Witchroot: An Epic Witch Fantasy Chapters 1-10

1

The Sooty City

Clouds were things that roamed the streets day and night, disappearing carts of food, the very young and very old, even eating the windows of buildings, all the way from the mucky bases to the serrated summits. At least, that was what people who lived here often said.

Roz didn’t much care for such bushwa talk. She knew little of order in her messy corner of the world; what there was of it was offered by the Higher Ones, who helped her understand that her mother would eventually heal if she was patient, that it was of utmost importance to remain pure before a marriage proposal, and Most Importantly, that Magick, or human control over the surrounding world, was Not Real.

At least, that was what Roz would agree to if asked.

The women of this place clung to faith to be deemed sane and chaste. Despite her careful adherence to doctrine, Roz was, in the eyes of almost every townsmen, and consequently their wives and lovers, destined to be a whore as surely as her mother was a witch- it was only a matter of time. Anyone with eyes for the truth would, upon seeing Roz, simply see a girl becoming a woman, a mere laundress of no particular note, perhaps darker, taller, and wider than other laundresses of twenty years.

Said laundress was rounding the corner of her particular bit of slum with her basket of family washing before bashing into- well Bash- on his weekly run to the furthest corner of town he could reach before being forced back into his bath’s frothy water.

Roz seizes him, slippery as he is, hauling his body over her shoulder as he exclaims loudly in protest.

“Mother T is tryin’ tah kill me!!”

“No, Mother Thiieri is trying to kill the lice in your hair and fleas in your-“

“But I don’t want tah get clean! I’d stand out too much on the street! People’d think I was a bug!

“For the last time Bash, they’d more likely think you were a bug wit’ tha_ cut of filth, ya’ve got on ya!”

Roz doesn’t like to use streetspeak, but sometimes he actually listens to her when she slips into it. In this case it silences him for the moment, until he’d been gotten inside.

“I am sorry about this Mother Thiieri. He is still skiddish about water-ow!” Bash has knocked the back of Roz’s head with his elbow. Fortunately her piles of hair protect her slightly.

“I am sorry dear, but I only have a short time here you know, and it isn’t always part of my service to run into the street with my cuffs pushed up an’ all-“

“I understand, and I am sorry Mother Thii-“

“Well alright dear-” Mother T grasps the boy- shoving him into the water- then swinging him onto the waiting beige towel. She dries him roughly too- pinching and rubbing more than strictly necessary-

“All right- I’ll be back in an hour for the tub.- The water’s yours if you want it.”

At this point, Roz can only manage a nod as she sidles into the next room, their drying room with a fireplace, bringing along her washing.

Buttoning her cuffs back around her wrists- Sister T ascends into the street.

Roz silently clears the room of Bash’s dirty clothes,then refreshes the towels, rags, and soap, all theirs before carrying the beaten Bash into the dry room. He folds, burrowing into her neck, and, a moment later, she feels his wet tears on her skin. She mentally curses the Sisters, with their fake generosity and rough hands. After raking through the bathwater with a sieve and reheating it, she put two little ones in the low water. Returning to the dry room, Bash is contemplating his left big toe with a wan face. Roz goes to her basket, beginning to sort the laundry. After a moment:

Bash: “Why do you keep letting Mother- Thiieri come back here? She gives me big bruises, you know.” He showed his left thigh.

“You know they’re the only ones that can get a real bath out here; we have to get clean where we can. Besides, it’s free.”

“Yea, you might say so…”The boy pouted in the chair by the fireplace.

“I can’t fit in the tub so I wash with the river~ when you’re my size and bigger you may not mind the pinching as much as the pinch of the half-frozen water- anyway, being a boy won’t be a burden for long Bastian. You’re looking out for your sisters in your way now, and you’ll get rights attached to such a responsibility soon-rights which you’ll like very much then–”

Bash scowls. The mystery of “male rights” makes his head itch the way the mystery of why the nuns would only offer baths for men-children made his ears and neck itch. Bash’s ponderings make him blind to the way Roz stiffened at her own words, losing herself to a trance of her own, during which she touched her right leg idly.

“Wola, Noma! Dwola’s homa!!” This exclamation springs from a miniscule, wet, and naked child who follows the words with her rocketing, faintly blue body. Roz swung down a strong arm, easily scooping up the tot, balancing her in front of her blank face.

“Yes of course, but you must be at least dry before hugging him aye? Bash- your knackers are in the basket- make sure your hands are dry before you reach in this time dear.” Rubbing his hair as she passes, she sees a shadow of a smile in the flicker of the fire. That’s best- it’s best he think better of his life, given what he is Roz thinks to herself.

Parla, the little one in Roz’s arms, touches her face, trying to push up the corners of her mouth.

2

Dwola and…Mother

Father, whom the children had affectionately named Dwola, is seated by the door, tending to a neglected potted tree which had been stationed by the door long ago to greet guests, and which had fallen into a deep depression as a result of few guests, aside from lost children who did not note its presence, ever having come by. Dwola is a slight man with a kind face, which holds the ghastly white coloring so common to natives of thid perpetually clouded city, his skin appearing all the more colorless for his dark hair.

