The Witch Hunter

by Virginia Boecker

  In front of me is a trestle table. On top are baskets heaped with fruit, vegetables, flour, spices. Underneath are more baskets filled with everything from firewood to onions to eggs. In one corner are caskets of wine, ale, and salted fish. In another, hanging by their feet from a rack, are dozens of dead birds: chicken and duck and quail and pheasant. And everywhere lie kettles and cauldrons, skillets and pans. It’s a properly stocked kitchen. Which means somewhere there are knives, cleavers, meat forks, scissors. At this point I’d even take a cheese grater.

  I watch the room for a few minutes. There’s no movement. Nothing floating in the air, nothing stirring of its own accord. And didn’t John say Hastings usually wears a white hat? I don’t see that, either. Satisfied he’s not around, I rush to the table and start digging through everything. Sift through the flour, pick through a pile of apples. Nothing inside but a spoon and a tiny three-pronged fork. I pocket them anyway. Crawl under the table and rummage through the other baskets. Nothing, nothing, and, damnation, now I’ve gone and broken a bunch of eggs. I wipe my hands on my trousers and get to my feet, looking around. Then I see the ladder leading below the kitchen. The larder.

  Larders are used to store meat, cheese, butter, freshly caught fish. Things you need to keep cold so they won’t spoil. They’re tiny rooms, dark, freezing. Usually on the north side of a house, where they get the least amount of sun. Usually underground. Always terrifying. I hate small, dark spaces. But a larder is the perfect place to cure meat. And where there’s meat, there are knives. I grab my bag and start down the ladder. My heart speeds up the second I’m plunged into the darkness. I breathe deeply, hum a little. Imagine the cache of beautiful, pointy weapons I’ll find down here. It helps.

  When I reach the bottom of the ladder, I realize my eyes are closed, so I open them. It takes a moment to adjust to the lack of light—there’s only a sliver of it coming through the vent in the wall. When they do, I feel them grow round. There, hanging neatly along the wall, is the most gorgeous array of carving tools I’ve ever seen. Blunt cleavers. Curved skinning knives. Short boning knives. There’s even a bone ax. I nearly squeal with glee.

  I hook as many knives as possible on my belt and shove the rest into my bag. There are a couple of pairs of heavy gloves, and I take those, too. They may come in handy. I sling the bag across my shoulder and start back up the ladder. There’s still plenty of room inside for pewter plates and silverware. Enough to trade for clothes, food, and weapons. My plan is coming together.

  I poke my head into the kitchen. It’s still quiet, but I check everything anyway. A neat pile of apples, a slightly skewed basket of onions. A dusting of flour on the tabletop. Everything is just how I left it. I scramble to my feet and head to the door opposite the one I came in through: the scullery. Where those valuable pewter dishes are washed and stored. I take about three steps, then it happens.

  The temperature in the room plunges in a second. I suck in a surprised breath, and when I exhale, it comes out in a plume of white frosty air. A frigid wind begins to swirl around me, lifting my hair from my shoulders, whipping it across my face and into my eyes. Then I hear a whisper. Soft at first, like steam from a teakettle. As the wind grows stronger, the voice grows louder. I can’t make out the words, but I can hear the anger behind them.

  Hastings.

  I lunge for the door, forgetting the scullery. The pewter isn’t as important as getting out of here. There’s no telling what Hastings is capable of. I make it as far as the trestle table when a basket comes flying toward me. I realize what’s in it a split second too late: flour.

  It swirls into the air, flies into my eyes, my mouth, my hair. I’m coated in it. I drop my bag to the floor and start coughing and gagging, wiping the stuff from my eyes. I clear them just in time to see a dead pheasant flying at my head, beak first.

  I snatch one of the knives from my belt and hurl it at the bird. I get a direct hit, and both bird and knife go clattering to the floor. I make it another step before more birds come at me. Three ducks. Two chickens. A peacock. A brace of quail. I empty knife after knife into them.

