Witchlanders

by Lena Coakley

  Pima murmured in her sleep, and her eyes flickered open. “I thought you were gone.”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “Are you going to kill a Baen?”

  Ryder was taken aback. He and Skyla had decided not to tell her where he was going. “What makes you say that?”

  “You’ve got the Baenkiller.”

  Ryder’s hand went to the sword poking up over his left shoulder. Dassen had done him a great honor by lending it to him. His knee had been too bad for him to come, but Ryder had seen the bitter regret in his eyes when the party of villagers left to go up the mountain.

  Pima didn’t seem interested in an answer to her question. Tears were seeping out of the corners of her eyes.

  “Don’t,” Ryder said softly.

  “Why didn’t Maba come too?” Pima asked. “I want her to come here.”

  “I told you, she has things to do. Special things. She’ll be back. . . .” He let his words trail off. His mother’s body had not been found, though there had been a thorough search for her. Ryder believed she must have lived, must have saved herself, but when he talked about her, the questions started to float up to the surface of his mind. Questions like, Could she really survive in this cold? or, If she’s alive, why doesn’t she just show herself? “We have to be brave,” he said.

  The witch Yulla poked her head into the room, and Ryder looked up, hoping the coven elders had finally finished their endless deliberations. Somewhere in one of their secret mountain caves, witches were throwing the bones and discussing the attack. But Yulla only smiled and offered him another cup of tea.

  “No, thank you,” he said, more sharply than he meant.

  As much as he wanted to, Ryder couldn’t find fault with Yulla, the distant cousin who had taken in Pima and Skyla. She was round and patient, always smiling. Her own husband and young children had died years ago of the scabbing disease. Sometimes Ryder thought she looked at Pima almost hungrily. My sister’s already got a mother, he wanted to snap—but he knew he should be glad Skyla and Pima were so well cared for, and he kept his lips set tight. Yulla bobbed her head shyly, leaving them alone again.

  “When you come back, we’ll go to sea,” Pima said, her eyes closing again.

  “All right,” he whispered. “When I get back.” He stroked her forehead, trying to smooth away the worry lines. “You’ll be my little cabin girl.”

  Next to the bed, a wooden chest spilled over with toys, enough for a rich man’s child. Ryder had never given much thought to the way witches lived, but he found himself appalled by how much wood Yulla used on her fires, by how many useless little objects she had lying about, by the idea of a child with a bed of her own. He wanted to scoop Pima up in his arms and take her home. But they didn’t have a home anymore.

  Pima had fallen back to sleep, but Ryder didn’t want to rejoin Skyla and Yulla in the other room, didn’t want to make conversation. Like Pima, he couldn’t get Mabis out of his mind. She must have known the girls would be safe up here, just as she had known to send him to the river at the right time. If it weren’t for Mabis, Pima might be dead right now, Ryder thought. The guilt he felt for not believing in her completely, the way Dassen did, wormed at his heart.

  “I’ll bring you that Baen’s head,” he whispered to the sleeping girl. “I’ll put the Baenkiller right through his eyes.” As if that could make up for anything.

  “Ryder!” Skyla poked her head through the door. “Kef’s here. The witches are back.”

  Finally.

  The coven was built into the side of the mountain. Tiered stone steps curved past little round huts, winding around mountain trees with roots like claws, disappearing into the darkness at the top of the settlement. Night had fallen, but high torches lined the steps, making pools of light.

  Ryder had never been to this part of the coven before. Like most villagers, he had always left his tithe in the clearing below the huts and had never been asked to come any farther. Dassen used to boast that of all the covens in the Witchlands, this one was the oldest, the most holy. Ryder had always doubted it, but now he saw the weather-worn pictographs carved into the stone torch holders, the deep depressions eroded into the stone steps, and he wondered if it might be true, after all.

  Witches were arriving home from somewhere higher up toward the mountain’s crooked spire. They walked together in groups of two and three as they came down the steps, swinging their glims—round glass lanterns that they carried on chains. Ryder had never seen glass lanterns before. They seemed miraculous, like fire wrapped in water, and he could see them glowing like firebugs all the way up the mountain.

