by Liz McCraine
Larra stopped pacing. “What do you mean?’”
“When Clayre first returned to Farr pregnant, we let the villagers assume she’d been married and that her husband remained in the city to work. So when she didn’t show up for the return trip home following the market, they thought she had stayed behind with him. The execution didn’t occur until after their departure. Later, I found out what happened to your mother from a message sent to me by one of her good friends in the city. Her friend was another artist, a painter. She knew Clayre had family in Farr, and as soon as the execution occurred she sent me a message telling me about it, knowing I might not be informed otherwise. No one else in the village knew how your mother really died.
“I figured you would be safest by keeping it a secret. I didn’t know how the villagers would treat you, even as a little child, if they knew your mother had been burned as a witch. I didn’t know if you were going to be born with this magic. I was afraid for you. I was afraid that if we talked about it, you would begin to ask questions, begin to experiment for yourself whether or not it was there. I was afraid it would show one day in a conversation with a stranger or a villager or a neighbor. Afraid that if you did inherit it from your mother, someone would see it and tell the king. So I kept quiet and invented the story of the carriage accident to explain why you were an orphan.” The tears returned, her hands crushing the fabric of her patterned skirt.
“I would have spared you this. I would have done anything to keep you safe, to keep you protected. But I’d hoped that after seventeen years of not showing any magical ability, you were free from its curse. I was wrong. I am so sorry to have failed you, sorry to have let you get into this mess. I should never have let you pick those berries. This is all my fault.”
Larra digested that answer. She walked to the end of the room and stopped. With more questions on the tip of her tongue, she turned back to her grandmother just as a heavy knock shook the door. Her grandmother straightened abruptly in her chair, a look of worry overcoming her aged face. They exchanged a glance.
The knock came again, louder this time. Elane had barely risen to her feet when a voice from outside rang through the walls.
“Open in the name of the king!”
Elane gasped and glanced at Larra before she rushed to answer the summons.
Larra’s heart began to beat heavily in her chest. She struggled to breathe, her mind racing. Were they going to take her?
Her grandmother had just released the latch when the door was flung open and barely missed hitting her. The heavy pounding of feet filled the room as several large, heavily armored men burst into the room. There must have been a dozen or more of them, and their presence overflowed the small cottage. A sense of dread entered with them.
Larra watched in awe as one of the taller men stepped forward and removed his helmet. He was younger than she would have thought a knight to be, his hair sweaty and disheveled. The room became silent as he pulled a scroll from the small pack at his waist.
“‘Under orders of King Steffan of the Kingdom of Aggadorn, the woman so named Larra Stoneworth, of the village of Farr, is hereby accused of witchery. In order to protect the innocent people of this land, the accused shall be escorted to the palace to await trial and judgment by the king. Any attempt on the part of the accused person to escape or to use magic during the term of imprisonment shall be punishable by immediate death.”
“No!” Elane’s cry rent the air at the same time that Larra’s heart seemed to stop beating. A roar filled her ears and she felt as though she were falling into a dark hole, the arms of hell itself reaching up to pull her in. Her vision began to grow dim.
Chapter 5
From his position at the center of the crowded room, Christoff looked up from the scroll to see the young woman go very pale and begin to sway. He’d barely noticed her when he first entered the room, his intentions focused on the old lady next to the table and then on reading the king’s proclamation. But as he raised his head to look around the room and caught the girl wobbling on her feet, he quickly signaled for the knight closest to her to help steady her.
Turning to the old lady, who had fallen into a chair and was now sobbing, he raised his voice. “Who in this household is the woman named Larra Stoneworth?” he demanded. Through the corner of his eye, he watched the young woman in the simple lavender gown struggling to compose herself. He was surprised to see her shrug off the hand of the soldier who had helped her and step forward.
“I am,” she said, her voice wavering. “I am Larra. I am the one accused of being a witch.”
Christoff was momentarily paralyzed as he got a good look at the girl. She was the witch? He had expected a middle-aged woman, likely someone homely, perhaps even the older lady sitting in the chair who was struggling to contain her sobs. But not the girl. She had to be one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, with those high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes of such an unusual color. Not just that, she had an air of innocence about her that didn’t coincide with his perceived definition of a witch.
Within seconds he realized the peculiar direction his thoughts had taken. Lucien had warned him about this, had schooled him not to be deceived by the witch. He’d said that she would try to muddle his thinking, try to get him to trust her, to believe in her. She would try to get him to free her.
His eyes narrowed in accusation. She might be beautiful, and she might look innocent, but he wouldn’t be fooled. He had a duty. A responsibility. And he would fulfill it, no matter what.
Once she regained her composure, Larra stepped forward in acknowledgement of the accusation. The man before her stared at her with eyes of such deep hazel they made her think of shadowed forestland. For a moment she thought she saw shock, and then something that looked like admiration. But she must have been mistaken, because any emotion in those eyes was quickly banked—but not before she saw what looked like accusation and distrust.
That brief flash of hostility had her unconsciously stepping back and bumping into the soldier behind her. She automatically turned to apologize, but was pushed forward again, her arms roughly grasped and pulled behind her as the soldier tightly wound a thick, rough rope around her wrists.
