Baker's Dozen

by Cutter, Leah

  “Yes. They’ve already bought the guard.”

  Storm couldn’t help the full-body shiver. So Craeg might have been corrupted.

  “The western kingdom treats its witches much worse,” the voice assured her.

  “Worse than burning them at the stake?” Storm asked, incredulous.

  “We only burn a few,” the voice said dismissively. “We let all who would leave and go south.”

  “How noble of you, high priestess Shoal,” Storm said, guessing.

  The priestess continued, as if she hadn’t heard Storm. “The greatest witches, of course, hide in plain view—priestesses, all of them. They carry the word of god to the people, that they receive through wholesome prayer, not archaic blood rites.”

  Storm sat shocked into stillness. She’d never heard of such a thing, not even a hint. The priestesses stood above all but the king—some might even say the high priestess stood level with the king. And they were witches? Witches were despised more than undertakers, and feared more than the guard. Storm had always thought that ironic: As a witch, the gods bound her to do no harm. “How can you do this to your own kind?” she hissed.

  “Our ancestors made this choice, long ago, based on augury that would turn your stomach,” Shoal said through gritted teeth. “An entire army of soldiers, tricked, trapped, and slaughtered for their entrails. It was the only way we could save ourselves.”

  “Witches could disappear into the temples without being persecuted,” Storm pointed out, still reeling. There was only truth in the high priestess’ words.

  “It’s the will of the people,” Shoal recited, as if by rote. “The strongest of us have always been given the chance to recant publicly, coming into the temple privately.”

  Storm had seen that—at least two women she’d known had recanted, shaved their heads and become nuns in the temple, their eyes always lowered, never accepted by anyone after that. “So that’s what you offer me?” The temple might take care of her, but no one would smile at her ever again.

  “No. Stand by us as we defy the wave with the will of god—you will be celebrated to the end of your days and beyond.”

  A cool breeze fluttered through the cell. This time, Storm didn’t shudder, but stretched as her muscles all suddenly relaxed. She saw nothing; however, cool tendrils massaged her knee, chasing away the pain. A second breeze licked her side, soothing her ribs. Her bruised eyes and split cheek stopped aching, and the swelling across her lips receded.

  Storm had never known such a powerful healing. No witch she knew could have done this work without sight or touch.

  “A small token of how you will be repaid,” promised Shoal. A will-o’-the-wisp light appeared in the corner, brightening Storm’s heart. A soft blanket, warm and clean, lay beside it.

  “I will think on what you’ve said,” Storm promised, wondering: If she saved the temple, could she also save herself?

  * * *

  When Storm awoke, all her aches had passed, sliding away with her dreams. If it hadn’t been for the stark cell, the dark stains she knew were blood, and the vile odor of the trench, she might have thought everything that had happened the day before just a dream as well.

  The crusts of bread thrown into her cell by the jailor were augmented by a jug of clean water that magically appeared in the corner. Storm used it sparingly, drinking a few teeth-chilling mouthfuls, then wetting the corner of her blanket to scrub the dried blood off her itching skin. She almost felt refreshed by the time she’d finished.

  As Storm settled into the boredom of her empty cell, the sibilant voice came again. “Put it on,” it whispered. Storm glanced at the door, then back around her cell.

  There in the corner now lay a bundle of clothes: an abbess’ habit, bright blue and gold, with a high wimple that covered her hair and a half-veil that only revealed her eyes.

  “Put it on,” the voice repeated. “Then come see.”

  A loud click echoed through the still morning: the lock of her door unlatching.

  An unknown nun stood in the dim corridor, dressed in similar robes, though hers were the gray of a teacher. “You can call me Janus,” she said with a sly grin.

  “Janus—the two-faced?” Storm asked, falling into place beside her, walking more strongly than she had in ages.

  “I know you have questions about our program, about divided loyalties. Today is a day of truths, so why not give you a name more true than my given one?”

