“Then you betrayed me. Disobeyed me. Now you’re nothing to me. And I am finished with you.” And he doesn’t have to say it, but I know he’s thinking it: What’s done is done; it cannot be undone. His steadfast motto, the one he lives by.
The one I will die by.
Blackwell snaps his fingers. Before I can get up, two guards burst in, haul me to my feet. I struggle, but it’s no use. Terror has sapped my strength, and shame has robbed me of my determination to fight. Because I know—deep down, I know—I’m getting what I deserve.
They take me to Fleet.
Less prison than purgatory: a state of waiting, of suffering; a place where people wait with no hope, wait to die; a place to pass through before you reach the end of the world. It ends the same for everyone here: in fire and ash, disgrace and dishonor.
There’s no special treatment for me. They take my cloak, my shoes. They throw me in a cell with the rest of the criminals and heretics, as if I were a criminal or heretic.
I am a criminal and heretic.
To my right, a small window is set into the wall, a slice of early-morning sky visible through the small iron bars. To my left is another set of bars and a door that leads out into a dark hallway. The floor is caked with dirt and rat droppings and completely devoid of furniture.
In the cell with me is another woman, a witch by the looks of her. She lies across from me, stretched out on the floor. She looks like a rag doll. Her arms and legs are broken and disjointed, sticking out at odd angles. Her chest whistles as she breathes in and out. Every now and again, she moans. She’s been pulled apart on the rack. Shredded. I back away from her, as far as the cell will allow me. Away from her suffering, as if it were contagious.
I hear footsteps then, echoing down the dark stone hallway. Someone is coming. I jump to my feet, push down my mounting panic, and step to the door. I won’t let them take me. I won’t let them torture me. I will kill them or I will die trying.
When he emerges from the shadows, I nearly collapse in relief.
“Caleb!”
“Elizabeth. Oh my God—” Caleb grips the bars of my cell, his eyes wide. “Are you okay? No, of course you’re not.” He pushes his hair off his forehead in a frantic swipe. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m okay.”
“I got here as soon as I could. I waited for you, outside your room, as I promised. And when you didn’t show up, I went looking for you. I found some guards, and they told me what happened. But by the time I found out you were here, they wouldn’t let me in.”
I notice his hands then, still wrapped around the bars, the knuckles scuffed and raw and bloody.
“What happened?”
He shrugs. “I told you. They wouldn’t let me in.”
His eyes meet mine and we both fall silent.
“What am I going to do, Caleb?” I say, finally. “Blackwell sentenced me to death. To be burned alive. I’m going to die—”
“No, you’re not.” He reaches through the bars, grips my shoulders, gives them a little shake. “Do you hear me? You are not going to die. I won’t allow it.”
“But Blackwell—”
“Isn’t thinking,” Caleb finishes for me. “He’s been under a lot of pressure lately, these damned Reformist protests…” He shakes his head. “When he realizes what he’s done, he’ll issue a pardon. I’m sure of it.”
I frown. Blackwell has never been one to forgive. To apologize. To admit when he’s been wrong, if he’s ever been wrong. Caleb knows this as well as I do.
“I’ll go to him today,” he continues. “Plead for you. Remind him how valuable you are. How good you are.”
“But I haven’t been good,” I say. “Not lately. You’ve had to cover for me four times in as many weeks. You’ve never had to do that before.”
“No, but there’s a reason for that, isn’t there?” He looks at me, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched in a hard, tight line. “Why didn’t you tell me? About the king, I mean? If you’d told me, I could have helped you. Stopped it, maybe—”
“You couldn’t have stopped it,” I say. “You know that.”
Caleb goes quiet.
“I guess not,” he admits, finally. “But I knew something was wrong with you. I should have tried harder to find out what it was.” He winces and looks away. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. It just happened.”
“Because I wasn’t paying attention.” Caleb turns back to me. “I didn’t see what everyone else saw. What he saw. If I had, I would have seen that you…” He looks at me as if he’s never seen me before. “That you’re not…”
“That I’m not what?”
