“A Witch Does Not Cower In Fear” (Part 1 of 2) A Novelette By C. A. Brown « PekoeBlaze

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Despite everything that upper initiate Rayne Bilderbrook knew about the truths of magic, she still shook and tapped the wand like it was a faulty piece of clockwork. A few faint blue sparks sputtered out of the tip. Her greying plait patted her on the back with every movement. The wand may as well have been a twig.

The cloudy night sky outside the arched window beside her was almost as deep a shade of purple as the wallpaper of her chambers. A lantern glowed orange on her desk, one of the emergency paraffin ones traded from the village via intermediaries. Rayne reached for another one of the wands from the line on the desk.

Rayne knew what would happen before she even touched it. She did so anyway and watched the weak blue glow flare and fade within the space of two seconds.

She knew what had to be done. The feeling twisted in the pit of her stomach. It never got any easier. She took a deep breath and got to her feet. The little clock on her desk told her that it was only eight. The Arch-Mother would have returned from dinner by now and be sorting through her late correspondence.

Rayne took another deep breath. Even the young candidates had started to notice the problems with everyone else’s wands. She had put a smile on her face, the old-fashioned way, and called a meeting of the lower ranks where she pointed to a passage in an old book – written in almost illegible Fraktur letters – about rot and mould and ley lines. She had told them that the coven would cover the cost of repairs but that they would have to seek out a specialist to the west. That it could take weeks.

Rayne exhaled sharply. Part of her mind told her that it wasn’t too late to leave. Desertions weren’t uncommon amongst candidates and novitiates, but the coven didn’t want more advanced magical knowledge getting out into the world. Rayne wondered if she could pass for a travelling merchant. Magic or not, old-fashioned disguises still worked. If she put enough villages between herself and the coven, it might just work.

Her mind flashed back to her own days as a candidate. How wonderful it all had seemed. The purple walls and the black robes. The cauldrons and the spell-books and the little trees with the glowing fruit. How it was all a far cry from the work-room of the cobbler-shop. Her fingers still ached from the heavy needles, even all these years later. If she thought hard enough, she could almost remember her father’s face.

As much as part of her mind told her to run, another wished that she could have stayed as a novitiate. The perfect middle-ground between candidate and initiate. Trusted with a wand, but not with too much knowledge. But she knew as well as anyone else that novitiates automatically become lower initiates after five years, typically at around twenty-one. That not even the most advanced spells could divert the river of time.

Rayne shook her head. A witch does not cower in fear. There was nothing else for it. She would have to tell the Arch-Mother that it had happened again.

————–

The lone witch walked past the towering red glass mountains. A small blue point of light hovered two feet ahead of her, guiding her forwards. Her sensible black shoes clapped against the perfectly flat ruby plain below her. The sky glowed its usual luminous pink, both suns mercifully diffused by dense clouds.

The lone witch, Classanda Wenthrop, third-year novitiate of the East Point coven, clung on to the brown leather satchel slung over her shoulder. Her black hair lay in a single plait draped over her other shoulder. She wore the uniform of the coven – a calf-length black robe and pointed hat, reputedly based on festivities from another world that the founder – Monika Schwarzrabe – had observed in a scrying-glass three centuries earlier.

Classanda had been walking for days. Her satchel contained no provisions, only a letter, a metal cup, a metal plate, a utility knife, a blanket and a spare robe. She kept her wand in her sleeve. One of the last good wands, specially prepared by no less than two upper initiates for her journey. And, whenever the little blue light rested on the ground, she would draw her wand and command her cup to fill and for food to appear from thin air. As a novitiate, her repertoire was still fairly plain, but it worked well enough.

Sometimes, the wind caught the knapped tips of the red glass mountains in a certain way and they resonated with a single echoing note. When they did, Classanda felt the tiny hairs on her skin stand on end. It sounded like the ruby desert was crying, mourning all those who dried out to skeletons upon her barren ground.

Those old bodies were never moved or buried. In death, they became waypoints. Landmarks on the endless red plain. Classanda had even seen coins scattered beside one of them. Everything from shiny golden guilders to green copper pence. It wasn’t law or superstition that stopped travellers from stealing from the dead, more that there was nowhere within a thousand miles to spend the extra weight.