  Janus’ honesty startled Storm, but she kept walking. The air was getting more clear, the stench of the jail falling away.

  “And I will call you Hope,” Janus continued. “Because there should be more truth in your name as well.”

  Storm shook her head. She wasn’t convinced the new name was right, though it pleased her that this youngster thought so. Storm hadn’t had hope in many decades.

  They stayed inside the temple complex, never reaching the common parts of the town. Storm both regretted and was grateful for their path: If she’d found the opportunity to slip away, she might not have been able to stop herself.

  Their first visit was to an outdoor classroom. The priestess sat on a carved stone bench while the children sprawled gracelessly before her, absorbing every word of the half-lies she told them. Storm had always sacrificed to Brikal for foretelling, prayed to Kireg for hospitality and everything regarding her home, given blessings to Zeka for the storms and the sea, and even whispered to Hyn for good fortune, sometimes. Yet here was this priestess, proclaiming that the god of the Alokai Temple, Myat, was superior to all. Storm didn’t even know how to counter such a lie. It was laughable. Yet the children didn’t know any better.

  Then Janus and Storm stepped into a darkened cubby, far from the sun. A little girl lay on a bench, shivering yet sweating at the same time. A healer in bright red passed her hands over her while prayers were muttered, useless words masking powerful deeds.

  They stopped a third time where the children were being asked to pray for miracles, not knowing they were being tested for power, the priestess looking for any glimmer to nurture. The priestess wasn’t seeking a witch; no, she sought the holy.

  By the time Storm stripped off the habit, she felt as though her world and everything she’d known had been turned upside down. Witches had been persecuted for generations. It was all Storm had known. Yet here in the temple there was community, witches working together to raise water in a well, holding hands and directing their power, being sought after for their help and advice.

  If Storm saved the temple, she could join them. She would just have to rename herself: instead of witch, go by priestess instead.

  * * *

  The moans of the woman in the next cell woke Storm in the middle of the night.

  “No, no, not me, no.”

  “What happened?” Storm called out. She knew better than to ask what was wrong.

  “I don’t want to die,” the woman whimpered.

  “What was your crime?” Storm asked, though she already knew. Little other than witchcraft put a woman in a place like this.

  “Being too good at healing,” the woman declared. “I don’t know why they wouldn’t cherish me. I wouldn’t hurt a person, I couldn’t.”

  “What about becoming a priestess?” Storm asked.

  “The fake healers? Never,” the woman declared.

  “They’re witches too,” Storm told her.

  The woman’s laughter was dryer than a winter wind. “They’d never ask me to join,” she declared. “I’m nobody, with no connections, and only a minor power.”

  Storm had no words to comfort her. With the noon bells came the sweet scent of roasted flesh.

  When Janus came later that afternoon, Storm confronted her. “Is it true? Do you only save the stronger witches?”

  “That’s true everywhere,” Janus said quietly. “The strong survive.”

  “We’re burning our own people!”

  “But we’ll survive.” Janus gave Storm her sly grin. “If you help
us, join with us and stand with us, maybe you can save more of the weaker ones yourself.”

  Though Storm had never been nurturing, she did take comfort in that. However, she still dared not make any plans.

  * * *

  Even from the gloom of her cell, Storm knew the day dawned brightly. She’d hoped for more days of reprieve from her terrible decision, but a thrumming in the floor under her hands told her it was time.

  Janus threw her cell door open, blasting it off its hinges. Storm scrambled after her. She knew she couldn’t run far enough now to escape the fate of the city, so she followed Janus.

  Storm heard the roaring of the wave before she saw it, the mad howling of a timeless beast, no relation to the gently lapping waves at her cove. Storm’s knee ached as she ran; despite Shoal’s efforts, it hadn’t quite healed. Finally they came around a corner and halted. A long line of priestesses, all holding hands, stood in front of Alokai Temple. All the different colors of their habits would have made the gathering seem festive if their faces hadn’t been grim.

