[Anita Blake Collection] - Strange Candy

by Laurell K. Hamilton

  “Where are the little birds, the brownkins? There are always brownkins.”

  “Not here, not anymore.” Jessa wanted to ask him how he had not noticed, but she knew the answer. He was an herb-witch, a maker of potions; his magic was a thing of incantations and ritual. Her magic was tied to the earth and what sprang from it. This desolation wounded her in a very private way. This was blasphemy. And Gregoor had seen nothing in the summer twilight.

  “If you will distract the guard, I will spy out the curse, and see if it is safe to enter.”

  He nodded. “They might not be happy to see more spell casters after Cytherea.”

  “Yes, I would rather not be advertised as an earth-witch.”

  He rode over to the gate. “What has happened to your land?”

  Jessa turned inward and did not hear the rest. She listened to the rhythm of her own body, blood flowing, heart pumping, breathing, pulsing. She came to the silence deep in her own body where everything was still. Jessa released her shield and swayed in her saddle. It took all she had not to cry out. The land wailed around her. Death. The land was wounded, dying. It was not just the witches on their scaffold that Cytherea had drained, but the earth itself. She had taken some of the life-force of the summer land. It would not recover. The town was doomed. It could not survive where no crops would grow. There were no brownkins because the birds had fled this place; everything that could had fled this place. Everything but the people. And they would leave soon enough. When autumn came and there were no crops, they would leave.

  The destruction was so complete that it masked everything else. Jessa was forced to turn the horse so she could look at the town, concentrate on it, and see if it was indeed cursed. Her eyes passed the corpses and three sparks of life fluttered in the corpses, bright and clean. The souls wavered and struggled. Jessa turned away and stared at the walled town.

  She stretched her magic outward, no longer flinching from the earth-death around her. The town was just a town. There was no curse. A curse would be redundant after what Cytherea had done to the land.

  Jessa rode up beside Gregoor. She whispered, “There is no curse on the town. We can enter safely.”

  The guardswoman called down, “What was your lady friend doing so long?”

  Jessa answered, “I was praying.”

  The woman was silent a moment. “Prayers are a good thing. Enter, strangers, and be welcome to what is left of Titos.”

  There was one small tavern in the town, and they were the only strangers. The windows were shuttered, though the summer night was mild. An elderly woman muttered in her sleep, dreaming before an unnecessary fire. Jessa wondered if they thought fire and light would keep out the evil, like a child crying in the night. The place stank of stale beer and the sweat of fear. The tavernkeeper himself came to take their orders. He was a large beefy man, but his eyes were red-rimmed as if from tears.

  The tavern sign had said simply, “Esteban’s Tavern.” Jessa took a chance. “You are Esteban?”

  He looked at her, eyes not quite focused, as if he were only half-listening. “Yes, I am he. Do you wish to eat?”

  “Yes. But more than food we would like information.”

  She had his attention now. His dark eyes stared at her, full of anger, and a fine and burning hatred, like the sun burning through glass. “What kind of information?”

  Gregoor brushed her hand, a warning not to press this man. But Jessa felt a magic in the room, untapped but there. It was not coming from the tavernkeeper. “A gibbet stands outside your town gates. How did it come to be there?”

  Large hands knotted the rag he had stuck in his belt. His voice was a dark whisper. “Get out.”

  “Excuse me, tavernkeep, I meant no offense, but such a sight is uncommon.”

  “Get…out.” He looked up at her as he spoke and there was death in his eyes, death born of grief.

  Jessa knew about such grief and how it ate you from the inside out until there was nothing left until you died or satisfied your vengeance. She spoke, low and clear, “Where is your wife, tavernkeep?”

  He threw back his head and screamed, then flung their table to the side and advanced on Jessa. She kept out of his reach, a knife in her hand, but she did not want to harm him. The magic she had felt flared and crept along her skin: sorcery.

  The old woman by the fire was standing now, leaning on her walking stick. One hand was clawlike in the air before her. “Enough of this.” Power rode her voice, a lash of obedience. The big man stood unsure, arms drooping at his sides, tears sliding down his cheeks.