More than all of that, Classanda thought, the bodies were a bit of variety. A break from the endless red and pink ahead. Although the blue guide-light moved at a fixed speed along a fixed track, there was usually enough time to get a good look at the bodies. Most still kept their original rags or finery. Some still had empty gourds or flasks lying beside them.

As she took another step, Classanda almost trod on the old knife. From the tiny chip in the ground beside it, it must have fallen from a great height. The filthy six-inch blade had somehow begun to rust and blend in with the ground. The handle appeared to be made from precious wood. For a moment, she thought about picking it up and taking it with her. No point. The tip had been crushed flat by the impact.

By now, the blue light was ten feet away from her. Classanda almost slipped on the flat ruby ground as she caught up with it. One of the first rules of the desert was to travel slow. Carriages were useless. Flying spells could work but there was too much risk of getting dazzled or landing badly. Everyone, from queens to the banished, walked on the same two feet in the ruby desert.

The only way to tell whether you were near the edge of the desert was when the tracks started appearing. Dried soil from distant fields, dust from the western sands, muck from city streets. Walk for long enough here and even the filthiest shoes leave no prints. And the ground below her feet had never been shinier or more level.

Classanda kept her eyes locked on the blanket of pink clouds above. It had been months since they had last parted and even the coven’s best seers couldn’t tell exactly when it would happen again. Her heart sped up at the thought. She had begged the Arch-Mother to let her travel after the next parting, pled that the letter would be lost if she was blinded by the glare, but it was no use.

The Arch-Mother had sat back behind her golden desk and, in the iciest of voices, said “The Ruby Outpost has to know!”

Classanda couldn’t argue with that. What magic was left in the coven couldn’t be wasted on sending messages. The letter had to be about all of this. There was no point opening it. And, even though the wax seal envelope didn’t seem to be hexed, she could never tell if anyone was watching her through the little blue light floating ahead of her. Whether anyone could watch her through it. Only the higher ranks knew things like that.

She kept walking until the little blue light rested on the ground once again.

Classanda used the folded blanket as a makeshift chair, filled her cup with water and her plate with black bread, blue apple and cheese.

She almost missed when the little blue light rose again and carried on along its path. She almost slipped again before settling into the usual rhythm, keeping her eyes on the clouds and wondering when night would fall again. She couldn’t tell whether she had been walking for two days or three. All there was was walking and eating and sleeping. In the ruby desert, distance could only be measured by time.

—————–

In the south tower of the East Point coven house, fourth-year novitiate Hilda Grünberg yawned and stared at the book. She noticed her fingers playing with her short blonde plait. A ray of bright pink light sliced through the purple gloom around the high window and landed perfectly on her gnarled wooden desk.

Everything about the thin bedroom – little more than a cell – was designed for focus and study. Yet, Hilda just couldn’t sleep well. Lower initiate Schmidt had given her a potion for it yesterday, but it smelled more like the laudanum her mother had once given her for every childhood ailment. It wasn’t as strong either.

Hilda rubbed her eyes and stared at the book again. The ink still smelled fresh. It was Bernhardt’s treatise on the location of arcane energies and the divination of ley lines. None of it made sense. Yes, the idea of looking for energetic places was more suited to the histories than the references, but she had to try something. With the wand-rot, the lower initiates had tried to keep everyone busy with candidate-level chores and dry-cast drills, but even they had started to give up.

Eva and Classanda had already deserted. Magda had been toying with the idea of slipping into the village in disguise for a week or so. Schmidt hadn’t even gotten angry at Magda when she found out. She had just calmly pointed out that the villagers were wary of strangers. That, with the wands out of action, Magda would need to take a dagger with her in case she heard the shout of “Witch!” or the crackling of torches. Last time Hilda checked, Magda was still in her cell.

Hilda turned her eyes back to the book. Bernhardt said nothing about making new wands. She was writing in an age before coven houses. Back when witches still had to flee from village to village, working on the spot with whatever they had to hand. The printing room in the catacombs still had the plates for at least seven novels about the olden days. Thrilling hedge-witch adventures about dodging the deadly mob, enchanting the prince and things like that. If you slipped lower initiate Schäfer half a guilder, then she’d even press out a copy for you after-hours.