The children assemble around Dwola, from the pale and talkative Parla and her ebony and hushed sister Orpni to the vibrant and imperious oldest child, Alwey. Ten children pile on stories from their day, as children are eager to do with any adult that listens. His face takes on a naturally patient turn, though he seems occupied, his eyes drifting to Roz, who stayed back. Children don’t always require proof of attention so much as the appearance of it. Roz listens, parsing through the rapid string of words to catch whether they had eaten, or whether they had been maltreated and might need bandages. She rests her feet and assumes a bored and unfriendly expression, which often discourages the children from rushing to her with their stories or asking for help.

Roz and her father hadn’t always lived this way. Children had started appearing at their door, seeking shelter starting from around seven years ago– following some painful events. The first had been Alwey, whose dark hair and skin matched Roz and her mother, but whose similarities had ended there, Alwey having originally hailed from a desert city home, rather than from the nomadic Ojin tribe, as Mother had. Father had not realized at first who or what they were taking in, but they soon realized when Alwey had started setting fires around the home without flint or match in hand.

They were called Taken Ones by all Northern folk. Many children would disappear from their village “by unseen forces,” sometimes taken overnight, sometimes when a watchful eye had been turned away for a moment. They were Taken- many to never return. Those that were “Given” back were changed- many having unnatural agencies- often calamities occurred to those that met them or even helped them on the road. Most of the time the children arrived gaunt from many days without food and smelling of longer without clean water. Though Roz could not so easily put them out, having something unnatural and dangerous in their nature from the moment of being Taken, she also wouldn’t have been able to turn them away so easily without it troubling her.

Aside from the first frantic days with Alwey, Roz would simply feed and clean the children when they first appeared, before they had figured out some means of getting their own food. At first, many were nonverbal and almost looking past her. A few of them- like Alwey and Bash- started out clearly being able to talk but not wanting. Some had clearly been Taken before they had learned to speak and would start after they had came to their door– like Parla. Many of them would vanish in the night after a few months-particularly those that–once they had started speaking–spoke often when no one was near–but hushed when Roz slipped by. There were girl and boy-children, but the boys never stayed long. Bash was the longest to stay so far.

No matter how long they had stuck it out however, there was always one absolute law with the Taken: Never ever take anything they give you- directly. There was only one instance where Roz had come anywhere near to crossing that line. One boy child– a wee thing with freckles– had offered some coin to her with an outstretched little palm. When she had reached for it– she’d chanced a look towards the eyes, and she saw an expression that should not belong to a chil–- but rather a deep and endless hunger– as if he would have bit into her arm, devouring the flesh, then licked her bone clean afterwards.

Still, it was often that Roz had chanced to find several coins in her purse where previously there were but two bits chafing at each other the night before, typically when one of the children had mentioned in passing that they wanted something from the market or apothecary. It was that luck that also had managed to find cushioned corners for all the children- no matter the number- to lay their heads at night. Whether they managed it themselves, or it was Mother’s doing, or the house, or the Higher Ones themselves looking out for some reason, Roz took it in her stride.

Dwola’s bent head was at last released from the torrent of sharing, his hair looking wilder for it, but the tended tree looked decidedly happier. He peered over to Roz, who stiffened, knowing what he was likely to say. She was surprised when he started:

“I’ve heard tell of a strange man around.”

Roz blinked at his carefully questioning eyes. “I heard something of that at Laundry yea.” She well remembered some of the other Launderwomen and cloth-girls, whispering about a man, possibly of some fortune, crossing the thresholds of some families several towns away, all who had daughters of marriageable age. They wondered if he might come to Kraig, where he might stay, if they would see him, or even have the opportunity to deliver his laundry and…at that point their conversation had become more quiet and secretive.

He continued to peer at her, wondering. Then the inevitable: “Has your Mother…?”

The familiar dread sank over Roz. He had worked today, while she had done the errands. So, it was her day after all. She had been hesitating to go up, but she pushed the dread down, pushing herself off the wall and assuming an at least blank expression, if not cheerful. “I was just about to go up. You have supper?” She knew he would say yes, as that was the exchange, but she delayed turning until he responded. Then…it was up the stairs, to Mother.

3

Mother and Eyes

Mother is, as usual, laying enveloped in light layers on her sloping frame. It had been seven years almost to the day since she had retreated from the world into herself. Roz used to need Father’s help to turn her and clean her, but she had gotten stronger over the years, at least on the outside.

As Roz approaches, Mother cracks her eyes open. Roz holds her breath, but, as was always the case, Mother’s eyes hold no recognition for her Rosletta. She merely breathes, looking, and relaxes back into sleep. She slept almost all the time now, though for the first couple years she had been more agitated and restless. Roz tries not to think of those days as she gets Mother changed. The early days had held such frantic hope and tired despair; her younger self wouldn’t have been able to imagine the state of things now.

As she completes Mother’s washing up, Roz looks over her face and hair. She has the same dark features as Mother, but the thick hair which Roz inherited, is kept short to avoid matting. Roz remembers when her mother would brush both of their hair, humming lightly while tugging the painful knots out and plaiting it. Roz had only started to learn how to do her own hair when she had discovered Mother– Roz shakes the memory out of her mind. She often tends to sink into a sticky melancholy when seeing her Mother.

