The Near Witch

by V. E. Schwab

  “Is something wrong, Master Dale?”

  “No,” said Will, pocketing the note. He held his tongue against the usual don’t call me that, remembering his mother’s plea, and set off down the path to the great steps. Eric followed several strides behind, as if his crisp white cloak didn’t set him off against the crowd. But there was nothing Will could do about his shadow, so he made his way through the streets toward the leather smith. His attention flicked around as he walked, watching for any signs of Phillip. His cousin’s temper rivaled his own, and he wasn’t one to suffer quietly. Now he was nowhere to be seen, and Will didn’t trust it. He reached the leather smith’s, and paused before the door. He wasn’t used to paying visits, certainly not on his father’s behalf, and wasn’t sure quite how to go about it, so he simply knocked.

  An old lady answered, gray hair fraying out of her bun, and when she saw Will, she gave a little croak, and nearly fumbled the fabric in her arms. A man appeared beside her, equally gray and equally surprised.

  “Master Dale,” he said, nudging the woman away. “I wasn’t expecting a visit.”

  “I’m here on behalf of my father. I believe you have some of his things.”

  “Ah yes, yes, yes, of course,” said the man nervously before vanishing, only to reappear a moment later with a bundle. He offered the package to Will, and fumbled for a few moments, eyes down, before he gestured to his stomach and said, “Had to, you know, add a bit of fabric.”

  Will surprised himself by laughing. It just kind of escaped. The man chuckled, too, but the woman, who’d reappeared behind him, cringed visibly when the sound left Will’s mouth. His laughter died, and he took the parcel from the leather smith’s arms.

  “Yes, well,” he said, retreating into the street. “Thank you.”

  “Would you like some tea before you go?” asked the man, but the woman’s eyes were still nervous and wide, laced with fear, and Will shook his head, said a quiet thanks, and left. He passed the bundle off to Eric, because if he had to have a guard, he might as well put him to use, and he was making his way back to the steps, his spirits sinking, when someone touched his sleeve. He tensed, expecting Phillip, but before he could pull back, an arm linked itself with his.

  “Sarah,” he said, startled. He drew back, but she didn’t.

  “Walk with me?” she asked. He didn’t have much choice. Her arm was already threaded through his, the pale blue of her cloak flush with the black of his own, and the eyes of the town were on them. Refusing now would draw even more attention.

  “What is it?” he asked as they made their way down the street. His tone bordered on rudeness, but she ignored it.

  “Do you remember,” she asked, “when we were little, and you used to make things dance? My brother showed me how to make sculptures out of paper, ones with wings, and you would set them into flight.”

  Will frowned. There had been a time when he loved his powers. When he hadn’t be afraid to show them. When he’d been too young for Robert to think him dangerous. But that was a long, long time ago, and now, even mentioning them had consequences. He glanced back at Eric to make sure he hadn’t heard.

  “I miss your magic,” she said. “You seemed happier back then.”

  He had been.

  “Things change,” he said.

  “Will you show me again, sometime?”

  The pain in his arm was too fresh. “If you knew what that meant, you wouldn’t ask.”

  “It can be our secret,” she pressed.

  Will remembered his mother’s warning. This wasn’t just anyone on his arm, pushing him to use his powers. This was Sarah, who had hardly spoken to him for years. Sarah, who was Phillip’s. Sarah, whose friend, he realized, was following them. Beth bobbed in and out of sight, clearly watching. Waiting.

  “Tell me,” he growled. “Is this a game to you? Getting me to slip?”

  Sarah pulled back, as if struck. “What? No. I just thought…”

  Will tugged his arm free. “And yet your friends are waiting for their show.”

  Sarah scanned the crowd, saw Beth, and scowled at her before turning back to Will, who was busy walking away. “I didn’t know. I swear, Will.” She touched his arm and he spun on her, the wind picking up.

  “Just stop,” he snapped. “Go toy with someone else.”

