The Witch's Reward

by Liz McCraine

  She recalled that her mother had not done anything wrong, according to her grandmother. Her magic had been a gift used for good, yet she had been executed. Would Larra even possess the magic of healing if her mother had not been pregnant with her at the time of the fairy incident? It was remarkable how circumstances could collide at just the right—or wrong—time to alter a person’s future into something completely unforeseen.

  As she remembered her grandmother’s words, Larra knew that she could not blame her for keeping things a secret. The older lady had done what she thought was right. Clearly, she loved Larra and had wanted only the best for her. It was too bad that despite how hard her grandmother had tried to protect her, the end result was what she had feared most: that her granddaughter would be taken away from her, much as her daughter had.

  Larra’s skin turned cold as she thought of her possible death. Oh, she realized that there would be a trial first, but if the law stated that witches were to be burned, and she was a witch, then it followed that her death was imminent.

  It was possible she only had one more week to live.

  Looking about at the knights, she tried to distract herself by searching for the burly man who had pushed her grandmother. He’d had no right to treat an older lady so harshly. He had been blond, she remembered, and large and very stout. But the knights all looked alike with their armor and helmets in place, and at the moment she couldn’t tell one from the other. When they finally stopped and the men removed their armor, she would discover which one he was.

  The group continued to travel along the dirt road toward the village and the Rockwood Forest beyond. Entering the boundaries of the village center, Larra watched as people began to exit their homes and businesses and line up alongside the road. Even the children stopped playing to watch the procession. And though she had done no real wrong, Larra felt ashamed. She felt like the worst kind of animal, caged up and paraded by for all to see.

  They wouldn’t meet her eyes, she noticed. They stared, but would not make contact. It was as though they, too, felt ashamed. But ashamed of her, she thought bitterly. These people, who only weeks earlier had come to her for her help as a healer, would probably now blame all their past, current, and future problems on the witch of Farr.

  They did not speak, and they did not move. They seemed little more than apparitions on the side of the road. And if Larra thought her embarrassment and shame could be no more difficult to bear, she was mistaken. For just as the procession was about to exit the village center and embark on that same portion of road where she and Kiera had parted ways with Jess not long ago, a small group of children broke from the crowds and ran to the side of the wagon. Thinking they were to bring a message or maybe even the condolences of their parents, Larra edged close to the side and pressed her face to the bars.

  But no words were sent her way. Instead, Larra found herself ducking to avoid the small stones thrown at her with surprisingly good aim.

  The children laughed.

  “Bloodthirsty witch!” they shouted. “Evil varmint! Get to your death, witch!”

  The vulgar names and remarks were thrown with even better aim and hit sharper than any of the stones. For while the bruises would fade away from her arms and shoulders, which were pelted by a few well aimed pebbles, the hatred and names coming from the mouths of the children would never be forgotten.

  Because she averted her gaze, she missed the little boy with the bandaged leg that hobbled forward on crutches and defended her honor in front of that group of children. And she missed the parents who, after their shock had worn off at seeing their pretty, young healer caged like a wild animal, grabbed those same children by the arm and yanked them away to be severely punished.

  Chapter 6

  King Steffan paced the floor of his elaborately decorated bedchamber, his eyes following the story woven into the brilliant tapestry covering the wall. He always loved staring at the tapestry, the work of art never failing to fill him with some measure of peace. It and the one in his private office were unlike any others he had ever seen. He had found them locked away in one of the tower rooms during his father’s reign. After assuming the throne, Steffan took an inventory of the palace and found the beautiful weavings stored out of sight and collecting dust. It seemed a shame for such pieces to be hidden, and it took only a few moments to have them collected, dusted, and hung in his private rooms.

  At the moment he was dressed casually, at least for a king, in simple leggings and an embroidered tunic. His robe had been thrown carelessly over a high-backed chair near the door, his crown tossed on a uniquely carved bureau. This was the only place in the palace that he could truly relax. Here he was just himself, a simple man in a large world with nothing more important to do than spend his time talking with a pretty lady.

  “You must be feeling better to be making such marks on the floor,” commented his wife as she sat upon their large, canopied bed.

  As with everything else in the room, the bed was beautifully detailed, the canopy and thick, rich covers done in gold and green—the royal colors of the kingdom. The woman seated on the edge of its deep, feather-stuffed mattress was no less well turned out, with her thick blond hair pulled into a complicated twist and her dress made of the finest silk, its deep green bringing out the color in her hazel eyes.

  Steffan had loved Lissa since he was a child, when her father, an ambassador from the kingdom of Trigden, had visited regularly during the summers on matters of state business. They had shared many a glance across the long banquet table, silently communicating their boredom at their parents’ political conversations and longing to be outside where the air was fresh and sweet. When the meals ended, his father unfailingly asked Steffan to take responsibility for the younger girl and show her around the palace while he concluded his business.

  And there was always business with the ambassador.

  Trigden neighbored Aggadorn just north of the Krymean Mountains. And since the two kingdoms shared the same coastline, which ran from the south of Aggadorn up and around the western side of the continent, the ambassador was sent regularly to discuss free trade agreements, problems with piracy, alliances, and more.

