The Witch's Reward (4 page)

Christoff rushed to his side, tossing his dirty helmet on the gold carpet. “What’s wrong? Is it your stomach again?” He placed a hand next to his father’s, feeling for heat or swelling as if the king were an injured animal.

“Cease that,” said the king, pushing his son’s hand away. “I am not one of your horses to be prodded and poked about. It is merely time for me to take my medicine. Don’t worry, I won’t be dying and giving you the throne anytime soon.”

Christoff dutifully smiled at the joke, but Steffan could see beyond the smile to the concern in his son’s eyes.

“Now, off with you,” he ordered, gruffly. “Go select your men. I don’t want anyone getting hurt in the process, so take every precaution. I imagine this witch will be angry, and we don’t want her using magic on you or your knights. Talk to Lucien about the craftiness of witches. I’m sure he’s learned plenty about them from those big books he likes to read.” The king concluded by taking a rolled scroll from an ornately carved side table. “Here. This is my declaration to be made at the witch’s arrest, as well as details of where she resides in the village. Be safe, Christoff, and don’t trust anyone. We do not know what we are dealing with.”

He handed the parchment to his son. Were it anyone else, he would be worried. But his son was as strong and smart as they came, and Steffan knew that he would complete the mission without a problem. He would bring the witch to the palace, of that Steffan had no doubt.

Christoff exited the hall and moved quickly to Lucien’s office. A witch! He could hardly believe it. He’d read the historical accounts, the judgments, the horror stories of what had transpired under his grandfather’s rule. But to face this problem now, after so many years, was troubling.

His father was worried, that was for certain.

“Lucien?” Christoff knocked on the older man’s office door. His father was right; if anyone knew what to do about the witch, it would be Lucien. The man surrounded himself with books, learned them, memorized them. His thirst for knowledge was unquenchable, and even as a little boy, Christoff had looked up to him. Not as he had looked up to his father, naturally, but still, the tall, thin counselor had been a role model of sorts, particularly during Christoff’s youth, when his emotions tended to overrun his thoughts and impede his ability to strategize. Lucien had inspired Christoff to think, to read, to study, convincing the youngster that brawn was not always better than the brain. It had helped Christoff develop into the man he was today—a man not only considered a master of arms, but one of strategy.

“Enter,” came the reply through the door.

Christoff turned the handle and stepped through. As usual, Lucien was bent over his desk, his hand working a quill and ink quickly over parchment.

“I just came from my father.”

The quill paused, and silver eyes lifted to his. “Oh?”

“He said there’s been a witch found up north and to talk to you before collecting her.”

The older man put down his quill, his face serious, intent. “And so you’d better.” He waved to an empty chair. “Have a seat. The fate of the kingdom may depend on how well you heed my advice.”

Chapter 4

“Thank you,” Larra said in a quiet voice as Elane handed her a bowl of food. As was the habit these days, Elane didn’t respond.

It had been two weeks since the incident with the lumbar, and as per the order of the village magistrate, Larra had been confined to the cottage until instructions were received from the palace. She knew a messenger had been sent to the king, notifying him of her existence.

Since there had never before been a witch in Farr, the village leaders were anxious to know what to do. Though they had known Larra since she was a baby, she was now considered not only different, but possibly dangerous. Few people had dropped by the cottage to visit since Larra’s magic was discovered. It was as if they feared even the sight of her. In addition, the leaders had assigned men to guard the entrances to the cottage at all times, ensuring that Larra would not escape—not that she tried. Even worse, she hadn’t seen nor heard from Kiera or Jess, and that hurt most of all.

She was shocked at the transformation that had happened to her and was still uncertain as to why or how it had occurred. In the quiet of her room at night, she played with her new power, bumping her elbow and then healing the bruise, or healing scratches that she picked up accidently during the day. If she focused on the injury with absolute concentration and then touched the injury with her fingers, the power seemed to flow smoothly from her, healing whatever was hurt. She also found that if she did not focus on the injury, but merely just touched it, nothing would happen. It seemed she had to will the magic to work; it was not an automatic response. 

