Bringers of Magic (Arucadi Book 2)

by E. Rose Sabin

  “Veronica did that?” Crowell asked incredulously.

  Hardwick nodded. “I saw her.”

  “That’s impossible!” Crowell snapped. “Veronica’s a nine-year-old child. How could she have done something like this?”

  “I don’t know, but she did.”

  “Where were the wonder workers?”

  “The one in custody should be taken to be hanged about now.” Hardwick consulted his watch. To his surprise, it was past the time scheduled for the execution. There was no way he could attend. He was certain they’d go on with it despite his absence.

  “The other?” prompted Crowell.

  “The other came here and my men caught her. They were taking her to the guardhouse when this happened.”

  “So she was here!”

  “No. They’d already gotten her a good ways down the street when Veronica—when she—” He paused, unable to frame the words.

  “Are you certain?” Leo Crowell persisted. “Are you sure the witch didn’t create some sort of illusion that made you think it was Veronica? Why would Veronica want to kill your daughter? Even supposing she could, which I’ll never believe.”

  “I saw—” Hardwick stopped. What exactly had he seen? There had been a great deal of confusion, with the Wesson woman shouting and the children milling about. He’d thought his men had gotten the wonder worker safely away, but right after it happened, after Genevieve—after she was gone, the witch was there. How had she gotten back so quickly? And she threw a fiery barrier around her and the girl. If she could do that, she could use fire to … She could work her magic to make him think the child did it. Then she took the child away so she couldn’t deny the act.

  That must be it! The witch had a motive, after all. He’d had her partner condemned to die. He’d sworn to do the same to her. This was her revenge.

  “She took my pistol,” he mumbled, thinking aloud now. “She and that Leah Wesson. They have the girl—Veronica. They took your daughter.”

  “You mean the witch is free? And yet you were blaming my daughter?”

  Nellie sat up and stared in horrified fascination. “The wonder worker did this, and you didn’t stop her,” she said flatly. “You let her get away.”

  “I tried to stop her,” Hardwick said. “The peacekeepers I had guarding Genevieve have gone after her and the girl.”

  “They’re a bunch of stupid incompetents!” Wailing, Nellie collapsed again.

  Hardwick turned to Crowell. “You must be right. I thought— but she can create illusions. She put a spell on me. She must have."

  “She has Veronica! We’ve got to rescue her. Which way did they go?”

  “That way,” Hardwick pointed. “I can’t understand why my men haven’t caught up with them.”

  “Think, man! She’s using her magic. She’s clever, but she can’t fool everyone. Get all the men you can. Not just peacekeepers. Get everybody you can find. We’ll get the whole town out looking for her. And no trial, no taking her off to the guardhouse and letting her witch her way out again. We’re going to kill her as soon as we find her.”

  “You’re right, Leo,” Hardwick said. “Whatever it takes, she’s got to be stopped.”

  They’d put up the gallows in a vacant, weed-filled lot near the railroad station. Less than an hour remained until sunset. Ironically, it was a glorious autumn day, one of those days when the world seems tinged with gold. The air was full of the scents of ripe fruit and wood smoke. Flocks of birds winged overhead, dipping as if to salute her. It was her favorite time of year. Not a bad day, she supposed, on which to die.

  But she did not want to die. Prodded by her guards toward the ladder to the platform where her executioner waited, Marta balked. “How can I climb that with my hands tied behind my back?”

  They looked at one another; then one shouted up to the local Peacekeeper Captain, standing on the platform, holding the noose, waiting to loop it over her head. She’d seen the man before only briefly but recognized him easily by the tan and white uniform he wore so proudly.

  “Untie her hands,” he called back. “I’ll tie them again as soon as she gets up here. Keep your rifles trained on her while she climbs.”

  A fair-sized crowd was gathered in front of the scaffold, with others still arriving—so many people, all eager to witness a hanging.

  One of her guards took a knife from a sheath on his belt and sliced through the rope that bound her. She took careful note of that guard and the exact position he took after returning the knife to its sheath.

