Witchlanders (13 page)

“Let us? They can't stop us!”

“I know what you're feeling,” said the farmer. He scratched the back of his head and looked away, embarrassed. “I don't like it any more than you. Tarkin was my best friend.” Tarkin the miller and his wife had been killed by the mud creatures, leaving their only son an orphan. “We all want vengeance. But witches . . . They have their reasons, and it's not for us to question them.” He sounded just like Kef.

“Why not? Why shouldn't we question them?”

Ryder looked around in frustration, regretting that Dassen hadn't come—he would have changed their minds. Without waiting for an answer, he leapt onto a low wooden platform. It was empty now, but earlier in the season it would have been piled high with bags of hicca and hicca flour—tithes kept off the ground until they could be stored.

“Good villagers!” Ryder cried. “Think of your homes! Am I the only one who wants revenge for what this Baen has done?”

There were a few scattered cheers from the crowd, and most of the villagers stopped what they were doing to listen, holding up torches and lamps. Skyla and Kef were watching Ryder from the base of the platform, but they didn't try to stop him.

“Hear me!” he called. “Think of the ruin those creatures made of our village. Now look at this beautiful coven in front of you, every hut standing, not a window broken.
Why should we let these pampered witches tell us how to protect ourselves?”

Villagers began to gather around him now, their faces golden in the torchlight. They were people Ryder had known all his life, farmers mostly, simple people who believed the teachings of Aata and Aayse—but surely a few of them would be willing to defy the witches. Surely he wasn't the only one who doubted their power, who wondered what they really did to deserve their tithes.

“Harkiss,” Ryder said, pointing to the village blacksmith. “You lost family in the attack. Don't you want revenge?” Harkiss stood with his arms crossed, his face unreadable, but at his side his two tall sons nodded gravely. “You always said you wanted to fight the Baen. This is your chance!”

“The witches tell us that the danger to our village is over,” Raiken said.

“Yes, that's what they say, but how can we believe them when they failed to predict the first attack? I say this Baen can send another pack of creatures over the mountain whenever he wants!”

“He's right!” said someone. Old Mag pushed her way to the front of the crowd. She was wearing a too-small leather jerkin and a leather helmet over her gray hair. “Are we truly going to wait for this Baen to kill us in our beds? Are we just going to lie down and let their monsters bury us?”

Ryder smiled. Old Mag had fought during the war, and she looked full ready to do it again, in spite of having grandchildren Ryder's age.

By now some of the witches had noticed what was going on, but they held back in tight groups at the edge of the meadow. From the platform, Ryder could see a small red litter carried by four bearers moving down the mountain path, but it stopped near the other witches, in a pool of light formed by the last torch on the coven steps. Ryder was too far away to see the face of the person who sat hunched on top, but he guessed it must be Sodan, the leader of the coven. Sodan never deigned to come down to the valley—few villagers had ever seen him. If Ryder had caught this man's attention, maybe he was doing something right. He raised his voice, hoping that old Sodan could hear his every word.

“I say we cross the border now, take this Baen magician by surprise, and slit his throat! Now, who is with me?”

“Stop this, boy,” said a sharp voice from the crowd. “Stop this now!” It was Visser, the witch who had come down the mountain with Kef and Aata's Right Hand in answer to his mother's firecall. She pushed her way through the villagers and glared up at him from the base of the platform. “We witches don't have to explain ourselves!” She beckoned Ryder toward her, and as he bent down, she grabbed him by the ear, lowering her voice so that only he
could understand. “Aata's Right Hand has seen things in her casting. Things you would not want revealed.”

“Reveal what you want,” Ryder said, pushing her hand away. He stood up and yelled hoarsely at the crowd. “I say again, who is with me? Whatever happens, I will be crossing the border tonight!”

The cheers were louder now, and their meaning was unmistakable: A good portion of the villagers were on his side.

“You asked for this,” murmured Visser. The gray-haired witch clambered up onto the platform. “Good people!” she cried. “The creatures you have told us about did not come from over the mountain. We witches would have seen them pass.”