Roz’s Mother is thin- though she’s never been dangerously so. Roz quickly cleans her smooth body and again wraps her in light layers to allow her skin to breathe. Mother’s skin used to be deeper, like mine, but she’s only a bit darker than Father now. Roz takes the bucket of dirty linens and puts it at the bottom of the stairs to get to later. Now to open the window to let the room air out. Roz releases the catch, creaking the window open. She stares out for a moment, then blinks. Her eyes open to darkness without end.

Whipping her head around, Roz fumbles for the window, but feels nothing in front of her. Even the ground beneath her is not solid–

No! You will not fall. Know it.

Roz feels her feet and chest steady as the voice speaks into her.

Good. There is Darkness that is not darkness in front of your eyes. The Eyes. There are Eyes everywhere. Don’t look. They know when you’re looking.

Roz feels passing ice on her back as she keeps her eyes ahead, not knowing whether to walk or stay.

Stay still. There are other eyes. A pair of eyes. Green eyes. We know those eyes. Safe. Come Green-Eyes. Here. A warmth grazes Roz’s skin.

Don’t fear, my child. You must go. It is better that you go- though it is not safer. You will be protected. Then. You will. Protect. You.

Roz blinks. The sun has completely descended. The sky is dark, but it is scattered with clouds and a star or two to break up the blackness. The room is cold. Cursing, Roz slams the window shut, locking it and whipping some blankets onto Mother. Shuddering, she climbs into bed with Mother, to warm her. Laying there, clinging to Mother’s soft narrow form, Roz considers her strange vision. The strange icy gazes had struck fear through her, and she shakes even now thinking of them. But the green eyes she had seen…the warmth had almost felt like when slowly cooking something, a heat that steadily increased before she had noticed.

Roz falls into a troubled sleep.

4

The Laundry

Sunlight stabs into Roz’s closed eye, pulling her from sleep. She becomes aware of her sore body first, then the sweat coating the back of her neck. Cracking an eye open, she stifles a groan to avoid drifting her fusty breath into her mother who- was hanging almost off the bed. Roz jerks up, pulling Mother’s fabrics to bring her back to center. Mother remains undisturbed except for a gentle smile that seems to have wrought into her sleeping face through the night. Roz feels a little lightness from that smile, which carries her downstairs. She looks over the shoddily washed dishes and sighs. Father steps through the front door, starting slightly at Roz’s wild appearance.

“Ah! You’re up. I was about to give your Mother her meal.”

Roz blinks, her eyes still crusted with sleep. “Yes, I have to wash up.” It is her Father’s day to feed and bathe Mother. He would likely do some more washing as well. Roz turns into the largest room of the house, used by almost everyone for sleeping. Pulling back her curtain to expose her corner by the window, Roz is pleased to find fresh water in her basin, some wrapped meat, a refilled bottle of wheatwater, and her mostly dry clothes folded on her cot. Must be Father’s doing. She thinks. Hurriedly undoing her dress and corset, Roz massages the lines the night had marked into her skin. Putting up her fabric to air out, Roz stretches her sore muscles and yanks what knots she has time for out of her hair. She keeps her mind blank as she prepares for the day, considering what the walk to work might show her. It had been a mere chance that the sun had burst through the clouds to wake her, as the sun was almost never unencumbered by clouds in this place. However, there might be some spots of sun scattered throughout her walk or her day.

Finishing her washing and breakfast, Roz shoves her hair into a large and sweaty, but contained, heap at the back of her head while contemplating her filthy work apron. She had forgotten to wash it yesterday. Shrugging, Roz grabs it and her sack, pulls on her cloak, and strikes out the door.

The walk to the River is dry and crisp, not as cold as it could be at least, and its silence brings Roz a silent peace as she trods along. Too soon, the river’s icy bend appears below her. The edge of the outskirts of Kraig reaches to a branch of the Great Fryn River. She can already see the dark dots of the other Launderwomen and cloth-girls. As she approaches she feels cold from the wind, and the anticipated cold of her day. As usual, when she arrives, the others seem to sharpen their eyes her way when she isn’t looking, which is most of the time.

Roz approaches her pile dutifully and, after stowing her cloak in her sack and securing her skirts, she takes up her pot to get riverwater. It sloshes. She glances inside. The acrid yellow residue of pissy water sits in her pot. She doesn’t even growl. She acknowledges the barely muffled chuckles as much as she acknowledged the mutterings from her late arrivals. She prefers the work with washers vats at times such as these-at least then if someone crossed you they’d have to be assured of their quick hands- in case someone happened to press their fingers to a boiler’s scalding steel with a stick.

As Roz tips water into the mixture and throws the mess away from her wash site, she remembers the first burns she had gotten, and how quickly after those she had learned to dole them back out. In all her years working at Laundry, there had been no way to, beyond a little devilry, stop the other girls from punishing her for existing. At least there- the steam often covered her revenges- hiding her “sin” from the Sister’s prying eyes. For they always watched the girls- any job they took-to ensure no male attention and maintain discipline–or so they said– but Roz had seen enough fine linens and lace pilfered by various Sisters when they didn’t believe the Highers or hires saw to believe any of that drivel.

