The Brand of the Warlock

by Robert Kroese

  Nevertheless, I enjoyed his companionship, particularly the songs, which numbered in the hundreds. I learned many of them by heart, and he was always surprised when I began to sing along. Our conversations tended toward the monotonous, but when I tired of the repetition, I began telling elaborate lies, claiming to be the Governor’s secretary, or the Governor himself, or Eben the Warlock, or the ghost of Bolond’s great-grandfather. Despite his insanity, he usually had no trouble discerning the lie, and none of my ruses prompted him to reveal any more than he had already told me about himself. In any case, no harm was done: by the next day he’d forgotten all about it.

  What troubled me more than anything about Bolond was that I could never figure out why he had been committed to Nincs Varazslat. Was he, like me, an innocent? Or was he a genuine sorcerer? He certainly seemed harmless enough, but that meant nothing. Perhaps he had intended to murder the Governor, but his plan had been foiled and he had received a blow on the head in the process, so that now all he could remember was that he was on a very important mission involving the Governor. There was no way to know.

  Some two years after I heard Bolond’s voice, I awoke to silence. My calls to him went unanswered, and I never heard him again. I didn’t know if he was pardoned or moved to another cell or if he died in his sleep. I was once again alone.

  I hadn’t realized how dependent I’d become on Bolond’s company, and I once again spiraled into despair. At first I reasoned that if Bolond had been released, then I might be as well, but as the weeks wore on, this hope faded. I asked the guard if he knew what happened to Bolond, but he claimed to know nothing about any other prisoners. I started to think I had imagined him, but if that were the case, why couldn’t I conjure him again as I had before?

  As before, my despair ultimately reached its limit. I retreated into the shadow world, my lessons with Beata, the general’s books, and my own thoughts. I sang Bolond’s songs and composed my own. It was a miserable existence, but I found that I was able to tolerate it by every morning assigning myself a particular goal or area of study and occupying myself fully with the task until dinner, giving little thought to the next day. I managed to maintain a certain equilibrium if I thought only of filling a few hours at a time; if I allowed myself to think in terms of weeks, months, or years, I would feel despair opening like a vast abyss. If I could simply have thrown myself into that abyss, I would have done so a thousand times, but I could not bring myself to allow the rats to eat out my eyes.

  Then, seventeen days into the seventh year of my incarceration, the guard opened the door to my cell, explaining that the prosecutor wished to see me. Three hours later I rode a pale horse into Nagyvaros, a free man.

  Chapter Nine

  I sold the nag for nineteen ermes at the first stable I came to in Nagyvaros. It was a poor price even for that horse, but a man wearing a hood pulled down over his eyes cannot bargain for long without drawing the attention of the gendarmes, and although I had not committed any crime, I was loath to get pulled into any dealings with the law. I took the money and continued on foot to the inn where I had last seen Beata.

  The inn had fallen on hard times and seemed to have changed ownership; the friendly innkeeper I’d spoken to on my visit six years earlier had been replaced by a taciturn little woman who greeted her guests with as much enthusiasm as I’d shown for the rats in my cell. Fortunately the place was as dimly lit as it had been on my first visit; by keeping the hood in place, I had no trouble concealing the brand on my face. I ordered a lavish meal and two flagons of beer in the hopes of setting the woman at ease, but her expression never changed. The stew was filling but not much better than the fare I’d had in Nincs Varaslat, and the beer was half water. When I’d finished eating, I got up and approached the innkeeper.

  “I’m looking for a friend of mine,” I said. “A young woman by the name of Beata. She used to sing here, years ago.”

  “I don’t pry into the business of my guests,” she said, “but a man asking questions would do well to show his face.”

  “It is for your benefit that I keep it hidden. I’ve suffered a disfigurement.”

  “What sort of disfigurement?”

  “I was in the Scouting Corps. I was captured by the Barbaroki.” I said no more, hoping she would have heard enough about Barbarok methods of torture to imagine for herself what might have been done to me. But she showed no pity.

