The Witch's Reward

by Liz McCraine

  Aside from a few visits to the berry patches and an occasional town celebration on the outskirts of the forest, this was the only time Larra had ever been in the Rockwood. She noticed the trees seemed taller, denser, more alive within the heavy folds of the forest than she had imagined. The dirt road continued in turns and twists, winding its way through thick trunks and scraggly foliage. Sunlight filtered down in tiny clumps between the branches, casting grape-like spots along the road that danced to music of their own making. The scent of damp earth and old leaves rose from the ground, adding even more dimension. It was as beautiful as Farr, but in a totally different way.

  She fantasized of gliding through the forest’s shadows, of stepping through its hidden hollows. But after glancing down at her feet, that fantasy quickly dissipated. The cuts she had received from being dragged down the gravel path at the cottage were coated in dried blood and there was no ignoring the stinging sensation of infection. It would be so easy to reach down and heal them, but she feared the consequences. She wished she’d had time to at least collect her shoes, if not some pouches of medicine from her grandmother’s supplies. It certainly wouldn’t have hurt anyone to have the herbs on such a journey; though, in all likelihood, the captain would probably think the medicines to be some sort of witch’s poison.

  Looking up, she saw that besides the captain there were thirteen other men in the company. Two had been sent forward to scout the trail, leaving the remaining men riding in groups of two and three. They seemed far more relaxed now than at the beginning of the journey, the low hum of voices breaking the silence of the forest as they quietly spoke to one another. In addition to the men, there were the two dogs and two pack mules laden down with supplies they must have purchased in the village.

  She didn’t notice one of the men approaching her until a voice startled her from her thoughts.

  “Why, lookey here. What is this thing caught in a cage? Ah, I know. It must be a wild beast.”

  The taunting, sing-songy words bothered Larra, and she jerked around to see a burly man riding alongside the wagon. Bushy, blond brows set heavily over a ruddy face were visible through the shadows of his helmet.

  It was the man who had pushed her grandmother!

  Red, hot anger began to stir within Larra. Any man who could attack an innocent, elderly lady was the real beast, not her. It was the first time Larra had ever felt so intensely vengeful towards another individual. She wanted to shove him off his horse, make him hurt as he had hurt her sweet grandmother. The feelings of vengeance were new, but Larra couldn’t deny that they felt good. They were so different, so much livelier than the depression she had been fighting all day.

  But the anger left as quickly as it had come. With the man’s next words rose a dark, shivering fear that stabbed at her like an ice pick.

  “You better watch out, little witchy. Because I’m going to make sure you don’t reach the palace alive. You’ll be lucky to last the night.” He leered over her. “And when I finish with you, there will be nothing left to burn.”

  A chill swept up Larra’s spine, and she knew instinctively that this man was not making an idle threat. She was terrified. Truly terrified of this man. Who was he? Why did he want to hurt her, and how could she possibly keep away from him when she had no control over her situation?

  Huddling into the corner in a pathetic attempt to shield herself from the maliciousness radiating from him, she barely noticed when the blond man suddenly straightened in his saddle. Peering through the bars, she saw the captain riding toward them at a trot, a look of concern on his face. His big gelding puffed and collected its head against the bit as it was pulled to a walk alongside the wagon.

  “What’s going on here, Smithen?” the captain asked. When all he got was a shrug, he ordered, “Then get back in line. This isn’t a side show.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir,” answered the burly man without hesitation and moved his horse ahead.

  The captain edged closer, glancing briefly at the way she huddled in the corner before dropping his gaze to her feet. She expected him to say something, but he only pulled his horse around and rode back to the head of the group.

  The party reached the Eyeris River by nightfall. The cool, steadily flowing mass of water moved like a large, slithering snake through the heart of the Rockwood Forest and southward, all the way to the city. Larra felt a cool breeze drifting off the waters and through the trees, touching her face. Despite the shade, the summer day had been hot and she felt sticky with sweat, dust and tears. She hoped she would be allowed to wash her face and neck in the water at the very least.

