by Amber Argyle
Strangely, Sheriff Tomack didn’t seem surprised by the show. He leaned and whispered, “Miss, if you ever need anything again, you come to me. Understand?”
Tears stung Brusenna’s eyes. Perhaps her mother had been right about them having friends. “Thank you.”
“What happened to your mother? She dead?”
Brusenna cringed. “I don’t know.”
He studied her. “What else do you need?”
Brusenna sniffed and wiped her nose. “I’m going to look for my mother, but if I leave everything …” she gestured to her home.
Sheriff Tomack looked around. “I can look after things while you’re gone, if you like?”
Brusenna nodded. “If I’m not here, the forest will forget in about a week. You should have no trouble finding it then. My livestock … I don’t know what to do about them.”
“Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take them to my place. As payment, you let me keep all they produce. When you come back, you take them back fair and square.”
Brusenna nodded. “And all the food that will sour?”
He crossed his arms. “We could trade.”
She thought about that for a moment. “I need a horse.”
“Show me what you have then.”
She took him into the cellar. He surveyed her stocked shelves in awe. “With the famine the way it is, I’d say this is well worth a horse. There’s enough here to feed my family for a year or more.” He turned back toward her. “One horse, a saddle and a pack. Whaddya say? Do we have an accord?”
He stuck out his hand. Brusenna hesitated. The last person to touch her had tried to kill her. But her triumph last night made her feel bold. She stuck her small hand in his large one. “Deal.”
“Have you any paper and ink?” She retrieved some and he went about writing a note. “My brother, Wittin, lives in Perchance, the next city northwest of here. Runs a horse business. This note’ll get you anything you need; I’ll pay him next we meet.”
Brusenna took the paper and quickly scanned it. It said exactly what Sheriff Tomack had said. She glanced nervously at the Sheriff. She’d never really trusted anyone before. The closest she’d ever come was Wardof. She had no idea if this place even existed. How did she know he wasn’t lying?
Sheriff Tomack must have noticed her hesitation. “Wary, I see.” He pulled a gold pocket watch from his vest. He caressed the face before handing it reluctantly to her. “Give this to my brother when you see him. It’s well worth a horse and saddle and he’ll recognize it as the one Father gave me when I left home. The Creators know, we fought over it enough.”
Brusenna took the watch shyly, dropping it and his note in the pocket that held her mother’s note. He gave her an encouraging smile. “I don’t claim to understand the ways of Witches, but I know if you help one in need, you’ll be repaid a hundred fold.”
She stared at him in awe. “If I don’t come back in time, you can keep the rest of the harvest. Just save us plenty of seeds.”
He grunted. “See, you’ve already more’n paid me.”
She started past Tomack but then paused. “Make sure Wardof doesn’t know where I’m going.”
He gave her an even look. “He won’t be getting out any time soon, I can promise you that.”
“He said when the others,” she deliberately left out the name Dark Witch, “found out, they’d release him.”
“Oh he did, did he?” Sheriff Tomack rubbed his beard. “Well, I’ll think of something.” With a nod, Sheriff Tomack left to feed her stock enough to last for the week it would take for the forest to forget. She turned to the northwest. “Well Bruke, I guess we’re going to Perchance. Have you ever been there before?”
As if he knew exactly where he was going, he bound off in front of her. At the edge of the clearing, Brusenna turned back. Her home. Memories like drifting snowflakes swirled in her mind. She pushed them aside. The other Witches needed her. “I’m coming, Mother.”
6. GUARDIANS
In the early morning light, Brusenna carefully separated the branches of the bush she was hiding behind and peered at the city in the distance. Her breath made a small cloud as she exhaled, momentarily blurring her view. Her gut clenched and bile rose in her throat. Towns meant people. And people had never been good to her.
But she needed a horse. Plus she’d been traveling through virgin forest for two days and she’d eaten all her food. She needed more supplies. Shifting her satchel to ease the ache between her shoulder blades, she steeled herself before leaving the cover of trees to step onto the baked, yellow path. “I don’t think I should use my real name anymore,” she said softly to Bruke. “From now on, I’ll use Senna.”