  It was good to have her hands free. She climbed slowly. The platform was only large enough for her and her executioner, but peacekeepers were stationed all around the scaffold, holding back the crowd and keeping a wary watch on her, their rifles aimed, cocked, and ready.

  Stepping off the ladder, she faced the captain with her wrists held together in front of her. As she’d hoped, he looped a short length of rope around them in that position and bound them there, rather than tying them behind her.

  He lowered the noose over her head and tightened it around her neck. She waited tensely for the order to shove her through the trapdoor to her death. The wait grew long.

  “Where’s the Council Master?” someone called out.

  Councilor Hardwick was nowhere in evidence. The crowd grew restless. Murmurs rippled through it like waves on the ocean. The sun sank nearer the horizon. The guards conferred in whispers among themselves.

  A portly gentleman in waistcoat and striped trousers pushed his way to the front and shouted up at the Peacekeeper Captain, “What’s the delay, Captain Wronson? Let’s get this over with.”

  “We’re waiting for Council Master Hardwick, sir,” the captain replied.

  “Well, we can’t wait much longer,” the man said. “I think I speak for the rest of the council in saying that we should proceed without him. After all, he scheduled this affair. He certainly knew what time he was to be here.”

  “I’m willing to proceed on your authority, Councilor Slamm,” the captain said. “We can’t wait until dark.”

  “Very well. On my word, then,” said the man, whom Marta recognized as one of the council that condemned her.

  A young lad wormed through the crowd to the councilor's side and whispered into his ear. An expression of shocked horror spread across the councilor’s face. He questioned the lad sharply, then turned and addressed the crowd.

  “Hear me,” he shouted. “This lad tells me that Councilor Hardwick’s daughter, Genevieve Wirth, has been killed—burned to death by the magic brought by the witches. The Councilor, naturally, is grief-stricken and is consoling his wife and son-in-law. This outrage must be avenged. We cannot wait another minute to put this witch to death.”

  So Kyla failed to prevent the young teacher’s death. Marta didn’t doubt for a moment that the child Kyla had seen in her vision was responsible. But was it also possible that they’d brought the magic that empowered the child to do such a horrible thing? Before their arrival no one in Carey had any experience with magic.

  No time to ponder that now. Councilor Slamm was clearing his throat, preparing to give the order that would drop her to her death. While the crowd’s attention was fixed on Councilor Slamm, she focused her attention on the guard who had cut the rope from her wrist before she climbed the ladder. She used her power to ease the guard’s knife from its sheath.

  “Good people of Carey,” Councilor Slamm shouted, “I testify that the woman you see on this platform, the witch called Marta, was tried and convicted by the Carey Council of introducing dangerous and blasphemous magical practices. The entire council unanimously condemned her to die for her crimes. I hereby enjoin the carrying out of that sentence. Captain Wronson, do your duty.”

  The captain pushed Marta to the edge of the trap. As she stepped onto the hinged door, the knife soared through the air and sliced through the rope. Her weight released the door and she fell to the ground, the knife falling after her.

  Kneeling, she
used her power to bring the knife to her and position it between her knees so that she could slice through the rope that bound her wrists.

  In seconds she was free.

  But as the crowd recovered from the shock of seeing the prisoner free herself, shouts and cries rang out. She heard Councilor Slamm yell, “Shoot the witch!”

  A rifle ball tore past her so close that she staggered. Recovering her balance, she spotted the shooter and hurled her power against him, toppling him before he could load and fire again.

  In the pandemonium that followed, it was impossible for the guards to aim and fire at her without hitting innocent victims, but they wouldn’t be stopped for long. She got to her feet and ran.

  If she only had Kyla’s gift of invisibility or of creating illusions. Or Ed’s gift of transporting to another world. She had only her fleetness of foot, and that she put to good use, racing away from the scaffold and over the railroad tracks.

  Peacekeepers pounded after her. They weren’t far behind.

  “Alair, damn you! Where’s that protection you promised?”