  Jessa sheathed her knife, unable to do anything else. Very few people could have forced an obedience spell upon Jessa.

  The old woman turned angry eyes on her. “Did you have to hurt him?”

  “You would not show yourself.”

  “Well, I am here now, girl. What do you want? And I warn you, if it is not something worthy of the pain you have caused, you will be punished for your rudeness.”

  Jessa bowed, never taking her eyes from the woman. She felt Gregoor close at her side and caught the glint of steel in his hand. So the obedience spell had affected only Jessa and the man. That was something to remember. “I seek the death of Cytherea the Mad.”

  The woman stared at Jessa for the space of heartbeats. Jessa knew she was being weighed and measured, tested. The old woman laughed then, an unexpectedly young sound, but the body remained old. “An assassin. Two assassins.”

  Jessa and Gregoor shifted uncomfortably, for there was nothing that should have given them away. “We are not…”

  The old woman said, “Do not lie, whoever you are. I have the gift of trueseeing.”

  Jessa swallowed. It was a rare talent, and one that was proof against all lies, magical or mundane. “We did not enter this town under false pretenses. If you are a truthseer, then you know I mean what I say. I am here to kill Cytherea.”

  The woman’s face was solemn as she studied them. “You believe what you say, that much is true. But saying you will kill her and doing so are not the same thing.”

  “That is true. We seek information to aid us in our task.”

  Esteban said, “Can you kill her?”

  Jessa looked at him. His eyes were grief-filled wounds. “Yes. I am Wizardsbane, and this will not be the first, or even the tenth, wizard I have slain.”

  The old woman said, “And you, who follow her like a shadow, who are you?”

  Gregoor sheathed his blade. “I am Gregoor Steelsinger, also known as Deathbringer.”

  “Such auspicious names, young ones. But can you live up to them?”

  Jessa said, “We are willing to risk our lives to prove worthy of our names. Are you willing to help us destroy the madwoman who has raped your village?”

  “I will tell you what I can, Jessamine Wizardsbane, but it is precious little. I am Teodora Truthseer.”

  Esteban brought food out to them, then sat to listen. Jessa would have protested, but Teodora said, “His wife and daughter hang on the gibbet outside our town. Surely he deserves a seat at this table.”

  Jessa nodded.

  “The first we knew of trouble was a snowstorm from a clear summer sky. It was a storm driven by an ice elemental, cold as the netherhells. Cytherea came out of that storm, an ice demon at her side. She told us her terms for saving our town.” Teodora paused and took a drink. “I fought Cytherea when she arrived at our gates. I challenged her to win safety for my town.” Teodora smiled and looked at her age-gnarled hands. “I lost. But I did not lose through sorcery. There I could have matched her. She wore a ring on her left hand, an enchanted ring. I walked out the town gates a woman of thirty and was carried back in a woman of sixty.”

  Jessa and Gregoor exchanged glances. “What sort of ring could age a woman like that?” Gregoor asked.

  “Cytherea did not age me, so much as curse me with old age. She wears a ring of curses.”

  Gregoor gave a low whistle. “That is an expensive item.”

&nb
sp; Jessa said, “Is that how she bound…”

  Teodora interrupted her. “Esteban, could you please refill my glass?”

  The man looked suspicious, but got up to do as the sorceress asked.

  Teodora spoke low to them. “You were asking if the ring is how Cytherea bound the souls to the bodies.”

  “Yes.”

  “Esteban does not know his wife and daughter are still in torment. I think it would be unwise to mention it in front of him.”

  Gregoor asked, “Is it what she used?”

  “Yes.”

  Esteban set the mug down and Teodora said, “Thank you, Esteban.”

  Jessa asked, “How did she take the earth-witches’ magic and the land’s magic as well?”

  Teodora stared at her full mug, brown-spotted hands tight gripped. “She wears a necklace, a square-cut emerald set in gold. It is a unique enchantment. It is attuned to earth-magic and steals only that.”

