by Ana Mardoll
Generations of in-fighting ravaged the noble ranks through private wars, infertility curses, and lethal 'accidents'. Fewer and fewer magi from neighboring kingdoms were willing to enter a political free-for-all to infuse fresh blood into an ailing aristocracy. When a young witch-queen ascended the throne as the last child of her dying line, people hoped for a turning point. Youth could rise from the ashes and the kingdom be reborn. All that was needed was the right witch or wizard to take the young queen in hand: guide her, bed her, and plant within her enough children to revive the monarchy.
Mages who had avoided the tumultuous kingdom were now moved to visit the court, drawn by tales of a reclusive young woman and imagining her to be easily mastered. Yet the docile girl the suitors were expecting turned out to be a willful queen in no mood to yoke herself in matrimony. One by one her suitors disappeared, dropping from public view so abruptly that they might as well have turned invisible. The kingdoms of their birth watched these events from a wary distance, uncertain whether to file official complaints through their ambassadors. Meddling in the affairs of witches was not an endeavor to undertake lightly.
More worrisome to the people of Northnesse were the draconian laws implemented by their young queen. The borders were closed, ending free travel and cutting families off from relatives in neighboring kingdoms. Injunctions were placed against the practice of magic anywhere in the land, and practitioners were ordered to report to the queen for royal examination. Hundreds of hedge-witches and palm-readers made their way to court in compliance with the law. None was seen or heard from again.
An exodus began. When the first wave of practitioners summoned to court failed to return, their spouses, children, and pupils gathered their belongings and ran. The first incarnation of the Eastborne wall was put up in a desperate attempt to stem the outward flow of bodies and goods to a more manageable trickle. A sprawling makeshift fence of stone and mud was patrolled by the royal army which had swelled its ranks overnight, paid from the coffers of those who had vanished.
Magic users who could not flee were taken in cages to the queen's court. Mages skilled in slipping bindings or sliding through bars were pierced with steel blades and iron arrows. More often than not, however, the captured were powerless to attempt escape. Cage bars did not bend at the caress of a seer's cards, nor would they melt away from a brush of an herbalist's sage. The most potent witches of the previous generations had belonged to noble lines which destroyed themselves in petty arguments; those who remained among the peasantry were dabblers and dilettantes, helpless to resist when soldiers came.
Roads were soon clogged with horse-drawn wagons bearing prisoners for the queen. Dissenters among the common folk were hanged and displayed from castle walls, while magi disappeared into dungeons. Unease swept the land like a pelting summer storm, bringing destruction in its wake. Books of magic were burned to prevent the teaching of new wizards, and any child born with magical talent was seized from their parents.
Towns learned to hide their healers and pregnant people when magic hunters came through, and clung to the cold comfort that these hunters were few and far between. Only those with magic could identify others blessed with the gift, and the queen did not suffer more than a dozen magicians to live in her land. Avoiding an accusation of magic in Northnesse was as simple as avoiding any and all who wielded it, or so Caran had thought until nee was betrayed by the glowing jewel set in the Eastborne gate.
The Northnesse purge was observed by the other four kingdoms with varying degrees of wary interest. None wished to invade their large neighbor to the north, and few rulers were above exploiting the purge. Refugees could be accepted in exchange for wealth and labor, and more than one court picked up new wizards, alchemists, and healers in service to the crown. In that sense, the cleansing of Northnesse had been a political boon for its neighbors, if the cost of human misery went uncounted.
In the space of a few months, however, the study and practice of magic was completely altered as Northnesse carved a brutal gash into the academic map. Whole disciplines were impacted by the closed borders: herbalists were denied access to native flora, oracles could no longer study fauna and their precious entrails, and every altar in the land was bereft of candles dyed in the colors of the northern flowers.