  A hand grasped her shoulder. Without turning her head, she sent a blast of power backward, and the hand fell away. She kept running, her breath coming now in ragged gasps. Soon her power would be so diminished by the effort of staying ahead of her pursuers that it would be of little use. Better to use it while it still served for something.

  She swung around to face her pursuers, seeing fewer than she had expected. Three peacekeepers and four or five civilians. Quickly she created a globe of light and balanced it in her palms. “Stop, or I’ll throw this fire at you, and the same thing will happen to you as happened to Councilor Hardwick’s daughter.” As she said it, she willed the globe to grow larger, hiding her upper body.

  The globe held light only, no heat. Its apparent flames did not and could not burn. Whatever the child had done to destroy her teacher, it was not this. But her threat had the desired effect. She could see her pursuers as dark silhouettes. They stopped and a couple of the civilians dropped back and slunk off into the shadows. The rest did not retreat, but neither did they advance or fire their weapons. To her relief, no one called her bluff.

  It was a cruel bluff. It played on their fears and would heighten their suspicion that the “wonder workers” were behind the killing of the teacher and had merely used the child as their instrument.

  “Look,” she shouted through the light, “Stop trying to kill me. I won’t harm you if you back off and let me go free.”

  “Don’t trust her,” one yelled.

  Another shouted, “We don’t want you and your magic here in Carey.”

  “So be it,” Marta called back. “We’ll leave, if you’ll only give us the chance.”

  “Is that a promise?” called a voice, while the shout, “Don’t trust her,” was repeated by someone else.

  She wished she could see well enough to tell who was saying what. And that they’d make up their minds.

  She backed slowly away as they shouted at each another. Now one called, “She’s getting away.”

  “You go after her. I won’t,” came the answer.

  So she’d reduced the number of her pursuers. She tossed the glowing ball at the remaining men. They shouted and she heard a stampede of running feet. Not waiting to see what they would do when the fire-bubble burst harmlessly in front of them, she turned and ran. She ducked around a corner, cut through a yard, and jogged through an alley.

  In the growing dusk, shadows offered concealment. She seemed to have evaded her hunters, but to be sure she kept going, changing directions often and keeping to the darkest areas she could find.

  She felt weak and disoriented when finally she halted and looked around. It took several moments for her overtaxed brain to register the familiarity of her surroundings. This was the street Jerome had led them along to reach his mother’s house. Hardly knowing what she was doing, she retraced that route. When she neared the Esterville home, she felt that she had reached a place of safety.

  Not knowing who might be inside, she eased around to the side of the house and found a window on the first floor that she could jimmy open. She’d enter stealthily and reconnoiter before making her presence known.

  The pounding continued maddeningly. And of course Leah was not home to go to the door. Abigail sat up on the side of the bed, willing the intruders to give up and go away. If anything, the loud knocking became more insistent, more frantic. Sighing, she heaved herself up onto her feet and made her way unsteadily to the front door. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she shouted to no effect.

  Aggravated, she deliberately slowed and paused in the front room. “They’re so impatient, they can wait a bit,” she muttered, looking around the room.

  Something stuck out from under the overstuffed armchair by the door. She bent down and pulled out the offending object.

  The accursed spell book! The wonder worker hadn’t taken it with her after all.

  Well, she’d had her chance. The book had been returned to her, and Abigail had certainly let her know how she felt about it. No matter why it had been left here, Abigail refused to tolerate its presence any longer. She dropped it onto the chair. She’d get rid of her unwelcome visitors, then set a fire in the fireplace, and throw the book in, as she’d wanted to do before.

  Thus resolved, she threw open the front door.

  She gasped and clutched the doorjamb for support, unable to believe her eyes. It could not be Edwin standing there. She must be having another hallucination. Touching the spell book must have brought it on.

  She nearly slammed the door shut—would have if Edwin had not stepped forward and grabbed the edge of the door. “Miss Abigail,” he said with his usual diffidence, “I know you’re mad at me but, please, we need your help.”