  Tears sprung to the edges of her eyes, and Sarah turned and fled down the busy street. Will watched her go. Had he been wrong? Had she meant no harm? How was he supposed to know? He rubbed his eyes, the wind beginning to ebb.

  “That was cold,” said Eric, behind him.

  Will spun on his guard. “You’re out of line,” he snapped, and all again the air whipped up.

  “Careful, Master Dale,” said Eric, bringing his heavy hand down on Will’s shoulder. “Your father will be wanting a report.”

  Will pulled free and stormed back to the steps, clutching his pendant as the mood coiled around him, inside him. Untangle, he begged as he climbed the steps. Untangle. Untangle. Untangle. But as he reached the top, he felt the power choking him. He felt helpless, hopeless. He wanted to scream. He was sick of smothering the magic and himself. He wanted to let go, not as he had in the garden, or in his room, but really, truly let go. Was there no way to be free?

  And then he turned and looked out over Dale, and saw it.

  Hanging dark over the distant forest, inching forward across the fields toward the lakes and the hill. Will let out an amazed exhale, and sent up a word of thanks to the gods and godthings.

  It was hope. It was a chance. It was a storm.

  * * *

  Will loved the storms.

  Dale was most often a gray place, well acquainted with clouds, and rain, but only the pale and steady sort. Still storms, he called them, because they were nothing but falling water. The hill on which Dale sat rarely saw true storms. Not the kind with sound and color. Not the kind with wind. These storms were a gift to Will, a time when he could stretch and breathe and let go without the fear of a trail leading straight back to him. A time when he could be part of the wind, but not its center.

  He spent the rest of the day watching the clouds spread, watching the sky darken, and waiting for the storm to come. Energy hummed beneath his skin, not anger, but excitement. He could feel the storm singing to his blood. By mid-afternoon the foul weather had reached the fields. The sky lit up, the air crackled, and no rain fell yet, but that was fine. He didn’t need rain. Only wind. He imagined he could see the fields of grass, even from here, swaying with it, but Dale itself lay still around him, the storm hovering at its edges.

  By late afternoon, Will was getting restless.

  The forest parties were never back before dark, but at this rate, his father would reach Dale before the storm, and he’d lose his chance. Since the weather would not come to him, he’d have to go to it. And soon, if he stood any chance of making it home before Lord Dale. Will looked out the window and down, but Eric had taken up residence in the grass below, eyes trained on the distant storm.

  He swore quietly and abandoned his room. He could hear his mother playing music below, in one of the rooms off the foyer, as she did whenever her hands grew restless, and Will made his way to her vacant rooms. There he checked the balcony, saw the gardens below empty of guards, and smiled. He had a leg over the rail, but hesitated. Retreating back into the room, he found a loose paper on her desk and wrote a quick note—Need air.

  With that, he closed the balcony doors, and climbed down an old, flowering vine, his boots hitting the ground with a quiet thud. He took an older, hidden set of stairs, avoiding the great steps, which, in the impending weather, were empty, but well-lit.

  He hit the base of the stairs, and stopped. There had been a noise, an echo, like a second set of footsteps, but as he hovered in the dusk, he heard nothing but his own breath and the sounds of far-off thunder. Will picked up his pace, weaving through alleys toward the base of the hill. The promise of bad weather had driven the people of Dale inside, shutters f
astened against the coming storm, and Will found himself alone as he hurried through the dying day toward the black clouds.

  He was nearly there.

  And then he heard it again, the sound of steps, and skidded to a stop.

  The other set of feet didn’t stop, and he spun around just as something very hard and very sharp caught his face. Light exploded across his vision, and then the world tipped violently, and went black.

  5

  Will’s eyes began to focus, and the first thing he saw was a coffin.

  It was sitting in the strip of land between two of the lakes, the lid askew. Several poles driven into the ground held torchlight, which danced over the metal lining of the wooden box.

  The ground beneath his body was cold but dry. The storm crackled overhead and to the side. It hadn’t reached him yet. He tried to put the world together, remembered climbing through the window, hitting the ground, turning, and then…

  Will tried to move, and pain tore through his head. Dried blood crusted the right side of his face, and coarse rope bound his wrists together. He got to his knees but had to stop when his vision blurred.