  It was pure luck that a betrothal agreement for the two youngsters was signed. And as the ambassador came back each year to speak with King Gaston, Steffan grew deeper and deeper in love with the pretty girl with forest-colored eyes and a dimpled smile. She was the one person who truly understood Steffan, who knew his thoughts and desires, who had always been there for him. She had been present when he first struggled with his father’s ruling against witches, and she was present now to help him through his current predicament.

  “I’ve just had some of that Signon tea. I swear, sometimes it is the only thing that stops this indigestion of mine,” he replied, continuing his pacing.

  “I do wish you would seek out the medical advice of someone from Trigden. We have excellent healers there, and this stomach issue has gone on long enough,” she advised.

  Steffan knew she was right. The stomachaches had begun a couple of weeks ago. They were infrequent at first, and only slightly painful. He originally thought he was suffering from indigestion, but as they grew in strength and frequency, he began to suspect it was no little problem. A cup of Signon tea would temporarily relieve the symptoms, but otherwise the pain continued to be a problem. If he didn’t feel better after this matter with the witch was resolved, he would send for someone. Some of the best healers in the world came from Trigden, particularly from the cities near the Krymean Mountains.

  “Now,” said Lissa, without looking up from her embroidery, “tell me why you are wearing out our beautiful hardwood floor. I just had those boards polished.”

  “It’s this matter with the witch. It’s just one more thing, on top of everything else. We’ve got carnies appearing in small groups on the east and killing innocent people, pirates attacking my merchant ships any time they travel too far to the south, and now, years after my father is dea
d, I have to clean up his mess. Everyone thinks Aggadorn is a great place—and it is! The people are peaceful and law-abiding, the kingdom is wealthy, we have an abundance of natural resources…”

  “And you’re complaining because…?”

  He shot her a disgruntled look. “I’m not complaining.”

  “Certainly you are. But that’s okay; so long as it’s me you’re complaining to. And I understand, I really do. Being a king is hard work.”

  “It’s just that this situation with the witch—”

  The queen’s hands stopped weaving the yellow silk thread and she looked up. “I can’t imagine why discovering a witch is all that serious. I mean, yes, your father ruled that they should be executed. And yes, you feel that in order to keep the people’s trust, you need to uphold the laws, including those of your father. But it seems there are so many ways out of having an execution, since that is your main concern. The villagers say that they saw her use her magic, but what if they didn’t? What if what they saw was just a trick of the light? Or maybe the child wasn’t really hurt as badly as they thought, and no immediate healing occurred. There are so many options.”

  “I agree. Unfortunately, there are also so many witnesses. Too many to discount. And the idea of having to put a woman to death—by fire, mind you, as the law requires—brings back a host of painful images. You can’t imagine how difficult it is—”

  “Don’t give me that,” she sassed. “I thoroughly recall what you went through when your father first began The Purging. I know very well how difficult this is for you. You’re a great king, but I know the truth—that under the strong, noble exterior you present to the world, you have a soft heart for the suffering of your people.”

  He sighed. She was right. Lissa and her father had visited immediately after the first executions so that the ambassador and king could discuss any repercussions between the two kingdoms as a result of the witch hunts. There was no recognized magic in Tridgen, as fairies originated in the Rockwood Forest and the carnies had come from somewhere to the east. But discussions were necessary, regardless.

  He was sixteen when those first burnings occurred. Lissa, just fourteen at the time, found him sitting on the floor in a darkened cloakroom, trying to erase the images burning his mind. Lissa had shut the door and hurried to his side, kneeling next to him. She’d placed a hand on his arm, just above the elbow, and gave him a squeeze. The pressure brought him out of his daze and when he saw her sweet, understanding face before him, he grasped her to his chest and held on tight. She soothed him, listened to him, and told him everything would be okay.

  Looking at her now, the king felt his heart swell in gratitude for his sweet, if sometimes sassy, wife. He could not wish for a better companion and hoped only that his children found a similar love within their own marriages. Just thinking of his unmarried son brought him back from his ruminations to the difficult subject matter at hand.

  “Quite right, my dear. You are right to scold me.”

  Lissa looked up from her needlework. “We are a team, dear. But you are king, and while you worry yourself into a hole right now,” she said, pointedly looking at the floor, “I know that whatever you decide to do will be the best decision possible for your kingdom. A more wise and considerate man I have never met, my love.”

  “Not that I ever gave you the chance to meet a wiser or more considerate man,” he grinned.

  Lissa’s cheeks dimpled in response, the grooves deeper and more pronounced with age. “Well, that is certainly true. But then, I wouldn’t have wanted to meet anyone else.”

  She set down her needle and climbed down from her perch on the bed. Walking quietly to her husband, she placed a hand on his arm to stop him from his pacing. All teasing was gone from her expression as she offered him her own wisdom.

  “I know how difficult it will be to follow the laws that were set by your father. You are so dedicated to upholding the law and I know how important it is that your people see that consistency in you. But I also know you have no desire to burn an innocent woman at the stake. You will find a way out.”

