The Witch's Reward

by Liz McCraine

  He had asked Griffen earlier for the container of healing salve he always carried. It had come in handy on more than one occasion, and Christoff knew it would help with the scratches on the witch’s feet. He felt somewhat guilty that she had been cut up. He hadn’t given her time to get her shoes, and while she was guilty of witchery, she didn’t deserve to be abused. He also couldn’t help but admire her for not complaining about the scratches. Most of the girls he knew would have been hysterical over such injuries.

  “Grab a couple of blankets for me, Griff. Spread one out by the wheels. She can eat there before she has to go back into the wagon for the night,” Christoff nodded at the pile of bedding that lay warming by the fire.

  “Untied?” she asked hopefully as she was being set down.

  He paused while in the midst of removing his arms from around her. “Until we know more about you, I think it’s best to take the extra precaution.”

  “You can’t be serious! How can I possibly sleep with my hands tied behind my back?”

  “I’m sure you’ll make do.” He stood up and moved back.

  “I’m not an animal, you know.”

  Her words caught him by surprise.

  “I’m not an animal,” she repeated, more forcibly this time. With the fire behind him, she was cast into his shadow.

  “I realize that. Why do you think I let you wash in the river? We’re not monsters, Larra. We’re just cautious. If it were up to my advisor, you would have never been allowed out of the cage at all. The fact that I not only let you wash up, but removed your bonds to do so should testify to the fact that I don’t consider you an animal. Far from it.”

  “Cautious?” she asked, amazed. “Of me?” She laughed acerbically. “I’m a healer. I heal people. I help them become better, help them live. And yet all of you assume I am a threat to your existence.”

  “You are a witch. And you are not to be trusted.”

  He turned his head and gave a shrill whistle. “Andres, Hermes!“ The two wolfhounds jogged up. “Guard!” he said, pointing a finger at Larra. The two hounds immediately sat and pinned their unwavering attention on her. “I’ll have someone bring you food. You’ll have a few minutest to eat before getting locked up.” She opened her mouth to argue further, but he walked away before she could utter another word.

  I can’t believe this! It was outrageous that she had to be both locked up and tied. Was he afraid she was going to be able to undo that lock and latch all by herself, without a key? She looked down at her slender arms. Even if she did have the key, she didn’t have the strength to swing the heavy door open.

  She was even more upset when the man who came to lock her up was none other than Smithen.

  “Captain asked for a volunteer to tie the witch,” he said, one brow rising in a sardonic manner. “I told him I wasn’t afraid of a puny little girl, even if she did have magic.” His ugly grin revealed a gap in his teeth where an eyetooth had been knocked out in a fight or accident.

  Probably a fight. Larra drew up her legs, wrapping her arms around her body protectively. He scared her, this big, mean man. Mean in a way that made her want to curl up within herself and disappear.

  She didn’t know what he planned, but glancing past him she saw that some of the other men, including the captain, were observing the exchange. She could only hope he wouldn’t hurt her with the others looking on.

  “Come on, now, dovey. Get up and pull those hands behind your back so I can tie them.” She slowly unwrapped her arms and stood. He walked behind her, holding out the rope.

  “Captain says not to tie them too tight, so I’ll be real gentle,” he emphasized the last words, his sarcasm and intentions obvious when she felt the jerk of the rough rope around her wrists. She felt him twist it, the pressure almost cutting off all circulation. Numbness began to settle in her fingertips.

  After a couple more jerks, he pulled her around to the open door of the wagon, then bent over her shoulder to whisper into her ear. She could feel his warm, foul breath fanning her cheek and resisted the urge to shrink away.

  “You think you’re uncomfortable now?” he whispered. “Just be glad I’m not the one who took you to the river. So count your blessings, little witchy. I’d be real relieved to be tied up if I were you, ’cause the alternative, when it happens, is going to be a whole lot worse.” He rose to his feet, giving her one last frightening smile. “And you’d better not say anything to the captain about me, because he won’t believe you. He’ll just think you’re trying to trick him. And when I find out that you tattled,” he paused for emphasis. “I’ll make sure to visit your grandmother when I’m done with you.”

  She shuddered as his beefy hands grasped her by the waist and hefted her into the wagon like a sack of grain. Struggling to sit up, she watched through the bars as he returned to his spot by the fire. He wasn’t bluffing. There was no mistaking that look of determination in his eyes. He truly wanted to harm her. And for a girl who had been protected her whole life, this was an awakening. It was a moment when naivety dried up and fell away like the shredded skin of a snake. A moment when she realized the world was not like Farr. The real world was cruel, because there were cruel men in it. And that cruelty was aimed at her.

  If he ever took a turn at taking her to the river to wash, she was going to be in trouble. She could feel desperation pulling at her like a greedy grave robber on the door to a rich man’s tomb. Her trial hadn’t even begun and likely never would. Even if the possibility of a pardon existed, she’d never reach the palace to find out. She would die violently at Smithen’s hands before she ever made it that far.