“That you’re not a girl anymore.” Caleb gestures at me with a sweep of his hand. “You grew up.”
If this were a different time, or a different place, I might have felt something. Pleased that he finally saw me. Displeased, maybe, that it took him so long. I might wonder what he thinks of me now, if things might change between us. But it isn’t. So I don’t.
“If I didn’t notice, I guarantee Blackwell didn’t,” Caleb continues. “He probably still sees you the way you were when you started. A small, scrawny little thing. Far more trouble than you were worth.”
He means to be reassuring, I know. But it’s so close to the way I see myself—the way I fear Caleb still sees me—that I wince.
“I’ll never forget the look on his face when I first brought you to him.”
I find a smile from somewhere. “Horrified.”
“I pleaded with him to give you a chance,” Caleb says. “I swore to him I’d make a good witch hunter out of you.”
“You were ruthless,” I say. “Waking me up in the middle of the night to train. Making me run until I threw up. Throw knives until I had blisters. Throwing punches at me over and over again until I could block them.”
He turns serious. “I know. You must have hated me for it.”
“I didn’t hate you.”
“I had to do it,” he says. “I had to make sure you’d survive. And you did. Look how strong you are now. Look at what you’ve become.”
What have I become?
Caleb grins then. And despite everything, I start to feel better. Start to feel foolish for doubting him, for thinking he couldn’t get me through this. He got me through training. He can get me through anything.
I smile back.
“That’s my girl.” He glances out the window, then gives my arm one last squeeze before pulling away. “I better go. I want to be first in line to see Blackwell.”
“Okay,” I say, though I can’t stand the thought of spending another minute in this cell. I glance at the witch in the corner. She’s lying still, her eyes closed, silent. I wonder if she died.
“I know it’s hard, but try to stay calm,” Caleb continues. “It might take some time to persuade Blackwell to free you; you know how stubborn he can be. But whatever you do, don’t do anything crazy, like try to escape. That’ll only get you into more trouble. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
I nod.
“I’ll come back for you,” he says again. “I promise.”
Then he’s gone.
ONE DAY PASSES, THEN TWO.
Three.
Four.
No visitors and no guards, except when they came to collect the dead witch in my cell, her body stiff and cold and blue. If I’ve counted correctly, I’ve been in prison for nearly a week now, which means tomorrow’s Saturday again. Another burning. If Caleb doesn’t come back soon, they’ll be burning me. My stigma can’t protect me from turning into a pile of ash.
I kept my promise and haven’t tried to escape. For all the good it’s done. Caleb said it would take time; but time, I think, is running out. I have doubts about my ability to get away now, even if I wanted to. I’ve been without food for nearly a week. The only water I’ve managed is from the rain that blows in through my window. On top of that, I can feel a fever coming on. My hands are clammy and my
throat hurts.
Illness. Something else my stigma can’t protect me from.
Rain pours steadily outside the bars; it hasn’t let up in days. My cell is wet, probably freezing. I wouldn’t know. I’m burning up with fever. I started coughing last night, and there’s a strange rash all over my arms and legs. I hope it’s not sweating sickness. That would kill me before the fire gets a chance to.
I’m exhausted but can’t sleep. I tell myself it’s because I want to be ready when Caleb shows up, but, in truth, I’m too scared to sleep. Because every minute that passes, as the day wears on and the shadows inside my cell grow longer, I can feel hope giving way to fear. The other prisoners aren’t helping. The noises from their cells—moans of pain, weak crying, murmured prayers, the occasional panicked shriek—are wearing on me. Even if I hadn’t kept track of time, they have.
They know what’s coming.
I’m hunched in the corner of my cell, my dress pushed up as far as it’ll go, trying to cool off. I’m drenched in sweat; even my hair is wet. But I can’t tell if that’s from sweat or the rain that continues to come through the tiny window. The cold water feels like needles on my skin, but it gives a little relief.