  Finally, Hastings runs out of birds. I drop to my knees and crawl along the floor, trying to retrieve my knives. I manage to locate several and yank the blades from the birds’ bellies. But when I get to my feet, the doors to the bread ovens fly open and hot loaves go pelting in my direction. I bat away most of them, but one or two clip my face, leaving white-hot welts on my skin. They heal quickly enough, but I’m getting annoyed. I’ve lost countless weapons, I’m a flour-covered mess, and the smell of all this food is making me hungry.

  I turn on my heel and sprint to the fireplace. The deer is still on the spit, roasting nicely. Hastings takes pride in his work. If I’m right, he won’t sacrifice a fine piece of meat just to taunt me. I scramble up the rack, all the way to the top, out of reach of the flames. Then I whirl around.

  “Go ahead!” I shout. “Throw something! I dare you!”

  I look around. The air is still thick with flour, but nothing comes flying at me. Everything’s gone still. Smirking, I hop down from the spit. Saunter across the room, snatch my bag off the floor. Then I survey the scene.

  Flour on every surface, bird carcasses strewn along the floor. Broken loaves of bread, smashed eggs, feathers everywhere. What a disaster. But I held my own against a ghost, and that’s no small thing. Caleb would be proud. I start for the door. Then, through the haze of flour still hanging in the air, I see him. Standing in the doorway, arms folded, eyebrows raised.

  George.

  “Well, well,” he smirks. “If it isn’t our little maid, back in the kitchen.”

  My heart sinks to the bottom of my too-big boots. How long has he been standing there?

  “I knew there was something funny about you.” He steps toward me. “I couldn’t put my finger on it. Are you going to tell me the truth now? Or am I going to have to drag it out of you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I drop my bag on the floor and kick it aside.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself,” he says. Then he pulls a dagger out of his jacket. My eyes widen.

  “Don’t,” I say.

  “Catch,” he says. Then he hurls the knife at me.

  THE KNIFE WHISTLES THROUGH THE air, heading straight for my head. It’s less than an inch from my eye when I catch it, smacking the blade flat between my palms. Before I can react, George is at my side.

  “We need to talk.” He grabs my arm and drags me from the kitchen.

  Upstairs, he pushes me into my room and rounds on me.

  “You prowl around the king’s palace like a rat in the rafters.” George holds up a finger. “You crushed a glass in your hand, yet there’s not a scratch on you. You’re all moony over this Caleb, who just happens to be the new Inquisitor.” He holds up three fingers now. “And where’d you learn to throw knives at birds like that? The circus?” He narrows his eyes. “You’re a witch hunter.”

  I open my mouth, a denial on the tip of my tongue.

  “It’s a damned good thing I am,” I snap. “Otherwise you’d have some explaining to do. I could have lost an eye.”

  George groans and pushes me away. He paces the room, hands clasped behind his head.

  “I knew it,” he says. “I knew there was something about you. The way you look, your face and all this.” He gestures at me with a sweep of his hand. “I thought you were a Gallic spy.” He flops down in the chair by the fireplace and buries his head in his hands. He looks so distraught I almost feel sorry for him. “A witch hunter,” he mutters. “A bloody witch hunter.”

  “Just let me go,” I say. “I can be out that door and gone within minutes. No one has to know. It’s nothing to you.”

  “It’s not nothing to me.” He peers at me through his fingers. “You make it sound as if you’re here by mistake. It’s not a mistake. You’re here for a reason.”

  “Yes. Because your seer is naming wit
ch hunters,” I say. “So you can find them and kill them.”

  “You’re not here for that,” George says.

  “You don’t know that,” I say. “Nicholas said he didn’t know why I was here.”

  “That’s not exactly true.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Then I can’t stay.” I start toward the door.

  “Stop.” He sticks his leg out in front of me. “I’ll tell you. You’re here because Nicholas needs to find something. Whatever it is, it’s important. According to Veda, you’re the only one who can get it.”