Like Gonstower, Perchance had the same frame houses with split-shingle roofs. The poorer parts of town were a dull, cheerless gray, while homes in the richer parts gleamed with white paint and dark trims. But as Senna drew nearer, she realized that was where the similarities ended—Perchance was easily four times the size of Gonstower.
She nearly turned and fled back the way she’d come. But if she couldn’t even face strangers, how could she fight the Dark Witch? “They don’t know you’re a Witch,” she muttered to herself. “Just keep your head down and stay out of trouble.
It wasn’t long before Senna started passing people. She felt the hard lump in her gut soften as the bustling people continued to pay her no mind. For the first time in her life, no one was glaring or pointing or whispering. “Anonymity is a wonderful thing,” she whispered to Bruke.
Bruke, who had glued himself to her side, looked up at her and whined.
Upon entering the marketplace, she noted that instead of just outdoor booths, Perchance also had buildings with elaborate signs indicating everything from shoe cobblers to master looms.
Senna stopped at the first money changer she found. The man behind the counter bit her gold, weighted it and turned it over several times before announcing his price. “One silver, ten upice.”
Determined to get a fair price, Senna snatched it back. “I’ll go somewhere else with it then.”
“Wait now! Wait!” He hustled to come between her and the door. “All right, two silver and ten upice.”
She gave him a look of exasperation.
He snorted. “Two silvers, twenty-five upice and not one single coin more!”
“Done.” She handed over the coin with a flourish. Her pocket jingling with lesser money, Senna bought Bruke a dozen dried fish. Then she ordered herself a breakfast of hot squash with cream and sugar and a slice of thick, soft bread to eat it with. And because she couldn’t resist, a dozen honeycakes.
She saved the honeycakes for last, savoring every tiny bite. At first, the honey was strong and sweet, but it also dissolved earliest. When it did, she was left with the medley of citrus and nuts. When nothing but a bit of doughy bread remained, she finally allowed herself to swallow.
When she’d licked every bit of sticky goodness off her fingers, she reluctantly wrapped up the rest for later. She found a bathhouse. After scrubbing her skin pink, she washed her clothes, donned a clean dress and braided her hair. With her wet clothes hanging over her satchel to dry, she bought her supplies and made her way back to the friendly merchant who had sold her the honeycakes—a pleasant-looking woman with a beautiful, curly-haired daughter.
“Don’t tell me you want more!” the woman exclaimed upon seeing Senna.
Senna patted her stomach. “Unfortunately, no. I was actually hoping you knew of a man by the name of Wittin.”
The woman’s brow puckered as she tapped her chin with her finger. “Wittin, Wittin. Ah, yes, the horseman. Lives on the north side of town.” She pointed and gave directions.
Senna weaved her way through the richer part of town. A fair distance from the village, she saw a small house—at least compared to the stables beside it. Along the path, horses of every breed and color played, ate or rested. She looked from one to another and felt her uncertainty grow. The only experience she had wit
h horses was their plow horse that had been shot by a boy on a dare. Draft horses were too slow and cumbersome for much riding.
At the stables, she stepped up to the half-door. The paint was shiny and it looked as clean as a barn could. “Hello?” Nothing. She looked down at Bruke. “You know where they are?”
He snuffed the air and looked back at her. “Well, let’s see what they’ve got. Maybe we could pick one out by the time they get here.” She swung open the door and stepped inside. The air was heavy with the warm smell of horses, manure, hay and dirt. Shafts from the windows caught bits of dust, illuminating swirls of air currents.
The first few stalls she passed, the horses snorted indignantly at Bruke. He didn’t seem to notice. Senna looked at each and every horse. Black, bay, palomino, sorrel, buckskin. Some were large and squarely built. Others had fine bones and delicate features. Each was different and yet so much of the same. “I have no idea!” she exclaimed as her head swung from one stall to the next.