I must have drifted off at some point, but I’m awakened by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Caleb! He’s finally come for me! I climb to my knees but get hit with a fit of coughing and fall to the floor, hacking. The footsteps stop in front of my cell.
“Caleb?” I whisper when I finally stop coughing.
“I’m afraid not,” comes a voice I don’t recognize.
I pull myself up until I’m sitting, the effort leaving me panting.
“Who are you?” My voice is so hoarse.
A tiny flicker of light appears. It’s a man. I’ve never seen him before. He’s very tall and very thin, wearing a long red robe knotted around the waist with a thick black rope. A black cloak falls over his shoulders down to his feet. His short hair is a mix of black and gray like his short, pointed beard. He stares at me curiously, his dark eyes intense but not unkind.
He’s not a guard—I know that. He’s not one of the king’s men; I don’t see the royal standard. He’s dressed almost like… almost like a priest.
Oh, God. A priest. Come to give me the sacrament, the last rites. Which means I slept too long, which means Caleb came and couldn’t wake me and left without me…
Then I see it. The light. It’s coming from his hand, a single flame flickering from his outstretched fingertip. He flicks it into the air, where it hovers next to him, a tiny, pulsating sun. He’s a wizard.
“Get out of here!” I croak. If Caleb sees me talking to a wizard, he’ll be furious.
“I won’t hurt you,” he says. “I’m here to help you.”
“I don’t need your help!”
“Oh?” The sympathy in his voice infuriates me.
“Caleb! Caleb!” I scream before dissolving into another coughing fit.
The wizard grasps one of the bars on the cell door. He murmurs something under his breath, and the door begins to glow a soft pale blue. It starts to shudder, and with a small noise like snapping bones, it falls into a pile of smoking dust.
He’s by my side then, kneeling over me.
“Child, you’re sick,” he says. “Come with me. Let me help you.”
“No! Get away from me!” I shuffle to my knees and crawl away from him. I don’t get more than a few feet before my legs give way and I collapse into the straw.
“The guards will be coming for you soon,” he says. “The burning is scheduled for this morning.”
“You’re lying.” But when I lift my head and tilt it to the window, I see pale streaks beginning to cut through the night sky. A sharp surge of panic pushes strength into my limbs, and I manage to stumble to my feet, grasping the wall for support.
Where is Caleb?
“I promise you, I am not.” The wizard walks toward me, his hand outstretched. I shift away from him, my back sliding against the rough stone wall.
“What do you want with me?” I glance at my now-demolished cell door, the wide opening into the dark hallway. There are no guards to stop me, still enough darkness to conceal me. The only thing standing between me and freedom now is him.
I take a step toward the door. He anticipates it, steps forward to block me. I shift direction, take another step, then another. He follows. A dance.
“I’m not sure,” the wizard says. “But I was told to find you. We thought it was a mistake at first, but it turns out it’s not.” His voice is calm, as if he doesn’t know I’m trying to escape. As if he doesn’t know he’s trying to stop me. “Please, Elizabeth. Come with me. You’ll be helping me as much as I’m helping you.”
What on earth could a wizard want my help with? Doesn’t he know what I am? I look at him closely. Pale, drawn skin, bags under his dark, bloodshot eyes, his face heavily lined. He looks old, he looks ill, he doesn’t look dangerous at all. But then, neither do I. You can’t always go by looks in these matters. I suppose if he wanted to hurt me, or see me dead, he wouldn’t be here. But I’m not taking any chances.
“I doubt that.” I lunge to my right, as if I’m about to run past him. Again, he anticipates it, reaches for me. But it’s a feint: I pull back and spin to my left, bolt for the door. I’m not fast enough. The wizard reaches out and snatches my arm, his grasp surprisingly strong for an old man. I don’t think. I pull back my other arm, make a fist, and swing.
My hand connects with his face… then passes right through it. I stumble forward, I nearly fall. The wall catches me, and when I turn around, there are two of him. Two identical wizards in two identical sets of robes, speaking identical words:
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
I don’t listen—to either of them. I push down my fear as I launch myself off the wall, lunging for him again. Swing, again. My hand hits nothing, but immediately, two wizards become four.