I wonder how they even snuck away the pot- probably under their skirts. Roz grumbled to herself. She made a note to attach a few nails to the pot rim to avoid future such misfortunes. Pot cleaned- she set to work- withdrawing the necessary water to go the first rinse- sprinkling water with a small packet from her sack to kill further bacteria. She knew at least that her wash could not have been tampered with. Many groups had known the lash from when anyone dared to put mess with another’s fabrics. Once of the Sisters had tried to take a kerchief and upon meeting with the musky scent- had raised an alarm and demanded twenty lashes of all within the building-down to the smallest. It was of course never a question of why she should have touched the pile to begin with but–one could never question a Sister’s righteousness. Many others would also trouble the lash and the Sisters for assured pay.

Roz takes and withdraws water several times, lugging it to her wash site, which was further away than most. Roz was at least a third over the size of most of the Launderwomen in her shoulders- so she could do this with little effort. She always did this to keep the tinctures and powders she would sprinkle into the washing to herself. The others would have copied her but with a sneer on their face to show their disdain for the lowly Ojin. In years prior, Roz had had others who could keep up with her and who she got on with, but they had all been hired onto houses privately. The remaining lot were the stragglers, few able to hold a candle to Roz’s standards, and therefore disdainful of her skills as much as her other differences.

As usual, Roz finishes among the first few despite her later arrival. She brings her pile in halves to the Sister’s station- being sure to bring the plainer things first before bringing the rest. If she rested her sack- she could have brought both, but that would be foolish. The Sisters examine each piece intently-one subtly bringing her face a little closer to smell after initially arching back as a show of her prejudice to her colleagues. There it was-despite the Ojin girl being of filthy parentage or whatnot-she made the best damn laundry in town- with dizzyingly high piles of fine cloth always to be found in her lot. Roz could be hired onto a house privately, but Laundry allows more flexible hours. The mistresses and ladies in town specifically request her, though they mostly don’t know which of them she is. For that she gets-

“Three and twenty krojes for you.” A gruff nun holds out a leather satchel in a pinched fist.

Roz bows as she takes it-concealing her surprise with her lowered head. There are ten more than last time, but she had done far more kerchiefs this time than any other. She had even sown a tear that one had come to her with. After receiving her satchel of coins, she bows again- fully well knowing they likely charge double that at least for her services to the women of the town.

Stowing away her pot and ground cloth, Roz takes a secret path home. Too often when she had walked home the others had tried to ambush her before she could put her satchel away- she needed privacy for that beyond any other. After concealing it in her skirts, she slips back into town by an alley. More people were out in the streets around this time, on this errand or another, as their employers preferred to rise later in the day. Roz winds her way home, feeling more watched than usual.

5

The Wound

Alwey is home when Roz steps in. Roz is never sure how she manages to get her work done first for the day, but the fine-featured girl is always first home, cooking her fish, before retiring to her room, adjacent to Mother’s. Alwey stares pointedly at Roz’s stained apron, her distaste for lowly work only lightly concealed. Alwey fancied herself meant for something significant, though she never saw fit to share what exactly. It was this same attitude that allowed her to demand a private room for herself, and that prompted her to rain down punishments on anyone who dared disturb her inner sanctum.

“Be sure to wash your pan this time.” Roz took care not to call Alwey her name out loud, as it was simply a name Father had dubbed her, as Alwey could come to them having forgotten her birth name, like all the Chosen. Always disliked her moniker; she had spoken of choosing another name but had yet to share it.

Alwey simply grunted in assent, setting her chin a bit higher. Her pan was set aside for her own use, as she was only loath to clean what she had to use herself. Roz brushed past her, washing up before preparing dinner. The children trickled in, from bits of whatever work they had found that day- some helping clean houses- most having performed little duties and errands when they were let. Most employers avoided hiring them, but there were a few townsfolk who let them do lowly cleaning and would leave out change or food for them when they finished. Whatever they got they could keep, thanks to their reputation. It was also a secret belief some held that luck would meet those who helped Chosen.

A humble supper is served out, Roz weaving in some berries and healthful herbs which she had foraged on the way home. Some of the children have some plants to offer as well, Orpni in particular having a good eye for safe plants. Supper done, the younger children are put abed. Roz takes to her enclosed corner- sighing as she unlaces herself for the night. She peers into her glass as she sits down for the arduous task of brushing her hair. Her arms are strong and swarthy, flashing moonlight as she works through her long and thick swells. The girl does have vanity about this one aspect of her appearance. The rest of her, as she had learned from the whispers of Kraig natives, was too unsettling or dark or wild or all those things. Roz’s dark hair covers over half of her body, a feat even for the richest girl in Kraig.

Having plaited her hair, Roz leans back onto her cot- sinking into a family quilt, made from scraps of Mother’s dresses. Her body complains as she does so- especially her right leg- as it usually does whenever she lets herself slow down. She rubs it a little, asking it to keep carrying her to work and back. Something has been wrong in it for some time, she knows.