  He was surprised to see how many of the witches had darker hair or a hint of Baen features. He’d thought that the girl in white was something out of the ordinary, but there was more mixed blood here than in the village, though he couldn’t think why. The witches murmured softly to one another, but conversations stopped when they saw Ryder, and without meeting his gaze they slipped into the round huts or disappeared along dirt paths that branched off from the coven steps. They seemed too calm, too subdued for people readying themselves for war. Kef steered him in the other direction, down the steps and toward the flat stretch of land beyond the last coven torch, the place where the villagers had set up camp.

  “Do the witches want to attack tonight?” Ryder asked Kef. He could see the villagers moving in the dark ahead, putting out cooking fires and packing up their rough tents. It was probably a good idea; there was a smell of snow in the air.

  “Visser has told the villagers to go home,” Kef said. “That the danger is over.”

  “What!” Ryder stopped short.

  “The monsters are gone. They’re dead now—if you can call it dead—at least that’s what you villagers have told us.”

  It was true enough. By the time Ryder and Dassen had gotten back to the village, the creatures had already begun to slow. Perhaps it was the cold, or perhaps their lifespan was shorter than a jewelfly’s, but by dawn the next morning, the earth men were stiff and still, and the bravest of the villagers were pushing them over, stomping their bodies back into the ground.

  Ryder thought for a moment. “No,” he said finally. “This is a mistake. The Baen can make more of those creatures whenever he wants. The danger is not over. We’d be fools to think so!”

  “I’m sorry, Ryder, I’m just telling you what Aata’s Right Hand saw in her bones. If there is a Baen over the border, he has every right to be there. We have no reason to believe he is responsible for this magic.”

  “No reason! What about my mother’s prophecies?”

  A pair of witches stared at Ryder as they passed, and Kef pulled him off the steps, leading him to a space between two of the witch huts. He lowered his voice. “Think, Ryder. Think what a serious thing it would be to cross the border. We don’t want another war.”

  “It’s already a war, and the blackhairs have begun it! Help me convince them, Kef. Please. Help me convince the witches not to do this.”

  “I can’t.”

  Ryder turned away in frustration. Inside one of the huts, he could see a man bending over a hearth, distorted by the warps and bubbles of a glass window. These witches were too comfortable, he thought, with their warm fires and their glass windows, untouched by the destruction the creatures had wreaked in the village.

  “You’re quite a lackey, aren’t you?” Ryder hissed. “Go tell Ryder we’re stealing his sisters. Go tell Ryder he should go back to the village. No wonder they took you into the coven. Do you empty their chamber pots, too?”

  Kef’s face hardened under his braided beard. “If they asked me to, I would. It is an honor to live here.” Ryder rolled his eyes. “Don’t be angry. We were friends once, Ryder. And we should be now. Now, more than ever, after what we’ve lost.”

  Kef was fingering the blue bead at his neck, still visible above the open collar of his coat. Ryder remembered it as something Kef’s mother used to wear. She’d been a pretty woman with arms
blue to the elbow from dying cloth, who fed stray dogs and always kept her house tidy. How Kef’s father had adored her. And what a terrible death she’d had to suffer. All at once Ryder regretted his harsh words.

  “Kef,” he said gently, “just because the witches took you in doesn’t mean you have to do everything they say. Where’s the boy who dressed the village lucky man to look like the blacksmith’s wife? Where’s the boy—”

  “Don’t!” Kef said with a harshness Ryder didn’t understand. “I hate to even think of those days, Ryder. I’m not that person.”

  Kef’s vehemence surprised Ryder, and hurt him a little too. Ryder had grown up too far from the village to make many friends. He and Kef hadn’t had the chance to see each other very often, but Ryder remembered every occasion: a few islands of frivolous pleasure in a life that was otherwise a sea of hard work.

  “Harmless fun, Kef,” he said.

