More than a Wizard

by M. Lee Madder

  “So you have your father and your mother, eyes and hair. Gellins is your brother? Do they know you were taken up by Hardraste and escaped?”

  “They’re dead,” she said with the hardness that still seized her when she remembered how alone she was. “I do not know if Freithe knows. Freithe is the hill-witch I was apprenticed to. I was in Cormbey on an errand for her. And when I escaped, I tried to go away from her, zigging and zagging rather than running in a straight line.”

  “Ah, that’s the reason you’re not so far from Hardraste Keep.”

  “I stayed too long in Felsbey. When I moved on, I found work at Pagsey’s Inn.”

  “That barkeep was going to sell you to those guards, Corrie.”

  “More fool me.” She took a last sip and handed the cup back. When he handed her another strip of jerk, she sighed but took it. He fixed another cup to brew by the flames then went to catch the gelding.

  As the coffee’s heat spread into her body, the shivers came back. The hoar frost looked like ice-diamonds in the light of the sun, which hadn’t yet risen high enough to warm the land. Frost heaves foretold the winter’s ice to come. Across the steppe the frost sparkled like the jewels only a rich lord’s wife could afford.

  The renewed turf fire cast heat only if she stood close enough to catch her skirts on fire. Corrie gnawed on the jerk and contemplated the expanse of steppe before them. The campfire of last night had been gone this morning when they woke well past sunrise, extra hours she was grateful Sverr had let them have. She looked back, toward the camp they had abandoned. Had the wolf truly caught fire? She had heard of such. Laienn, the root witch who first trained her, had warned her of sorcered beasts whose corpses burst into flames. Freithe, hill witch and as such more powerful and knowledgeable, had scoffed at the idea.

  Sverr claimed to have seen the fire. And she herself had seen the eldritch green in the wolf’s eyes.

  A flock rose from the ground and darted into the sky, scattering in the four directions.

  Five, Uncle Arne had said. The fifth direction was where she would be tomorrow.

  Norther stories. Norther beliefs. And now she went with a Norther swordsman to find his wizard brother.

  “You like to watch the birds,” Sverr said, leading up the gelding. Smoke followed and waited patiently as he checked the coffee.

  She rubbed the gelding’s nose. “I should call this horse ‘Fat Goose’. He’s as wide as one and lumbers around like a goose on land.”

  “Gander, surely. But he’s not fat. Bred for his bones, to carry armor.” He grinned at her, the first time she’d seen that huge flash this morning. Its evidence reassured her. “He’s not bred to carry slender women, no matter how long their legs.”

  He flirted with her, gave her the last cup of coffee, but he still refused to take off the cords. A lesson to learn, he said, but didn’t clarify.

  As they rode over the steppe, he stayed ahead of her and wouldn’t talk. She sat on the plodding gelding, obediently following Smoke so that Sverr didn’t have to pull on the lead rein, and she felt ignored. The extra horses had disappeared sometime in the night. He didn’t seem concerned.

  By midmorning she was back to mad. The longer length of the cords, with the extended freedom, merely made her despise the binding all the more. And he had the gall to offer his waterskin.

  Gratefully she drank more than a swallow, only for him to take it out of her hands. “We don’t have an endless supply of water, Lyse Oyne.” He sipped, stoppered it, and looped it back on the pommel. “We should walk a bit.”

  Corrie tugged the cloak loose then swung a leg over and off.

  And would have wound up in the dirt if Sverr hadn’t caught her under the oxters. “That’s twice,” he said, counting her shame. “Don’t ride much, do you? How did you travel with Hardraste’s men?” He turned her about to let her lean on the gelding.

  “Barred wagon.”

  His eyes crinkled. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to speak to me all day. You’ve ignored me since we started riding.”

  I ignored him! Corrie glared.

  He didn’t seem to care. He stayed crowded up to her, ostensibly to check the cords. He ran a finger around each wrist, checking the looseness—then he touched her shoulders.

  She jerked back, into the gelding. “Stay off me.”

  “You were bound too close yesterday. I thought your shoulders might be hurting.”

  “Then take off the cords so I can move freely.”