  “Sliced up your face, did they? Or burned you, maybe? What’s a young woman want to do with such a freak?”

  “Nothing, in all likelihood. I only wish to confirm that she is alive and well.”

  “I don’t know anything about a Beata. We’ve never had singers here, not since I took over the place from my brother.”

  “Where is your brother now?”

  “Commoner’s Field. Died of a stroke three years ago. Left me this place and a pile of debt, thanks to squandering his profits on singers and musicians.”

  “Anyone else around who might remember her?”

  “No. Will you be needing a room?”

  I considered this. If there was no one at the inn who knew what had become of Beata, then I would have to pay a visit to Beata’s parents. That would be an awkward reunion, given my appearance, but there was no way around it. Beata might want nothing to do with me, but I had to know what had happened to her. It was already late afternoon, and the journey to their farm would take three hours on foot. “I’ll take a room for the night.”

  “Two ermes.”

  It was an exorbitant price, but I was beginning to learn that there was a penalty for conducting business looking as I did. People were willing to risk the chance I was a scofflaw or fugitive, but not without being compensated for it. I took the two coins from the purse and pushed them toward her. She eyed them greedily.

  “I’ll need two of those towels,” I said, indicating the cotton rags with which she’d been wiping the glasses.

  She shot me a puzzled glance, shrugged, and handed me the towels. I released the coins. She slipped them into her pocket, took a key from a nail on the wall behind her, and said, “Follow me.”

  I followed her upstairs, where she let me into a small room furnished with a single bed with a badly stained mattress. Twilight filtered through the shutters over a single small window. I nodded to let her know it would do, and she left, closing the door behind her. I removed the cloak, wrapped it up to form a makeshift pillow, and then lay down, falling asleep almost instantly.

  I awoke to sunlight streaming through the cracks in the shutters, and the warm yellow glow that permeated the room was such a cheerful sight that I sat for a moment on the edge of the bed with tears streaming down my cheeks. What I wouldn’t have done for a glimpse of sunlight over the past six years!

  I spent some time fashioning the towels into bandages that covered most of my face. I imagined my appearance was still frightful at the end of this project, but at least I looked more like the victim of some horrible accident rather than an outlaw. I threw on the cloak, pulled the hood over my head, and went downstairs. No one cast a glance in my direction, and I went outside into the glare of the sunlight.

  I hadn’t gone more than a hundred paces when I was accosted by a man I at first took to be a beggar. He called out to me from across the street, and I prepared to tell him I had nothing to spare, but then I realized I recognized him. Had I known him before I was sentenced to Nincs Varaslat? No, I had seen him the previous night at the inn, sipping a beer while I talked with the innkeeper.

  “Hail, friend!” he said. “You are the one who was asking about the young woman? The singer?”

  “You know something of her?”

  The man hesitated as he saw my bandages under the hood. “Have you had an accident?” he asked.

  “If you have information about Beata, I’m willing to pay you—with silver or with a look under my bandages. The choice is yours.”

  The man nodded, remembering why he’d approached me. “The singer, yes. I was at the
inn that night. The acolytes had cornered a man there, cloaked like you are. Supposedly a sorcerer, although I don’t put much stock in such things. He ran out the back with the girl, the one you call Beata.”

  “Do you know what happened to her? Or to the hooded man?”

  “I heard an acolyte’s men threw the hooded man into a cart and took him away to that dungeon of theirs, in an old salt mine. Salt is supposed to keep them from using magic, you know.”

  “So I hear. What of the girl?”

  “She was never heard from again. Old Tanur, who used to run the inn, asked around a bit about her. She was a wonderful singer, as you know if you’ve heard her, and she brought in a fair amount of business. But no one knew what had happened to her.”

  “Then you know nothing else?”

  “Not about the girl.”

  “That’s hardly worth a copper.”

  “It’s something, though, isn’t it? Strange that a beautiful girl like that could just disappear like that. Oh, and I remember something else: they found a corpse that night.”