The handsome man with the aloof eyes motioned for another soldier to join the first. “Take her to the wagon,” he ordered, his authority over the men obvious.
The two soldiers grabbed her from either side and began dragging her forward. The movement caused her to lose her balance and her feet fell from beneath her as she was forced across the kitchen. Her grandmother jumped up from her chair, shouting for the men to stop, and made a move towards Larra.
A big, burly man with a ruddy complexion and heavy blond brows peaking through the open face of his helmet shoved Elane away, sending her flying into the counter. She hit the counter at her waist, bouncing off and falling to the ground, her arms clutching her side.
“Grandmother!” Larra shouted. She fought to gain leverage against her captors, to see if her beloved grandmother was all right.
“Please, let me see to her,” she implored as they reached the door. She looked over her shoulder, beyond her guards to the handsome man who remained in the center of the room. “Please, let me see to her,” she begged, her voice shaking. “She is all I have.”
“Quiet, witch,” he ordered, roughly. “Keep moving,” he commanded his men, and Larra was pushed out of the cottage.
She continued to struggle against the soldiers. Their hands clasped her arms with the same brutality as the steel teeth of a boar trap, and though she knew she’d have bruises from fighting against their hold, she didn’t care. Neither did she feel the cuts and nicks left on her bare feet as she was dragged down the long, stone-covered walkway. Her only goal was to see her grandmother.
Her struggles were futile.
She wasn’t aware that they had reached the dirt road leading to town until the men holding her drew her to a stop. Her head lifted and the sight in front of her distracted he
r as nothing else could.
The first thing she noticed were the horses. A horse for each soldier, she guessed, tied to the picket fence lining the property. They were much bigger than the few she had seen around the farms. War horses, she realized. Big enough to carry a full-grown man covered in heavy metal armor into battle. The presence of such animals suggested that the men sent to arrest her were not simply soldiers, but knights.
Each horse carried a large saddle with a bedroll and small pack. There were also two mules, their backs loaded with enough supplies to last the weeklong journey to the city. Larra would have looked longer, having always held a fascination with horses, but she was spun away from the animals and toward a large, frightening object.
The cage was made of solid wood and metal. The wood looked dark and heavy, hewn from the sturdiest of trees. The top and bottom of the cage were separated by long, steel rods, stretching the structure four or five feet tall and equally as wide. It was an inescapable prison guaranteed to contain the most dangerous beasts of the forest. Claw marks scratched the floor of the cage and impossibly marred the steel, testifying that the cage had been used before, and often. It had been built onto a wagon, hitched up to two large, bay draft horses. And as Larra stared, she realized this cage for wild beasts was to be her new home. She was now the animal among the humans.
One of her guards opened the barred door to the cage, and before she realized what was happening, she was lifted by the waist and roughly shoved inside. She fell sprawled out on her stomach, the impact against hard wood stunning her before the brief onslaught of pain. Recognizing she was about to be locked in, she struggled to rise, the act difficult without the use of her hands. She quickly moved on her knees toward the door, reaching it just as it slammed shut in her face. No emotion was visible on the faces of the knights as they locked her in, the bright summer sun glinting off of their helmets and casting their eyes in shadows. Larra leaned into the bars.
“Please don’t do this,” she begged in an agonized voice.
They ignored her.
“Cease your ranting, witch,” came a deep voice from behind them. Her guards stepped away to reveal the younger man who had read the proclamation, the one with the aloof, hazel eyes. The captain, their leader.
Beyond him the cottage door had been shut, and Larra saw no sign of her grandmother through the windows.
“Please,” she shouted to him as he walked past. “Please, can you at least tell me if my grandmother is well?”
The man altered his direction, heading to the wagon in long, direct strides.
“I told you to be silent,” he warned, threateningly. Stopping just inches away, he stared at her long and hard. “You will do as you are told. And let me just outline how things shall go for you during our journey.” He nodded just beyond the wagon. “Do you see those wolfhounds?”
Larra hadn’t noticed the two large dogs when she was first dragged from the cottage. They lay in the shade of a wide tree, waiting the command of their master.
“They are trained to hunt and kill. They can outrun a deer at full speed across a level field, and through the woods they are even more surefooted.
“It will take us a good week to reach the palace with this wagon, and we will need to stop for the nights to rest the horses. If you try to run, those hounds will track you down and tear you to pieces.” His eyes remained hard on hers, still revealing nothing behind them but his determination to do his job.
“And as a safeguard against your magic,” he continued, “remember that any use of your power will result in your immediate death. The king considers the lives of his knights far more important than your own. Do you understand?”
He didn’t wait for her to respond in the affirmative, but turned quickly away, striding to a big, black horse that was close to seventeen hands tall. He rode to the front of the party and, lifting his arm to the air, signaled the group to move forward.
Larra was thrown off balance as the wagon jolted forward, the drafts straining the first few steps from the weight of their load, despite their obvious strength. Without the use of her hands, Larra couldn’t steady herself and ended up sprawled on the floor again. Struggling to sit, she was eventually able to lean into a corner, peering anxiously through the lines of horses and riders to catch one last glimpse of her home. There was still no sign of her grandmother, and the ache in her heart expanded even as the cottage shrank from sight.
