by Liz McCraine
“Stop!”
Larra was dropped to the ground as the lumbar released its hold on her shoulder in lieu of the distraction. Kiera stood barely twenty feet away, throwing every rock she could find at the big beast. Ignoring the captured prey at its feet, the beast did what any true hunter would: continue the chase.
Unable to move, fighting a blackness that was slowly overwhelming her, Larra watched helplessly as Kiera shrieked and turned away. The girl must have looked back and seen the beast attacking her. Never lacking in impulsivity, nor in courage, of course she would have wanted to defend her friend. Foolish, foolish Kiera!
Then blackness consumed her.
The first thing Larra felt was the burning in her left shoulder. The pain was like a fire, singeing her skin and flowing through her veins like lava. She screamed.
Struggling to get up, dizzy from hitting her head, she looked down at the dead appendage at her side. Blood flowed from grooves made by sharp teeth, drenching her clothing until parts of her sage green dress had turned to black.
She automatically reached over to clutch at the wound, the contact causing her to scream again and making her double over in pain. Taking deep breaths, she steadied herself. Fighting to hold consciousness, she looked about for the beast that had mangled her. She spied it not afar off, attached to the trunk of a young tree on the skirts of the forest. Even as she wondered why it had left her alive, she saw it begin to climb, its sturdy hindquarters pushing off the ground, boosting it upwards. While she struggled to think beyond the pain that debilitated her as to why the beast would be so situated, she spotted the red cloth in the branches of the tree. Kiera!
She struggled to her feet, every part of her body groaning in protest. Her arm lay limp at her side, swinging forward and back as she pushed herself into standing position. Blood dripped off her fingers, marking the ground. Holding her stomach to keep from heaving, Larra scuffled forward, fighting the nausea. She focused on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to block the agony with thoughts of saving Kiera. Lumbars were said to be slow climbers because of their skeletal construction, but they could still manage the task. She didn’t know how much time remained before it got to Kiera, but she had to try and stop it. She couldn’t let the girl, who had everything to live for, be slaughtered by the vicious animal.
Just as she began to gain ground, her gait choppy as she unconsciously protected her broken side, she heard what sounded like a rock tumbling down a hill. Still some distance away, she watched the leaves at the top of the tree begin to shake and scatter as a flash of red came whooshing down. Kiera had grabbed a weak branch that could not support her weight.
As Larra watched helplessly, the girl careened between limbs, falling hard from her perch to the ground below. The tree continued to shake as the lumbar began climbing down, claws grasping and releasing as they dug into the bumpy bark.
Pain completely ignored now, Larra began to run, holding her left arm immobile as she threw herself forward along the trail. She was too irrational to recognize that she couldn’t make it in time. Helplessly, she shrieked as the lumbar reached the ground and attacked the little girl. Desperately, she reached for the ground with her good arm and picked up a rock.
Just as she drew near enough to strike, the lumbar let out a howl and was catapulted from its barely breathing prey. An arrow stuck out of the beast’s neck as it painstakingly got to its feet, blood and saliva falling from its mouth. It looked up in search of its attacker, but had barely raised its head when another arrow flew into its side, stabbing it in the heart. Shot to the ground again, the lumbar twitched once before it became completely still.
Not caring from where the arrows had come, Larra’s attention centered on her friend. She stumbled the last few steps and fell at Kiera’s side. Nausea again flooded her as she surveyed the damage. Kierra’s brown eyes were dark with pain, staring vacantly up. Neither girl could speak. Larra wrapped her good arm around the child’s shoulders, lifting her onto her lap.
“I’m so sorry. So sorry,” she cried in a trembling whisper. Her eyes closed and tears fell, splashing onto Kiera’s shaking body.
Larra’s grief was overwhelming. She felt as though her body was drowning in sorrow and regret. Sorrow for the death of a beautiful soul. Regret that she had failed to save her friend, knowing the terrible wounds were beyond even her grandmother’s experienced healing. She vaguely heard footsteps approaching, but ignored them, completely attuned to the small body she cradled with her own.