One day, Larra had used her power to heal a particularly nasty cut on her grandmother’s finger. Elane had been chopping vegetables and the knife slipped, slicing her finger deeply. It was the first time Elane had seen Larra’s ability, and it caused the atmosphere around the cottage to become as cold and distant as the glaciers on the mountains. Since the lumbar incident, Elane had been abnormally quiet. But after Larra healed her wound, she stopped speaking altogether.  

She wished she could talk to her grandmother about the magic. She had tried countless times to start a conversation, but her grandmother continued to be unresponsive. It was as if by ignoring Larra’s presence, she could make the whole, horrible situation disappear. If it weren’t for the occasional hug, or stroke of her hair, Larra would wonder if her grandmother even loved her anymore. Elane simply seemed to have disappeared within herself, turning silent and unresponsive.

Larra wondered what would become of her. Were the laws of the kingdom regarding witches as harsh as she had heard—death by fire? And how had Larra even become a witch? It wasn’t as if she had touched a fairy, or wished for it like Kiera did. The whole thing was a mess.  A dirty, jumbled, incredible mess. 

Larra stared into her bowl, watching steam rise from the boiled wheat and honey mixture. As with most meals in the last couple of weeks, Larra found herself without appetite. She felt sad, dejected, and confused, and now more than anything she felt frustrated. Frustrated at her grandmother’s silence, frustrated at not having answers, frustrated at not knowing what was to become of her.

She scowled, the frustration working itself into a tight ball that threatened to explode if it didn’t find release. With a sudden, uncharacteristic display of temper, she shoved back her chair, the wooden legs scraping against the stone floor. Leaning forward, she slammed both hands on the kitchen table to either side of her breakfast.

“Enough!” she shouted. She looked up to see that her grandmother had turned from her work to stare at Larra in shock, her hands paused midair above her mixing bowl. 

“I’ve had enough of this, Grandmother. Enough of not knowing who I am or where I came from, or what is to become of me. Enough of this silence between us. Why, when I need your love and help the most, are you turning from me in silence?  We’ve been shut up in this little cottage for days. What do I need to do to get you to talk to me? Do you even know anything about my magic, or are you just hiding because you don’t want to tell me the truth?”

Energy spent, Larra fell back into her chair, bowing her head as tears seeped from her eyes and ran trails down her smooth cheeks. She knew she had shocked her grandmother. Never before had she shown such a display of temper. And never before had she yelled at her. She was overwhelmed with emotion. Her mind felt hot with it, her heart suffocating with it.

As she sat there, depressed and ashamed of her outburst, she heard the sound of light footsteps upon the floor. She looked up into her grandmother’s dear face and saw love and concern, a soothing balm to her wounded soul. She felt, rather than saw, her grandmother’s hand rest upon her shoulder, a comforting gesture that told her wordlessly that all would be okay. Elaine removed her hand and turned briefly to pull up another chair and sit, facing Larra with ancient eyes.

“I know, my dear, I know,” she said, her gaze understanding. “I should have told you long ago, but I so hoped…” her faded as she looked away.

I should have told you long ago?
“What do you mean?” Larra’s words were ripe with suspicion. She straightened in her chair, her depression forgotten, anger taking its place. “What do you mean you should have told me long ago? I love you. But the messenger could return from the palace at any time. And if I can’t get answers today, right this very moment, then I’m afraid I never will. Please, just say it, whatever it is.”

“This is particularly difficult for me because it involves your mother,” Elane began.

Larra’s eyes widened at this revelation, but she held her tongue.

“Your parents did not die in a carriage accident like you were told. In fact, I never even met your father. Your mother was a talented woman, you see, and she could make the most beautiful tapestries. She never had your gift for healing, even though she studied with me when she was a child. She preferred making dyes instead of remedies, and would spin her own threads and weave them into stories and pictures that a person could stare at all day. When I saw that she had such talent, I sent her to the city to learn from the best artists in the land. She fell in love with a knight during her stay, and soon discovered that she was pregnant.

