Freeing the Witch

by L. J. Longo

  Porter took the first pancake off the pan and immediately placed the next in. He so deftly turned and flipped them, Emaula only now noticed he didn’t even use a fork to fetch them away from the grease.

  “I don’t mind the potions and all. But … I have a knack for blessing and curses, and Mother, well, curses bring in more coin. So…” Emaula shrugged. “I didn’t like it. I’ve wanted to leave for a long time. To see a bit of the world and … meet new people.”

  “Get out of the tower before Mama ate you?” Half-Ear snorted. “I hear that happens in northern parts. Right, Sock?”

  Sock glared at the scruffier man with brave disdain. He said nothing.

  “Indeed, the covens can be quite cruel. I want no part of that life,” Emaula answered, then tried to take their attention off her. “How did you come here, Mr. Sock? I never knew you were from the North. Imagine, living for six weeks with someone from your own small part of the world and never knowing it. Why most likely I had dealings with your creator.”

  The tensions coiled in again, thicker than ever as Sock snarled at her. She had the awful awareness that he’d set her on fire if he could get away with it, and howl with delight as she burned.

  “Our stories are our own, witch,” he said.

  Of course, he’d been the wrong one to ask. He hated her and—considering the curse cutting him to pieces—he had a good reason. An apology balanced on the tip of her tongue when Half-Ear ruffled Sock’s hair. “Relax, runt. She’s just makin’ small talk. Right?”

  He barked the last word at Emaula, and it made her flinch and her magic flare like a shield. The wolf smiled viciously.

  “Right,” Emaula said. “I don’t mean to pry.”

  “Hey, how ‘bout you go sweep out the dining hall and spook the horses, Sock?” Half-Ear nudged the small man. “Start waking people up around here?”

  Sock nodded and whispered to Half-Ear. Then he headed out to the dining hall.

  “Woo,” Porter chuckled when Sock disappeared, and smiled at Half-Ear.

  Half-Ear nodded. “Yeah, I forgot how intense that little shit could be.”

  “Like the prison yard.” Porter had a line of the flatbread frying in the long pan. He turned them all at even intervals.

  “Blind little bastard used to pick fights with the elephants.” Half-Ear slipped off the counter, speaking now to Emaula. “Nothing like the fights I used to get into, but … say, why don’t you ask how I got here?”

  There was nothing genuine about Half-Ear’s tone. It was painfully cheerful, which made it ominous as he came nearer to her.

  But Emaula went along with his little power game. “How did you get here, Mr. Wolf?”

  Half-Ear smirked, amused by her compliance. He stopped in front of the coffee percolator. “Do they have dogfights up north? Scrappers?”

  “No!” Emaula exclaimed. “That’s quite illegal.”

  “Down here, too, but they have them?” Half-Ear poured himself a cup of coffee. “I was undefeated. You know what that means?”

  Emaula’s magic prickled, ready to strike at him. She hated to admit this cheap intimidation worked.

  “Over a hundred fights—mostly fights to the death—and I never lost one.”

  Emaula wondered if he’d hit her. She hoped her magic didn’t kill him. “Mr. Wolf, I think it’s only fair to remind you, I’m cursed. My magic will hurt you.”

  Half-Ear leisurely drank his coffee, pretending to hide a vicious smirk. “Funny response. I thought we were just making conversation. Nothing wrong in asking questions about where people are from or telling what we used to do. I used to kill other wolves, you used to curse people, Port used to follow any and all orders. Sock always kept to himself.”

  Emaula wanted to crawl into herself. A knack for curses, she’d said. Damned stupid.

  Half-Ear looked over his shoulder. “I was just making conversation, wasn’t I, Porter?”

  Porter clearly didn’t agree. He’d built his line of delicate flatbread into two stacks of folded half-circles. He wrapped them into two linen napkins. Then handed the bundles to Half-Ear. “Here’s lunch.”

  “Thanks.” Half-Ear headed toward the dining hall with the two bundles and his coffee. Going away. Having won the fight through intimidation. Leaving her a defeated enemy. Proving that Porter was wrong to defend her.