“If I could give you my life, I would,” she grieved. “You deserved to have so much more than this.”
It was then that the transformation occurred. Not a transformation of age or looks or personality, but the dawning of a power that had lain, dormant and unknown, within Larra’s body for her entire life.
As she sat there, overcome with the selfless desire to help another, her own pains forgotten, Larra felt a stirring deep within her. It began as a soft, warm spark inside her heart, not unlike a feeling of hope. Quickly, it grew until the spark exploded, bursting into a fiery ball of energy that spread throughout her chest and into every part of her body.
It was intense, hot to the point of burning, and yet completely painless at the same time. The sound of a thousand buzzing bees filled her ears as beams of light burst from her fingertips. Her skin took on an opalescent glow, bright enough even in the summer sun to shine like a beacon. She felt the energy run through her, spreading itself beyond her and into everything she touched, including the fading life she held so tenderly.
Her head fell back, her teary eyes now bright with a new type of sheen as she stared upwards, oblivious to the brown of the branches and the green of the leaves swaying above her in a gentle breeze. She looked as though she had been possessed. Her eyes were wide, her pupils dilated, making the usually blue-green color appear as dark as a midnight sky.
Just as suddenly as the change took place, the light retracted. The energy flowed back into the fingertips, the arms, the torso. The buzzing left her ears and Larra’s head fell down to her chest, her shoulders slumped, her exhausted body barely able to hold itself upright. The luminescence from her face dimmed, her eyes returned to normal, and she was left again under a quiet tree, protecting the body of the young girl she wished she could have saved.
The body stirred.
“Larra?” a weak voice rose from the body’s lips. Larra looked down to see blinking, velvet brown eyes, and blond brows lowered in a questioning manner.
“What’s going on?” the lips moved again. It took Larra a moment to recognize the voice as Kiera’s. Blinking rapidly, Larra shook her head, trying to make sense of things.
“Larra? What’s wrong?”
This time the body moved, shifted, turned in her lap and lifted itself. It was Kiera, looking whole, healthy, and well! Aside from her torn, bloodied clothing, she appeared as though she should be skipping along dirt roads and hiding from her older brother.
Larra blinked again. She lifted both hands to her head and pressed against her temples, trying to ease the slight ache that resided there. She closed her eyes as the pressure helped, then suddenly opened them again, lifting her hands from her head and displaying them in front of her face.
With palms up, fingers outstretched, she stared at her hands, both of which were capable of movement. With the right, she clasped her left wrist as though to hold it captive from escape. She didn’t blink as she followed the creamy-colored skin from her hand all the way up to the shoulder, scraps of soaked, bloody cloth giving way to reveal a healthy, healed appendage with smooth scars the only proof of a dramatic injury. She gasped.
“Kiera!” she exclaimed, turning to the girl who was sitting up on her own. It all came back to her in that moment—the fear, the fight, the pain. And the child, dying beside her. Just as she began to dwell upon the memory of that last, luminous event, she heard the scuffling of several feet and looked up.
Surrounding the tree were a dozen or so men from the village. They w
atched with solemn faces, dressed in brown tunics and pants, all wearing leather boots and carrying weapons of various sorts.
The hunters!
She recognized almost all of the frozen faces, casting her gaze from one to another until it rested on Jess. He stood next to his father, bow and arrow in his hand, a look of astonishment and fear upon his face.
It was eerily quiet. And then, one of the men spoke.
“Witch.”
Chapter 3
“Sire, forgive my interruption,” the messenger knelt before King Steffan, his head bent in respect.
The king regarded the harried, middle-aged man before him with curiosity. The man was slender and simply dressed, not unlike most subjects who lived outside the city walls. His features were nondescript: brown hair, brown eyes, green tunic and brown leggings—nothing particularly memorable. Yet despite his simple appearance, the king’s steward had felt this man’s message important enough to interrupt the morning council.