  She shifted until she could lie down on her side on the blanket. She would have cried out about the ropes being too tight, but she forgot all about them. The numbness in her hands ceased to register as her mind drifted down in a dark spiral of depression. Finally, exhaustion overtook her, and she fell into an uncomfortable sleep.

  From across the camp, Christoff glanced to the girl lying still as death on the back of the wagon. He seriously doubted she was capable of escaping the enclosure, even if she used her magic; the door was difficult for even a knight to open, much less a slender reed of a girl. But the men were tired, as was he. They needed their nights free from the worry of an escaping prisoner, and the bonds gave them an added measure of security.

  He had ordered Smithen to tie the bonds comfortably enough not to rasp her skin, but tight enough to guarantee they wouldn’t slip off. He hoped the man had followed his orders to the letter, especially after his blunder with the girl’s grandmother. Christoff was tempted to check the ropes himself, but decided against it. As a leader, he had to show a little trust. It was how training worked best—show a little trust in a man, and he trusted you in return. It was an important concept, and one that was worth a knight’s very life on the battlefield. Trust was a key to survival.

  But Christoff still worried. He had seen the soldier whisper in Larra’s ear, had seen her close her eyes and cringe. But she hadn’t said anything, hadn’t yelled or complained, so he couldn’t react. He had to let things be. He would let the girl sleep, get some rest himself, and continue the journey in the morning. If there were any problems during the night, he was confident either Sir Griffen or Sir Gyles, who were covering the night shifts, would wake him.

  And wake him they did.

  “Sire.”

  A rough shake on the shoulder pulled Christoff from his troubled dreams not many hours later. His eyes felt heavy as Sir Griffen’s image floated into sight. It was very dark, still in the deepest part of the night, and the fire was burning low in the center of the circle of sleeping men.

  “Is there trouble?” he asked, his voice little more than a whisper. Despite his body’s protest at being disrupted from a deep sleep, Christoff’s mind was instantly alert.

  “Sire, look to the girl,” Griffen said, pointing at the shadowy figure alone in the wagon.

  Christoff immediately lifted his head. Even in the dead of
night, he could see the girl’s body shivering with a tremendous frenzy. Such shivering meant that either she was uncommonly cold, or there was something wrong. Either way, it was unnatural. Lifting himself quietly to his feet, Christoff grasped the second blanket he had used to cover himself and made his way to the girl.

  She was still asleep. He could see her eyes squeezed tightly together, her breath coming and going in a slow, steady rhythm at odds with the erratic, forceful shaking of her body. He reached through the bars and felt her arm. It was hot and swollen. In the edges of the firelight, he saw that her skin was darker than normal, not unlike someone with bad circulation. He followed her arms down and was shocked to see that her fingers were a deep purple. He hurriedly set the blanket down and, keeping as quiet as possible, opened the door to the cage. Anger, like heavy rolling of thunder, stirred deep within him.

  That stupid soldier—didn’t he know how to follow directions? Careless, stupid, disobedient oaf! The man was a recruit, a soldier in training for knighthood. This was the second time in as many days that he had disproved himself worthy to join that exalted rank.

  Christoff quickly drew out his knife and reached forward, carefully cutting through the bonds. Even as the rope fell away and her hands separated, he could see the purple begin to fade. Clenching his teeth, he picked up the blanket and gently placed it over the sleeping girl, then shut the door. The girl hadn’t even stirred.

  If it was the last thing he did, he would see that the soldier was never promoted. First thing in the morning, he would make sure Smithen understood what would happen if he violated any more of the standards that knights were required to uphold, honor and duty the highest of them all. If he caused any more problems during the journey, he would be stripped of the privilege of fighting for the king altogether.

  Christoff stalked back to the fire, thanking his friend as he passed, and flung himself down on his bedroll. Why hadn’t she said anything? She should have called for help when she felt that the bonds were too tight, but she hadn’t. Except for that bit about not being an animal, she never complained, never fell into hysterics, never acted up or even tried to antagonize her jailors. She was an enigma. A strong, courageous enigma who was nothing less than dangerous because of her magic.

  With a final pounding of his fist to the ground, Christoff forced himself to fall back asleep. Tomorrow would be another long day.

  Chapter 9

  “Your morning tea, your majesty.”

  Steffan looked up from the documents he was reading as a tea cup filled with steaming, golden-colored liquid was placed in front of him. He dropped the parchments on his office desk and took off the lenses covering his eyes.

  “Thank you, Lucien.” Setting the lenses on the already forgotten documents, he reached for the cup. “You know how much I enjoy these few, sparse moments when my stomach pains go away. This Signon tea is really remarkable.” He took a careful sip of the hot drink, leaning back in his chair to enjoy the slow numbing of the pain in his gut.

  “The local healers have examined me and don’t know what is causing this. Each day I find myself getting weaker and weaker, as though whatever ailment that is within me is slowly draining me of energy.” He looked up at his longtime friend. “Lissa suggests I send for a healer from her homeland, though I don’t know if we should bother going to so much trouble just yet. What do you think? You’ve studied medicine in those books of yours; have you come across anything that the healers might have missed?”