  After snapping instructions to his men to prepare the camp, the captain walked to the parked wagon with determined steps, an older knight at his side. While the captain exemplified youth, strength, and command, the other man, while still strong physically, emanated wisdom and experience. He had graying hair and light, blue-green eyes with crinkles at the edges. Though not nearly as old as her grandmother, his face was weathered in the same way Elaine’s had been—healthy, yet worn. And unlike the captain, who continued to stare at Larra with aloofness, this older man seemed almost sympathetic.

  “Get ready, witch,” ordered the captain as they approached the door of the cage.

  Larra scrambled to her feet, keeping her back bent so as not to hit her head on the low ceiling. The older man inserted a key into the lock and she heard a click, then the sliding sound of a spring-loaded lever, before the captain swung the heavy door open.

  Contemplating how to descend the wagon without the use of her arms, she was surprised when she felt the gentle touch of a calloused hand just above her elbow. She looked down to see the captain’s large, sun-darkened fingers curling around the smooth slimness of her arm and for a moment forgot what she was supposed to be doing. It was not so much the touch itself that had paralyzed her, but the gentleness within the touch. It was so at odds with the persona he portrayed that it confused her.

  She looked up to find him staring at her, his eyes delving deeply into hers as if seeking an answer to some mysterious question only he knew. Her belly flip-flopped and, disturbed by the odd reaction, she jerked her eyes away, looking to the ground below.

  “Here, let me.” He lifted her down.

  “Thank you.” She kept her face averted until he released her arm and hastily took a step back. When she could finally look at him, she saw that his features were schooled into an implacable mask, revealing nothing of whether or not he’d felt a similar jolt.

  “You sure about this?” the older knight interrupted the moment, handing over a small container.

  The captain seemed to mull over his response as he placed the item in a pouch at his belt. “Yeah. It’s only right. I’ll take the dogs with me to be on the safe side.”

  She wasn’t sure what to make of their conversation, but before she could question them, a glint of silver caught her eye. The captain had pulled out a knife and was turning it in her direction.

  She instinctively began to back away.

  “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” He grabbed her shoulder before she could flee, turning her so that her back was towards him. Before she knew what was happening, he had placed the knife between her bound hands and cut the rope.

  Relieved and more than a little confused, she rubbed at her wrists, willing the blood to circulate back into her fingers. “Why—?” She didn’t know what to ask, or how. After Smithen’s earlier threats, she found herself wary of the men she was with, and when she’d seen the knife in the captain’s hands, she couldn’t suppress the feeling of fear that had zipped through her.

  “You’re being allowed some privacy at the river to wash and whatnot. Head along that small path,” he ordered. “The dogs and I will follow.” He didn’t replace the knife, but his sword remained in its sheath, and she took that as a good sign.

  She saw a break in the trees that must lead to the river, and began a slow, painful walk. Her muscles were stiff from the journe
y, and the touch of sharp rocks and sticks to her feet was difficult to bear.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you with the knife,” he said behind her. “We’re honorable men, despite what you might think. Our orders are to bring you directly to the palace. We won’t hurt you as long as you don’t use your magic or try escaping. If you’re compliant with the rules, you have nothing to fear.”

  Not all of them were honorable, Larra thought sorely, remembering Smithen. Should she tell the captain about the other man’s threats? She decided against it. Just because he said he didn’t intend to harm her didn’t mean he would help if she was in any actual danger.

  The knowledge that he probably wouldn’t care if she lived or died was bitter. Once she would have secretly dreamed of meeting a man as handsome as he, albeit one who actually cared about her. If a miracle occurred and she was allowed to live, Larra decided she would make her dreams reality. She would stop hiding behind the folds of her grandmother’s skirts, figuratively speaking, and find someone to love. Someone to build a life with, a home and family with. She would look for that “more” she had mentioned to Jess.