The wound was caused some time ago, when she was fifteen. That year she had started to grow more in certain areas, which almost gave her a corseted shape, though she had yet to wear a corset. The men of town had noticed despite her cloaking and there had been little time, between Mother’s increasing agitation at the time and the stream of incoming children, to tell Father. It had started as some men earnestly skulking by the Laundry and had progressed to men staring and shadowing her at the market.

One day it escalated. A man whose face she’s managed to forget shoved her into an alley. He wanted to lift her skirts in that way, for reasons she sometimes overheard on rare warm days when many threw open their windows to let in the southern breeze. He had succeeded in lifting her skirts to her knees, but her panic had lent her enough strength to kick him away. Then–darkness.

When Roz had come to-she had found herself in a dark cave– with metal scraps partly embedded in her right leg. The pain was almost a dark buzz, until she tried to move. The cobbles beneath her in the alleyway had given way to one of the underground sewage systems below. Roz found she had to move, sharded leg and all, out of the tunnel to the nearest laddered shaft, - a task which had inked out the remainder of the day. A Sister had found her and brought her home- assisting even with the scraps’ removal– or so Father said. He had gone out to find the person responsible. The man, however, was found dead before meeting Father’s wrath. In the whisperings that followed that day– it seemed that person had fallen and struck his head onto a street grate with such force as to crack his skull out of his skin.

No man had dared to follow her after that.

Roz remembers the nun who had tended to her wounds that distant day–the cut of her garb had been a bit strange she’d remembered thinking. As she tries to recall the trim of the fabric and the eyes looking her over, tiredness finally won out.

6

High-Day

A distant church bell chimes, the morning bell, and the Sisters are heard to begin to sing songs. A silent fog is passing over, and the soot from the ever-running mills rests from their blackening of Kraig’s streets into shapeless masses of stone and shit. Roz peers around her, resting for a moment. The few garnishings of her space–relics of her Mother’s presence–shine in the morning light. Today is a day of worship in Kraig. Perhaps I’ll see some old friends from Laundry.

Freshening herself for the day, Roz tucks her hair up into the admissible capote, making her head hot. Roz shambles off to the abbey in her stiffest bodice and a suited skirt, by herself. Her Father would spend this day by her Mother, as he always did. Passing by some neighbors, she hears words exchanged in their doorways, some boisterously, some furtive. One duo she passes by:

“Wayl I say sister! Here’s some news of a note-a duke has come to these here parts! In search of a wife they say!!”

“No-sister, surely you’re mishaten?!”

“I say, by the bosom of our mother long-forgotten-tis the truth I swear ye—”

“Waaayyl now I know you’re tellin’ a farce! For you know our mother is safe and abed in this very house.”

“Sisterrr-everyone knows she’s a-only safe because she’s—” The woman dropped out of hearing.

A duke hm? Fat lot of good that would do here-likely a nobleman who got robbed nearby and the story had gotten tangled out of recognition as it struck the town’s web of gossipers. Roz thinks to herself.

Proceeding through the cobbled streets, Roz forgets about the passing talk, instead fancying what the view out the leadlight windows would show her today. The multi-hued creations seemed to be the only windows to avoid the fog’s claim in the abbey.

Throughout the service, Roz coddles herself with colorful visions which she wraps herself in to forget her troubles. Memories of warmer days. Mother’s deep voice. The old cabin where Mother used to work. Then fantasies of things never to pass, she is sure. Climbing into the distant mountains. Kind and admiring men. Fascinating conversations where the Higher Ones aren’t featured even once. After service, she chats briefly with some old colleagues, but they are all busy and have to head home. One of them whispers conspiratorially, “A mysterious man is said to be approaching town-to sup here this very night!!” Excited whispers confuse the rest of the communication. Roz starts and for some reason, remembers the Green-Eyed gaze from the other day, a heat crossing her frame again. Shaking her head, she takes her leave and hurries home.

7

The Visitor

Dinner goes by with difficulty-the children are restless. They speak excitedly of what they did that day–even some who had not spoken much before. After some sup, Roz sits in a stupor, the talk washing over her like a hum of so many bees, coalescing into a fever of synchronous noise until it abruptly ceases. The distant sound of wheels and hooves on stone is heard, rattling closer. A carriage? Out in the slum? Who could afford that? The click of reins and metal echoes through the street. A horse’s puffing-the sound of leather creaking- then the change from hooves on stone to dirt as horses slow outside.

There are never carriages on this path. Roz strains to hear- the bodice that she had forgotten to change feeling heavy. Silence rings until it must have filled the town through to the river– it had never been so quiet.

A knock from the door rings out. Roz hadn’t even heard someone approach the door. Father takes his eyes off her face and heads to the door, Alwey close behind him.

Roz sets to filling a pot with dishes to start the washing, Bash leaping to assist. Then, Roz turns away from the front doort, feeling dizzy.

“-your daughter?” The voice is deep and fills space.

“No–a ward– my daughter is inside.” Father sounds puzzled but cordial.