  Steel-colored eyes stared down into the king’s face. “I couldn’t say for sure. I imagine it is just a passing bug of some sort and will eventually wear itself out. Most sicknesses do get worse before they get better, you know. Not unlike that rash we got when we were kids. It started with just a few red spots and a little itching, and then spread over the entire body, do you remember?”

  “Ah, yes! My mother had the maids smother us in toastweed lotion and wrap our fingers so that we wouldn’t itch our skin off. I’d almost forgotten.”

  “And remember what happened after just a few days of suffering?” Lucien urged.

  “Of course. Gone as quickly as it had begun. What an oddity, though my mother said it was a common enough ailment in children.” Steffan sat back, pensive for a moment. “I suppose you are right. Maybe this pain will begin to recede soon. If it keeps on much longer, I shall turn into a complete invalid. I was barely able to get out of bed today, as it was.”

  “That is indeed troublesome. But I’m certain it will be over soon. And the drink does help, does it not?”

  “You know that it does. And many thanks to you, my friend, for discovering it.”

  “Perhaps you should drink it more regularly, at least for the next couple of days. It would help you relax so that your body can fight this sickness.”

  “Aye,” agreed Steffan. “I don’t like taking medicine often, but I think that an exception could be made. I’m certain you are right. The sickness can’t go on much longer, and I am king, after all. I must be available to my subjects. For the next few days let me take the tea at more frequent intervals, perhaps every couple of hours. But just until I can get back on my feet.”

  “A wise decision, as usual, Steffan,” agreed Lucien. “Though such wisdom is not surprising, given that it’s been part of your nature since we were children.” He smiled at his friend, the smile not quite reaching his eyes.

  Was there a hint of jealousy there? the king wondered. No, not from his friend. He knew Lucien had always understood their differences. Steffan had been born to royalty, whereas Lucien had not. It was simply the way of things, and hadn’t been a factor in their friendship, which had only strengthened since childhood. No, not jealousy. He’d probably had a rough night and was just tired.

  “And you? How are you sleeping, my friend?” he asked. “Your eyes look a bit tired, almost as tired as my own have been these last few days.”

  “I admit I’ve been somewhat worried for your son.”

  “Oh?” inquired Steffan, perplexed.

  “Only because I’ve been studying more on the subject of witches and have learned several disturbing new things. I hope this witch doesn’t know her own power and won’t give your son and his men any problems during their journey. They should have reached Farr by now, and have the woman contained.” Lucien turned to look out the window, worry gracing his lean features.

  Steffan appreciated his counselor’s concern for his son. As the tea slowly worked its numbing magic and he was able to think more clearly without the restrictions caused by his illness, he remembered his wife’s suggestions regarding the matter of the witch.

  “About that witch,” he began, “Have you found anything in the books? Former judgments, a loophole, anything?”

  “Not yet, sire.”

  “Have we found an official record of the law sentencing all witches to death? If it wasn’t recorded, then technically—”

  “I hadn’t thought of that. I just assumed that it was written down, but perhaps not. I will look into it immediately.”

  “Thank you, Lucien. I do not believe that men and women accused of having certain characteristics through no fault of their own should be held accountable unto death. I’ve reviewed the explanations, the reasons why these people should not be permitted to live, but I just cannot understand the logic of it. Now killing carnies, that I understand. But citizens of Aggadorn?” He rubbed a tense hand over his brow. It was difficult to keep a steady rule when he was in disagreement of the very laws he had sworn to uphold.

  “Steffan,” Lucien began, “At the risk of repeating what I said a week ago, I must remind you that your people look to you firstly to keep them safe, and secondly, to uphold the laws. The second being essential for the first. Your subjects look to you as their stalwart leader, their wise and powerful king. If they see you weaken in your resolve to uphold your own kingdom’s laws, how can you possibly retain their trust? And as we all know, a kingdom that does not trust its leader will eventually become
s divided and consequently destroyed.

  “Magic was not meant for humankind. Humans are not inherently good or bad, like fairies and carnies. They can choose for themselves. To have magic in the hands of humans is to be faced with a dangerous weapon, never knowing when or how or whom it will strike. We are human, Steffan. And that unpredictability is the most dangerous thing in this world.

  “You are doing the right thing, bringing the woman to the palace to be tried. And if needs be, I am certain you will do the right thing in executing the law—no matter how displeasing it is to watch a person burn alive.”

  Steffan considered his counselor’s words. Lucien was right, he knew. He had a duty, an obligation to his people. It was his highest priority to uphold the law and maintain the peace that the kingdom had enjoyed for the last several years. Yet despite this, the king was left with a cold feeling in his gut, much different than the sickness that had plagued him for so many days. Whereas that sickness was purely physical, this sickness seemed to sear through to his very soul. But he was king, and he knew what he had to do.

  Lucien entered his dark study in a rush, slamming the heavy door shut behind him. Telling Steffan all the reasons the witch should be brought to the palace was straining his patience to the limits. Of course he didn’t want the blasted woman to make it to the palace! But saying otherwise would attract curiosity, and maybe even suspicion. Steffan wasn’t a fool; he would suspect if Lucien suddenly counseled that it was okay to forsake the law.