Then she paused at one of the stalls. A sorrel akin to chestnut. On his forehead, a sliver of a moon; on his muzzle, a snip. Brusenna fingered her necklace as she looked him over. His eyes were gentle and inquisitive. She reached out. He dipped down, allowing her to scratch under his forelock. “Hello,” she murmured softly. “What’s your name?”
“Knight.” The answer came from behind her. Senna whirled around to see a boy—no, a man—no, a boy. Well, at any rate, a boy who was nearly a man, coming toward her.
“Something I can do for you, miss?”
He wasn’t handsome, necessarily. His ears stuck out a bit and his chin was a little too soft. But the longer she looked at him, the more she decided maybe he was. He was tall—head and shoulders taller than her. Thin, but in a strong way. He had a crop of brown hair that hung low over his forehead. His legs bowed out at the knees—probably from riding so much. He had a permanent wrinkle around his eyes, as if he never stopped smiling long enough for the lines to smooth out. He was smiling at her now. Unable to help herself, she smiled back. “I want to buy this horse.”
He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the stall. “Well, Knight is an expensive kind of horse. He’s young, with plenty of vinegar, but he’s also gentle. Not many horses are both.”
“Vinegar?”
He chuckled and she liked the easy way he smiled. “It means he’s got a lot of energy—a lot of kick.” He stuck out his hand. Senna stared uncertainly at it before reaching out. She felt the calluses on his rough skin. “Name’s Joshen.”
“Senna.”
“Well, Senna. If you’re still interested, I could saddle him and you could take him for a ride.”
Senna looked back at Knight. “I’d like that.”
Joshen retrieved a halter and caught the horse. He opened the gate wide and stepped out. “I’d have to check our books for certain, but I’m sure Knight is worth at least three gold coins. We’ve a lot less pricey stock that’d work just fine.”
Senna knew Joshen was trying to make sure she could pay. But she decided the less she said the better. “I’ll need tack as well.”
At this, he stopped and turned to her. “Depending on the saddle, that’s another two.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “You think I can’t pay you?”
Clearly uncomfortable, he rubbed his jaw. “Well, I don’t mean to be rude, Senna, but not many girls have that kind of money.”
She reached inside her pocket and pulled out the Sheriff’s note and gold watch. Without a word, she handed them to him.
As Knight stole a mouthful of hay from another horse’s feeder, Joshen scanned the note. Halfway through, he glanced at her in astonishment. When he finished it, he held it tight in his hand, as if afraid someone might snatch it from him. “So you’re Brusenna?”
The blood drained from Senna’s face. The note didn’t mention her full name.
Without another word, Joshen led Knight to a post and tied him off. “Wait here. I’ll be back.”
Grabbing the straps of her satchel, she considered slipping away. Before she could, Bruke trotted over to a pile of hay and lay down, his head between his paws. The dog seemed to have an innate sense of who was an enemy and who was a friend. He’d known the necklace was trouble. But since she’d taken the other half from Wardof, he hadn’t given it a second glance. Senna slowly shook her head. “All right, if you trust him, so will I.”
Finding a brush, she started working the dust from Knight’s coat. Hair and dirt flew everywhere. She turned when something blocked the light. A burly man stood in the doorway with Joshen at his side. Letting the brush drop, Senna faced them.
“Name’s Wittin. Joshen here tells me you brought this note from my brother, Tomack.”
Senna glanced at Bruke. The dog still didn’t seem concerned. Gritting her teeth, she answered, “Yes.”
Wittin’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve had trouble with Witch Hunters.”
It wasn’t a question. Senna unconsciously took a step back, bumping into Knight. She felt cornered … and very, very alone. “How did you know that?”
He turned to his son. “Joshen, why don’t you go catch Stretch.”
After glancing at Senna, Joshen grabbed a halter and a bucket of oats and headed toward one of the pastures Senna had seen earlier.
Wittin took a few limping steps toward her. “There were things your mother never told you. I’m one of them.”
