A Nameless Witch (14 page)

16

A
worthwhile quest always
involved a great deal of nothing happening. Nothing noteworthy anyway. These are the forgotten moments of legend, twenty years of dull and unremarkable wandering condensed into a line or two on an epic poem. A good storyteller knows what's worth telling and what's not and what merits mention without excessive details.

Nothing happened, and nothing kept happening for nine days and nine nights.

But on the tenth day, an event of note finally came to pass. Our small band of traveling vengeance-seekers came across a pack of disagreeable elves. It wasn't so much a trial as an inconvenience.

My mistress had told me of elves and their sorry lot. As bastard children of mortals and faeries, they were of two worlds and master of neither. It was a poor mating. Faeries were innately magical creatures, but their magic was wildly chaotic. Mixing it with mortal flesh halved its already dubious reliability while in no way dimming its potency. Elves were nature spirits wrapped in smothering mortality. Though mostly harmless, they could be dangerous in the same way a monkey carrying a torch might set a forest ablaze.

We happened upon the elves late in the morning. They'd set themselves up as guardians of an assemblage of planks bridging a short ravine. There were
six
of them. The tallest was half-ogre and stood a little over four feet. The shortest was half-goblin and barely a foot and a half. The other four were half-men. Like all elves, each looked like a short, thin version of their mortal parent with pointed ears, bushy eyebrows, and silver eyes. The half-ogre held a spear twice his height. The others were unarmed, but this didn't stop them from standing in our way. "Halt!" the tallest elf growled. "None shall pass without paying the toll."

As a troll, Gwurm knew something about bridge-tolling. He appointed himself our negotiator and stepped forward. From my perch atop his shoulders, the elves seemed very, very small.

"How much?"

The spear-carrying leader smiled. "All your money."

"All of it, you say?"

The elf squinted. "Yes, all of it."

"Everything we have?"

"Yes! Every piece of gold, every scrap of silver, every worthless copper coin in your pockets."

"A little expensive, isn't it?"

The elf smacked the blunted end of his spear into the ground. "If you're thinking you can cross without paying, I wouldn't try it. We've got powers you couldn't possibly dream of."

"Is that so?" Gwurm glanced about our party from undead witch to animate broom to demon duck to invincible White Knight.

"You doubt our magic?"

"I say we make them pay double," the half-goblin shouted.

"Yes, double!" another seconded.

"Very well." The half-ogre raised his spear in proclamation. "Double the toll for you!"

"Double all the money we have?" Gwurm asked.

The flaw in such a toll seemed lost on the elves.

"I can see you're a force to be reckoned with. It seems a reasonable price. We'll pay it."

The elves murmured excitedly. The half-ogre quieted them down with a hard glare and pointed his spear at his feet. "Deposit your riches at our feet, and you may pass unmolested."

"Very well." Gwurm waved his hand at the spot. "Done."

The elves looked to their leader questioningly He glanced to the bare earth as if to see something that wasn't there. "What's this?"

"You said all our riches, every piece of gold, every scrap of silver, and worthless copper coin. Well, that's all of it."

This was true. None of our party carried money. Witches, ducks, and brooms had no need for it. And Wyst of the West, as a White Knight, had taken an oath of poverty. Trolls might carry a coin or two on occasion, but not this day.

The elves muttered among themselves, sorting through the flaw in their demands. Finally, the half-ogre pointed his finger at Gwurm and said, "Ah, but we said double!"

"Double of nothing is nothing," Gwurm explained. "But if you'd like, we can give you thrice of nothing."

"Oh, why not quadruple it," said Newt. "We can afford it."

"Why not?" Gwurm agreed.

Most of the elves were thrilled with the offer until their leader smacked a cohort with his spear. "You idiots." He raised his spear again, a gesture he seemed very fond of. "If you won't pay our toll, you'll face our wrath. You fools have no idea what you're facing."

"Pray tell, what might that be?" Gwurm inquired.

The half-ogre puffed out his chest that, by elf standards, was quite full but hardly threatening. He lowered his spear only to raise it again. "First, there is Yog. He can spit fire. Then there is Rof who can summon rocks from the sky when he sneezes. And Gok, able to change his shape at will into terrifying creatures you couldn't even comprehend. And Vop, well, Vop can talk to worms."