  “So this necklace contains all the earth-magic she has stolen?”

  Teodora nodded.

  “You are a truthseer. Is there a way to release the magics or to destroy the enchantments?”

  “The ring of curses is not unlimited in power. It has so many curses in it just like a human curse-maker. If the ring is used up, empty before being re-enchanted, then all the curses the ring caused this time will be undone.”

  “You would be young again?”

  “Yes.” Teodora studied the food on her plate and talked without looking at anyone. “The necklace is different. It has perhaps an unlimited ability to absorb power. The only way to release the magic is to destroy it.”

  Gregoor asked, “And how do we do that?”

  “You might give it back to the earth from which it came.”

  “The exact earth,” Jessa asked, “or metaphysically speaking, so any earth would do?”

  “Any earth will do.”

  Jessa smiled.

  Gregoor said, “You’ve thought of a plan, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve thought of a possibility.”

  Teodora asked, “How can we help?”

  “Gregoor will need some herbs to make a potion. And I was wondering if your town can boast a curse-maker.”

  Esteban and Teodora exchanged glances. “Why, yes, but he is old and not powerful enough to curse Cytherea.”

  “I don’t want him to curse Cytherea, I want him to curse me.”

  TWO days later they rode out of Titos, a new potion at their belts and a curse for each of them.

  Gregoor grunted and twisted in his saddle, trying to scratch the middle of his back.

  “It will only be worse if you claw at it.”

  He looked at Jessa through red, inflamed eyes, nearly swollen shut. “You said pick a curse, so I did. How was I to know the Verm-cursed rash would get this bad?”

  Jessa sighed. “I suggested a curse that would have been serious enough, but would not have hampered your fighting skills.”

  He clawed at his hand. “You wanted me rendered impotent. No, thank you.”

  She almost laughed. “I am childless until my curse is removed.”

  “But that’s different. You were taking a potion to prevent children anyway. I have a use for my manhood.”

  Jessa smiled, but she felt a heaviness in her stomach, an empty heaviness. She felt the loss. “If this rash grows any worse, you will be all but useless by the time we face Cytherea.”

  He rode up beside her. “I am sorry, Jessa. I did not understand. If I had known, I might even have let him unman me.” He shivered in the sunlight, skin twitching. “I would not have you be killed because I was distracted by this infernal itching.” He clawed at his arms, raising welts.

  “You’re going to bleed if you keep scratching. Don’t you have an ointment to help yourself?”

  “Yes, but I was hoping to save it until we were nearer our destination.”

  “I think we are close enough. Use the ointment before you flay yourself alive.”

  Gregoor rummaged in his saddlebags and came up with a sealed pot. “This will take some time.”

  “We have time. I have a spell to do myself.”

  He nodded and dismounted. The grass was shoulder high to him and brushed the horse’s bellies. Wild bellis flowers filled the air with their delicate scent. A swift, quarreling flock of brownkins flew overhead. Jessa breathed in the summer bounty. Her magic pulsed and swelled with the ripening grass, the swift flight of birds, the tiny hidden creatures. Everything was magic for the taking, for an earth-witch.

  Gregoor came to stand at her stirrup. His face was coated with an oily lotion. “You sparkle like pale flame.”

  She grinned at him, stretching arms skyward. “I feel like I should burst into flame, swollen with power.”

  He frowned.

  Jessa laughed. “There’s no danger of that, Gregoor. Don’t frown so; it will make you itch.” She touched his shoulder.

  He jumped as if burned. “Your power poured over my arm. It was…unexpected.”

  “Surely making your herb potions fills you with magic?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing like that. I’m an herb-witch, Jessa. Our magic is a quieter thing. You could pass for a sorceress, now.”

  “It’s always like that in spring and summer, but winter,” she shivered, “winter is a poor time for earth-witches.”

  “Then what will you do behind Cytherea’s spell line?”

  “I have absorbed enough power to do a few spells, if I am careful.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I won’t be able to pretend I am a sorceress anymore. Cytherea will know me for an earth-witch, and our plan had better work.”