She was glad for Knight’s solid presence behind her—she wasn’t sure she would be standing otherwise. “You knew my mother?”
Wittin rubbed his stubbled jaw. “For nearly twenty years. Her and Coyel came to see me a while back. Said if I saw you, I was to tell you the things you’d need to know.”
All the breath left her body in a rush. “What things?”
Wittin inhaled deeply. “About the Witch War.”
Ever since Coyel had appeared in her life, Senna had wanted answers. But now, she was afraid. And she wasn’t sure she should trust Wittin. “Why didn’t she just tell me herself? She could’ve written it in the note.”
“Not the kind of thing you write down. And she was hoping to protect you.”
Senna thought of all the times she’d been bullied and ridiculed. “Protect me? Like she protected me the day I was thrown in the stocks! How is that protecting me?”
Wittin’s gaze hardened. “You should pray to the Creators you never experience the pain your mother has.”
He turned away, staring out the barn door at the house and pastures beyond. “You have to understand, a good many people don’t believe the Witches’ powers are real. Take this blasted drought. They think it’s just a twist of fate, that the seasons rule themselves. But they don’t. The Witches control it.
“And a good many of the ones who do believe … well, they blame the Witches for every failed crop, every early frost. They don’t realize that handling the seasons is more like controlling a half-wild colt than ordering a side of beef from a butcher.
“Then there’s another group—they see the Witches’ power and resent and fear them for it. It’s what started the war. A group of Witches grew tired of being snubbed by men. They decided to sell their songs for money and power. But the other Witches, the Keepers, believed everyone had the right to their songs. The dissenters broke away from the main group. Called themselves Espen’s Servants. Each Witch took a side.”
Senna couldn’t picture her mother caught up in a war.
“Many, many Witches died. Eventually, the last of the Keepers went into hiding at Haven—except your mother and you.” Wittin’s voice caught. “Do you understand now why your mother hid you away? Why she thought Gonstower’s prejudices were a minor inconvenience?”
Senna kicked at the dirt. “She didn’t want me to be a real Witch.”
Wittin turned to face her. “I wouldn’t say that. She just wanted to keep you as far away from danger as possible. I didn’t necessarily agree, but you weren’t my daughter. She did the best sh
e could.”
Tears leaked from Senna’s eyes—tears of anger and betrayal as much as sadness. “But I was born a part of it.”
Wittin didn’t look away. “If she’d stayed with the Keepers, you’d have been brought up training to fight Espen. She didn’t want that for you.”
“She could’ve at least taught me to defend myself!”
Wittin didn’t respond. Senna understood he’d run out of answers. Only her mother had the rest. And she was gone.
He shook his head, sadness in his eyes. “Your mother said it was bad—there were only eight fully trained Witches left, the rest nothing but girls. But, if the Hunters are after you—an untrained girl … My guess is you might be the only Witch left.”
Senna took a deep breath. “And the Witch Hunters …”
“A division of Espen’s Servants.” Wittin rolled up his sleeve, revealing a green tattoo about the size and shape of a round pebble. “But Espen isn’t the only one to use men.”
Unable to help herself, she reached for it, but stopped short of actually touching him. “The full moon is a mark of the Witches.” She was surprised by the hint of warning in her voice. But she was sick of people misusing Witch symbols.
Wittin fingered the raised edges. “They mark us as a Guardian when we’ve proven ourselves worthy. Sacra marked me and my brother long ago, but then Espen snapped my leg and I couldn’t be much help, so Tomack’s been keeping an eye out for you and your mother—as much as she’d let him, anyway.”
“I thought you got bucked off a horse!” Joshen joked as he came into the barn.
His father smiled as he tugged his sleeve down. The older man watched his son tie the leggy bay to the post. “I’d go with you myself.” He shot a look of exasperation at his leg. “But I wouldn’t be much good to you.” He reached out and patted Knight’s neck fondly. “I’ll miss this one. He’s the type of horse that makes my job worth it.”