These goods and services could be replicated in time, but the flow of information which had continued uninterrupted for centuries, the study and observation of northern climes and the unique habitats therein, was irreplaceable to the magic community. Magic was a complex system that flowed around and through all things. Careful manipulation of any single part required an understanding of the whole, and the abrupt loss of Northnesse created a tremor that rippled out and disrupted myriad spells beyond its borders.
The Magic Guild could not allow this situation to continue. Waiting was not an option when a witch's longevity could be magically extended and the queen had come to her throne at a young age. Yet war was politically impossible when no ruler could be found willing to invade the northern giant on the urging of a few flustered academics, even if they were backed by those mages who used their powers in more martial disciplines. With few remaining alternatives, an approach of a stealthier bent was architected.
A series of infiltrations were devised, of which the first was the most important. An agent would slip into the kingdom and identify the best routes in and out, while gathering samples and sketches of native flora most vital to the magical arts. This agent would be selected from among the guild members who fitted necessary criteria: the ability to live on the road for several months; to pass as a local when visiting towns for supplies; and to keep their mouth shut if captured, as future expeditions would be endangered were the witch-queen to learn what was afoot. The agent should also be someone whose loss would not damage the community should they die; a simple conjurer was less valuable to the guild than a powerful wizard.
Caran was a hedge-witch with only minor herbal magic and no real importance within the guild, despite being a member in good standing. Nee had an undeniable talent for observation and record-keeping, with the ability to draw any plant in perfect detail and record in six different languages the habits of an animal. One of those languages was an alphabet of ner own devising, very unlikely to be deciphered in case of capture. Nee had lived on the road as a wandering healer for years before settling down in a small home in the eastern town of Freyhurst, and was well prepared for the rigors of the journey.
When Caran named a fee calculated to steal the listener's breath away, the guild grudgingly agreed. Price was little object when the information to be retrieved was invaluable. Over the coming weeks, an expedition was beautifully outfitted: the finest mule money could obtain, food preserved against all forms of rot, underclothes woven with enchantments to keep the wearer comfortable in any weather, and Northnesse coins bought from refugees at twice their face value so that Caran would not be carrying foreign currency.
While supplies were assembled, Caran meticulously charted ner route through the northern domain. Nee would enter through the Mossmerrow, a blighted swamp where knobby trees grew in knee-high water the color of a dying man's phlegm. All available maps had been created years before the border closings and were woefully out of date, but Caran judged ner trip through the swamp would take several days. The slog would be dangerous but if nee avoided reptiles, leeches, and moss-gnat swarms, nee would survive.
On crossing the swamp, nee would scatter what remained of ner supplies to the wild beasts and stop in the town of Stynston to purchase fresh food, clothes, and paper. Caran could not risk discovery by carrying foreign foods or wearing southern outerwear any longer than necessary; even the most careful spy could be undone by an errant hue of dye or woven patterns unique to another region. Nee would pretend to be a local traveling peddler of cures; not magical cures, of course, but the mundane tinctures and teas that were the only source of healing left to the good Northnesse people in the wake of their queen's terrible laws.
D
epending on what nee learned in town, nee would move further north along one of several likely routes nee had mapped out. The easiest way to cross the Bluemere was by ferry, then Caran could turn east on the lonely winding road through the Winterwald, a forest whose white needles covered the track like a blanket of snow and where grew at least eighteen plants and flowers unique to the region. Ner journals were large and aching to be filled, as was the sack slung over ner mule for collecting samples.
Everything had gone more or less to plan, though a few unpleasant nights were spent dodging royal patrols before Caran learned to avoid the roads entirely. Nee had found samples aplenty and taken numerous specimens. Ner journals were filled with drawings of unfamiliar plants and animals, along with notes in ner private language detailing the condition of the roads, the locations of towns, the state of the weather, and landmarks to help ner craft a new map of the land for the guild on ner return. The most important of these details nee tattooed on ner arms and legs as nee rested by the campfire in the evenings, surrounding ner words with designs which pleased ner. Even if the precious paper notes were lost, nee wore ner experiences on ner skin.