  “Mr. Wolf,” Emaula said in a burst. “I’m incredibly sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. Please, forgive my rudeness… Listen, my mother kept me in a tower all my life. I have no idea how to talk to people.”

  Half-Ear cocked his head confused, then looked at Porter as if he could help.

  “I don’t know how to make proper conversation. I’m terrible at reading people at the best of times. And trying to communicate with three wolves, three men who have been badly mistreated by my kind of person, is quite beyond my abilities.”

  “Well, I…” Half-Ear fiddled with the coffee cup and the bundles. No leaving now. No putting her in her place.

  “I mean only to say,” Emaula went on. “You and your pack have nothing to fear from me. I hate the parts of witchcraft that hurt you.”

  Porter grinned brilliantly, but Half-Ear seemed uncertain how to respond. He looked out into the dining hall for Sock. Though Sock, as a Northern man, would be equally shocked to hear a witch apologize.

  Half-Ear shrugged off her words, the only way for someone with such a cool exterior could respond to her awkwardness. “Yeah, well. We know Lady Jasprite wouldn’t bring no one bad here. It is what it is.”

  He headed out the door, then paused and looked over his shoulder. “Say, when that’s done. Make me a plate of that potato stuff. It smelled good the other day.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Wolf,” Emaula answered.

  Porter put out the fire under his pan and drained the bacon grease. He kept looking at the door then smiling over at her as if he had some secret, he was waiting to tell her.

  Eventually, he said, “I hid some thepla, so you could try.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly.” Emaula knew to eat only what she made herself, but as she refused, it occurred to her how … how paranoid that was. She’d never eaten any of Porter’s cooking. Six weeks and she’d no more tasted his food than his pack had tasted hers. “You know, actually. Yes, please.”

  Porter grinned beautifully and came around the counter to offer her the plate. These theplas he had rolled into cylinders and garnished with bits of bacon.

  “I didn’t even see you hide this.”

  “Well, I…” Porter rubbed his neck. “It might be spicy, maybe.”

  Emaula smiled and lifted the thepla off the plate. Still quite warm, and she could see the seeds and leaves within the reddish-brown folds. Only a few minutes ago, this had been a lump of leaves and flour in his hand. She bit into it and immediately lifted her hand to catch the bits crumbling away. “Oh…”

  Spicy, not just in the heat, but so many different flavors at once. The zing of chilies mixed with the creamy yogurt and the earthy garlic. When had he snuck in garlic? All wrapped in the warm softness of bread and punctuated by the hard seeds.

  “Wow.” She looked at the thin fold of flatbread. “That’s a lot of flavors.”

  “Is that bad?” Porter genuinely looked chastised.

  “No. It’s a marvel.” Emaula took another bite. “You must make this again tomorrow and let me watch. Is there ginger in this as well?”

  Porter nodded, pleased.

  She finished the thepla and then noticed he watched her with an unfocused gaze. She’d seen that look often in the past month, usually when he would sit on the porch and stare off at the jungle. Like he stepped briefly into another world. She’d never see him look like that at her.

  “Porter?”

  He twitched and then looked around him sharply as if he’d forgotten himself. Then said agreeably. “I’d be happy to help… um, hash the potatoes.”

  Emaula laughed. “Yes. Must fetch Mr. Wolf his second breakfast.”<
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  Porter made a non-committal sound. “Half-Ear can wait a bit. He’s bossy, sometimes.”

  She resumed peeling the potatoes. He helped. Quite good at the work, too. Hardly left any flesh on the shaved skin.

  And after a moment of silence and a quick glance out the window, Porter whispered. “They are far away now. Didn’t I say, they’d come around?”

  Emaula laughed. A command for a plate of food and growled threats instead of cold silence hardly seemed like progress. “Yes, give me another year and perhaps, they’ll tolerate sitting at the same table as me.”

  Porter seemed at a loss to respond, so Emaula said a little more gently. “But thank you for speaking to me, Mr. Porter. I’m sure that helps.”

  He shrugged, smiling, and looking away from her. “No trouble.”

  Chapter Two

  The monsoons came in the middle of a big run, just like Half-Ear said they would.