  “When we were little,” came a voice, “Uncle Robert had all the books on witches burned.”

  Will forced his vision to clear, and found a shape, silhouetted by torchlight. A hammer hung in the shape’s hand.

  “Phillip—” he said quietly.

  “Only a few books survived, because Robert let them. The witches in those books were said to wield earth and stone. But what of air?”

  Will could make out three other boys, circling him on the grass. Phillip set the hammer on the lip of the coffin, and came forward.

  “You know what I think, cousin?” he said, kneeling in front of Will. “I think Robert had the books burned not just because he hated witches, but because he was trying to hide something about them.”

  He straightened and turned away. Will struggled up, and one of the other boys kicked him hard, in the ribs, sending him back to his hands and knees. He gasped, but the air around them barely wavered.

  “My father has a book on witches,” said Phillip. “One of the oldest books. Do you want to know what it says?”

  Will reached his bound hands for the pendant around his neck. It wasn’t there. Phillip held the chain up to the torchlight.

  “Give it back,” growled Will.

  “The W,” he asked, “does it stand for William? Or wind? Or witch?” He spat the word. “Because my father’s book says there are as many kinds of witches as there are elements.”

  Will got to his feet, but two of the boys were there, and they grabbed him, and held him still.

  “Don’t worry, cousin,” said Phillip. “I know what it does.” He closed the gap between them, and the others tightened their grip on Will’s arms. “It weakens you. And for that, you can have it back.” He looped the chain over Will’s head. And then he smiled, and punched him as hard as he could in the stomach. Will doubled over, and Phillip leaned in close.

  “Haven’t you wondered about the coffin yet?” he hissed, drawing back. “It’s said that royals are given to the air, and commoners to the soil. And witches to the water.” He gestured to the box. “In the old days, the coffins were made entirely of metal, because metal was made by men, and the witches couldn’t use it. But it’s been so long since anyone buried a witch, and we’ll have to make do.”

  “You’ve lost it.”

  Phillip fetched the hammer from the lip of the coffin, and put his foot on the skewed lid. “I am the heir of Dale,” he said. “By blood. I must protect my people from the evils of witches.” His smile sharpened as he kicked off the lid. It fell to the ground with a heavy thud. “Load him in.”

  “Stop this,” ordered Will as the boys dragged him toward the metal bed. “Phillip! Stop!”

  He tore backward from their grip, but lost his balance and went down. Before he could get to his feet, they were on top of him, kicking and punching and dragging him to the coffin. The ropes cut into his skin as he tried to force them back, first with fists and then with wind, but it wasn’t enough. Pain splintered his vision every time he moved. He could barely focus, and, for the first time in his life, the wind wasn’t listening. He fought and it didn’t. He screamed and it didn’t.

  “Save your breath, cousin. You’ll need it.”

  Will’s shoulder cracked against the metal lining of the box as they shoved him in. This couldn’t be happening. Phillip wouldn’t. But he was. Before Will could sit up, they’d hoisted the lid onto the coffin. The torchlight vanished, along with the world, and Will was plunged into a metal-heavy dark.

  He banged his bound fists against the lid of the box as the hammer sounded, sealing the coffin shut.

  “No. No. No,” he hissed under his breath. It was a nightmare. It was all a nightmare. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to believe that it was all a night—the coffin shifted over the ground. His heart lurched. They were dragging it.

  Will couldn’t breathe. He could feel the wind pressing in against the coffin now, but it couldn’t reach him. Pain and panic and fear tore through him and something howled in his ears as he shoved his shaking hands against the coffin ceiling but it was metal, too, and he was going to die in a box all because of them and suddenly he wasn’t just afraid. He was angry. Furious. How could they? How could they do this after he had tried so hard not to hurt anyone, not to ruin other lives and they were ruining the sliver of his and—

  The world shook.