  “What?” This makes no sense. “What could I possibly find for him? He’s a wizard and I’m a witch hunter, and—oh.” I finally catch on. “It has to do with his curse, doesn’t it?”

  George scowls. “How d’you know about that?”

  “John told me.” He raises his eyebrows at that. But I go on. “So that’s it, isn’t it? There’s a wizard cursing Nicholas, and you want me to find him and take him out?”

  He shrugs. “I dunno. I mean, now that I know what you are, it seems the most likely possibility. We’ll find out for sure tonight.”

  I shake my head. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t find your wizard for you. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in a lot of trouble. I have to get out of here.”

  “How exactly d’you plan on doing that?” George says. “You’re the most wanted person in the country. They’ll be looking for you.”

  “I know that!” I say. “Why do you think I was trying to take Nicholas’s stuff?”

  “To fulfill your dream of opening a china shop?”

  I glare at him. “I don’t have time for this.” I move toward the door again. “You’ll just have to get someone else to find your wizard for you.”

  George gets to his feet and steps in front of me. “You know I can’t let you do that.”

  I sigh. “I don’t want to hurt you, George. But if you get in my way, I will.”

  He holds up his hands but doesn’t move. “You want to leave. I get that. If I were you, I’d want that, too. But you have no clothes, no weapons. And no money to get those things.”

  “No thanks to you,” I mutter.

  “Even if you did, you have no safe way to get around. With the reward they’re offering, you’ll have people after you everywhere you turn. Pirates, hirelings, mercenaries—”

  “I can take them.”

  “Yes, but for how long? Long enough to make it across the country? All the way to Gaul? That’s where you’re going, isn’t it?”

  I don’t reply.

  “We can help you,” George continues. “If you did this for us, if you helped us find the wizard cursing Nicholas and stop him, I reckon he’d give you whatever you want.”

  It’s a tempting offer. Still, I hesitate. Finding the wizard isn’t the concern; I could do that with ease. It’s not that Blackwell is after me; he’s after me anyway. It’s not even Caleb.

  There’s something else bothering me. Finally, I land on it.

  “Why me?” I say. “There are other witch hunters who could have done the job for you. Ones you wouldn’t have had to break out of jail, or who weren’t wanted criminals. I’m sure you could have found someone willing.” Not Caleb, of course. But I can think of several others who might’ve done it. For the right price, anyway.

  “I don’t know why you, either,” George says. “You heard Peter. We thought you were a mistake. If we’d gotten to you earlier, when we were supposed to, none of this would have happened. It didn’t make it easy on us, either.”

  “Why didn’t Nicholas just tell me this?”

  George’s eyes widen. “Didn’t know you were a witch hunter, did he? Thinks you’re an innocent girl, doesn’t he?” He shakes his head. “I’ll tell you, you had us all fooled. I thought you were a spy. Fifer and Nicholas think you’re a witch. And John…”

  “John what?”

  “He just thinks you’re a mistake. That’s all.”

  “Oh.” This bothers me for a moment, but I shake it off.

  “As I say, Nicholas doesn’t know what you’re supposed to find,” George continues. “He hasn’t told you what he does know because he thought you were too fragile to take it.”

  “Fragile?” I scoff. “I could kill you right now, using only my thumb.”

  To my surprise, this makes him laugh. “Aye. But have you looked in the mirror lately?”

  I ignore this. “So that’s it, then? I just have to help him find this wizard?”

  He nods.

  I consider it. As much as I hate to admit it, I do need help. That much hasn’t changed. I still need a way to leave the country and money to do it with. And it might not be a bad idea to have Nicholas’s protection. He’s been in exile a long time and managed to keep Blackwell at bay. Maybe he can do the same for me. If I had to guess, I’m going to be in exile for a long time, too.

  “Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll find your wizard for you.” George sighs in relief. “Not so fast,” I add. “I have a few conditions.”

  “Oh?”

  “First, I want a guarantee you aren’t going to use me to get what you need, then turn me over for the reward.”

