Winter, Faerstice

by Kevin Lawler

  Inside his chambers, Oskar was standing in the center of the room, with his back to the door, and Cal could tell he was angry.

  Cal entered the chambers delicately, leaving the door slightly open. Cal could hear the beginnings of conversation picking up outside again. Oskar turned.

  “Shut it,” he said.

  The door came to on the chambers. In an instant he was on her, with passionate kisses, grabbing her clothed thigh and holding it against his side as they stood and kissed. Cal put up a token resistance, which he would appreciate.

  “Did you miss me,” Cal asked. The sound of their necking was the only thing Cal could hear.

  “I missed you.” Cal said.

  Cal did her best to look properly chastized. Oskar threw open the door to his chamber and returned to his seat. Cal returned to her place in front of the girls.

  “So,” Oskar began again, “I see six of you. Six witches and a pig. But not Reveille. Where is she?”

  There was a downcast look amongst the witches.

  “She went after Agnes,” Cal said, “Alone. We haven’t heard from her.”

  “I see. She was a sweet person. Lively and funny, too.”

  “She was. We came to introduce someone to you. This is Winter Thomson. She’s with us.”

  “Replacing her already. I guess that’s how you do,” Oskar said.

  “...Um, witches are under certain time demands, and given that your boys were trying to bring Ms. Winter in or kill her, we thought it best not to delay in reaching you.”

  Oskar looked around for somebody who he did not see.

  “I do have to apologize for that,” Oskar said, “He is from the line of Randall after all. Still, our esteemed Hunter’s Guild can sometimes get a bit zealous in the prosecution of their duties. We are a tradition-oriented bunch, and it’s been a challenge, for some of us, to adapt to the new way of doing things. To their great credit, they have retained most of our ways, even the unfashionable ones, and are still handing them down to new officers, which must be what happened here. The training process can be rather severe, with many tasks to accomplish. At any rate, I can help you. Everyone, look at this young lady. Don’t mess with her. Thank you.”

  One of the hunters, Darren, spoke, “And her pig? Out in the open like that? Are we just going to let anything go now willy nilly?”

  Oskar spoke to Winter, “The pig with you, is that a gift for us? Should we get him ready for dinner tonight? Maybe some cumin, a slow roast...”

  “No, he’s my familiar,” Winter said.

  “A familiar, eh? And inside. Green or not you’re pushing it. But he does look rather remarkable to end life as a BBQ sandwich. Rather remarkable indeed... Noble even. Anyway, Cal, it’s a good time for you to have arrived, if I should use that choice of words. There’s been an accident in the mine, six missing, but three escaped, rather severely wounded. They’ll make it, but I think they could benefit from your expert care. And I would be happy to have you around. You know we have an excellent and varied store of flora here.”

  “How badly are they injured?” Cal asked.

  Cal inspected the bandage job on one of the wounded miners. Inexpertly done, but sufficient.

  “What happened to them?” she asked.

  Phil answered, “We don’t know. Likely an explosion, common enough, although they claim nobody was there to set it off. Some of the gems in that shaft are fragile and highly unstable. Could’ve been anything, a misplaced pick falling over, a chunk of badly-excavated rock coming loose. There’s suspicion that burglars are carting off stones without taking precaution—wouldn’t be the first time. Oskar’s restricted access to the shaft for now until we can determine a root cause.”

  “This kind of magical wound is tricky,” Cal said, “I know a few treatments that can make their recoveries easier.”

  Oskar and Cal led the way to the women’s barracks.

  Oskar spoke to Winter, “You’re going to enjoy your stay here. Reveille used to love it. I don’t know if Cal’s told you this, Winter, but the work going on here is some of the best around. There’s scarcely a more professional operation in existence. I apologize again about your run in with one of our newer members in the Hunter’s Guild. He’s still in training. The Witch Hunters’ Subguild is one of the more fascinating vestiges of the mining guild we’ve manage to keep alive over the years. They were never very large to begin with, and since the disappearance, ahem, of the topologists, we’ve had to greatly modify our relationship with witches. Still, they are keeping that great tradition alive, in their own way. You witches could learn a lot from us. You can barely remember any of your history. Oral tradition next to nil, hardly any books to speak of, apart from the burgeoning industry in fakes. I do worry how much longer we’re going to be able to keep at it though. In the short term we’ve been able to expand after Phil helped us find some excellent veins, but in the long term we are looking at a downtrend. All of this might disappear.”