  “No. Not harmless. Listen, Ryder, the witches aren’t just here to throw the bones and guard the border. They’re here to guide us. They must be obeyed.”

  “Without question?”

  “Yes! You might not like Visser or Aata’s Right Hand or even Sodan, but when they make a decision, their words are the voice of the Goddess. And trust me, the Goddess does not look kindly on those who think her words are open to interpretation.”

  Ryder was about to argue, but he had the feeling there was nothing he could say to change his friend’s mind. Kef was right: He wasn’t the boy Ryder had known anymore.

  Skyla rounded the corner, her breath in clouds. She wore an elegant red coat that Yulla had given her. Even the clothes people wear here are extravagant, Ryder thought. A villager had loaned him the coat he was wearing; it was made from an old blanket.

  “What’s happening?” she asked, panting. “Why are the villagers leaving?”

  “They’re not,” Ryder said firmly.

  He left them both and ran.

  In the frozen meadow, men and women were saddling their pack animals and rolling up their gear. Ryder caught one of his neighbors by the sleeve. It was Raiken, who owned the farm nearest Ryder’s. Raiken had six children and another on the way, but because of Mabis’s warning the whole family had made it to the river in time.

  “What can we do, Ryder?” Raiken said. Beside him, a gray mare shook her mane in the dark, blowing white breath out of her nose. “Our hands are tied. The witches won’t agree to let us cross the border.”

  “Let us? They can’t stop us!”

  “I know what you’re feeling,” said the farmer. He scratched the back of his head and looked away, embarrassed. “I don’t like it any more than you. Tarkin was my best friend.” Tarkin the miller and his wife had been killed by the mud creatures, leaving their only son an orphan. “We all want vengeance. But witches . . . They have their reasons, and it’s not for us to question them.” He sounded just like Kef.

  “Why not? Why shouldn’t we question them?”

  Ryder looked around in frustration, regretting that Dassen hadn’t come—he would have changed their minds. Without waiting for an answer, he leapt onto a low wooden platform. It was empty now, but earlier in the season it would have been piled high with bags of hicca and hicca flour—tithes kept off the ground until they could be stored.

  “Good villagers!” Ryder cried. “Think of your homes! Am I the only one who wants revenge for what this Baen has done?”

  There were a few scattered cheers from the crowd, and most of the villagers stopped what they were doing to listen, holding up torches and lamps. Skyla and Kef were watching Ryder from the base of the platform, but they didn’t try to stop him.

  “Hear me!” he called. “Think of the ruin those creatures made of our village. Now look at this beautiful coven in front of you, every hut standing, not a window broken. Why should we let these pampered witches tell us how to protect ourselves?”

  Villagers began to gather around him now, their faces golden in the torchlight. They were people Ryder had known all his life, farmers mostly, simple people who believed the teachings of Aata and Aayse—but surely a few of them would be willing to defy the witches. Surely he wasn’t the only one who doubted their power, who wondered what they really did to deserve their tithes.

  “Harkiss,” Ryder said, pointing to the village blacksmith. “You lost family in the attack. Don’t you want revenge?” Harkiss stood with his arms crossed, his face unreadable, but at his side his two tall sons nodded gravely. “You always said you wanted to fight the Baen. This is your chance!”

  “The witches tell us that the danger to our village is over,” Raiken said.

  “Yes, that’s what they say, but how can we believe them when they failed to predict the first attack? I say this Baen can send another pack of creatures over the mountain whenever he wants!”

  “He’s right!” said someone. Old Mag pushed her way to the front of the crowd. She was wearing a too-small leather jerkin and a leather helmet over her gray hair. “Are we truly going to wait for this Baen to kill us in our beds? Are we just going to lie down and let their monsters bury us?”

  Ryder smiled. Old Mag had fought during the war, and she looked full ready to do it again, in spite of having grandchildren Ryder’s age.