The mule had been sold to a kindly farmer on ner way to Silvercrest and the Eastborne wall. Nee no longer had use for it and the guards at the gate would ask questions about the animal. The dried samples in ner bag were light enough to carry on ner back, along with the remaining rations nee would consume before the expedition was complete. When the farmer asked what name the mule answered to, Caran hesitated and gave him ner own. Nee liked to think ner name would live on even if nee did not.
The wooden bed of the prison wagon had been painted an imposing black, but the paint was flaking off to show a shabby beige underneath. Northern ash, Caran noted with dull interest as nee picked at the flaking splinters with ner fingernails. The wood was long dead, but even if a spark of lingering life had remained, nee was no druid; trees did not warp to ner will. Ner magic was of the subtle variety, just strong enough to feel the thrum of power in the metal bars forming the walls and ceiling of ner cage.
This wagon had been constructed to transport magic users, so nee supposed it made sense to layer the cage with spells to hold its prisoners. Yet Caran hadn't the training to tell what those spells were, what might trigger them, or how to dispel them. Nee was and always had been nothing more than an expendable hedge-witch. Competent enough to get by but nothing like the men and women conjured in public imagination by the word 'witch'. Nee grew herbs and collected the secrets of plants, cataloging that which would heal and that which would harm; valuable work that saved lives, but never flashy.
Trying to ignore the rattle of the wagon on the uneven road, Caran leaned back against the bars and took stock of ner situation. Nee was a magic user in a land which executed magic users; nee was also a spy, which was rarely good for one's health. Ner guild employers had warned Caran not to expect rescue or ransom, but even if they had promised intervention nee knew no way to convey a message to them. Before setting out, they had given ner a vial of poison to consume in case of capture but Caran had thrown it into the swamp with the rest of ner foreign supplies. Nee was on ner own with only ner wits.
Nee could throw nerself on the mercy of the witch-queen, but that plan hinged on her having any to spare: a prospect that seemed unlikely, given the brutality of the purges. Nor was nee enamored of the idea of working for the witch-queen in any capacity, when such a position would almost certainly involve tracking other magical prisoners and hauling them in identical cages to their deaths. Caran prided nerself on ner flexible morality but nee drew a hard line at murder, which meant bargains of that sort were off the table.
If the witch-queen could not be negotiated with, perhaps her subjects might be more reasonable. Caran eyed the soldiers surrounding the wagon. They rode their horses as far from the cage as they could, never making eye contact or acknowledging its occupant in any way. They spoke in whispers, their quiet voices too soft to make out. This wasn't steely discipline, nee decided; fear was what hunched their shoulders and kept them out of ner reach. Were they so cowed by magic that they drew no difference between a witch-queen and a mere hedge-witch? Perhaps to the common folk of Northnesse there was none; to them, ner powers marked ner for either great privilege or painful death, depending on the whim of their queen.
Escape was impossible, mercy was dubious, and negotiation was improbable. Mundane options exhausted, nee turned reluctantly to magic for alternatives. The wagon rode low enough to the ground for Caran to stretch ner arms and brush the high grass lining the dirt road. Nee let ner fingers trail, watching the soldiers avoid looking at ner. They had taken ner sack of flora samples but ner clothes still had pockets. Options were limited by the availability of what pickings lay between here and their destination.
The local grass was lovely, long and high, brushing ner dangling hands as the wagon bumped along the country track. Farmers did not care for the grass, as it was a creeper whose roots spread underground and choked their crops; but those roots were wholesome food for cattle and horses, and dogs chewed the rough leaves to improve their digestion. Children gnawed on the roots as well, liking their sweet taste, and in times of famine the grass could be dried, ground into meal, and turned into bread. When the grass was cut and gathered, the long flexible leaves could be used to weave the stalks into baskets.