“My steward informs me that you have a message of some importance. You come from one of our northern settlements, is that right?”
“Yes, sire. I am from Farr, your northernmost village at the edge of the mountains.” The messenger kept his eyes cast downward.
“You may rise.”
King Steffan observed as the villager stood and looked about the opulent surroundings of the great hall. Most of his subjects showed the same awe when they first stood in the grand room. There was a golden velvet carpet stretching across polished marble from the guarded, double doors to the foot of the throne. Surrounding the huge room were stained windows set within pearl-colored granite walls. Small, ornately carved chairs lined the perimeter and served as resting spots for visiting diplomats and lords and ladies of the court. The throne was the most eye-catching piece in the room. Built large and elevated so the king could see all the comings and goings in the hall, it was gilded in pure gold and silver.
Steffan sat comfortably upon the green and gold velvet cushions of the throne, a silver cape attached to his shoulders with golden disks, and an ornate crown upon his brow. At forty-five, his brown hair was liberally threaded with strands of gray, and wrinkles had begun to appear around his eyes and upon his brow.
His subjects considered him a fair ruler, and strict in maintaining both tradition and the law. His motto of “honor and duty above all” was known throughout the land. His people trusted him to take care of their problems with wisdom and a considerable measure of patience. But he was feeling neither wise nor patient at the moment, especially with his stomach acting up again. He needed to finish his discussion with his counselor and then get away from this spacious, empty room and back to the care of his wife.
“Let’s hear it, then,” he ordered, his voice booming through the cavernous hall.
The villager focused his eyes on the hem of the king’s robes. “Sire, I bring troubling news from my village.”
He paused.
“Continue, man,” commanded Steffan, beginning to be annoyed with the villager’s dawdling.
“Sire, forgive me for my hesitation. It’s just that this news is particularly troubling because it concerns a girl of our village who has appeared until now to be very kind and very innocent. There has been some discussion—”
“And is she not so kind nor innocent now? Is that why you have interrupted my council this morning? Because if so, then you have wasted both my time and yours.”
“Nay, sire. Again, I beg forgiveness.” The man took a fortifying breath and then released it, speaking as he exhaled. “I was sent to inform you that there is a witch living in our village.” At this point, the man allowed his eyes to lift to the king’s face.
There was silence. Steffan forgot his sickness altogether as he sat, unmoving and unable to breathe, staring at the simple man before him. There hadn’t been a witch found in the kingdom since his father died, more than fifteen years earlier.
An altogether different sort of sickness overcame him then, as he recalled the thick, suffocating scent of burning flesh that accompanied the executions King Gaston had demanded. He remembered sitting by his father’s side as the signal was given to the guardsman to light the kindling at the stake. He could still hear the shrieks of pain and fear, see the agony and suffering in the eyes of the men and women tied to the burning pole. He would never forget it as long as he lived.
The burnings began when Steffan was a youth, his father enraged when two witches were discovered plotting to kill him. Luckily, they had been caught before their plans were executed, but the result was a kingdom drenched in fear of people with the ability to use magic. His father had been merciless, hunting them down day and night and strapping them to the stake.
By the time the last burnings took place, many, including Steffan, had begun to suspect his father had gone mad. So obsessed was the old man with finding the witches and killing them, that he ignored his other duties as ruler. Fortunately, Steffan had been prepared to pick up the reins of leadership, sliding into the official role of king with ease when his father finally died.
King Steffan was not a weakling by any stretch of the imagination. But the killing of innocent citizens had never sat well with him. Executing a witch might have been just another day of work for the old king, but it had turned Steffan’s stomach more than once. He remembered the guilty feeling of utter relief when his father finally passed away and the witch hunts ceased.
“A witch?” he repeated, carefully.
“Yes, sire. Many witnessed her using her magic, and I’ve brought a list of their names. There was some discussion as to whether or not you should be approached with the matter, since the girl is a known healer in our village. She used magic to heal a girl that was dying.”