“She was surprised at the pregnancy, and afraid to tell her knight because he was very involved in his work and she knew he didn’t have time for a family. He had an important position he was preparing for and wouldn’t appreciate anything getting in his way. And so she did what any girl in her position would do—she came home to her mother.” 

Elane’s voice grew soft at the memory of seeing her daughter walking up the path to the cottage. She gazed wistfully out the window as she continued the story.

“On the way home, your mother, Clayre, found a wounded fairy caught within some brambles. She had been traveling with a group heading north from the city, and had briefly left the camp for some privacy when she saw the injured creature. According to Clayre, the fairy had gotten separated from his drove and flew into a large hawk. He succeeded in getting away, but was left hopelessly tangled and scratched up. Your mother helped free the fairy and used one of my salves to treat the injuries. Before flying away, the fairy bestowed a gift on your mother—the gift of magic. He said that your mother had a pure heart and would use it to help others along her way. Then he flew into the thick of the woods and your mother returned to camp.

“I don’t believe your mother realized how both wonderful and terrible the gift the fairy had given her could be. It wasn’t until she came home to me that she began to figure out how to use the magic. She said that it was like a sixth sense, like touching or seeing or smelling.  Except that it was limited to her talents. One day, as she was weaving, she found that she could put magic into her tapestries. It made the stories she created come alive, actually glow and charm and captivate the viewer. It was beautiful. Her stories, once pleasing to look upon, now brought lasting joy and happiness to whoever gazed at her work, giving hope, giving love. She found she could bless others through her tapestries.

“She remained here in the cottage until she came to term. We decided to tell everyone that she had been married while in the city, but that her husband was away fighting for the king. Some weeks after you were born and she was feeling healthy again, she decided to take her tapestries, of which there were quite a few, into the city to the market. The village leaders were happy to let her go, as they were astonished at the sight of her creations and eager for her to make the sales. 

“But when her work was displayed, a member of the palace saw the magic within her stories and informed King Gaston.” Elane’s throat clogged with tears and she swallowed several times before she could finish the story.

“She was wandering through the market when the man returned with the king’s guards. They took her to the dungeon to await her trial.” She gave a delicate snort. “Some trial. She wasn’t tried, she was accused and sentenced without any other consideration. The injustice of it all, to take an innocent and declare her guilty!”

Larra’s heart beat rapidly as she waited to hear what happened next.

“Clayre was sentenced then and there to be executed by fire.”

It was impossible for Larra to contain her gasp of horror.

“She was killed. My beautiful, talented girl was killed, and all for the sake of magic. Was she a witch?  If that is what having magic is, then yes, she was a witch. But she was not born with it, she did not ask for it. It was a gift. A gift to help others.” Struggling to get herself under control, she brushed away her tears, wiping the moisture on her skirt.

Larra struggled with her emotions. Her entire life had been upended in the space of a few days. Things she had always believed about herself were now false. Who was she? Or even more important,
what
was she? She’d always thought her life would remain uncomplicated. But now everything had changed. The roof of her shelter had caved in, figuratively. She could no longer live in simplicity, waiting to grow old and die. Even her healing had changed.  Where before she could help someone with a salve, now all she needed was a touch. Everything was different.

She rose from her chair and began to pace along one side of the large kitchen. The morning sun was still shining, and the day outside looked cheerful and warm. The inside of the cottage hadn’t been either for many days.

“Why didn’t you tell me about my mother before?” Larra’s said, her voice harsh with feeling.

“I couldn’t,” Elane replied sadly. She raised a hand to her brow, as if to ward off a headache. “Your grandfather died so young, and Clayre was our only child. At first I was so hurt, so devastated, at what had happened to her that I couldn’t survive if I thought about it. So I just put it out of my mind. And then there was you.”              

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.