  Janus dragged Storm to the center, where the standing witches made room. Storm clasped hands with a humming novice on one side, her clear blue eyes shining with faith, and with the cynical Janus on the other side, scared but determined to make a stand.

  The power of these women coursed through Storm, binding her talent up with theirs. As sisters, they stood ready to defeat the coming maelstrom, humming and surging with incredible energy. Storm tasted the current in her mouth, dark and coppery, her very bones creaking with power. She felt more alive than ever before.

  However, Storm also no longer felt single, solitary, and complete. She was part of something, and she wasn’t sure she could be alone again.

  Storm wrenched open her eyes, away from the seductive net of power, and looked outward. She’d wanted to see the enemy they faced, as well as collect her singular thoughts.

  What Storm saw were the people. No matter the explanation the priestesses had given their current ritual, the people knew: It wasn’t their god, but their magic they called on.

  The man before Storm sneered even as he prayed to god for survival. The mother to the side hid her children’s eyes from the sin the priestesses committed. Even as they begged for the power to save them, the people of the city had been taught too long to shun it.

  The scattered individuals before Storm formed long lines, shifting one into the other. She recognized the geas of augury. The strings of people were like the ropes of seaweed, living bands of divination. It didn’t take Storm but a moment to read their future and the future of all the witches.

  Even if the temple survived the storm, the priestesses were doomed. The common people would never forgive them for their deception. The decimation would be systematic and complete, worse than anything the western kingdom could do.

  Storm turned her sight back inward. Shoal, Craeg, and the others had been wrong. It wasn’t that Storm was necessary for defeating the wave; she was quite certain she wasn’t given the power that flowed through her.

  She was the only one capable of destroying them.

  With a strength Storm didn’t know she possessed, she wielded the black knife of foresight, demanding all of their lives as sacrifice for her foretelling, cutting through the lines of power, breaking apart their shield as the water crashed down.

  Seaweed caught Storm’s legs, or maybe it was her sisters turned against her as she had them, holding her under the water.

  Storm didn’t care, though her body struggled to breathe. She’s saved them. Her prophecy would come true. She’d made a horrible sacrifice of all of them, the entire population of the city, to ensure the survival of the witches. They’d been hiding, denying the blood of their birthright. Now the temple would drive them out and they’d all go south where they’d start anew, in a territory they could defend against the western kingdom, a home they could call their own.

  There would be more dooms to face, Storm was certain, more sacrifices to make. She wished her future sisters well as she let go, her soul floating away on the sea.

  Author’s Note

  So where do story ideas come from? I already had the picture of Storm on the beach destroying her divination in mind, but I didn’t know what she’d seen. I was at a tea shop while I wrote this, looked across the room without my glasses on, and saw a book that had “Aloha” in the title. Somehow that became the Doom of Alokai.

  The Third Raven

  Pedrek pulled his long raven cloak tighter across his shoulders. The wind blew more brashly here, high on the cliffs overlooking the town of Sulwyn. Pedrek wondered if it was an omen, the cold wind foretelling a chilly reception in the town below.

  They wouldn’t deny him entrance, of course. The wood and earthworks surrounding the town couldn’t stop him, and though they didn’t get many of his kind up here, they might even make him welcome, at least at the start. The novelty of a visiting raven warrior had gotten him two or three nights’ stay for free in other small villages. Maybe there was work here as well—bandits, unscrupulous tax collectors, or even a rotten Lowen or spell-worker—that the town would pay for Pedrek to clean up.

  The steep roofs below told Pedrek the layers of snow likely to come in the winter. He’d be long gone before it came, going south if he could, to islands where ice never clipped his wings. It would be a long, cold winter without Ebril, his mate. He sighed and looked out again.

  A river coursed through the far edge of the town, next to the hills, large enough for merchants and their ships. From Pedrek’s high perch, the town looked peaceful and prosperous, just the kind of place he needed, at least for a while.

