remember the bishop’s curses, see his blue eyes glow purple as I gasp, inhale the demon bael-fire.

  The bael-fire burns, it breaks me. I breathe in screams without noise. My heels drum against the wall as I shudder, remembering, and I pull harder against the shackles.

  The iron burns; I feel it in my wrists so aching and cold, the only specific pain. All else melts into a roar of river-rushing blindness. Through the roar I hear the tapping blap of water on stone, the scuttling of small things, and my own gasping.

  I twist my wrists, egged on by stabs and jumbles of pain from my body. I know I am dying, but I can’t just let go. I try to cry out, try to escape, try to live.

  Cold water splashes over me, shocks me quiet. I hang from my wrists, wheezing, staring into the flare of torchlight beyond the bars. Bars. A cell. No demons anymore. Just the pain, and death on its way.

  “Shut up, witch!” A broad face with a scowl, broken teeth, a face that warps into whispering demons; dread fills my stomach.

  I
twist my wrists harder, blood leaking down to my armpits.

  The guard laughs, then chokes, his eyes wide and white, twists back from the cell and smashes into the wall, hard. He grunts only once as he slides to the floor.

  A gleam of blond hair, a woman’s alto voice. “Connor, quick, give me the keys.”

  “My lady, are you sure this is wise?” A dark figure, a deep tone.

  “You threw the guard against the wall. It’s a little late to be asking that now.”

  I cannot see them, not clearly. Shivering, I search the shadows while my hair drips, sticks to my weeping wounds.

  The woman steps quickly into the cell as the door clangs softly open. The wavering flames pick out elaborately braided hair, a dark cape. Blue gems dance at her throat.

  “Don’t just stand there, Connor. Undo her arms, will you?”

  The dark figure moves forward. I am unable to move or speak. The flames jump, casting him into sharp relief. Dark hair curls into dark eyes. He is tall, taller than I am. Even taller than Keenan.

  The woman hisses as she catches sight of the carving on my body. The blood and burns conceal the patterns they make.

  “Oh, my dear, this is monstrous. So many wounds. I’m afraid those will scar.”

  I stare, confused. Scar? I’m dying. I don’t understand the worry.

  The lady reaches for me and I flinch, to ward her off. Connor grabs my chin and growls a warning I can’t understand, and my head knocks against stone, rings like a bell.

  But I See. I See that in those deep brown eyes lies a flame for this lady. I See he follows her and gives her all in his power and grants her his life, if needed. I See he is terrified this harebrained idea will take that life, and hers with it. I See things that got me named witch to begin with.

  “Connor, let her go. She was only afraid. She can hardly stand, much less attack me,” the lady is saying.

  Connor’s hand drops slowly from my face. My head vibrates in pain.

  “Quickly, Connor. There’s no time!”

  Connor shakes his head. He hands the lady the torch, turns keys. The shackles fall away, into his quick, quiet hands. He leans close.

  “Not a word, little witch, or we’re all so much kindling. Do you hear?”

  My eyes narrow, but even that hurts.

  He takes my silence for acquiescence, and tosses his cloak around me.

  I stumble to my knees as he pulls me toward the door. I am far too injured to walk. I cradle my hands to my chest and whimper. Connor swings me into his arms, not over his shoulder as I expected, and heads out of the cell.

  Out in the corridor he sets me on my feet and leans me against the wall.

  I sink slowly sideways, panting and hissing as my torn body cries out in anguish. But I cannot stand any more. I bite back sobs and try to force scorched lungs to open. Coughing into a fold of the cloak, I hear a scraping and open my eyes. Connor drags a bloody bundle wrapped in linen into the cell.

  “Connor! What are you doing?” the lady whispers hoarsely. She stands halfway down the corridor, torch held high so the shadow flares out behind her and engulfs her head in fluttering darkness.

  “This woman died today of the Wasting, and was carted out for burning. I hid her back here after you made it clear you wouldn’t be dissuaded. The burial detail will be here before dawn to collect bodies. The guardsman there won’t wake before then, and will be assumed drunk. Gantry won’t hear of her death until well after noon.”

  His voice is scratchy, and he scrubs his face on his sleeve. “The bishop will notice if she’s missing, my lady. He won’t ask questions if she’s dead.”

  He stands from his task and locks the cell door behind him. His shadow looms closer. I’m lifted back into his arms and the world spins as I whimper and shudder. When I can see again, the ceiling shifts jerkily in the light from the flames. Connor strides down the stone corridor and another flight of stairs appears suddenly before us.

  My vision shifts as much as the torchlight. Moss on stone, a sprawled guard, and flickering shadows. I think we have descended deeper into the Inquisitor’s dungeon: I hear moaning cries, smell death in the fetid air.

  At a dead-end we pause, and the lady grumbles as she appears to wrestle with the wall. Then with a dark wind comes the smell of brine. Connor bangs my feet into the wall and I gasp — bite back a cry, and all is darkness.

  ～

  I am on fire. My skin blackens and my lungs ache, the heat gathers around and inside me and I whimper in fear.