  “I hope so,” he said solemnly.

  “We both know that for something to be law, it has to be recorded.” She pursed her lips. “Have you verified your father’s decree in the books? Maybe we are worrying over nothing.”

  He hesitated before answering her question. “I already asked Lucien to look into it.”

  He waited for the fireworks. He wasn’t disappointed.

  “Well,” said Lissa, tartly. “I suppose you’d better get a start on that research, then. After all, you’ll want to know for sure what is going on.” Her implication that Lucien would not see the task through was obvious.

  With a little huff, she turned from him and walked back to the bed, picking up her needlework and pointedly ignoring her husband.

  Steffan sighed and shook his head. His wife was an interesting lady—smart and stubborn, with a no-nonsense take on life. She was an incredible mother and queen, and had a gift for getting along with most people. Most people except for Lucien, that was. Steffan couldn’t figure out why she had such an extreme disliking for the man. Oh, he had tried a time or two to get Lissa to tell him why she couldn’t stand his friend, but getting Lissa to confide was about as easy as getting a cat to bark. Each time he tried, Lissa closed up.

  He had bigger problems to deal with than the disharmony between those two. Even if Lissa didn’t trust his friend, Steffan knew Lucien would take care of the research promptly and efficiently. He hoped to soon learn of a loophole that would get him out of this mess.

  Lucien looked into the small, wooden bowl at the concoction he had just finished mixing. The white powder was odorless and tasteless, perfect for its purpose. Setting the bowl aside, he sat back into his big, fur-lined chair and regarded his desk. The candelabra in the corner gave off a soft light, illuminating the items on the desk in the otherwise dark room. The desk was large and scratched from dents made by many ink-filled quills. On one side of the desk sat a pile of dusty, leather-bound books containing works of law that had been recorded over the last several decades. On the other side sat scrolls of thin parchment and long, feathered quills waiting to be exercised by his long, tapered fingers. But it was the items at the top of his desk that drew most of his attention.

  The large, round crystal was positioned between two pieces of burnished copper. The bottom piece of copper was larger, heated and pounded to form a thick hexagon upon which the weight of the heavy ball rested. The second piece of copper was flattened into a thin, triangular shape that was gently bent and hugged the top of the crystal like a loving embrace. Next to the structure was a polished onyx stone. It was no bigger than his thumb, yet the power it could wield when placed upon the top of the crystal and copper structure was as intoxicating and seductive as magic.

  Lifting the smooth, black stone from the table, Lucien regarded it steadily with chilly, grey eyes. He ignored the leather books, never intending to research them, anyway. Their presence in his study was a mere formality, a cloak to cover any suspicion that his real activities might arouse should someone stumble into his private workroom.

  Looking over his shoulder, he double-checked that the door was locked. Seeing the heavy metal latch in position, he turned back to the stone and crystal. Stroking the stone as he would a piece of soft velvet, he leaned forward and placed it above the triangular-shaped copper top. As he watched, the crystal began to grow cloudy, its clear, glasslike appearance turning the same stormy color as Lucien’s eyes. Even as it began to turn, Lucien’s words drifted through the dark room like a song in the dead of night.

  “Seeds of life, sands of time,

  Rise above and make thee mine

  Show me now the things I seek

  A witch, a prince, a forest deep…”

  Chapter 7

  Larra spent the first few hours on the road trying not to think. She tried not to think of her grandmother crying in the kitchen, or recall the way the st
one of the cottage had shined a burnished gold in the morning sun as she rolled away. She tried not to remember Kiera’s sobs as she struggled against her father’s strong arms, or the look of acceptance in Jess’s eyes as he stood by the side of the road, realizing there was nothing he could do for her. She tried to ignore the memory of banked hazel eyes staring at her from a bronzed, handsome face. And above all, she tried not to think about everything bad that might happen.

  If she did, she was going to fall apart. Mentally, emotionally, and spiritually, she would break into a million pieces, and then into a million more.

  There was still hope, she reminded herself. She had to hold it together. She had to overcome the urge to disintegrate. And the only way to do that was to focus on the facts.

  Fact: She was a prisoner. Okay, she could accept that. It wasn’t like throwing herself repeatedly against the bars of the cage in an attempt to escape was going to do her any good. Whether she liked it or not, she was stuck. She would have to learn to deal with it.

  Fact: She was going to the palace. The truth was, she’d always wanted to go; so even though her transportation wasn’t ideal, the end result was the same. And that was something positive.

  Fact: It was not certain that she would be executed. Likely? Yes. But she was working on forgetting that point of interest. The truth was that she was headed to meet with the king and be tried. A trial, not execution. Again, focusing on the positive.

  Which led to the next two facts.

  Fact: She was still alive and relatively unharmed, injured feet notwithstanding.

  Fact: She was on an adventure. Her very first. It was something she’d always wanted, but never hoped to have. And though the circumstances were far different than what she could have ever imagined, it was still an adventure. For the first time in her life, she had left Farr. The lush, green valleys of the home she had known were now far behind her, and surrounding her was a world foreign to anything she’d known.