Hilda yawned and looked up at the window above. For a moment, she considered climbing onto the desk and looking at the view. If you really strained, you could just about see the edge of the ruby desert or – at night – the distant lights of the village. Mostly though, it was just a bunch of rocks and crystals.

Hilda knew that it would only be a week or three until the wands were repaired. She still remembered a time before she had ever held a wand. It seemed like another world. Smaller and older, limited and cramped. The smell of candlewax and the noise of wagon wheels crunching on gravel. Eintopf one-pot meals bubbling in a cauldron above the hearth-fire, a beige-brown pottage sludge that had been eaten since the days when peasants were still called peasants.

At least the coven hadn’t stooped to those depths yet. There hadn’t been a single evening feast since the magic faltered. The daily rations of hard cheese and pickled fruit and salted meat from the catacomb’s emergency stores at least kept that fate at bay. According to Schmidt, there was enough to last for years. Most of it had been bought via middle-men from the village decades ago and preserved in the old ways by candidates who were upper initiates or more by now. And at least that kept the food interesting, the thought that you might be chewing on a piece of meat that had been hand-salted by the Arch-Mother herself.

Hilda sighed and kept reading. Bernhardt’s treatise listed many methods for finding sources of magical energy in the wild – it was common near graveyards and farms – and even a few techniques for channelling it without using a wand. They were convoluted mixtures of words and gestures. Sometimes, you even had to drink animal blood as well. Disgusting. Still, the passages about crystals were interesting. No doubt she’d be brushed off with a laugh if she suggested going out into the ruby desert to perform spells. It was probably the wrong type of crystal or something.

Still, with the wands out of action, there was nothing to do but read and think. And, for the first time in several years, Hilda felt like a peasant again. She felt like the world was cold and dead, a mechanical contraption which required gurning, grinding physical effort to interact with. One where crops had to be sown and livestock slaughtered. Where brooms swept flagstones and scythes sliced overgrown fields in perfect moon crescents. Where the air always smelled of manure and wood smoke and cabbage. Where flies buzzed and food spoiled and laundry hung. Disgusting.

Hilda flipped back through the book to the beginning of the chapter about locating magical energy. She checked her purse. There was probably enough in there to get permission to leave the coven house for at least a couple of days, to find the energy and make the gestures. To do some sort of magic, just to remind herself that she wasn’t just a machine within a machine.

—————–

Classanda saw the cracks in the ground several minutes before the black tower of the Ruby Outpost appeared like a nail-head jutting out of the horizon. At first, it just looked like someone had just scratched the shiny red surface but, as the tower got larger, there were patches of gemstone-dust and crevices as wide as her hand which threatened to catch her foot and snap her ankle. She drew her wand just in case. Healing spells were tricky things, best not attempted without a book on hand, but every novitiate at least knew how to get rid of pain.

Classanda was so focused on the ground in front of her that she almost didn’t notice that the small blue guide-light two feet in front of her had already started to dim and flicker. A smile crossed her lips. She almost tripped over a shallow dust-pit. The air sparkled red and pink around her. It almost seemed luxurious in the half second before instinct took over. Classanda closed her eyes for a few minutes and took shallow breaths through her sleeve until the ruby dust settled again.

When she opened her eyes, her black robes were still covered with glittering dust. She flourished her wand and cleaned it off in an instant. By now, the tower on the horizon looked as tall as a foot. It looked like a silhouette, a forgotten old tower in the middle of nowhere.

For a moment, Classanda thought about casting an information spell, sending an energy-ghost to scour the coven’s miles of bookshelves to tell her how the witches got all of the stones out here, how they built foundations on literal gemstone. It would be a waste of magic. It would be a day or two before she would even get an answer. Instead, her imagination was filled with an image of a majestic procession of witches levitating piles of stone with their wands, guided by giant blue orbs. It was as good an answer as any.

Classanda kept walking, her eyes focused on the treacherous ground ahead. Some of the cracks seemed as wide as her waist by now. Her knuckles went white as she clutched her wand as tightly as she could. There would be no retrieving it if she dropped it.