  Gregoor looked up at her, the swelling and redness already leaving his eyes.

  “You look much better. How do you feel?”

  “The best I’ve felt in three days of travel. I’ll be able to watch your back.”

  “I never thought you wouldn’t.”

  Gregoor remounted and they pushed through a stand of pine trees. Bushtails chattered and scolded overhead, showering them with pine needles. Jessa felt the first cool tendril of power, someone else’s power. She slammed down her shields, cutting herself off from the land, but protecting herself from what lay ahead.

  The horses pawed nervously at the top of the ridge. Up through the trees, mist was oozing. Sunlight cut through the mist, sparkling on a line of ice-covered trees. The summer leaves were crumbled, blackened, ice coated. Frost and snow lay in glittering drifts at the foot of the ridge.

  Jessa glanced up at the waving greenery overhead. Yellow snake lilies nodded on the forest floor. “Definitely the work of elementals and demons.”

  “Do you think we can bargain with the demon?”

  “Our plan depends on it.”

  “What if it doesn’t agree?”

  She smiled at him. “Then, Gregoor, we will see if the god Magnus truly does cry tears of blood.”

  “I did not plan on meeting Him so soon.”

  “Nor I. Let’s get out the winter gear.”

  Sweat trickled down Jessa’s spine. The fur hood was oppressive. Gregoor waited beside her, sweat-carved runnels melting the ointment on his face.

  Cool mist swirled around the horses’ legs, but the summer sun beat down on them. Winter was a slash of brilliant diamond ice. Snow lay inches deep. The green belt of summer had been sliced cleanly and completely.

  Jessa urged her horse forward. The hooves crunched in the snow’s edge. The chill breath of winter cooled the sweat on her face instantly. Her breath fogged and began to crystallize on the fur trim of her hood. Something large moved in the trees. Jessa signaled Gregoor to wait.

  She could see nothing and yet she knew something had moved. The winter-ruined trees were utterly still. Snow stretched smooth and untouched. But…there was a spot near a large straight elm tree that Jessa could not look at. No matter how hard she tried to stare at it, her vision kept slipping by it. Don’t look at me, it seemed to say, I am
not here, but of course that meant something was there. The question was, what?

  She signaled Gregoor to come up beside her, slowly.

  They had ridden only a few strides when the air wavered and a demon was leaning against the elm. Both sets of arms were crossed over his chest. He was about ten feet tall, only a little less white than the snow. His scales shimmered like mother-of-pearl. Two slender horns grew from his head. His tail twitched in the snow. Jessa was reminded of a cat about to pounce.

  The demon’s bat-ribbed ears curled and uncurled. “I am the guardian of this spell line. If you cross even one step farther, you will be trapped until the spell is complete.”

  “When will that be?” Jessa asked.

  He blinked large purple eyes. “When Cytherea the Mad wills it, and not before.” A forked tongue licked his lips, exposing teeth like ice daggers. “So turn back while you may. You have been warned.”

  “Thank you for the warning. If we ride farther, what will happen to us?”

  He shrugged one pair of shoulders. “Cytherea will decide.”

  “What will you do if we ride farther in?”

  “I,” he said, placing a claw on his chest, “nothing, yet. You will have to huddle in the town while Cytherea does her business.”

  “How long will that take?”

  The demon looked up at the ice trees. He smiled, flashing fangs. “Not long, I think.”

  Jessa said, “Then we will cross and wait if we must.”

  “Come across, then.” The demon made a sweeping bow, motioning with his many arms.

  They rode forward, skirting out of the demon’s reach, though distance alone would not save them if the demon chose to be nasty.

  The demon called, “Herb-witch.”

  Jessa looked back at Gregoor. He was staring at the ground, very determinedly.

  “Look at me, herb-witch, look at me,” the demon hissed.

  “Stop it,” Jessa said. “He does not have the magic to resist you.”

  “And you do?” He turned his gaze upon her, perfect violet, like the eyes of the blind. Jessa would not meet his gaze. The demon laughed.

  “You said you would not harm us if we passed.”