  Harsh winds pushed at Pedrek, whipping the edges of his cloak. He should just leave now; give into the change and fly true. He stubbornly kept off his wings and instead returned to the trail, stomping the dirt with his very human feet, reminding his feathered soul that his human half had needs as well: companionship, cooked meat, warm fires, and four walls of safety at night. As well as a few more shiny coins to line his purse: Ebril had been sick a long time, but none of the expensive spells or potions had worked.

  As Pedrek drew closer to the town, he realized the earthworks hadn’t been maintained: They crumbled on the sides and the main gateway sagged. No one challenged him as he walked up the road. Likely there would be no work here for him, either. He decided to just stay the night and continue his travels in the morning.

  Pedrek was used to the stares he received in small villages like this. He kept his back straight as he marched toward the piers, figuring any inns would be near there.

  What Pedrek hadn’t expected was how startled the people seemed, pointing and whispering as he passed. He wondered what a previous member of the raven clan had done to garner so much attention.

  Before Pedrek got to the river, an old grandmother put herself directly in his path. “Have you come for Corin?” she demanded. Though she only came up to Pedrek’s chest, her fierceness matched that of the great mountain cat he’d seen defending her young. “Finally going to take care of your own?”

  “For who?” Pedrek asked.

  “Figured. Mighty raven warriors,” she said disdainfully. “This way,” she added, walking the direction Pedrek had been going, toward the water.

  “What do you mean?” Pedrek asked. Raven warriors were usually treated with fear or grudging respect. Not dismissed by grandmothers with curls arranged by the wind and faces covered in a riverbed of wrinkles.

  “This way,” was the only response he received.

  Two blocks away, on the boardwalk of inns and shops that faced the water, the old woman stopped and pointed. “There,” she said, spitting once before stomping away.

  Mystified, Pedrek walked toward the shop she’d indicated, not seeing the boy until he was much closer.

  Most of the raven clans manifested their human side with white or silver hair, nearly colorless eyes, and tanned skin. This boy had raven dark hair and eyes. He stood in the shadows, the sun casting wa
n light on his pale face. He wore a wine-colored shirt, probably a hand-me-down that had been altered to fit his slight frame.

  It wasn’t until the boy—Corin, Pedrek assumed—moved that Pedrek saw what else the shadows had hidden.

  Instead of two arms, the boy only had one. The other was a raven’s wing, black as a nightmare.

  Pedrek shivered, but bit his tongue, refusing to name his fear: half-breed.

  * * *

  “What happened?” Pedrek finally asked after the pair of them had stared at each other for long moments. People passed them on the boardwalk, but Pedrek didn’t pay attention to them, keeping all his focus on the boy.

  Corin looked like he was about to take flight, but he stayed. “Cursed,” he said. He jerked his chin at the cloak Pedrek wore. “Is that what they’re supposed to do? Turn into a cloak you can carry around?”

  “No,” Pedrek admitted. It was a popular myth, one that the raven clan didn’t discourage too much, giving the warriors more mystique. “It’s primarily just a cloak.”

  The boy seemed disappointed. “So it can’t help me change all the way back?”

  Pedrek shook his head. “But maybe I can help.”

  Corin scoffed. “Told you I was cursed. I need some kind of magic. Not mere words about listening to my feathered soul.”

  “Do you talk with your feathered soul?” Pedrek asked.

  “No such thing,” Corin declared, staring at him.

  Pedrek blinked, surprised. Corin was old enough—at least seven, he guessed—that he should have had contact from his feathered half. “Who cursed you?”

  “Old Lowen up in the hills,” the boy said, looking at the ground.

  Pedrek was certain the boy lied, but he wasn’t sure about what. “Who taught you about the raven clan?”

  “Ma did. She’d known about them.”

  “She’s dead?” Pedrek asked, wanting to be clear.

  “Yes.” Corin looked up and glared. “Might not have been the same old Lowen, but it had to be something like that. She just—wasted away. As if something ate her from the inside out.”