  The boards bent and wind rushed in through the cracks in the wood, whistled through the seams in the metal, and the whole coffin groaned around him, crumpling in for a breath before shattering outward. Wind that ripped the pendant from his neck, and heaved him to his feet, and curled around him like armor. His edges blurred into it. His skin wavered, and the ropes that had cut into his wrists now fell to the ground as Will’s hands thinned. The wind gutted the torches but he could still see the coffin shards and the shapes of the other boys as they struggled to their feet, only to be forced to the ground again. Will’s body rippled as he spun and saw his cousin on his hands and knees, and in that moment he wanted to crush him, crush the air from his lungs. The wind began to spin faster and faster around Phillip, and thunder crackled as the storm finally drew over them.

  “What’s the matter?” Will shouted over the tearing wind as Phillip gasped and clawed at the grass. “Can’t catch your breath?”

  Everything was blurring.

  And then a light flickered in his vision. A torch. All the torches by the lake had gone out, but this one burned steady. Soon there were half a dozen torches, and with them, men. Something clicked in Will’s head, sharp in the murk of anger. The forest party. The men were running now, down the strip of grass between the lakes, Robert Dale at the lead, and beside him, his brother, Ian. Phillip’s father. Will faltered and so did the wind storm, breaking into gusts and then into a strong breeze as his father strode over the coffin debris.

  “What is this?” roared Robert. “What happened here?” And for once, maybe because Will’s face was bloody and his wrists were raw, his father turned his anger on the others. The three boys were still sitting, dazed, in the grass, but Phillip was getting to his feet, his own father half-dragging him up by an elbow. Lightning flashed overhead.

  “It was a coffin…” growled Will.

  “It was a joke,” spat Phillip, still breathless. “We weren’t going to put it in the water.”

  Will lunged at Phillip, but before he could reach, Robert’s arm came around his shoulders, and held him back. When Lord Dale spoke, it was to his own brother.

  “Take your boy home,” he said, “before I kill him.”

  The man shoved Phillip in the direction of Dale.

  “All of you,” ordered Robert, as the other boys got up. “Go now.”

  Most of the forest party went with them, leaving only three of the royal guard standing torchlit among the coffin planks and curls of metal. Robert’s arm slid fr
om Will’s shoulders. Will braced himself, but his father said nothing, only ushered him home with a nod and a look.

  The two walked back toward the Great House in silence, Will waiting for his father’s inevitable wrath. How much had he seen? The aftermath, of course, but what before? Behind his eyes, Will replayed the last time his father had witnessed his power. He rubbed his bandaged forearm, the newest cut hardly healed, and waited. But Robert still said nothing.

  Halfway to the house, the storm finally broke over Dale. Between one breath and the next, the air went cold, an icy rain tumbling down over them. The wind picked up, but with no mind of its own, tugging at their cloaks and chilling the water on their skin. Will shivered, and quickened his pace. By the time they reached the great steps, Will was tired of waiting.

  “I didn’t have a choice,” he said.

  Robert didn’t respond, and Will assumed that the rain had muffled the words until a few moments later his father said, “I believe you.”

  His tone was ice, but Will still wanted to crumple to the wet ground with relief. They kept climbing the steps.

  “Where was your knife?” asked Robert.

  He had given Will a blade two years before, but Will had never cared for weapons, and ever since he had started using it to carve lines in his skin, he’d grown infinitely less fond of the knife. He’d left it in his room as he always did.

  Now, as they reached the top of the steps, he thought of the anger, the singular want in that moment, to crush Phillip. If he’d had his knife, would he have killed his cousin? It would have been so easy, so fast. Then again, if he had not seen the torchlights coming, he still might have…

  “I didn’t—” He nearly said bring it with me, but caught himself, and at that moment Eric met them on the path, eyes alight with torchlight and panic.

  “Is Lady Dale with you?” he asked.

  “No,” said Robert, the rain pounding cold and heavy around them. “Why would she be?”

  Eric’s gaze flicked to Will before he answered. “She went looking for Master Dale.”