  Hands, alternately icy and feverish, touch my face, my arms. Pain blossoms at each spot. I try to brush the hands away but my arms are so heavy. Wavering voices above the roar of flames.

  “We have to keep her here, my lady. I can’t risk bringing in anyone else. You must keep her quiet until she can be moved.”

  “Connor, I need herbs and things I don’t have here. Torture isn’t something I’ve ever had to Heal before. My mother is coming back —”

  As the hands touch my arms, I bite my tongue but cry out, anyway. Harsher hands hold my head still.

  “Listen to me, little witch. Hold your tongue. No noise, do you hear me?” I open my eyes and stare up at a familiar face as I struggle to understand.

  “Keenan,” I wheeze. “They’ve killed you, I saw it. They made me watch.”

  The eyes frown at me.

  “I didn’t cry, I swear! Don’t be angry. I didn’t faint or shut my eyes. Just like you said. I was brave for you, Keenan.”

  “Be braver still, witch.”

  “Her name is Rhiannon, Connor. If you’re going to pretend to be her brother, you should use it,” the other voice whispers.

  Keenan’s eyes narrow with frustration.

  “Be brave, Rhiannon. Don’t cry out.”

  “They’re burning me, Keenan. I’m on fire,” I gasp.

  “Be brave, Rhiannon. The flames are already out.”

  I stare into my brother’s eyes until I am sure, feel the water flowing. A breeze that smells of spring cools my hot eyes, and I relax into sleep.

  Chapter Three

  I awake to angry whispers.

  “— why you involved Hugh in this!”

  “Because you couldn’t do it, Connor. Everyone knows you’re my escort, and people would gossip if you disappeared and came back with a strange girl. Everyone also knows that Hugh collects strays, and the country estate staff will assume she’s from here, and everyone here will assume she’s from there. No one will suspect the Duke of Haverston of kidnapping a kirche prisoner. He can easily hide the girl for awhile. And then he can bring her here.”

  I struggle to open my eyes.

  “It’s too dangerous to bring her —”

  “Ah, Rhiannon!”

  I am choking, coughing, blinking through pale morning sunshine and dark blankets.

  “You’re awake. Water? Connor, fetch me that pitcher, if you please.” Her voice is quiet but commanding, and Connor walks to the other side of the round room.

  A beautiful woman sits on the edge of the narrow bed. The bedclothes are soft and warm, and the tall, thin windows on one side of the round room stream with sunshine. The cloak and blood I wore last have been changed for a shift in white linen that smells of herbs and my sweat.

  There are bandages on the deepest of the runes that were carved into skin and muscle, bandages on feet and hands, and a splint on my right leg. My hair is gathered in a long braid and laid across my chest, gleaming orange and red in a strip of sunlight.

  Back aching, I try to shift my weight to sit. I choke on air, gasping at the pain, and the lady hushes me, strokes my forehead. Waves of throbbing — muscle spasms wash over me. I stare at the high ceiling through a tunnel of darkness and I hear quiet voices telling me to breathe slowly.

  My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Slowly air comes back to me, and my sight returns. I blink, and allow an arm to raise me cautiously.

  The lady plumps the pillows behind me; her soft yellow hair brushes my cheek
in its thick braids, like silken ropes. “I suppose you’re wondering who we are, and why we rescued you, hmm?”

  I come out of my daze. “Linnet —” I choke out.

  “Your sister is safe, I assure you. How clever of you to have discovered just what Connor and I were discussing. I am Princess Julianna.”

  I twitch, feel like I’ve been slammed into a wall again.

  Her Royal Highness pours water into a ceramic goblet from a matching pitcher, moisture glistening on the side. Her brown velvet day-dress catches the light and gleams. She smiles a little at me.

  “Not the usual sort of hobby for a princess, is it, rescuing witches? Well, I am not the usual sort of princess.”

  I blink, try to bow. Her hand on my arm prevents me, which is just as well. I spend a few moments panting in pain.

  “This is my cousin, the Earl of Dorward, Connor fitzWellan.”

  I look at the dark man in the dark clothes. His gaze is neither kind nor unkind; only ready to toss me out of a window if I prove a threat. I promise silently to pose no threat at all.

  “You’re in the north tower of Haverston Castle,” the princess continues. “You know I grew up here, that my brother is the Duke of Haverston, yes? Well, this was my favorite spot in the whole castle when I was young. This tower is isolated from the main stairs and looks out over the sea. I assure you that you are quite safe.”

  My head spins, and I sink back into the pillows. The whitewashed room is bright and comforting, with tapestries of country scenes hanging on the walls, and sturdy oaken furniture. The sheets look like very fine linen, indeed.

  Her Royal Highness leans forward to help me to drink. The water slides down my throat, and I feel it pool in the bottom of my cavernous stomach.

  The Princess of Talaria is nursing me. I know she started a Healing school, hospices all over the country, much to the kirche’s dismay and disapproval. But to do the work of Healing herself! I stare at her, a little stunned, as she takes the water away.