Out of the corner of her eye, Roz sees a dark tower fill the entryway as the door is clasped shut. She fears to look at it. It is not her day to go to Mother, but she considers asking Father- she looks to him– and her vision darkens as her eyes catch with the head of the tower. His eyes seem lit by more than just the fire, and an effusion of colors pours into her mind as she looks. She feels as if she is a book being searched through with quick fingers. Her first page is opened and first sentence traced with a cold line down her spine. I almost feel my covers being peeled, my skin being laid bare- I Must look away-

“Would you like a bit of stew sir? We have some bread as well.” Bash’s voice is loud and demanding.

The eyes turn away, and Roz finds herself in a chair, though she does not recall sitting. She keeps her eyes on the floor. Then she starts, as Bash is offering Mother’s portion. The tall figure is examining it, and he then turns towards Father.

“Who- is this- for?” His voice holds something fragile within its roughness. She can see from behind that he has dark hair underneath his hat.

Father hesitates. Then, “My wife.”

“Your wife is ill?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Seven years now.”

The man has become increasingly agitated. He finally says, overcome, “Sir, I must speak with you for a moment. I will await you in my carriage.”

With that he slips out into the dark night. With a resigned look towards Roz, Father follows.

8

Shadows

Dwola sighs–rubbing his throat– “I would go with you, but I couldn’t, what with your mother, and so—” His face hardens. “For however long-you must leave us.”

“What do you know of this man? What could he have said to have convinced you that I am to go?” Roz’s voice shakes. What could this man want of me?

“He means you no harm, child. He–he told me some of your mother’s time before this place– and other- other things.” His eyes avoid hers, and he becomes antsy. “She had said this time would come, long ago. He has sworn to protect you, and you must have a guide in your education.”

“A guide? Father, I could barely be spared for an education when I was of the age to receive it.” Roz’s temper flares. “I will Not Go. There are shadows in this talk. Why could I not go and hear his reasoning myself?”

“He was worried that you might not be ready to hear about-” Father falters. “Magick and the like.”

“Magick? That’s nothing of much consequence up here. Is that what I am to learn? No, for Mother was to teach me and she cannot. I cannot learn from a man- that’s what she said.”

“You cannot learn from just men, is what she once said. Yes, you will learn it.” Suddenly he stands, shoulders rigid.” And you cannot stay. I forbid it.”

Roz stands too “Father-”

“You must leave tonight.”

“Tonight?! No- I”

“I will not have you stay here any longer- it cannot be known that he was here and you are still here. He cannot stay, for the Higher Ones are coming here.”

Roz feels a coldness descend, but she speaks her confusion. “Why would the Higher Ones-Mother showed me the Magick Rites. It is nothing. It’s just a faith!” Even now, she remembered Mothers whispers over the altar, the herbs and chalices and cards and stones. It is a sacred practice child. Mother had given her a gentle smile. All the women of our family keep this practice.

“It is not safe. I know what they will do, and I must be with your Mother. As long as you leave, it will be alright.”

“Father-”

“My dear,” He interrupts, a tear rising in his eye. “Our dear Rosletta.” he comes and rests his hands on her shoulders. “You must know- you cannot-”

Roz felt a pressure burning to rise. “I must speak to Mother. I must see her.”

“Yes.” Choked up, Father squeezes her shoulders before releasing them.

The strange man is by Mother’s bedside, and he seems to be talking to her. Her eyes are intent on his face, and Roz and her father both shudder. Long have they wished to have her eyes on them like that. Is this-Magick? Roz wonders. The man’s hair is impossibly black, and his cloak, of matching obsidian, seems to cover the entire floor of the small room. The man speaks a more distinct word, three times, but Roz cannot quite hear it. Then he draws a vial from his cloak and gently settles it into Mother’s hand, which Roz now sees he had clasped in his. Mother looks at the vial for a moment, then brings it towards her mouth.

It is as if she has come out of some trance. Roz rushes forward, but Father and the stranger block her. She looks to Father, but he seems to be fascinated rather than frightened.

She looks at Mother, and Mother is looking at her. Right at her eyes. Roz feels light, as if someone lifted all her hair with their hands. Mother smiles gently, then turns her head and closes her eyes.

Shaking sense into herself, Roz shoves herself away from the men, glaring, “What did you–”

“Roz— she–” Father falters.

“It is a mixture meant to clear her head a little.” The man waves off her father. “Nothing she would not have given herself if she was able. Something you should already know how to make, at this age.” His brilliant eyes frown.

“I am Not Going with you if you are in the habit of drugging women with strange substances!” Roz tries not to let the strange comment sting. “I was Not Going to go anyway, as I had not received an explanation for what I am going to!!!” Roz would stamp her foot, if she did not already feel like a child pushing away a stone wall.

“I know you are a creature of reason, so I will explain what I can.” They start down the stairs.

9

Ignorance

“I did not give your mother some mixture of unknown origin, but rather a very delicate medicine which I have kept for quite some time in the hopes that my friend and ally was alive.” He turns towards Roz’s quarters, thoughtful. “I am affiliated with a school where you will expand your knowledge of Magick, which is necessary for your safety and survival, as you will kill someone if you have not done so already.”