“Then why did you approach me?” Steffan roared, half standing. He didn’t need this. Not now. Between the carnie attacks to the east and the pirate attacks along the southern shoreline, he was busy enough as it was. Now he had to deal with a problem from his past?
It was apparent he had scared the messenger, because the man stuttered as he answered. “Only b-because it is the law to inform you, sire.”
The law. Of course. In the minds of the citizens, obeying the law was paramount to all else. It gave them a standard by which to live, a sense of confidence in knowing that there was harmony throughout the kingdom. And they looked to their king to ensure that the laws were kept.
“You are excused to the waiting room. My steward will be along shortly to get a more detailed debriefing and to collect your list of names.”
Once the great doors were closed behind the villager, Steffan turned toward his counselor, his movement slightly awkward so as not to jostle his churning gut.
His chief counselor had become a good friend over the last several decades. Lucien had been adopted by King Gaston’s counselor when he was just a lad of nine years old and had lived in the palace since. He had been groomed for his current position, and Steffan readily selected him to replace his mentor after the old king died. As youth, the two had played often together, sneaking out of the palace to go fishing or searching for gnomes in the woods. And while there were eight other positions of council within the palace—one for each aspect of kingdom business, including trade, land rights, farming, treasury, and more—it was only natural that Lucien be selected as chief counselor.
It was Lucien’s duty to oversee the projects of the other eight counselors and to bring a daily report to the king. He also advised the king in any other matters, upon request. A chief counselor had to be studious, knowledgeable of the kingdom’s laws and history, and completely trustworthy. He was every bit a scholar and a diplomat, as well as an advisor. Steffan and Lucien worked well together, and Steffan was particularly glad to have his friend here now, to assist in the difficult matter of witches.
“Well, it looks like on top of everything else, I’ve got to try a witch,” Steffan said. “I find the whole business of executing innocent people distasteful. I thought all this mess
with witches was a thing of the past, but it looks like I was wrong. Lucien, what’s your opinion on the matter? You are the historian around here, and I know you remember The Purging.”
Lucien seemed to be wrapped deep in thought. “She used magic to heal someone? That’s very interesting, indeed. I wonder how she got it, since the fairies agreed many years ago to stop giving magic to humans…” He seemed to snap out of his reverie. “Humans with magic are a serious threat—not just to you, but to your entire kingdom. Your father understood this, which is why he made the law requiring witches to be executed by fire. If this messenger from Farr is telling the truth, and there are a number of witnesses that saw this woman using her magic, then word of the witch’s existence will eventually spread throughout the kingdom. The people will be afraid and will look to you to uphold the law. In short, if you do nothing you not only let your people live in fear, but you will lose their trust.”
Steffan took a moment to respond.
“I agree with most of what you say. At the very least, there must be a trial. Thank you, Lucien. You had better go. We will finish that other business later.”
“But Steffan, what will you—”
“Not now, Lucien,” interrupted Steffan, all formality aside. “I need time to think.”
Lucien, knowing when to give in, turned and left.
For a long moment Steffan sat alone in his great hall, the space around him seeming to echo his thoughts. He knew that Lucien’s words were nothing less than the truth. To ignore the witch was to forsake the law. At the very least, she would have to be brought to the palace for judgment. And if there was no loophole in the law, then there might also have to be an execution—no matter how distasteful it might be.
Calling for his steward, he began the process.
He didn’t wait to be announced, not that King Steffan expected him to.
Any other man in the kingdom would have worn his best clothing for an audience with the king. Any other man would have waited with held breath outside the heavy, ornate double doors for the arrival of a steward to show him through. Then, he would have slowly walked the long, golden pathway through the great, airy hall to the foot of the king’s throne. At this point, he would have dropped to his knees and bowed his head in complete submission, waiting for acknowledgment from the most powerful man in the land. Not unlike that villager from Farr.