  “Who, the acolyte’s men?”

  “No, the gendarmes. A friend of mine overheard them talking about it the next day. Found him in an alley a few blocks from the tavern. They said he bled to death. He’d been stabbed, they said.”

  I held out an erme. “Go get me a loaf of bread from the baker across the way. “You may keep what’s left over.”

  The man did as instructed, returning after a few minutes with a loaf of bread, still warm from the oven. I thanked him and made to leave.

  “Maybe just a peek?” he asked, pointing at my face.

  I turned and walked away. Was the dead man the gendarmes had found the sorcerer, Eben? There was no way to know. I hoped so, as it meant Beata had gotten away—but it made her disappearance even more inexplicable.

  On the way out of the city I purchased a pack, flint and steel, a flask, a small hunting knife and a few other supplies, all of which cost me less than an erme. There was a flip side to my condition: a man whose face is covered in bandages can get a good deal by threatening to loiter for a while.

  I left the city and traveled east. After about two leagues I came to a village, where I ate lunch at the local inn. My appearance occasioned some murmurs but no outright hostility. While I ate, I heard a horse whinnying somewhere behind the inn. I finished my lunch and walked around the back of the building to see a handsome chestnut horse, fifteen hands or so in height, tied to a post. A makeshift canopy had been fashioned over the horse’s head. Judging from the piles of manure nearby, the horse had been there for several days. I approached the horse slowly, with my hands visible, allowing her to see and smell me. She seemed unconcerned with my presence; if she noticed the bandages, she was polite enough not to make an issue of them.

  While the mare and I were making our introductions, a mousy young woman came into the yard, dumped a bucket of waste, and then turned to go back into the inn. Seeing me, she gave a start.

  “I’m sorry, miss,” I said. “I heard your horse whinnying, and I wanted to investigate. She’s a beautiful animal.”

  “Thank you, but she’s not mine,” said the woman. “She belongs to old Dezso. His barn burned down, and she was the only survivor. My father agreed to keep Emra here until he could find a buyer for her.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Nearly five years.”

  I nodded. I had guessed she was around four. “I wouldn’t think it would take long to find a buyer for a horse of this quality.”

  She shrugged. “People around here know what happened to Dezso’s barn. They’re worried the trauma has ruined her. Quite unnecessarily, as you can see. She’s the most tranquil horse I’ve ever seen.”

  “Take her to Nagyvaros,” I said. “Prices are higher there, and people won’t know her history. If, as you say, she’s unaffected by the incident, there’s no deception involved.”

  She shook her head as she untied Emra’s reins. She walked in a slow semicircle, exposing the horse’s right flank to me. I saw now that Emra bore a reminder of the incident: on her left rear hindquarters was a patch of mottled flesh, devoid of hair. The blisters had healed, but the scar would remain. I examined the wound, and for the first time the horse showed some unease, stepping gingerly away from my touch.

  “It still hurts her a little, I think,” said the girl.

  “But you say she hasn’t grown skittish? Is she afraid of fire?”

  The girl shook her head. “No more so than any animal with sense. She’s a very brave horse. It was her bravery that saved her.”

  “How so?”

  “There were four horses in the barn when it caught fire. A careless servant left a lamp burning, and one of the other horses knocked it over. The other three horses bolted and got themselves trapped. Emra went to the middle of the barn and lay down, putting her head to the ground to avoid the smoke. The barn burned down around her, and that mark on her hindquarters is all she has to show for it. Even when the timber fell on her, searing her flesh, she stayed put. The other three horses were overcome by the smoke and died.”

  “A prospective buyer would tell you Emra lacks the will to survive,” I said. “That she survived because she didn’t have the spirit the others had.”

  “And yet, they are dead and she is alive.”

  I nodded. There is no arguing with the logic of survival. “Will you take twenty-four ermes for her?”

  “You are looking to buy a horse?”