Roz’s mind involuntarily flashes to the incident when her leg was injured, and she feels sick.

The stranger draws himself through the door, and she follows him, as if pulled. He pauses by his carriage to speak. “You are aware of the City beyond the southernmost border of this region?”

“Yes.”

He waits for her to speak again; when she does not he seems satisfied. “I live there in a big house with a courtyard- this is how many people live there.”

Is he trying to bribe me with a courtyard?! Roz feels momentary disgust until she sees his regard for her answer. Nodding, he continues.

“There are many schools there-where one can learn much in refinement and other accomplishments- whether you decide to pursue Magick or no.” She feels a flash which dwindles over the course of the sentence. His eyes watch her now. “Will you accompany me?”

“Why you?” She whispers.

He seems bemused. “Why not I?”

Roz knows Father now trusts him, but she must ask. “It was rumored that a man of some influence has been traveling to find a wife. What do you have to say?”

His eyes go wide and he speaks haltingly. “While I am flattered by the consideration I hardly need to come this far for that now?” Roz feels herself flush. “I saw a young woman was out here waiting to be brought and taught to master her particular gift. Perhaps I-I stopped at a few other places” He is earnestly abashed in his expression.

Roz is mortified but latches on to one thing- “Gift? What do you mean—”

“Oh for the sake of the gods!” Alwey exclaims in anger. She comes behind and shoves Roz-as much she can- to the side from the gate. “I am your apprentice! You were meant to come here for me!” She bows, glancing disdainfully towards Roz. “I have been refining my arts for just such a moment! Please teach me sir.” She stays bent- a very unusual attitude for the proud girl.

A cloud passes over the moon as well and over the man’s face. His eyes swirl dark and the smell of lightning fills the air. His displeasure radiates off of him in waves as he looks upon Alwey. As the tension sharpens he speaks-

“I am not your teacher. Too long have you parasited here-feeding off this place. This girl” He clearly means Roz though he doesn’t gesture or look, “is the one calling for The Knowing. You may find your Knowing elsewhere.”

He dismisses her without looking as he turns back to the carriage, his large shadow brushing against Roz’s skirts. He looks inside- to Father- and bows. Roz looks to her Father- he considers the Stranger and turns to meet her eye with his sorrowful one. Roz is filled with a deep ache.

She is in his arms in a moment; he whispers some luck into her ear and leads her to her corner to grab her things. She had packed them earlier in my induced daze. He touches the quilt- Mother’s quilt- smiling faintly.

“I will be here waiting-I do not think- we will receive more Taken to care for-watch for them in the City my dear.” He kisses Roz’s temple as she leaves.

Alwey stays rooted in place-trembling-as the Stranger lifts Roz into his carriage.

10

Sunrise

Roz

I remain unnaturally dazed and silent until we reach the countryside outside of Kraig. As we pass a branch of the Fryn, I rise from my stupor, as if from sleep.

“Your things are stowed away. I will bring them out if you have need of them. Do not hesitate to ask.” The Stranger speaks to my panicked face.

I frown at him. Mother had spoken of stunning people with Magick, but I had not expected to have such methods used on me as soon as I had entered the carriage. “Do not use your Influences on me if you please. I do not like it.”

“Very well.” He regards me for a moment.

I instantly feel tired and deeply afraid. Taking a shaky breath, I remember Mother’s voice: Fear is not bad. It is good to listen when it belongs- as well as when it doesn’t.

“It would not have been safe to alert those damned priests to your presence. Even silent, as you know, you give away too much. You must learn to dull your thoughts.” He barely acknowledges me as he flips through a few papers he’s withdrawn from an unreasonably small pocket.

I blink. “Give away too much? Dull my thoughts? What do you speak of?”

He looks at me impatiently. “I know you have lacked an education in certain matters of Magick, but surely you have experimented a little??” I look at him blankly, and he scoffs. “You mean to tell me that you have not noticed the way energy shifts when you enter a room or bring yourself into others’ presence- especially those who mean you ill???”

I regard him with shock. The urge to avoid others- even flee when noticed- the almost animalistic hostility I seemed to trigger in others… “You mean to say-that I- that was because of my-Magick or Gift or…something?” I feel faint.

“Yes? What– did you just assume that it was because there was something wrong with you or because of differences of appearance??” He chuckles- then turns incredulous at my silence. “By _insert deity name_, you did, didn’t you??”

I feel foolish, but my dizzying relief is more present. “It likely didn’t help…that I was…brown.”

“It rarely does serve one to be different- especially when there is a fist closing around everyone’s neck to maintain control. Much easier to keep the grip the same for everyone–utilize the same tactics for everyone– that is…especially when one only has so much force at one’s disposal.” The Stranger turns contemplative.

We ride in silence for some time until I realize. “Who are you anyway? What is your name and how do you know my Mother?” How is it that such questions didn’t occur to me before anyway???

“It is not safe to speak one’s name in certain places or companies- especially one’s true name. I think you at some level know that. I would never lie to you about my name- as I am your Mother’s old disciple and hold your family in high regard.” He nods at my suddenly misty eyes. “However, I may not give you my full name until I can trust you to be able to close your mind to others. For now you will call me Mathund.”