  They arrived at the barracks and their escort said goodbye.

  The inside of the barracks looked run down and for the first time Cal felt guilty about where Winter had been made to stay. It was hard to put a positive spin on it even with the interestingness of what they were doing. It reminded Cal of a bad summer camp. The miners had been using the room for storage and it was still filled with things that had to be moved, tractor parts, rocks, spent cans of chili, giant stacked bags of food supplies.

  “Ooo, Phil,” Ipsy cooed, “Hey Meadow are you guys gonna go on a date around the island? Maybe you can show him your rock collection.”

  Meadow slapped Ipsy in the stomach with a sack of lentils.

  “Shut up,” she said, not exactly offended, “We’re just two professionals. That’s all. If something happens... then, it happens.” Meadow shrugged.

  “I don’t even know how you can think about that. It smells in here. It smells everywhere here. It smells like boy in here. They stink! This place stinks!”

  “If we’re going to be staying here, I want to start training,” Winter said, “It’s embarrassing to be the only one with my familiar out. I feel like my...zipper is open. And I think the pig is getting tired of walking.”

  The pig was exhausted and already sleeping on the wooden floor.

  “Training? What do you mean training?” Topple asked.

  “It’s not so bad, Topple,” Cal said.

  “Don’t you don’t have a training regimen? Then how did you learn all the...witching...stuff?” Winter asked.

  Topple seemed bamboozled by the question. “You just...pick it up, over time. There’s not like a... program for it.”

  “Really?” Winter said to Meadow. Meadow gave a frowning nod. Winter continued, “Then how am I supposed to beat Agnes? Just wait around?”

  Topple frowned.

  Chapter 13

  It was early morning, and still dark outside—that was a good time for training, right? In the darkness, wild roosters crowed. Winter stood next to the pig and tried to keep her leg from shaking. Winter had gotten up at the right time without setting an alarm. Did roosters also have a mental clock? No, they must be able to tell from the light. Winter’s thoughts were as jittery as her leg.

  She had eaten too much for breakfast and that only made her stomach worse. She was frustrated. Nothing about this was a cause for concern and she was still nervous. Maybe it was the anticipation.

  Topple, tall and skinny and with carrot-colored hair, walked up to her and began looking her over. Winter looked her in the eyes for a moment but it was too intense. What was she looking for? All of Winter was right there. Topple kept inspecting her and then putting her hands on her hips to think. It didn’t seem like she knew what she was doing either. Topple was staring again. Winter looked her back in the eye and made an exaggerated face. She could stare too.

  “First lesson,” Topple started, having to clear her throat, “The proper care of familiars. You’ve noticed that we don’t have our familiars out at all times.
We’ll practice call and recall.”

  Topple made a motion like she was casting feed on the ground. After a pause Fritzi appeared six inches above the ground and hit the sand with a thump. She appeared dazed even though she had mostly landed on her stumpy otter feet. She shook her head to get her bearings.

  Topple made a second motion as if she were snatching a hat off someone’s head. Fritzi made a surprised face and disappeared.

  “Now it looks simple, but the hard part is feeling it. If you don’t have that feeling locked in, you’re going to try to call him and nothing is going to happen. Find that place inside of you and take hold when you feel something. Oh, and don’t worry about hangovers, this one won’t take much toll on you. OK, now you try.”

  The pig looked at Winter and backed away slowly.

  Winter stared at him with determination. She was going to reach in deep and grab hold of that feeling, or whatever Topple was talking about. She grabbed hard at the air, as if she were a scoundrel taking a bag of coins. Nothing. Winter snatched at the air a second time, and then a third time. Still nothing. She looked at Topple for guidance.