  “Nicholas would never do that.”

  I think Nicholas would absolutely do that, but I don’t bother to argue. “Fine. Then after it’s over, he won’t have any problem escorting me wherever I want to go.”

  George nods. “If that’s what you want.”

  “Second, I don’t want anyone else to know about me.”

  This makes him frown. “Nicholas is bound to find out,” he says. “If he doesn’t figure it out on his own, the seer will surely tell him.”

  “I know. But it’s not just Nicholas I’m worried about.”

  I think about the others. Peter’s a pirate, no doubt skilled with a sword. Fifer is Nicholas’s “star pupil.” There’s no telling how many ways she could curse me. Then there’s John. He wouldn’t hurt me, I know that. But I think if he were to learn the truth about me, it would be just as unpleasant, in a different kind of way.

  “So do we have a deal?”

  George nods. Then he sits back down in the chair and beckons to me. “So, can I see it? Your stigma, I mean? I’ve never seen one before.”

  “There’s nothing to see.” I touch a hand to my stomach. “It only shows itself when I get injured, then vanishes when I heal.”

  George grins. “I could stab you.…”

  I point my thumb toward his eye.

  He cracks a laugh. “I’m joking. But that’s clever, it disappearing like that. Keeps you from getting caught. Explains why Fifer didn’t see it when she cleaned you up, or John when he examined you.”

  I feel a sudden jolt at the thought of John looking at—and possibly touching—my bare stomach.

  “So what does it look like?”

  “What?”

  “Your stigma,” George says. “Is it awful?”

  “Oh. No. I mean, it’s not as bad as you’d think.” When I found out we were getting stigmas, I panicked. I imagined the worst: a brand, a scar, something raised and raw and ugly. But it’s small and delicate—elegant, even, like handwriting done with a fine pen.

  “Did it hurt?”

  I don’t answer right away. The marking ceremony took place right after I took my final test as a recruit. That test is something I don’t like to think about, much less talk about. I must have been in shock after it was over. I don’t really remember if it hurt or not.

  “A little.” I don’t want to talk about my stigma anymore.

  George presses on. “It’s magic, isn’t it? I mean, it has to be. Don’t you think that’s strange? That a witch hunter uses magic? That doesn’t seem right, does it? Who gave it to you, anyway?”

  “Yes. No. I guess. I don’t know.”

  And I don’t. I’ve thought about my stigma, thought about it until my head spun. Why did Blackwell give us magic when he h
ates magic? When he blindfolded us and led us behind closed doors and had us marked, how did he know it would work? Caleb said one of the wizards we captured did it, but how did Blackwell know it wouldn’t kill us?

  This is when I usually stopped asking, because I knew he didn’t. We were his experiments. His subjects. And if he killed one of us, he’d simply find a replacement. Just as he always did.

  George looks at me for a moment. “How exactly did you get mixed up in this? Witch-hunting is a really serious business. And you’re just a girl.” He frowns. “How did this happen?”

  I think back to the day Caleb first approached me about being a witch hunter. It started out ordinarily enough, but by sunset I had already taken my first frightened steps down a path I knew there was no coming back from. But the idea of Caleb walking it without me frightened me even more.

  “Caleb convinced me to go with him. He was my best friend. The only family I had.”

  George looks skeptical. “Fine way to treat your family. Forcing them to do something like that against their will.”

  I shake my head. “It wasn’t like that. He didn’t force me.”

  “You wanted to be a witch hunter?”

  “I—no. I wanted to be with Caleb. It was what he wanted. And I trusted him to do what he thought was best.”

  George makes a face. “The best for you or for himself?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugs. “Seems to me he was more interested in advancing himself than he was in keeping you safe.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “He’s always taken care of me. He’s always kept me safe.”

  “Didn’t do a very good job of it, did he?” George replies. “Girls who are safe don’t get thrown into prison and sentenced to death. He left you there to die—”

  “He didn’t leave me to die,” I say. “He was coming back.”