The half-goblin added, "And snails. Worms and snails!"

"Yes, Vop, yes. And snails." He switched his spear to his other hand without lowering the weapon. "And I, Doz the Mighty can bring life to the inanimate."

"Don't forget, Sof," an elf remarked.

"Hell's bowels, Gok. I was trying to keep him a secret."

"Sorry."

"Well, the damage is done. Sof, foolish full mortals, is our greatest weapon. He's invisible and can strike from anywhere, anytime. One by one, he can strike you down as your companions watch helplessly." He laughed. Unfortunately, elf voices are terrible for sinister cackling.

"Can I kill him?" Newt asked.

"Not yet." I patted his head. "Maybe later."

I glanced to Wyst. There was a trace of a smile on his lips.

"Strike now, my brothers!" Doz the Mighty shouted. "Show them what happens to those who defy us!"

The elves milled about their leader in a show of confusion.

Doz lowered his spear and ground his teeth. "What are you waiting for?"

"Uh... well, we've never struck before, Doz. We aren't sure how."

"Fine. I'll show you. You first, Rof."

Rof, who could summon rocks from the sky when he sneezed, stepped forward. He drew in a few quick breaths. His nose twitched. His head drew back. And nothing happened.

"Well?" Doz asked.

"I can't." His nostrils flared. "Maybe if my allergies were acting up."

"Fine, fine. Yog, roast them."

Rof stepped back dejectedly as Yog prepared to spit fire. He puckered up and spat. Flame dribbled from his lips and sizzled away at his feet. He hunched over, clenched his fists, and spat again. A gout of flame erupted from his mouth and blackened his face.

"Damn it, Yog. I thought you were practicing."

Yog was too busy beating out his smoking eyebrows to apologize.

Next came Gok the shape-changer. His attempt went smoother than his companions. In a flash, he transformed into a vicious wild boar. It had wicked tusks and crimson eyes and sharp hooves. Unfortunately, it was barely the size of a large rat. While Doz the Mighty berated Gok, Gok grunted in an effort to grow larger. He expanded to twice his size, belched, then shrank to half his previous volume.

"My turn," Vop the worm-talker announced. He stepped forward with bold determination.

"Step back, Vop."

The snail-talking elf backed away. Gok the shape-changer, who seemed trapped in his tiny boar form, retreated to the back of the group.

"I guess it's up to me." Doz the Mighty released his spear. It floated forward and hovered before Gwurm. "Now you'll know fear, fools. How will you fight a weapon that has no wielder?"

The spear danced about, jabbing at the troll without actually attempting to stab him.

"Now grovel before me, and I may spare your lives."

Gwurm grabbed the spear in one thick hand. The weapon twisted and trembled in his unbreakable grip.

"That's not fair! You can't do that! Let it go!"

Gwurm released it. The spear hopped back and shook angrily. It traced intricate patterns in the air with its point.

Penelope jumped from my hand and faced the spear. The broom caressed the spear up and down with her bristles. Doz's spear shivered, bowed to Penelope, and floated aside. She returned to my side.

"Stupid spear." Doz the Mighty folded his arms across his chest. "But there is one left. The last and most deadly of our band. That's right, Sof. Strike! Strike now!"

No strike came.

"Sof! What are you waiting for?"

Still, no strike came.

"Damn it, where's Sof?"

The elves offered a collective shrug.

"Who saw him last?"

They exchanged whispers.

Vop the worm-speaker said, "Uh, thinking on it, I've never seen Sof."

"Me neither," Rof the rock-sneezer said.

"Me either," Yog the fire-spitter added.

Gok the shape-changer, still a boar, snorted his agreement.

Doz the Mighty shook his head slowly. "Well, this is just embarrassing."

A sneeze came from the back.

"I did it! I did it!" Rof squealed with his elf voice.

The sky darkened. A shrill screech filled the air, and a monstrous red bird swooped from the sky.

"Aha!" Doz the Mighty thrust his hands high. "Now you shall see the grave errors of your ways!"

The roc swept from the sky, snatched up the band of elves, and soared away, quickly disappearing into the horizon. Only Doz's spear was left behind.

"Can we pass?" Gwurm asked.

A disembodied voice spoke. "Sure. Go ahead."

We bid Sof the Invisible and the spear a good morning and went on our way.