  After a few more painful steps, the rush of water became audible. The trees began to thin, eventually shrinking into bushes, then grasses, and then finally becoming a rocky shore that met the clear, steady flow of water from the river. She hoped it felt as cool as it looked.

  “I’ll wait behind that tree so you can have some privacy,” he said, pointing to a big, thick trunk on the other side of the bushes. “I need you to speak so that I can hear you. If I don’t hear you, I’ll come out and look for you. Is that understood?”

  “Of course,” replied Larra.

  “Just remember that if you do try to run, all I have to do is signal the hounds and they will be at your throat before you can blink.”

  The reminder wasn’t necessary, in Larra’s opinion. She could barely walk, let alone run. And all she wanted to do right now was wash off the dirt and grime from the road.

  “Here,” he pulled out a tin container. “This is for your feet, compliments of the older knight you saw, Sir Griffen. It will help with your cuts. My assignment is to bring you to the palace in one piece, if possible. I’d rather not lose you to fleshrot along the way.”

  “Do you know what herbs are in it?”

  “Does it matter?” He raised an eyebrow, as if such a question were ridiculous coming from a prisoner.

  “It does to a healer, which I am. My grandmother is the village healer and I was learning her trade before you arrested me. Every healer uses different ingredients in their salves, and it can make a difference in how quickly a wound will heal.”

  “Just use it and be grateful,” he said bluntly as he turned away, the dogs following at his heel. “And keep talking.”

  The moment he disappeared behind the tree, Larra leapt into action. Carefully making her way to a large rock partially immersed in the river, she sat down and dipped her feet in the water, sighing in bliss at the cool, satiny feel of it on her burning cuts.

  “I don’t hear you talking, witch,” came a deep voice from beyond the bushes. “Don’t make me come out to check on you. I doubt you’d appreciate the loss of what little privacy you have because you couldn’t follow simple directions.”

  He was right, she wouldn’t appreciate it. She began to talk as she scooped up water to wash her face, neck, and arms, not caring if the liquid splashed her dusty dress. She spoke of Farr. It was the only thing she knew, besides medicine. And so as she washed and took care of her needs, she described the people she’d grown up with and life as the granddaughter of a small village healer.

  “You almost finished, witch?” he soon interrupted her one-sided conversation.

  After a brief pause, she replied, “I have a name, you know.”

  Another pause.

  “Fine, then. Finish your washing and we’ll get back to camp…Larra.”

  From her position on top of the rock, Larra almost smiled at the use of her name. The way he said it made it sound almost elegant. It was such a small thing, to not be constantly referred to as a witch, yet it made a world of difference to how she felt.

  She reached down and wet her fingers, bringing her hands up to smooth back her hair and twist it into a large bun. Grabbing a stick from the ground, she used the piece to hold the bun in place. She felt refreshed and well, all things considered.

  It wasn’t until she began to lower herself from the rock that she realized she had a problem.

  Chapter 8

  “Captain?”

  “What is it?” Christoff asked, leaning his head back against the tree trunk. The minutes waiting for her, listening to her soft, low voice as she washed had been almost interminable. He’d kept the knife in his hand as a precaution, but he doubted its necessity. Lucien’s words kept hammering in his head, reminding him not to trust her, to always be on guard. But his gut told him she wasn’t a threat. Not at all.

  And his gut was never wrong.

  He was in a serious predicament, that was for sure. The day had been long and difficult, and through it all the girl had been nothing but brave, accepting her arrest with a quiet strength and resoluteness that was admirable.

  And she was so beautiful. So beautiful that looking at her was almost painful. He was strong enough, experienced enough as a knight, to know not to let physical attraction get to his head. But coupled with courage and dignity, and everything he’d learned in his training was pushed to the limits.

  If they’d met in a different time and place, if she’d been born of noble blood, or at least out of a respectable family, he probably would have courted her. She was that exceptional.