Once her home had completely vanished, Larra turned her attention to the road ahead. She hadn’t even begun to untangle the mess of thoughts and emotions that were plaguing her when the Samsen farm came into view. Looking beyond the horses, she noticed three figures standing at the side of the road.
She hadn’t seen any of the Samsen family since the incident, and she’d prayed constantly that Kiera’s healing had been complete. As they approached, the figures became more distinct and she noted both Jess and Kiera standing next to their father. Larra breathed out a sigh of relief. She would not have come out to the road if she were not feeling well. She knew they must have heard the group of knights passing by earlier that morning and had come to see what had happened.
The group continued at a steady walk down the lane, not pausing to recognize the family that stood so close. Kiera saw her first, her cry of denial rising above the clobber of hooves. Jess followed his sister’s gaze and Larra watched his eyes widen in shock, his head shake in disbelief. He shoved his sister into their father’s arms, and ran into the road.
“Larra!” he cried, his face a mask of incredulity. “What are they doing?” He ran up to the cage and grasped the bars near her face with his strong, blunt hands. Picking up a jog, he kept pace with the party.
“Some of these knights stopped by the farm earlier, wanting to know what we’d seen that morning of the lumbar attack, but we never imagined this was what they were planning!” he cried, outraged.
“You told me yourself this is what happens to witches. You saw what I did.” She began to cry. “I didn’t know I was a witch.” Her head fell forward to rest against his clenched fingers.
“But, Larra…” he began, his voice hoarse with emotion and confusion.
“Don’t involve yourself in this, boy,” came a deep voice above them. Larra caught her breath as the captain’s black steed pulled up alongside the wagon, moving between Jess and Larra and forcing Jess to release the bars or be trampled. Jess let go and stepped back, but maintained the pace.
“What are you going to do with her? She hasn’t hurt anyone!” Jess was shouting at the captain, anger changing his face from one of broad youth to fierce adulthood.
“Cease your talking, boy, this doesn’t concern you,” commanded the captain from his perch. “This woman is charged with witchery. I suggest you don’t interfere, or you risk punishment for crimes against the king.”
“Doesn’t concern me? She saved my sister’s life! She has done nothing but good in this village.”
Larra watched the exchange with growing horror. Her tears continued to fall, but her despair at being taken from her home had changed into genuine fear for her friend.
“You know nothing of what you’re doing, you arrogant, self-serving, pig of a—”
“Jess! Jess, don’t. I don’t want you arrested, too. And really, it’s just for a trial, to make sure that I’m innocent of any wrongdoing. That’s what they said. A trial, not an execution.” She wasn’t sure if she was trying to reassure him or herself. “I’ll be back here in no time, I promise. Please, just take care of Kiera. Tell her it’s not her fault—I would do it again if I had to. Promise me you’ll take care of her, and let her live her dreams,” she pleaded with her friend and could see when he understood that there wasn’t anything he could for her that wouldn’t make things worse, for everyone.
“I promise, Larra,” he said in a reverent tone, barely audible over the sounds of the animals. “They wouldn’t let us visit you at the cottage, but Kiera and I should have found a way. We are so sorry. You know
we will always love you, always be grateful. We will never forget what you did for Kiera.”
Larra watched as the captain’s horse stepped even closer to Jess, pushing him away from the group and back to the side of the road. He stood there in the gentle breeze, feet planted on lush valley ground, hand fisted above his heart in silent acknowledgment of her sacrifice. She held his gaze for as long as she could until, like the cottage, he faded from her sight and became nothing more than a memory of a world that no longer existed.
“Another conquest, witch?” A hint of anger laced the deep voice, the captain’s earlier dispassion finally giving way to a flicker of emotion.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said in a dead tone. The drastic changes in her life were suddenly taking their toll, sapping her of energy.
“Do you wrap all the men you meet around your finger? Even little boys plead for your cause.”
Her tears ceased to fall. She glared up at him.
“I don’t know what you are talking about, and I’d appreciate if you’d leave me be. Haven’t you done enough damage? Do you need to add insults as well?” She turned from him, resting back against the bars.
Silence answered her, and then she heard the heavy hoof beats of the captain’s horse trotting ahead. She didn’t turn back to watch him go, but continued staring out at the scattered, simple farms and majestic mountains as she tried to make sense of everything that had happened.
She had lost her grandmother, her home, her friends, her way of life. She had lost herself. She felt empty, hollow, void of the person who used to reside within, like an abandoned house.
The new knowledge of her birth and the death of her mother hit her like a slap to the face. She contemplated her grandmother’s words spoken in the kitchen that morning. Had she ever seen one of her mother’s tapestries? Had her grandmother hidden them away from the world so that the past would not be dug up, like an empty grave, or had they all been sold when her mother went to the city? She longed to see just one of them, to touch her mother’s handiwork and experience the joy and happiness that the tapestries supposedly brought. Perhaps if she could see one, just for a moment, she would no longer feel empty.