She couldn’t help but laugh at herself. The witches in the outpost probably had entire cases of spare wands ready for wand-rot emergencies like the one at home. Maybe they would levitate them back to the coven house long before everyone’s ordinary wands were repaired? Maybe this whole journey might even be rewarded with an early promotion to lower initiate?

By now, the outpost looked as tall as she did. It was a four-storey watchtower with a small domed building beside it. Everything was painted in high-visibility black that made it difficult to make out where the windows or doors were. Especially with both suns sitting low behind the glowing pink clouds above. Classanda didn’t care. She had made it there. For a moment, she thought about stopping and waving to whoever was watching from the tower. It seemed pointless.

Classanda noticed that the cracks below were getting worse. Wide valleys and wounds in the ruby ground. Their roughly-cleaved walls gleamed like bloodstained waterfalls. And she wondered how deep the flat gemstone sheet went. Whether, if she climbed in, she would find more ruby or cold bedrock in the darkness at the bottom.

Classanda kept her feet on solid ground, almost not noticing that the little blue light in front of her had all but disappeared, and got closer to the tower. It sat on an island of solid ground surrounded by a carved moat that stretched downwards into darkness. A single thin bridge of shiny ruby remained. A connecting streamer of solid ground with no guide-rails. Classanda kept her gaze focused on her feet, not daring to look at the void on other side or at the cloudy pink sky above which could dazzle her or – worse – rain at a moment’s notice. All that mattered was the polished ruby ground in front of her.

And, when she walked into the cold black stones of the tower, she pressed her palms against them and shouted “Hello!”

Her words echoed and disappeared. It took her a moment to notice the open archway on the bottom of the tower. There was no door attached to it. She shouted through the archway. No response.

Her mind raced, there had to be a reason. Maybe there was a curtain for when the clouds parted and the world was nothing but blinding light? Maybe the thin bridge across the pit was better than a door? You could walk for three days and never see another living person And, as long as you were on the right side of the bridge when it rained, the deep moat would prevent flooding and serve as a useful backup water source too. There had to be a reason for the missing door. All Classanda had to do was find someone to ask.

She stepped through the archway and into the gloom. With a flick of her wand, she created a ball of glowing blue light. The circular room looked like any other coven room, even down to the checkerboard tiles, the books and the dark purple wall. If she didn’t turn around, it almost felt like she had never left East Point. Like this outpost was a part of the mansion which, like an island, broke off from the mainland and drifted away.

There was a staircase running along one of the curved walls of the tower and a door which seemed to lead to the small dome beside it. Classanda tried the door. It was locked. She returned outside, blinking at the bright pink sky and extinguishing her wand before searching the outside of the black dome for an external door. There wasn’t one. She cast another illumination spell before returning to the tower and knocking on the door. No response. A hint of a laugh bubbled in the back of her throat. What if it was just a storeroom?

There was nothing else to do but try the stairs. Maybe there was a key hidden up there?

—————–

An awkward silence filled the arched expanse of the coven’s empty dining hall. Hilda frowned at lower initiate Schmidt from across the bare wooden table.

The red-haired woman frowned back at her. “Sorry, with the problems with the wands, it just isn’t safe to visit the village – no matter how much you’re willing to pay me. Seriously, you’re almost as bad as Magda.”

Hilda held up the book. “But there could be sources of magical energy out there. We didn’t always use wands.”

Schmidt paused. “Don’t you think that they would have built this place on top of the largest one here?” Her eyes widened. She reached for Hilda’s book and read a few passages before getting up.

Schmidt raised both of her arms and began whispering: “I invoke the points of the east and the west.” Her voice echoed as loud as a shout. She pointed in each direction. She raised her arms again. “I call down the light of the suns and the cold of the moons. I….” Her arms fell. “Nope. Didn’t feel a thing.”

Hilda’s eyes widened. “The problem isn’t with the wands?”

Schmidt laughed. “Glad I’m not the only one who was starting to think that. Maybe the magic here is like a well, one which needs time and rain to replenish?”