“That doesn't mean anything,” Ryder answered, just as loud. “That Baen could have been singing on one side of the mountain and the creatures could have formed on the other.”

“Unlikely. From the reports you yourselves have given us, it seems that these creatures appeared somewhere between the coven and the village. It is logical to assume that this was where they were formed.”

Between the village and the coven. In other words, from somewhere near Ryder's farm. “What are you saying?” Ryder hissed.

The villagers looked from one to the other, confused. “Is the Baen among us, then?” said Old Mag, looking around
as if he could be hiding in the crowd. “Did he cross to our side of the border?”

“It was not our intention to reveal all we have seen,” said Visser. “But Ryder has forced our hand. We believe that our poor sister Mabis, driven mad with maiden's woe, was experimenting with strange magics. It was she who made the creatures.”

“What!” Ryder felt heat rise to his cheeks; he could scarcely believe what he'd heard. He stared hard at Visser, expecting to see the guilt of her lie written on her face, but if she felt any shame, she hid it well.

“Perhaps the grief over her husband's death . . . ,” she began.

“Don't believe her!” Ryder shouted to the crowd. “You've known my mother all your lives. Tell this witch you don't believe Mabis could have done such a thing!”

“But Mabis predicted the attack,” someone said from the crowd. “She made the firecall and sent the tavern keeper with a warning.” It was Kef, looking as surprised by Visser's pronouncement as Ryder himself. Obviously, not all the witches had been privy to the explanation that Mabis made the creatures. Visser glared at the young witch, and he looked to the ground, frowning.

“It is easy to predict what you plan to do yourself,” said Visser.

“No!” said Ryder. “It doesn't make sense.”

“Listen to me!” Visser shouted to the crowd. “The Right Hand of Aata has thrown the bones. These things are not to be disputed.”

“I dispute them!” Ryder said. “Aata's Right Hand has no skill! If she did, she would have seen the monsters!”

“What do you know of such things?” Visser spat.

“Surely she's not the only boneshaker in the world. Send messengers to other covens. Have them throw the bones. My mother is innocent!”

A look crossed Visser's face then, a look of almost panic, but she quickly recovered herself. “Other covens agree with our predictions,” she said sharply. “There is no danger from the Baen.”

Ryder frowned at that, wondering if Visser was telling the truth, wondering why no one from any other coven had predicted the attack and tried to warn them. Were all the boneshakers in the Witchlands as incompetent as Aata's Right Hand? Had no one but his mother seen the danger?

“Please!” Ryder called out to the crowd. “Raiken, my mother saved your family with her warning. You said so yourself as we came up the mountain.”

Ryder's neighbor stood twisting his gloves in his hands, embarrassed by the eyes of the villagers that were suddenly all upon him. “It's true that Mabis takes the maiden's woe,” he said finally. “This summer I saw her in the river pulling it up. My wife saw her too.”

“No!” Ryder bellowed. “She only did that to help her prophecy. She saved you! My mother saved you all—you'd be dead if it weren't for her!”

Visser grabbed him by the arm. “I'm sorry,” she said. “We would have held this information back. But we cannot start another war by killing this Baen.”

Ryder shook himself free. “You witches,” he sneered. “You sit up here, doing no work, eating our food, and for what?”

“But are we out of danger?” Raiken asked Visser, his eyes avoiding Ryder. “Couldn't Mabis create more of those hideous things?”

“She didn't make them!” Ryder yelled, shaking with anger.

“We feel there is little chance of that,” Visser said. “She is almost certainly dead—I'm sorry, Ryder. If her own creatures didn't kill her, the craving for maiden's woe surely has by now.”

Ryder looked to Sodan's litter, wondering if he was behind all this, but the coven leader sat hunched and unmoving. Only the slight puff of his breath proved he was more than a pile of blankets. A little higher up on the coven steps, Ryder caught a glimpse of white. It was a young woman. He recognized her long braid and graceful stance—Aata's Right Hand.

“You!” he roared, forgetting everything else as blind
fury swept over him. He leapt from the platform into the crowd.