  “I wasn’t, but I have some distance to travel, and it never hurts to have a companion.”

  “Dezso told me to try to get thirty. If I get thirty, he will let me keep one.”

  “Then give Dezso twenty-three and take one for yourself.”

  “I would be cheating Dezso.”

  “No, you would be preventing Dezso from cheating you. You are not going to get thirty ermes for this horse. Perhaps if she were flawless, but not in her present condition. Dezso knows this, which is why he promised to give you one erme only if you sell it for thirty. He thinks you will try to sell it for thirty but fail, getting perhaps twenty-six or twenty-seven, and then he will owe you nothing. With my offer, Dezso gets a fair price and you get a fair commission.”

  She nodded. “You are probably right, but I will give Dezso all twenty-four.”

  “Then I will give you twenty-five so that you are not slighted.”

  She laughed. “What is to keep me from saying that I will give Dezso all twenty-five, thereby prompting you to offer twenty-six?”

  “Only your own conscience. If you were dishonest, you would not have offered to give up your commission.”

  “Unless I were exceedingly clever and anticipated your generosity.”

  “I have no doubt you are quite clever, but I don’t think you will press the issue. My offer stands at twenty-five.”

  “The truth is,” she said, “I might very well ask for twenty-six, but… you have been scarred as well, haven’t you?”

  “I ask for no charity.”

  “It isn’t charity. Only a sense that you should have this horse. I wonder if there are, after all, such things as omens.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “All right, let me get you the tack and some feedbags.”

  “Thank you.”

  While the girl was inside, I spoke reassuringly to the mare, and she humored me. “Are you ready for an adventure?” I asked.

  The horse gave a defiant snort.

  “Good. Before we set out, though, I have one small demand to make of you. From now on, you shall answer to Ember, rather than Emra, because you have been branded by the thing that tried to destroy you.”

  *****

  I continued east another three leagues east before turning north at the narrow track that would take me to Beata’s parents’ farm. I arrived just after noon and knocked on the door. After some time, Beata’s father answered. He looked like he’d aged twenty years since I’d last since him. Seeing my bandages, Beata’s
father made to slam the door, but I held up my hand. “Wait!” I cried. “It’s only me, Konrad. Ferenc’s son.” As loath as I was to reveal my identity, I couldn’t think of any other way to get them to tell me what had happened to Beata. I couldn’t very well pose as a gendarme in my present condition.

  “Konrad? The shepherd boy? What has happened to you?”

  “I’ve suffered some scarring to my face. Please, I’ve come to learn of Beata. Is she here?”

  “Is this a joke?” the man demanded angrily. “Tear off those bandages and show me who you are!”

  He reached for my face, and I took a step back. “It is no joke,” I said. “I’ve just come from Nagyvaros, where I failed to learn anything of what happened to Beata since I last saw her more than six years ago.”

  “I will need more proof than that.”

  “I used to watch your sheep for an erme a week,” I said. “I never lost any, except for the time that lout Jagr claimed your barn was on fire, and while I went to investigate, his father stole an ewe.”

  “Then… you really are Konrad?”

  “I am.”

  “And you did not abscond with my daughter six years ago?”

  “I? No. I came to see her after I spoke with you and your wife. I found her at the inn in Nagyvaros, but before I could speak a word to her, a man seized her and dragged her into an alley. I pursued, but in the confusion I was apprehended by the gendarmes, who thought me to be the abductor. By the time the matter was cleared up, Beata was gone.”

  “And you waited six years to tell me of this?”

  “This is the first opportunity I’ve had,” I said, preparing to tell the lie I’d worked up on the way over. I’d decided it wouldn’t do to tell Beata’s father of my incarceration. In Nagyvaros, Nincs Varaslat was rarely spoken of in polite company; in the rural areas it was little more than a fairy tale. Beata’s father would probably not believe I’d been sent there, and if he did, he’d assume it had been for a good reason. The truth—that I’d been branded against my will with the mark of a warlock—was too fantastic to be believed.