Hilda frowned and lowered her voice. “Then why the whole story about the wands? The rigmarole of handing them in to be repaired? It seems… strange.”

Schmidt laughed again. “You can say ‘suspicious’ if you want to. If anyone is listening, then they’re listening already.”

Hilda blushed. Her eyes scanned the empty dining hall. Dinner wasn’t for another two hours. She let out a sigh of relief. If there wasn’t any magic here then there was no way for anyone to listen from a distance. “Yes, it is suspicious. Has it ever happened before?”

Schmidt furrowed her brow. “Way back when I was a candidate, there were a few weeks when I didn’t see anyone use any magic. I was little more than a girl back then but it was impossible to ignore the extra chores I had to do. Cleaning and stuff. None of the older novitiates would tell me why they didn’t just use the usual spells for it. I thought it was a prank or something.”

“Seriously?” Hilda giggled. “It would be a good one...”

Schmidt shook her head. “Nah. The candidates already know about the wands. I’ve got them planting wheat seeds in the darkest depths of the catacombs. Carrying well-water down there to water them too.” She snorted. “Just as well that none of this year’s crop are from a farm.”

“No way. That’s too funny! Don’t know how I’m going to top that one when I get promoted.”

“Well, you’ve still got a year to think about it. Anyway, I’ve got to get going. Just stay in the coven house. Seriously, things will return to normal. Just swear an oath for me.”

“Seriously? An oath?”

“Look, I’ll ask around amongst the upper initiates about this whole thing. Discreetly. But, without our magic, even going near the village is too much of a risk. It has been a hundred years since one of us was last burnt at the stake and I don’t want to be the one to break that streak. Look, I know oaths don’t have the power they do when there’s magic but, for your own sake, I want you to swear. And mean it!”

“I thought you’d never ask. This is total and utter bull… ”

“No, the other sort.”

Hilda sighed. “By the suns and the moons, I swear to remain within the coven house until the magic has returned. May the fates strike me if I do not.”

Schmidt coughed.

Hilda rolled her eyes again. “May the fates strike me dead if I do not. May my eyes turn to water and my blood boil. May my entrails be scattered to the four points and my skull burnt. May the lizards feast upon my stomach and the scorpions gnaw upon my fingers. May my essence rot, tormented, in a pit of searing flames. So may it be.”

“Good.” Schmidt’s expression softened. “Trust me, the villagers would do worse to you. And, you know, there might even be something here in one of the books?”

A thin smile crossed Hilda’s face. “Thanks. I just feel so useless at the moment. I came here to get away from being a peasant but...”

“Hey, it isn’t just our magic which sets us apart. It’s our knowledge and our books as well. And our unity.” A hint of compassion in Schmidt’s eyes. “Look, I know it probably sounds like busy-work or a distraction but, until the magic returns, this distraction at least has a chance of turning up something useful.”

“I guess. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. And don’t be late for lunch either. I know what you’re like with books.”

—————–

“Hello!” Classanda kept the glowing point of her wand ahead of her as she climbed the winding spiral stairs at the edge of the gloomy circular room. The open archway on the other other side glowed like a brazier. Her left hand clung to the metal railing hammered into the wall. There was no bannister to her right, just a short drop.

The stairs led directly into the second floor of the tower. Here, at least, several arched windows filled the chamber with enough faint pink light to see everything. Classanda extinguished her wand again and put it back in her sleeve.

The room had clearly been occupied at one point. There was a faded red velvet chaise-longue, a rack of old swords, more stairs and a wooden desk. The inkwell had long since dried out and, when Classanda opened the top drawer, she found a pile of sealed letters. The top few seemed to be new, but the ones at the bottom had started to fade and yellow.

Classanda reached into her satchel and pulled out the letter from the Arch-Mother. She had planned to just leave it on the desk but curiosity got the better of her and she held it up to one of the other letters. The handwriting on the envelope was exactly the same as the five most recent letters. The next ten were all written by the same different person. Ditto the really old ones at the bottom. All of the wax seals were still intact.