  “I will—when you’re no longer wanting to blast me.”

  Corrie growled, surprising a laugh from him—which made her want to kick him. If her legs weren’t prickling with returning circulation, she would have.

  “Got your knees back yet?”

  She crowded past him and started walking. She stumbled. Sverr reached to help. She flinched away and staggered more steps before her legs and feet deigned to work normally. She got several yards ahead while he retrieved the cloak she’d dropped again and gathered up the horses’ reins. She lengthed her stride and enjoyed the stretch to her cramped muscles.

  Walking suited her better. She mostly traveled on foot, occasionally catching a cart ride. She didn’t cover as much ground as on horseback, but she could hide more easily.

  Yet she hadn’t hidden well enough. A need to earn coin against the approaching winter tripped her up. Most people in the taverns ignored the worn tatter she had become. Tapsters and cooks and innkeepers needed warm bodies for scruff work. Corrie scrubbed, chopped food and wood, cleaned and washed, and served greasy food and stout ale as she traveled away from Hardraste’s central streigon. All tatters and scruff, and she still hadn’t been tracked.

  With his longer stride Sverr caught up, leading the horses with his offside hand. She didn’t acknowledge him. That didn’t stop his question.

  “When did Hardraste’s men take you?”

  It would be churlish to refuse to answer—and if she wanted the cords off, she needed to garner some good will. “Spring. I told you that.”

  “Were they looking for you or any witch and wizard they came across?”

  That earned a look. “All sorts of magicked.”

  “So, they collected witches and got themselves a wizard. Was that by chance, or had they heard about you?”

  “I’m not a wizard. The apothecary in Cormbey trapped me for them. He knew I was apprenticed to a hill witch.”

  “Was the hill witch taken?”

  “Is this twenty questions? No, Freithe was not taken. She was days from Cormbey.”

  “Did this apothecary know you were a wizard?”

  “I’m not a wizard,” she insisted. She felt as if she’d been insisting that for days.

  “Aye, you are, Lyse Oyne. Look at that spell you tossed around. You burned that inn to the ground.”

  “I merely gave the fire in the torches and the hearth more intensity.”

  “That’s a wizard trick, Corrie, not something a witch can do. Some wizards can’t do it without exhausting themselves. You didn’t look exhausted when I tossed you onto the gelding. Shocked, aye, but not exhausted.”

  She considered what he’d said and then what he’d asked. Finally, she allowed some truth. “I don’t think I had a name as a witch, just an herbalist. I was apprenticed, learning the minor healings, cuts and bones, tinctures and salves. Freithe called me a ‘bane witch’. She didn’t think I was a wizard.”

  “This Freithe, she taught you?”

  “Aye. Before her, Laienn, who is only a root witch. Freithe is a hill witch, three times more powerful than a root witch.”

  “As the weakest wizard is a hundredfold more powerful than any witch. Did this Freithe send you directly to the apothecary?”

  “We had used him before. He knew me, aye, but only as Freithe’s apprentice.”

  “So, Hardraste’s guards cast a wide net for minnows and captured a shiny salmon. Enstigorr must have been beyond ecstatic.”

  She snorted. “Oh, he
shared his joy with me.”

  “Anyone else in your family magickal?”

  “We are plain farmers, Sverr. I’m aberrant blood. My da took me to a bane witch once. The man lived in the Raikon Mountains. That was the only contact with magick my family had.”

  “Magick runs in families. I’ve seen it skip a generation or two or funnel only to the second daughter or settle in offhand sons.”

  “You have been with the magicked so much?”

  He scanned the horizon, checked behind them, gave her a grin before looking to their path. “Not so much. I’m observant. So, anyone else magickal?”

  “The only one that I can possibly think might be magickal was my uncle Arne.”

  “Ah, the uncle of the Norther stories. Why him?”

  “He could never settle in one place. My da called him a dandy seed, drifting on the wind. He was younger than my da, but he looked older. He had grey hair in with the sunny blond.” She had a clear memory of tracing the ashen strands in his long braids. “My da drifted away with him and never came back.”

  “Grandparents on your da’s side? No? Then when were you apprenticed to the root witch?”