  Lady Jasprite said there were three families moving house to the port side of the mountain, at least fifteen merchants, a quarter of the militia because they always tagged along with large groups of traders, and ten nagas traveling inland during the safety of the rainy season to explore the land.

  Porter brought the nagas and a handful of other people up from the sea-side. They entered the caves after dark as always, leaving behind a clear cloudless night before they traveled the steep path up. When he guided them out near the crest of the mountain, the world changed utterly. A muddy sky poured on them with unseasonably chilled water, drenching his vest. Porter wished he’d worn his tunic and worried he wouldn’t be able to find safe paths through the jungle with all the water, but the path held. As if by magic, the route was clear all the way to the trading post. Almost certainly one of Emaula’s blessings.

  Once the guests were settled, he’d ask her. No, once the guests were settled, and he’d changed into presentable clothes.

  But after he’d changed, when he passed her in the kitchen, he could smell the magic in the air around her, see the sparks in her soft gaze. He didn’t want to accidentally distract her if she was helping Half-Ear and Sock.

  About half an hour later, Half-Ear arrived with the group from the inland side of the mountain. As usual, he fought the captain of the guard. Today Ramsay insisted the safest way was up the muddier but gentler slope; Half-Ear demanded the steeper rocky path due to the flooding. Porter was not surprised when the group split into two factions, nor was he surprised when they both arrived at the stables at the same time.

  The soldiers and merchants paid the same for the beds and meals, and Emaula served them a chicken and cheese dish. Jasprite had a roaring fire to dry them and discounted the alcohol to warm them. It would be a great night, once Sock got in.

  The two wolves sat on the porch and watched the rain.

  “Bet those damned snakes brought the rains,” Half-Ear muttered.

  “Naw. The nagas were nice.” Porter only half listened. He hated to sit in the warmth and dry and not to know where Sock was. The littlest wolf fetched the families since he was good with kids and not very scary. It wasn’t a hard road. But with the rain and the cold and the dark—

  “Gentlemen.” Captain Ramsay arrived on the porch, and Half-Ear’s frown curled into an instinctive snarl. Porter bristled uncomfortably, prepared for the fight. The captain carried a bowl of Emaula’s food and sat at the table to the right of the door as he was welcome. “I’m told the runty one is still out there. Escorting some families.”

  “None of your damned business, Ramsay,” Half-Ear barked.

  “I meant to offer the militia if you needed aid,” Ramsay answered, unaffected by Half-Ear’s rage. “There’s a great deal of mountain for two wolves and a tiger to cover. What with the mud making everything slippery and the rain washing away all the strong smells and the sound drowning out the world.”

  Insufferable ass. That’s what Sock would call Ramsay. Always causing trouble.

  Half-Ear seethed but wisely didn’t answer.

  So, Porter gave it his best. “Sock will be fine. We’re gonna look for them after an hour if he’s not back by then.”

  “And we don’t need no militia,” Half-Ear said.

  Ramsay said nothing, but—because he was an insufferable ass who liked to cause trouble—he stayed and watched the jungle in silence. Emaula’s food smelled delicious, but Porter felt a little sick thinking about enjoying a hearty meal, while Sock was out there. Maybe they’d broken a cart. Maybe Sock was injured. Maybe he’d fallen and slipped off a cliff and was lying even now in a gorge somewhere with his legs broken and—

  “Mr. Porter. Mr. Half-Ear.” Emaula opened the door, bringing the scent of magic and her delicious chicken. “Nav asked me to bring you dinner.”

  Half-Ear glanced over at her less than friendly, but his gaze softened when he saw the bowl in her hand. He reached out and took it. “Did he also tell you to tell us to come inside and stop fretting like bitches?”

  “He said, little old biddies, but the intention was similar.” Emaula held out the bowl to Porter.

  He took it, but he couldn’t bring himself to eat. What if Sock had gotten caught by a witch? Or if one of the families was murderers or dog-eaters? What if he’d tried to take shelter in a cave, and the tunnels flooded, and Sock was drowned? What if they never find his body? What if a bridge had washed out while he was on it and he was cold and lost and waiting for them to rescue—

  Half-Ear nudged him. “Oi, come back, Port.”

  “What?”