She left her letter on the desk and picked up one of the newer letters. Her fingers hovered over the red wax. She felt her heart speed up. She put it down and reached for one of the older letters. If no-one has read it in all this time, no-one will mind me looking at it. Even so, she could feel her hands get clammy as she gently prodded and tore at the dry paper above the seal. It crumbled and tore easily enough. The yellowed paper inside the envelope was folded in three. It broke apart as she opened it. Each strip of paper was completely blank.

Classanda reached for one of the more recent letters. The paper was a bit more supple. With deep breaths and trembling fingers, she tore it open. Above the sound of her heart, the ripping paper sounded like a dragon’s roar. She held her breath, terrified of suddenly hearing footsteps on the wooden roof above. No-one moved up there. She reached into the envelope. Another sheet of blank paper folded into three.

Her mind raced for explanations. She sniffed the paper. No smell of lemon juice. She ran her wand across it, watching the tip carefully for any reactions to enchantment. Nothing. She cast a small circle of magnification above the page, a floating blue lens that made the fibres look like a felled forest of silver beeches. Nothing. No tiny writing. Just paper. She held the page up to her face and licked the corner. It just tasted like paper. It was an ordinary blank page, better than the rough grey sheets she knew how to conjure, but still just paper.

Her eyes drifted over to the letter she had been entrusted with. Although she knew what she would find inside, Classanda still hesitated for several minutes. You’re in enough trouble for opening the other letters, how will one more make it worse? She tore the envelope open and pulled out the blank page. None of it made any sense. She felt a sinking in the pit of her stomach what felt like minutes before the words began to form in her mind. What if the point was just to send me here? To get rid of me?

Classanda’s mind raced for explanations. Whilst she wasn’t the best at magic, she could still out-spell Magda any day of the week. She got on reasonably well with most of the lower initiates. Although she wasn’t as popular as Annelise or Hedwig, she had more friends than Hilda did. She had never tried to sneak out to the village. She had always obeyed when an upper initiate gave her an order. None of it made any sense. Part of her mind tried to be positive, to tell her that she had been entrusted with the outpost, that she had to keep it safe until someone arrived to relieve her.

But the Arch-Mother’s icy words still rang in her mind: “The Ruby Outpost has to know!”

It didn’t add up. If she’d been made the keeper of the outpost, it would have been explained to her. She’d have gotten lessons in how to run the place. No, the Arch-Mother wanted her away from the coven house for some reason and she didn’t know what it was. It was obviously important enough to require giving up one of the few – perhaps even the only – functioning wands left in the coven house for. But why? It made no sense. Was it a punishment or a protection?

For a moment, Classanda thought about just asking. Communication spells were more of an initiate-level thing, but she could refill the well with ink and conjure a quill, then send her letter flying back to the coven house. She sighed and shook her head. Not only would it be a waste of magic but – with the wand problems – the coven might not even have a way to reply.

A darker thought crept into the back of her mind. It sat there like a beetle in a barrel, waiting for her to try to reach in and shoo it away. She ignored it. It got louder. Her eyes flashed over to the rack of swords by the wall. She got up from the desk and inspected them. There were a few scratches, but no pitting on the blades. No rusty bloodstains. All of the swords were still neatly ordered by length.

She rushed over to one of the arched windows. Aside from the distant red glass mountains, there was nothing but a pink cloudy sky and a perfectly level ruby plain which stretched out for miles. It didn’t add up. Even if the wand-rot had affected the tower, the witches who lived here would have had ample time to prepare and mount a defence – especially with the moat and the bridge. None of it made any sense. She had walked in the desert for at least three days and not seen as much as a single other traveller, let alone a gang of brigands or an advancing army.

Her mind raced more. Even back when she was just a little candidate, she had been told of the Ruby Outpost. It was sometimes mentioned in the evening stories. She had always assumed that there was some reason for it being there. Some magical significance that she’d learn when she got older and advanced through the ranks. But, seeing it with her own two eyes, it didn’t seem to be anything special. Nothing added up.

Classanda took a deep breath and drew her wand. She put her satchel on the checkerboard floor. The stairs leading up to the third floor caught the pink light from one of the windows absolutely perfectly. If there are any answers, I’ll have to find them myself.

(To be continued… Tomorrow at 7:30AM GMT/UTC. If you’re reading it after that time, then this link to part two should be active)