  By now some of the witches had noticed what was going on, but they held back in tight groups at the edge of the meadow. From the platform, Ryder could see a small red litter carried by four bearers moving down the mountain path, but it stopped near the other witches, in a pool of light formed by the last torch on the coven steps. Ryder was too far away to see the face of the person who sat hunched on top, but he guessed it must be Sodan, the leader of the coven. Sodan never deigned to come down to the valley—few villagers had ever seen him. If Ryder had caught this man’s attention, maybe he was doing something right. He raised his voice, hoping that old Sodan could hear his every word.

  “I say we cross the border now, take this Baen magician by surprise, and slit his throat! Now, who is with me?”

  “Stop this, boy,” said a sharp voice from the crowd. “Stop this now!” It was Visser, the witch who had come down the mountain with Kef and Aata’s Right Hand in answer to his mother’s firecall. She pushed her way through the villagers and glared up at him from the base of the platform. “We witches don’t have to explain ourselves!” She beckoned Ryder toward her, and as he bent down, she grabbed him by the ear, lowering her voice so that only he could understand. “Aata’s Right Hand has seen things in her casting. Things you would not want revealed.”

  “Reveal what you want,” Ryder said, pushing her hand away. He stood up and yelled hoarsely at the crowd. “I say again, who is with me? Whatever happens, I will be crossing the border tonight!”

  The cheers were louder now, and their meaning was unmistakable: A good portion of the villagers were on his side.

  “You asked for this,” murmured Visser. The gray-haired witch clambered up onto the platform. “Good people!” she cried. “The creatures you have told us about did not come from over the mountain. We witches would have seen them pass.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Ryder answered, just as loud. “That Baen could have been singing on one side of the mountain and the creatures could have formed on the other.”

  “Unlikely. From the reports you yourselves have given us, it seems that these creatures appeared somewhere between the coven and the village. It is logical to assume that this was where they were formed.”

  Between the village and the coven. In other words, from somewhere near Ryder’s farm. “What are you saying?” Ryder hissed.

  The villagers looked from one to the other, confused. “Is the Baen among us, then?” said Old Mag, looking around as if he could be hiding in the crowd. “Did he cross to our side of the border?”

  “It was not our intention to reveal all we have seen,” said Visser. “But Ryder has forced our hand. We believe that our poor sister Mabis, driven mad with maiden’s woe, was experimenting with strange magics. It was s
he who made the creatures.”

  “What!” Ryder felt heat rise to his cheeks; he could scarcely believe what he’d heard. He stared hard at Visser, expecting to see the guilt of her lie written on her face, but if she felt any shame, she hid it well.

  “Perhaps the grief over her husband’s death . . . ,” she began.

  “Don’t believe her!” Ryder shouted to the crowd. “You’ve known my mother all your lives. Tell this witch you don’t believe Mabis could have done such a thing!”

  “But Mabis predicted the attack,” someone said from the crowd. “She made the firecall and sent the tavern keeper with a warning.” It was Kef, looking as surprised by Visser’s pronouncement as Ryder himself. Obviously, not all the witches had been privy to the explanation that Mabis made the creatures. Visser glared at the young witch, and he looked to the ground, frowning.

  “It is easy to predict what you plan to do yourself,” said Visser.

  “No!” said Ryder. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Listen to me!” Visser shouted to the crowd. “The Right Hand of Aata has thrown the bones. These things are not to be disputed.”

  “I dispute them!” Ryder said. “Aata’s Right Hand has no skill! If she did, she would have seen the monsters!”

  “What do you know of such things?” Visser spat.

  “Surely she’s not the only boneshaker in the world. Send messengers to other covens. Have them throw the bones. My mother is innocent!”

  A look crossed Visser’s face then, a look of almost panic, but she quickly recovered herself. “Other covens agree with our predictions,” she said sharply. “There is no danger from the Baen.”

  Ryder frowned at that, wondering if Visser was telling the truth, wondering why no one from any other coven had predicted the attack and tried to warn them. Were all the boneshakers in the Witchlands as incompetent as Aata’s Right Hand? Had no one but his mother seen the danger?