  “At eleven. And I went to the hill witch on my fifteenth birthday. Is this an interrogation? I must admit, I prefer your method to Omonte’s.”

  “One of Enstigorr’s minions? I hear he has four.”

  “I saw only three: Snossi, Omonte, and Raicha.”

  “And you escaped with others?”

  “Only the four who were imprisoned with me. There were others in cells that I never met. Hardraste’s dungeons contain much misery.”

  “How did you escape?”

  She grew tired of the interrogation. “Patience. Luck.” Sverr gestured for her to continue, clearly not satisfied with those two words that were truly the only reason she’d escaped. She had avoided thinking about Hardraste’s dungeons. Disinterring memories she had fought hard to bury woke a trembling deep in her bones. “In the cells they didn’t keep spell-binding cords on us. The bars of the cells—they were like nothing I knew. Not iron or steel or any metal I know. Spelled somehow. The same way these cords are spelled. They only put the cords on us when they took us out.” She stared at the horizon, remembering the emptiness that drained away anything she managed to evoke.

  “Corrie—,” he prodded. She blinked, and the mental image oozed off into dark recesses. “Why did they take you out of the cells, Corrie?”

  “At first, to test us, I think.” She ducked her head, remembering Omonte standing before her, asking and asking. Whenever she didn’t answer, he wielded a whiplash of power that forced it from her. “To question us, about our families and home villages and teachers.”

  “Looking for more of the powered. And with the cords on, you couldn’t fight. You had to answer. There’s no shame in succumbing to torture, Lyse Oyne.”

  “Your brother—.”

  “Aye, he’ll be facing the same tests, the same questions, the same punishments when he doesn’t answer. Brom can be stubborn. He’ll hold a long time. And then they’ll turn to their third use of him. There is a third use, isn’t there?”

  Arms wrapped around herself under the cloak, Corrie walked on. Her flesh crawled at the memories. She had fought nightmares for months. She had conquered them. But with Sverr dredging up that dark spring, would the memories remain conquered?

  He prodded with her name again. When she remained unresponsive, he took her arm. “Third use: they used you for dark spells. You said Snossi cut your hair to use in a spell, and Enstigorr did not hesitate to take blood for blacker spells. I did see your scars. With your level of power, the Prime would have used your blood a lot.”

  “You know so much,” she hissed, “why do you have to ask?”

  “They’ll use Brom the same way.”

  Her sight shadowed, as if clouds obscured the bright sun—but no cloud had entered the bright blue sky. Tonight would be as cold as last night. She prayed there would be no sorcery-claimed wolf.

  “I have to know what state Brom will be in, Corrie.”

  She stopped walking and glared at him. To rescue his brother, he needed to mine her memories, but did he have to blast through her laboriously-built walls? “You want to know what condition your brother will be in? I can’t tell you. I can tell you what I know. He will be drained. The cells will drain life from him. Pray that Enstigorr has constant need of him; the guards will not dare abuse him. Pray that Raicha does not become fascinated with him and does not use her soul-sucking needles too much.”

  A strident voice echoed. Her voice. But she couldn’t stop the tumbling words. Her sight glazed red until she could see nothing, only feel that enervating drain on her power.

  “Pray that Snossi does not force him to snort bone powder—bones of the dead magickal that he grinds up after the hand have wrested every drop of power from them. Pray that he offers his arms to Enstigorr’s knives and—.”

  Sverr shook her hard, shook her again until her head snapped on her shoulders and the dark memories lost their hold on her mind. She sobbed, and he jerked her to him. Her body shook, bones rattling with the memories. She would have shaken apart if his strong arms hadn’t held her together. She wept against his leather jerkin until the icy memories seeped away and human warmth replaced fear.

  He murmured to her, soft words that sank into her with his body heat. “Hush now, Lyse Oyne. It’s over, long over. They won’t get you again. You don’t need to cry. I’ve got you now. Nothing can hurt you.”

  Her sobs gradually quieted. She had denied herself cleansing tears; she had never felt safe enough to let go. She drank in the warmth and the words until guilt built its own wall. Then she tried to step back. He didn’t release her. She looked up, stark honesty glittering in her watery eyes.