Neither bread nor baskets could help Caran now. Ner eyes searched the tall grass for spots of color nestled within the growth, the tools of ner craft. Stalks of dove's feet shot above the fray, their fuzzy red fronds unfurling to the noon sun; the furry weed was good for coughing fits and kidney pains when mixed with wine, but would not bend prison bars. Stringy white crone's hair waved in the wind as the wagon rolled past, but a tonic for period cramps would not aid Caran's escape. Fat leaves of adder's tongue caressed ner hands, but though their juice could cure breast ailments, bowel obstructions, sore eyes, bleeding noses, and sorrowful temperaments, they could not stop wagon wheels nor suborn soldiers to ner will.
Slumping lower against the bars, Caran scowled and closed ner eyes against the late afternoon sun. Ner search was a foolish grasp for hope, like the wild bargaining of condemned men as they were dragged to the gallows. Plants were beautiful, useful, wonderful things, but escape was not going to leap into ner fingers as the wagon trundled along. Caran was stuck here and the sooner nee accepted that truth the better.
Caran winced as the wagon rattled to a halt. One of the soldiers, a tall one whose armor was in better condition than that of the others, nudged her horse over to the cage. Nee waited, slouched against the bars, fingers still dangling in the grass. "The river ahead is the last before we reach Erivale castle," barked the woman, her eyes unreadable behind the long nosepiece and cheek-guards of her helmet. "We're stopping to water the horses. You will be fed, and we'll pass in buckets for you to wash and relieve yourself. Understand?"
This was more courtesy than Caran had expected as a prisoner being led to almost certain death. The soldier's tone was brusque but not cruel. Struggling to sit up nee decided to risk a request, hoping for no worse outcome than a stern denial. "May I leave the cage and walk down to the river instead? You've shackled my ankles so I can't run, and I'm no threat to you." This was true; if Caran had possessed enough magic to thwart ner captors, nee would have used it when they first laid hands on ner.
Eyes shielded by metal and shadow stared at ner while nee fought the urge to scratch at the fresh tattoos on ner arms. Caran didn't think of nerself as particularly fearful—nee had accepted this mission knowing the risks involved, after all—but after months spent free on the road, being caged was a misery. Nee recalled finding a fox gnawing at his own leg to escape a hunter's trap; Caran had freed the poor beast, not realizing at the time just how much nee shared in common with the animal.
"If you try to run, if you try anything," ner jailer warned, her voice stern and cold, "my archers will fill you so full of arrows you'll look like a tailor's pincushion. You he
ar me?"
"I understand." Caran nodded, keeping ner head meek and low as the woman rattled keys against the heavy metal lock and swung open the door. Nee pulled nerself up and stepped slowly to the wagon's edge, ner movements hobbled by the chains on ner feet.
"Faster, witch. We're not spending the night out here. Castle by high-moon, and I don't need you slowing us down with dawdling." Thick muscular arms reached up to help ner down, the tanned leather of the woman's gloves light against Caran's darker skin. Her touch was like her tone: tough but not unkind.
Caran swayed on ner feet, finding ner balance after the roll of the rattling wagon. "Thank you." Pausing as the woman waited impatiently nee started in the direction of the river, ner captor a few steps behind ner. "Do you have a name?"
"I do. No need for a witch to know it."
The rebuke was mild enough for ner to feel safe giving a soft laugh. "Well, while I am a witch, I'm just about the weakest witch you're likely to meet. I couldn't work magic with your name even if I wanted to." Nee cast a sidelong glance at the imposing woman, grateful that at least one member of the guard wasn't too cowed to speak with ner. "You don't need to be afraid of me, is what I'm getting at."
"Never said I was afraid," the woman pointed out, tone unchanged. "By Northnesse law, a witch is a witch. You're either one of the queen's chosen or you'll be dead by dawn. Either way, no need to know my name."
"Chosen... hunters?" Caran hazarded, picking ner way more carefully where the ground turned soft and wet near the riverbank. Nee had been able to avoid magic hunters on the road, partly because there were so few of them, but every town had tales of the men and women who stole healers from their beds.