17

T
hough Wyst and i
could go days without saying much
of anything, we did exchange a few words over the course of our quest. Nothing of much importance from a questing perspective, merely polite salutations of "Good morning" and "Good night" with the occasional observation about the weather or scenery or some such other trifle. Though words were a wondrous invention, both tremendously practical and inexhaustible in supply, there was no need to waste them. The silence was contagious, afflicting both Newt and Gwurm. My broom and Wyst's horse were the only ones not noticeably affected.

The truth was, I wasn't at all comfortable speaking to Wyst for very long. I didn't trust my discipline. One unwitchly slip of the tongue could reveal too much of my growing affection for him, which was difficult enough to hide without saying anything. Too often I caught myself smiling at him or staring at the graceful sway of his full shoulders. Fantasies, both carnal and cannibal, fell into my mind without warning, and each seemed harder to dispel than the last. None of these symptoms truly surprised me, but I was startled by the suddenness of their severity.

I couldn't read Wyst's mind, but I caught him smiling at me as often as he caught me. I suspected, like my own smiles, there were many more times when I didn't catch him. Often his eyes seemed to wander, however briefly, up and down my body. Almost as if he could see the shapely form beneath my wrinkled gowns. Each passing day, I was less and less willing to dismiss these signs as products of my own desires. This led to an odd dilemma.

Did Wyst see through my witchly disguise, or did he prefer his women plump and haggish? The latter notion meant that my curse might deny me the very man I desired. Such irony as repulsive beauty was not beyond possibility where a potent death curse was at play. And somewhere in the hell where long-dead, mad wizards might dwell, Nasty Larry was probably enjoying a good chuckle between tortured shrieks.

Such dilemmas aside, it was inevitable that Wyst and I would find ourselves in deeper conversation.

Bread was all Wyst ever ate. He lived upon two thin pieces a day. One in the morning when he awoke and one in the evening before he went to sleep. The meager diet and his personal enchantments sustained him very well. Even when he retired for the evening, he never seemed truly tired. And his body was the perfect balance between lean grace and masculine strength. At least, I thought so, and I'd spent enough hours studying it despite my efforts not to.

It was one of these moments of unwitchly indulgence that began a chat I'd been laboring to avoid. I was watching Wyst partake of his evening meal, wondering at what thoughts might be dancing behind his deep, dark eyes. I lost myself in the wondering and hadn't even realized he'd noticed my staring until it was far too late to pass it away as a casual glance.

He smiled from across the campfire. "Would you like some?" He held up a piece of dry, unappealing bread that I quickly accepted to cover my staring.

Newt gaped. He no doubt found the notion of eating anything without blood even more repellent than I. His bill dropped, and his eyes crossed.

Ghastly Edna had subsisted mostly on bread and rabbit and wild berries, but all I'd ever eaten was meat. Even as a newborn, I'd had a good set of teeth. The kind of sharp, snapping fangs that discourage a mother from drawing her undead child to her breast.

I sniffed the bread. It had hardly any scent, and nothing that put me in mind of dinner. But I felt I must, so I took a very small bite, chewed the morsel once, and forced myself to swallow. It couldn't hurt me, but it wasn't something I wanted to do again.

Newt's tongue dangled from the side of his bill.

I gulped down some raw pheasant to keep myself from gagging.

"It's ..." I struggled to find a word that was both truthful, yet not too harsh.

Wyst found it for me. "Bland yet edible."

I nodded.

He grinned. "I wasn't always a White Knight. I remember what food tastes like. Vaguely."

Though I knew Wyst to be a mortal man, the admittance struck me. I'd gotten the impression that White Knights were much like witches. Much of their trade involved acting odd. Not a witchly strangeness, but a chaste peculiarity. For to deny one's self the simple pleasures of the flesh was certainly unusual.

Such lapses of character were unavoidable after spending enough time with someone. As a professional courtesy, I should have ignored it, but I couldn't stop myself from searching for the mortal man.

"Do you miss it?"

Had Wyst pretended not to hear the question, I would have pretended I'd never asked it. "Not much. Although I do find myself aching for a good apple cider on rare occasion."

I set my own bread aside as if I might actually finish eating it. Newt eyed the slice and backed away a few steps.

"And what about yourself?" Wyst asked. "Do you ever find yourself aching for something?"