  But she was a witch. He and his men had visited several of the villagers on the list and their testimonies matched. There was no doubt about what they had witnessed. Which meant that what he was thinking and feeling was likely little more than a carefully crafted deception. He had to remember that.

  “Captain?” her voice intruded again on his ponderings. “I’m done, but have small problem. I’ve applied the salve to my feet, but it’s not dry and I’m afraid if I stand on the ground I will just re-infect the cuts. Do you have something I can wrap around my feet so that I can walk back to camp?”

  Christoff looked down at his clothes. He’d removed a portion of his armor at the campsite, and the black and green embroidered garments offered little in the way of bandages. He could always walk back to camp and find some strips of cloth, but didn’t trust the girl enough to leave her alone for even a moment. He looked to the dogs, which whined just slightly as if feeling his indecision.

  He sighed. There was really only one thing to do.

  He stepped around the tree and approached the girl as she sat upon the boulder. Bracing himself, he ignored her startled gasp and reached for her.

  “What—?”

  He slipped one arm around her back and the other under her knees, scooping her up to his chest. He could have sworn he felt his heart stop beating when she threw an arm around his neck to keep from falling—not that he would have dropped her. She wasn’t skinny, but she was slender enough that carrying her was no burden. And she was warm. She felt warm and alive, and very human.

  Her thick brown hair was bundled up, giving him a bird’s eye view of elegant features and slender shoulders. She hadn’t relaxed against him, and if he didn’t know better, he’d think she’d never been held like this before. Perhaps she hadn’t.

  It was probably the longest walk of his life, holding her so close, trying to keep his emotions in check. He’d given in to them briefly that morning, when he’d seen that young man from the village chasing after the wagon. It bothered him to admit that she obviously had admirers—ones who didn’t care that she had magic.

  She was a healer. He wondered what type of witch spent her life healing others. The notion was so conflicting with what Lucien had said about witches, that they were wholly selfish and dangerous, that Christoff found himself intrigued. What kind
of a witch preferred healing instead of hurting?

  When she’d asked him to call her by name, he had been momentarily caught off guard, but he figured that if he could call his dogs and horses by their names, then it couldn’t hurt to call a witch by hers. He only hoped that doing so wouldn’t prove to be a mistake. He didn’t want to get any closer to this girl than he needed to in order to fulfill his father’s orders. She was too much of a temptation.

  He spied the campfire ahead, creating a flickering, orange glow in the darkening night. From the looks of things, his huntsmen and dogs had returned with several fat woodland hares, which were being rotated on a roughly made wooden spit over the fire. The men were chatting, breaking bread and drinking from their flasks as they waited for the meat.

  The chatting ceased when Christoff entered the clearing. Ignoring their bewildered looks, he beckoned Sir Griffen to join him with his human cargo near the wagon.

  “She had no shoes,” he said lamely at Griffen’s quizzical look. In his arms, he felt Larra’s head lift, and one of her arms reached out to hand the knight the container of salve.

  “Thank you,” she said. “From the smell, it contains the right mixture of herbs to help prevent infection. I am very grateful. Surprised, actually, since it is oddly similar to what my grandmother makes.”

  “You are quite welcome,” said the older man, smiling gently.

  Of all the men in his party, Christoff knew and trusted Sir Griffen the best. During Christoff’s training to be a knight, the older man had been his mentor, teaching him about horsemanship and how to outmaneuver an enemy on the field. He was the most experienced of all the men here, and though he was technically retired, he had agreed to accompany Christoff on this particular assignment. Griffen claimed he needed time away from home and the incessant nagging of his wife, but Christoff knew he just wanted to be back in the field. Retirement could be hard on a man who was used to spending every day training and fighting, and knights were forced into it at an early age because of the demanding physical requirements of the occupation. Since Christoff knew Griffen to be only forty-six and plenty spry, he figured the man was just bored. Besides, Christoff knew Griffen’s wife, and she wasn’t the type to nag much.