“Stop,” they croon. “Come with me.”
A scream rises in my throat. I won’t go with him, with them. I won’t go anywhere with a wizard. They step toward me. I swat at them, lash out, hit nothing. Six, eight, ten wizards now: dark cloaks, dark eyes, dark magic. I spin around, looking for a way out. But they surround me, twenty hands reaching, a hundred fingers grasping. I drop to my knees, cover my head.
“I can help you,” they chant. “You’ll be safe with me.”
A wizard can’t help me; magic can’t help me. There’s nothing about magic that doesn’t end with you tied to a stake with flames licking at your feet, or on your knees with your head on a block. Straw for kindling, straw to catch your blood…
Straw.
I reach out, snatch a handful of the damp, stinking stuff from the floor and hurl it at him—at them. Watch as they flinch from it. In the split second it takes for them to turn from me, I reach down, pull up the last bit of strength I have, crawl to my feet.
And I run.
Through them, past them, out the door, into the hallway. I don’t make it ten steps before my chest seizes up and I start coughing, so hard I can’t breathe. I fall to my knees, sucking in air so desperately it sounds like a scream.
I force myself to my feet, stumble another few steps. Through the darkness I can just make out a set of stone stairs, maybe thirty feet away. I can make it thirty more feet.…
In a swirl of a black cloak, he appears, faster than I could have imagined, standing before me—just one of him now—his hands outstretched.
“No,” I say. It comes out a whimper.
A whoosh of warm air surrounds me and I feel myself start to fall. But the warmth disappears as quickly as it appeared—his spell either stopped or broken—and I regain my footing. The wizard mutters something, impatient. He raises his hand again. But instead of surrounding me with more air, he reaches for me. Grasps my arm.
“Come with me,” he commands. “Now.”
I start to yank away, but then I pause, thinking fast. I need to get out of here
. But maybe if I capture this wizard, it would be enough to prove to Blackwell he still needs me. Enough to make him reconsider my sentence.
Enough to make him decide not to kill me.
The wizard takes my arm again, and this time, I let him… until I’m hit with stomach cramps so strong I collapse to my knees again. He reaches down and scoops me into his arms, lifting me easily. I’m too weak to fight it. He carries me down the hall, toward the stairs. I can see the other prisoners in their cells now, watching us pass. They’ll start shouting soon. Screaming. The guards will be on us within seconds.
But as we pass each cell, the prisoners that can still stand rise to their feet and nod their heads at him. Some call murmured blessings to him, others reach out through their bars to try to touch him. Their reverence startles me.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
“I am Nicholas Perevil,” he says. “Forgive me for not introducing myself earlier. But you didn’t give me much of a chance.”
I stiffen in his arms. Nicholas Perevil! The most wanted wizard in Anglia! I can’t believe my luck. If I brought him in, Blackwell would certainly pardon me. He might even honor me. I give a little nod, force myself to relax. I don’t want to tip him to my plan.
We reach the end of the hall, pass through a narrow archway into one of four circular towers that surround the main prison building, then down a flight of narrow, winding steps.
We go down, farther and farther, until we come out underneath the prison. The walls here are damp, the air cold and foul. He must be heading for the sewer drains. It’s where I’d have gone, too. They’re easy enough to find and always unguarded. For obvious reasons.
How will I do it? I run through plan after plan. I’m weak, yes. But I could stun him with a kick or two. How will I restrain him once he’s down? His rope belt: perfect. I look around for something I can knock him out with—a brick, stone, anything. If I had to, I could jam my thumbs into his eyes.… Oh, no—
The stomach cramps are back. They’re agony. I begin to moan.
“Elizabeth? Are you all right?”
I start retching. There’s nothing in my stomach but bile—it burns my throat as I vomit all over him. I can’t stop shaking. Surely he’ll dump me on the ground now, and I’ll get my chance. Instead, he holds me tighter and walks even faster.
The Witch Hunter Page 5