  “You were a million miles away and not in a happy place.” Half-Ear pointed at the bowl in Porter’s hands. “Eat. Don’t worry. Sock’s smarter than any of us. A little surprise rain won’t kill him.”

  Ramsay made a noise, about to say something mean and stupid. Half-Ear barked in his direction. “Not a word from you, Ramsay.”

  Undeterred, Ramsay turned to Emaula. “Excuse me, Miss, are you the witch?”

  Porter glanced over at the captain, his own temper unexpectedly rising. He didn’t like Ramsay talking to Emaula.

  “Indeed, sir, I suppose, I am.”

  “You’re from the North as well. That explains why this dish is so good.” The insufferable, trouble-causing ass spoke nicely to her. That meant he was up to something. “Why, I don’t believe I’ve had a respectable meal since I came south.”

  Emaula laughed delightedly. “Oh, you flatter me. I’m sure you have plenty of respectable cooks in your barracks.”

  “No,” Ramsay sighed as if it broke his heart. “Our barracks double as a jail for wolves. Porter was the closest thing we ever had to a chef, but for some reason, he didn’t want to remain in the prison after his sentence was over. Can’t say I miss his cooking, though.”

  Porter clenched his fists and jaws tight. As if Emaula didn’t know they’d been bandits. As if they’d ever hidden their pasts from her.

  “Well, he’s a dream in the kitchen, nowadays.” Emaula leaned closer to Porter, placing her hand near his on the railing. “Any sign of Mr. Sock, yet?”

  “Would we be—” Half-Ear looked over at her with a snarl, but his face softened. “No. Not yet.”

  “I don’t suppose…” Then Emaula changed her mind and in her own timid way, withdrew with her hands clasped before her.

  “What?” Half-Ear demanded.

  Emaula startled at his sharp tone. “Well, if I used my magic, he might shy away from it. I know how he feels about witchcraft.”

  “Come now. He’s not that stupid.” Ramsay took a bite of his meal, utterly unconcerned with Sock’s safety.

  Emaula glanced over at him. No, she glanced down at him, disdainfully. “No, he’s not. Which is why he doesn’t trust witchcraft.”

  “Not even from the woman who feeds him? What an unworthy little dog, he is.” He held up the bowl as if he were making a toast. “Excellent casserole, Ms. Witch. I simply must have seconds.”

  Half-Ear growled low in his chest. Not an angry sound. He was ignoring Ramsay and consi
dering Emaula. “What kind of magic?”

  “A blessing.” Emaula’s tone changed at once to be gentle and diffident. “To lead him to the surest path.”

  Half-Ear glanced at her, then out at the jungle. “Yeah. Do it.”

  Porter sat forward. “Can I help?”

  All three of them looked at him with shock. Porter shrank into himself.

  “Can you?” Emaula wondered. Then shook her head as if remembering some long-ago lesson. “No, of course, you can. Like a…”

  “Like a familiar?” Ramsay chuckled. “You wolves are so damned inconsistent. Five years ago, you would bite a man for offering you a healing potion.”

  “Fuck you, Ramsay,” Porter snapped without thinking. “You don’t know how I feel about witches. You don’t know how I feel about familiars. And you don’t know shit about Sock.”

  Ramsay gave him a look that clearly disagreed, but did not deign to answer.

  Only silence on the porch, only the pounding rain, and the cold wind.

  Until Half-Ear crossed his arms and said blandly, “Wow.”

  Porter looked over at him and understood. It was probably the first time he’d ever lost his temper. It was one thing when Half-Ear and Nav teased him about witches, but another when it was Ramsay. And it was another thing entirely when it was in front of Emaula, and she looked so sad and helpless.

  She smiled softly at Porter now. “I think it’s a good idea. He’ll sense your presence, and he’ll know the magic comes from a good place. I will need to concentrate, though.”

  She pointedly looked at Ramsay.

  The captain crossed his arms defiantly, but Half-Ear stood and shooed him to the dining hall. “Go on, Ramsay. You heard the witch.”

  “She’s not my witch. I see no reason to—” Ramsay was cut off when Half-Ear grabbed him by the back of his collar, seized his bowl of food, and jerked him to his feet.