From anyone else, the question might have been bold, but he'd answered mine. It was only fair I answer his.

"It's difficult to miss what you've never had."

Wyst took a sip of water from his canteen. "I wouldn't know about that. It's the things we've never had that we sometimes miss the most."

"I've never had an appetite for anything but flesh, raw and red. It's my curse. So it really isn't the same as denying myself a pleasure. It's more like giving jewelry to a tortoise. Neither necessary, nor appreciated."

Wyst nodded. His eyes strayed to the evening stars as he finished the last of his meal. "I see. So there are no indulgences you deny?"

This was an important moment. A good witch would offer a reply that hid away her humanity. A dozen responses came to me, all of them appropriate in their vagueness. I didn't choose any of them.

"There are"—I lowered my hat to cover the blush reddening my cheeks—"temptations."

Newt mumbled. In many ways, he was a more demanding master than Ghastly Edna, but he wasn't my master. His opinion counted for little.

"Newt, fetch some wood for the fire."

He squinted at the healthy flames and the small yet ample supply of fresh branches beside it. "Why don't you send Gwurm? He's bigger and has hands."

I glanced over at my troll, curled up, boulderlike, in his early evening retirement. "He's asleep."

"So wake him."

My familiar looked into my eyes and attempted to stare me down. His insolence had grown bothersome of late, and another lesson was in order. I should have given them more often, but his contrary nature sprang from his demon. I disliked having to punish him for his enchanted nature. He was, much like myself, engaged in a constant struggle with a part of himself. I only disciplined him when I felt he wasn't giving the conflict enough effort.

I removed my shawl and tossed it over him. "Now where did I put that Newt?" I asked softly. Then I lifted the shawl to reveal a single white feather left in the duck's place. Wyst knew me well enough to know I hadn't done Newt permanent harm. "Where did you send him?"

"I misplaced him, so I suspect he's in that place where all misplaced things go: that secret locus where lost keys, loose coins, and almost-yet-not-quite-forgotten memories wait to be found. He'll turn up eventually, like all lost things. Most likely when we aren't even looking for him.

"How does one become a White Knight?" It broke witchly protocol to ask such a question and reveal that there were things I didn't know. With Newt lost, I found myself even less concerned with my witchliness. I wasn't willing to completely abandon it, but it was easier not to worry when the only witnesses were a sleeping troll, a broom, and a horse.

"It's a secret."

"Witches are very good at keeping secrets."

Wyst and I exchanged slight smiles.

"Yes, I suppose they are."

He took his third and last sip of water for the evening and returned his canteen to his pack. Then he laid down on his blanket on the cold, hard ground. It was all I could do to keep myself from pouncing upon him, running my hands down his chest, and maybe biting off his nose. Before that urge grew irresistible, he started his story, looking into the sky as he did.

"No man is truly good or evil. They may be greatly one or the other, but they always have its opposite to some degree. And sometimes, certain men, through either chance or design, find their souls in perfect balance. Both good and evil in exact equality. And when a man reaches this state, fate takes special notice of him and chooses him for greatness. I was such a man.

"The Order employs seers whose only purpose is to wander the land, find men like this, and recruit them. I was in a tavern, half-drunk, when one of these seers found me."

I tried to imagine what Wyst might look like half-drunk, but even a witch's imagination had its limits.

He closed his eyes and folded his hands across his chest.

"This seer explained to me that I was at a very important moment in my life. A soul can't maintain this perfect balance for long, and one way or another, something would tip me in one direction. Then, as is the tradition, he offered a glimpse of what either choice would bring. After which, I chose to accept his offer and become a champion of right."

"You make it sound so easy."

"It was."

"But if your soul was in perfect balance, not good or evil but neither and both, how could you decide at all?"

He turned on his side, his back to me. "Usually there's a sign. Some spend months waiting for it, but I wasn't that patient. I flipped a coin."

I laughed. I'd laughed before, but never like this. It was soft and musical and very mortal. I didn't mind at all.

"So how does one become a witch?" Wyst asked.

"It's a secret."

Wyst propped himself on an elbow and turned his head in my direction. "White Knights are very good with secrets."

I gazed into those deep, dark eyes. A heat rose in my chest, and my stomach grumbled. And I savored the sensations.

"Yes, I suppose they are."