  “It’s not out here,” Topple said, waving her hand in the air. “It’s in here,” she said, and pointed at her gut. “Grab outside, but feel the resistance in here.”

  Winter grabbed at the air, harder this time. The pig sat on his haunches, unmoved. Topple stood silently. Winter collected herself and grabbed at the air, making the motion from within. The pig disappeared. His oinking could be heard invisibly, interspersed with the crowing. Then it stopped.

  “See, nothing to it,” said Topple.

  Winter suddenly felt worried about the pig. Where was he? Had she hurt him?

  “Now bring him back,” Topple said.

  Winter made a motion like throwing a frisbee. That didn’t work. Then she backhanded a tennis ball. No pig. Then she swept everything off a table. Still no pig.

  “Where do they go?” Winter asked, short for breath.

  “No one knows. We haven’t found one yet that can talk. ...Can’t be that bad. We think.”

  Baby hens were walking into their training session. Winter scattered a handful of imaginary seed at them. The pig appeared on solid ground, facing Winter and Topple. He wore a horrified expression. The little hens noticed him appear and scampered into the bushes.

  “This is why we have knives,” Topple said, “If she’s sitting there casting a spell,” Topple thrust upwards, “You stab her in the throat.” Topple let the thrust drop. Then she thrust upwards again. “Most of the best attack spells take a long time to cast. Great if your target waits around. You won’t. The knife is the equalizer here. It puts witches of different spellcasting ability on similar footing. And they can’t explode it in your hand like they can with a gun.”

  “We can show you some things with the knives, but the reality of it is, there’s nothing artful or elegant about a knifefight,” said Topple. “Most ‘knifefights’ aren’t even fights at all. They’re targeted assassinations, and an attacker with any sense is going to put the knife in you before you even know it’s there, and definitely before you have a chance to draw your own.”

  Topple continued, “If you are lucky enough to have your knife out, then you better be doing one of two things: either stabbing them as badly as you can, or stopping them from stabbing you. Don’t get too fixated on deflecting what comes at you, or you’ll never get a lick in and they’ll win. But do stop them from hitting your vitals. You’re going to get stabbed, that’s rule one, so just accept it now.”

  Cal pulled up her sleeve to reveal a pair of inch-long scars angled on the inside of her weathered forearm. “These are just the ones I can show easily,” she said.

  “Most ‘knife fights’ don’t go how you think,” Topple said, “So the training is largely wasted for that. Think of it as a very dangerous yoga. Good for staying in shape. Not especially helpful when it comes to a fight. Some day you might use it. In the meantime...”

  Cal said, “Show her some jumps.”

  Topple said, “No, this isn’t a joke.”

  Cal said, “Some flips then? What’s the point of being an acrobat?”

  “...In the meantime, practice anyway but don’t count on it to help. Still, do it anyway. Maybe it will help. If it makes you less scared when the time comes, then that little bit will be worth it.” Topple tossed Winter one of two identical black rubber training knives.

  “Come at me,” Topple said.

  Winter gripped her practice blade. She held her arm forward and made a vicious charge at Topple, slashing at her with the blunt rubber tip. Topple turned to deflect the attack, but the tip of Winter’s practice blade sunk into the place where Topple’s kidney was.

  “See? You surprised me and now I’m dead,” said Topple, “Or badly wounded, at the very least. Learn from my mistake. Again.”

  Winter charged at Topple again and Topple this time slashed her across the throat with her rubber blade.

  “I’ll tell you what my knife instructor told me: ‘trade a cut for a kill, but nothing else.’ A knifefight isn’t a fight at all, like with fists. It’s combat. In combat you kill. Again.”

  It was dusk in the mining town. Topple chewed the last bites of her diced iguana and yellow rice, street food she had bought from a makeshift vendor. Brightly colored land crabs, greens and blues and reds, flitted deeper inside their burrows as she passed.