  Only then did she peer past him and see Mother Esterville behind him, bending over a prone figure.

  Her gaze returned to Ed. “Are you—are you really here? And alive?”

  “Of course, Miss Abigail. But Jerome’s hurt bad.”

  She stared at the prone figure. It was indeed Jerome Esterville, so battered that she had failed to recognize him. “What happened to him?”

  “A bad fall,” Edwin answered cryptically. “Rocks fell on him. May we come in?”

  “Oh. Yes. Yes, of course.” She held the door wide.

  Edwin and Mother Esterville carried Jerome between them into the house and stretched him out on her sofa. Abigail banished a frisson of horror at the thought of the dirt and blood that would be deposited on her good chintz upholstery. “I’ll fetch a lamp,” she said.

  “We’ll need water, too,” Mother Esterville said. “And someone must go for a physician. Is Leah here?”

  “No, she’s gone out. Edwin will have to go.”

  “He can’t. You know he’s wanted by the peacekeepers.”

  “But surely if he’s on an errand of mercy … I’ll write a note.”

  “No.” Mother Esterville gave her a scathing look. “I’ll go myself. But let’s do all we can for him ourselves first.”

  Edwin had finished arranging Jerome on the sofa. He turned to Abigail. “Miss Abigail, have you heard anything about Marta? They were going to hang her.”

  “I know nothing about those witches, and I don’t care what they do to them.”

  Mother Esterville looked up from tending to her son and fixed her with a cold stare. “Abigail Dormer, I’ve always respected your intelligence and your integrity, but that statement was prejudiced, cruel, and incredibly uninformed. I can only conclude that the loss of your school has deranged you. If you can say nothing better about two good women, I think you’d better go get that lamp and water instead of standing there wagging your tongue.”

  “Elspeth Esterville, you are a guest in my home. I’ll attribute your rudeness to your concern over your son and forgive it, but I am entitled to my opinion.”

  Mother Esterville merely sniffed.

  “I’ll get the water, Mother Estervi
lle,” Ed said, heading for the door while carefully avoiding looking at Abigail.

  She’d probably embarrassed him. How he got mixed in with the witches and the Estervilles she’d never understand. He wasn’t simple as everyone claimed, but he was naïve, with no understanding of the subtle ways of evil.

  “Can’t you do anything but stand there looking disapproving?” Mother Esterville asked. “If Kyla and Marta were here, they’d try to save Jerome.”

  “I do not claim to be a wonder worker,” Abigail said. Whatever had come over Elspeth Esterville? Trust the witches to bring out the worst in a person.

  “No one’s asked you to use any magical power. We’ve only asked for help and hospitality.”

  “Demanded is more like it. How did you come to be on my porch, anyway?”

  “Ed used his power to take me to find Jerome and then to bring us back here.”

  “What power?” Abigail demanded, as Ed returned with a basin of water. “What do you mean?”

  “Why, he’s wonderfully blessed of the gods. He has tremendous power.”

  Ed blushed and kept his eyes fixed on the water he carried. He placed the basin on the floor beside Mother Esterville.

  “That’s nonsense,” Abigail snapped, wondering when this nightmare would stop. “Ed couldn’t possibly have magical powers. There is no magic.”

  “There is, Miss Abigail, and I do have a bit of power. I wish it was enough to heal Jerome.”

  “You’ve just spent too much time with the witches. I’m glad you’ve come home at last.”

  Ed didn’t respond. His gaze fixed on something behind her, he walked past her to the armchair and picked up the spell book. “How did this get here? It’s the Breyadon,” he said wonderingly. “It’s Miss Kyla’s book.” To Abigail’s disgust, he caressed the cover with a reverence that should be reserved for a holy book. “It’s written in magic letters. I can’t read it, and neither can Marta, but Miss Kyla can.”

  Abigail did not fail to note that it was “Miss Kyla” but not “Miss Marta,” only “Marta,” and the tone in which he pronounced the name suggested something she didn’t want to think about.