“Ryder, don't!” he heard Skyla shout.

“Stop him,” Visser cried, but the villagers parted as he ran.

His boots thumped on the frozen ground, and in moments he had reached the edge of the meadow. Torchlight dazzled him. He passed the litter without a glance and dodged through the startled group of witches who had been watching him from a distance. A woman in red came out of one of the huts and cried out as he flew by. Aata's Right Hand stood above him on a platform of the tiered steps, her lips parted in surprise, a glim in her hand.

“What have you been saying about my mother?” Ryder shouted up to her.

The girl stepped back in alarm. She wore a white coat that went down past her knees, and her long braid was slung forward in front of her. Ryder ran toward her, taking two steps at a time, but just as he reached the platform, someone grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back. Kef—he always could run fast. They struggled briefly. Then Ryder hit Kef in the chest with the flat of his hand, and Kef stumbled backward into the crowd of people who were swarming up the steps after him.

Aata's Right Hand stared at the scene with horror in her eyes—and something else, too. For a moment Ryder
thought he saw the guilt and shame he had expected to find in Visser. Two more men grabbed him and held him back by the arms—Harkiss the blacksmith and one of his boys.

“You're a liar!” Ryder said to the girl, trying to pull free. “I can see it in your eyes.”

She gave a small gasp and the glim dropped from her hands, smashing on stone. Then she turned and bolted, a flash of white.

“Coward! Thief! Come answer for what you've done!”

Ryder tried to break away and run after her, but many hands pulled him back. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the cold platform, surrounded by angry, shouting faces. He struggled, but after a while he realized it was useless, and he stopped, panting at the dark sky. The hilt of the Baenkiller jabbed painfully into his back.

“Let me talk to him!” Skyla pushed her way to Ryder's side. “Let him up, please! He's just upset!”

“I'm not upset.” He sat up. “Where is that girl?”

“Ryder, shut up,” Skyla hissed, her voice sharp. Then, to the others: “Let me talk to him in private. Please. He's had bad news. Surely you can understand that.”

“You don't believe it,” Ryder said, still quivering with anger. “Tell me you don't.”

“Of course not,” said Skyla. “It doesn't make sense.” She had led him in between the huts to a large wooden building without walls—a shrine, Ryder guessed. Its sloped roof was held up by tall, thin pillars. Here, witches could perform their prayers in open air and still be protected from the weather.

They climbed a few rough steps and walked out onto a bare floor. Ryder couldn't see much at first; they had only one glim that Skyla carried on a chain. Wooden planks creaked under their feet. To Ryder, it seemed like cheating to kneel down and greet the earth on a raised floor, but then, he was no expert on praying.

Skyla crossed to a low railing, hanging the glim on a hook as she leaned out over the valley. Ryder came up beside his sister, but there was little to see. It was a moonless night, and the stars were snuffed out by thick winter clouds. In the valley, all was dark. Only a few lamps and torches were visible, below them and to the left, snaking their way down the mountain path: The villagers were leaving, going home.

Ryder turned away and sank down onto the plank floor, trying to quiet a cold rage that threatened to choke him. He pulled the Baenkiller from his back and checked for damage—it seemed unharmed.

Skyla stared down at him, light from the glim reflected in her eyes. If anything could melt the shell of ice inside
him it was probably those knowing eyes, like his father looking at him from beyond the grave. Ryder kept his attention on the sword, polishing a dull spot with the end of his coat sleeve.

“I know what you're thinking,” she said.

He glanced up. She probably did, and anyway, there was no use hiding his intentions. “I'll need food. And a good knife.”

“You'll die.” Skyla folded her legs and settled down in front of him, putting a gloved hand on his knee. “You'll die if you go after that Baen alone.”

“I suppose.”

“I heard her prophecies too. Mabis didn't say anything about a Baen.”

“Yes, she did—the assassin, don't you remember?”

Skyla furrowed her brow, considering. “But the witches—they won't let you go.”

“Who will tell them?” Skyla didn't answer, and Ryder tried to read her face. Would she give him away?