  “I can’t go back there, Sverr. I won’t get away a second time. I was lucky. I won’t be that lucky again.”

  “They won’t get you, Corrie. I won’t let them. I won’t let them hurt you again.”

  “How can you stop them?” She wriggled, but his hold held firm. “You’re taking me right back to them, Sverr. You can’t promise me anything.”

  His soothing reassurances stopped. Then he said, “You’ll stop them yourself. You’ll learn the secrets of those cords, and binding spells will never trap you again.”

  She pushed him. “You’re insane. That’s not possible. How can that be possible?”

  He raked her hair back. “What did you do with my ribbon?” He reached inside his split vest, fumbled a bit, then drew out another one, as blue as the sky this time.

  He fussed with her hair while she continued her protest. “It’s not possible, Sverr. If it were possible, there would be stories of it. I can’t go back in there. I won’t. You will have to find some other way to help your brother.”

  “It’s possible.” He cupped her head and tilted her face to his. “It is possible, Corrie, for someone who is neither witch nor wizard, someone who is something more.”

  “No. I would have heard. There would be stories—.”

  “There is a story. The story of Falki Norn, at the Deeps of Mallourna.”

  “Myth,” she scoffed.

  “Truth,” he countered. “I trace my blood back to Falki Norn. He was neither witch nor wizard. In the Greater Vale, he would be called a Bane Wizard, and the woman with him was a Norn.” His lopsided grin came out. “We Norther swine call him a fate-maker and fate-breaker. He broke spell-binding cords and used his power to destroy a covey of sorcerers. Brom also has his blood. The spell cords may bind my brother for a time, but he will find his way out. Just as you found your way out of the cells. Just as you will find a way past the cords.”

  She withdrew from his warm hards, from his supporting body, from his reassurance. “Power didn’t help me escape, Sverr. I was lucky. A guard was careless and rushed. He didn’t fit one of the cords tight before he loosed me from the chains on the wall. When he wasn’t looking, I slipped that hand free and t
hen stripped the other one off.”

  “At the cost of seared flesh.”

  So, he knew how the spell cords worked, more than she had known. He knew about witches who sucked up power from others. He knew magick moved through families. Only a swordsman, he claimed, but one who understood the workings of power.

  “And then you had only to get past the guards in the donjon and the bailey and the town to escape. Did the others help you?”

  “No.” Corrie didn’t like to remember that rainy night. The sunset had foreshadowed the blood she had to spill. She shuddered. She couldn’t talk about this anymore, so she cast on to the next fear. “I don’t want to stay outside tonight, Sverr.”

  He tilted his head. His eyes narrowed in close examination, but he didn’t question her. He just took the change of topic with a nod. “We’ll come up with something.”

  Chapter 5

  Sverr didn’t ask more questions, but the memories still haunted Corrie. Whether she walked or sat on the gelding, images crowded in: the cells, Raicha and Snossi, Enstigorr’s knives.

  She wiped at her frequent tears, cursing her weakness, cursing her inability to re-bury the memories and the emotions. She kept behind Sverr, but she guessed he knew her struggles. He didn’t resume his interrogation. When he offered her jerk or the waterskin, his gaze scanned the horizon. She should have been grateful for that measure of privacy.

  She wanted to help him. She wanted to help his brother. No one deserved to suffer what she and others had. With Brom accounted a wizard, he had to be enduring much more than she had. His greater power meant that he would survive longer than the witches—but Enstigorr might drain him quickly if he were too recalcitrant.

  Several times her mind tripped onto Sverr’s claim that the binding could be broken. This Falki Norn—she knew the basics of the myth. Sverr claiming him for ancestor, how much was true and how much only mythic exaggeration?

  The Norn could not be part of the truth. Uncle Arne had told of the Norns, spinners of fate, crone and lady and maid, looking past and present and future. Fate-dealers, as Sverr called them, reckoning men’s fates like counters in a game of sjakki. Goddesses had not walked the earth since the early ages. And Falki Norn, was he a fate-breaker?