  Ahead of her, Topple saw Ségolène and two of the witches from her ring. Ségolène started towards her. Her ringmates kept lookout. Their clothes were better, their gear was better, and they carried themselves with a professional, disciplined air that Topple’s ring lacked.

  “Looks like you found your sixth, finally. That process would’ve been a lot faster if you were with a ring on your level. You know, your crew, you know, no disrespect to them, but they’re not on your level,” said Ségolène.

  “They are my friends, Ségolène,” said Topple.

  “Even still, the wrong group of friends can take you to the wrong places. And the wrong places will see you dead. They would be better off hiding out at home, meeting once in a while to reseal, like most of the rings out there probably are. Once you start meddling in things, trying to influence them... The whip cracks in both directions.”

  “Hiding is a cowardly life, Ségolène. There is such a thing as responsibility. When problems thrust themselves on you, you’re compelled to respond. We were called, we didn’t go looking for trouble.”

  “That’s true, and you may wind up dead for it anyway. You know you have a standing offer to join us. Take your time. We’ll be waiting for you when you’re ready.”

  “I’m not ready for that. I have obligations to my ring. I have obligations to my friends. And we have obligations here,” said Topple.

  “You don’t mean the mine do you?” asked Ségolène, “Clearing that mine is a fool’s errand, with no reward. There’s only danger in it.”

  “That’s what I meant by responsibility. There’s rarely a reward,” said Topple.

  Ségolène turned to leave.

  “Hey,” she started, “If you’re going against Agnes...you’re making powerful enemies. Don’t count on us to help.”

  It was night in the mining town. Topple had just found Winter.

  “Here,” Topple said, “You should have this. As much as it pains me to give it up.” Topple handed Winter a book that looked hundreds of years old.

  “It’s stopped working for me anyway,” Topple said, “These books have a mind of their own. I found this one in the wall of my apartment when I was training in Montreal. I wasn’t the first to have it, and I won’t be the last. The book will make space for you. My entries are in there, if you can see them, and you should make the time to add yours.”

  Winter leafed through the diary. “I’ll write in it.” She held the diary out at arm’s length to inspect it.

  “Don’t do it because you have to, but to be a part of something, a continuous thread.
It would be a loss to leave this world forgotten. And things as they are, that’s very easy for us.”

  Topple had overslept and so she didn’t catch Winter oversleeping. When she had gotten up she trotted Winter out into the path in front of the barracks. Winter suppressed a yawn and looked expectantly at Topple, eager to see what the next lesson was.

  Topple said, “Today we’ll be making ‘woad,’ or as I like to think of it, warpaint. Woad can heighten your abilities. Here’s your first task: gopher. Go to Meadow and ask for the following...”

  It didn’t take Winter long to find Meadow. She was with Phil in the rock storehouse, categorizing some unlabeled stones and generally taking inventory. She seemed to love just handling the rocks.

  “Making woad, huh?” said Meadow, “Hmmm.....let me think.....what would be good to get you started...” Meadow turned from the bins filled with ore to her gemkit on the table. She opened the wooden box and unfolded the cantilevered trays. The trays were covered with a black velvet and divided into small sections. In each section was an assortment of stones or a group of vials of crushed powders. At the base of the box were Meadow’s jewelsmithing tools: pliers, tinsnips, and coils of silver metal.

  Meadow held up two vials of crushed powder, one in each hand. She wobbled the deepest blue vial between her right thumb and forefinger.

  “Azuratite.” Meadow said. “Opinions are split, but I prefer it to Chalconcite,” she wobbled the other, left vial, “particularly the siltstone variety. Azuratite has a more amenable powder, you know? In the crystalline geode form it’s beautiful, but Chalconcite is just so...hydrophobic...bleh. (Plus it’s really poisonous if you get it in your mouth.) For makeup, Azuratite’s what you want. It blends better.”

  Meadow handed the vial of Azuratite to Winter. Then she motioned her toward her. “C’mere,” she said, and gave Winter a hug. Meadow had on a soft and flowing silk blouse. “Good luck on your first blend. I wish I could be in your shoes again. Be careful.”