“Mathund.” A combination of two words-but what could be the meaning?

“Yes.” Sighing, he settles deeper into his cloak. “What category of questions would you like answered first?”

“All relevant to me.”

“Ah–” He glances over me. “That may not be in my power to answer.”

“Well all related to where we are going, why, and why you were sent for to fetch me.”

He seems slightly offended but also amused by my last question. “That is not all particularly relevant to you, but perhaps this will lend me some credibility: I am a mage, wizard, warlock, or whatever else you call a Magick-wielding Man—”

“Magician?”

“Mage” He grounds out. “As well as a part-time alchemist thank-you-very-much.” He strokes his mustache to soothe himself before he continues. “We are going to the City, that much you know, but within the City we will make a few stops–including at the castle–all witches must be ordained by the Queen of course—”

“The Queen?!?”

“No need to look so horrified there then. Yes, it will be you and about 758 other girls of varying ages.” He seems to have been returned to good spirits, as well as a slightly younger age- What? “The ordination is really more of a looking over- she rarely expels anyone from qualifying, but who knows- you may catch her notice.” He winks a decidedly smoother eye at me in jest.

“You-you’re getting young—”

“Yes” He glances down at his deflated stomach, “Yes I suppose I have- well then-how do ya like the look of your uncle?” He laughs uproariously and ruffles my hair.

“That’s still not you.”

He chuckles, “It’s not.”

His clothes start to shrink- down to a deep brown set. His whole body seems to shimmer and condense. He coagulates into a neat, compact, handsome young man with brown skin and close cropped hair. His sensible suit clings to his wiry frame. He smiles bright teeth, extending a burgundy-gloved hand, “How do you do?” His voice is melodic- a veritable song.

I am flustered as well as a little stunned at seeing such direct Magick (And such direct interest). However the truth becomes clearer as I examine him, neglecting to take his hand. “That is still not you.”

The silence in the carriage is ringing–he is clearly intrigued as he slowly withdraws his hand. He sets his hat to me as his whole body begins to grow- his clothes managing to catch up with his bulging shoulders and legs just quickly enough. I look away, feeling small and pink. Glancing back, I see his cloak spread far beyond necessary- dropping in deep folds from his enormous neck. His arms and legs swell from beneath his heavy cloak- and gloves struggle to contain his fists. His face is vaguely similar to his original guise- beard and mustache more clipped but still very dark. His eyes- evergreen-pierce me questioningly from beneath his hat.

I am unsure of what to ask or whether to continue asking. He continues to regard me while I avoid his eye. Why do I feel vulnerable? Perhaps it’s coming from him? I glance his way, but his expression is stony. Hesitatingly I speak:

“I am glad to meet you—

“…Mathund.”

“…right.”

The carriage rumbles on in our silence. I gather myself to speak once more. “My name, Roz, It’s…short for Rosletta.” I feel myself withdraw into the cushion behind me. But actually is____, but my true name shall only be spoken in death or…by my true husband.

“Yes. Well, anyway, I think we left off with why…you are being brought.” I try my best to meet Mathund’s eye. He is truly imposing in this form, which I can feel is very close to his true one.

“You are descended from other Magickin- and would likely have encountered a Knowing on your own, but your Mother—” I wince. “Your Mother was valuable to us- and we owed her a great deal-” He swallows. “I owe her a great deal for my family…it is uncommon to have such a claim over Magick as she did…It was requested that at the right time her children be sought out—” I stiffen “or in this case child.”

I relax. Whatever might be said of her-she was faithful to Father I know!

“And so-you are to be ordained and begin your education.” He punctuates.

“Begin?!” I speak before I can stop myself. Take a breath. “I am already too far behind aren’t I?? Al—the other one-stop that-was practicing for many years and she is younger. Do you really think I have any hope of even being allowed into the castle or—” He holds his large hand up.

“I really don’t know how to begin to correct you. Magick is not always an inherent ability, but when it so clearly is-you must be educated-for your own safety to start.” He scowls down at me.

“Oh.” I lose my fight. It’s just as well. Might as well be rebuked for my weakness than for other things I can’t control. It might be years before I can learn anything to help me understand-but perhaps- does he know?

I part my lips to ask, but he shakes his head. “Your Mother’s illness puzzles me. I wish…I could tell you.”

I sigh. Pausing. “Who sent you?”

“The remainder of the League of Magick-wielders. We work with the Queen’s Coven to select or find students to be educated.”

“Queen’s Coven.”

“Yes. The Queen has been in support of Magick since assuming her role. That has not spread as far north as you have been where the—“Higher Ones”—or so they claim to be–have made themselves...” He grits his teeth. “Sovereign.”

This piece of the looking glass was new to me, but it lit up the world in a way I had not known since Mother. I had long felt helpless in our isolation from the world, but to understand the reason—I felt clearer if not better.

“ So the Higher Ones are in direct conflict or disobedience with the Queen?? How is it that they can continue like this without consequences?? And, what reason do we have for not hearing news from the Castle? I don’t see how—”

“There is-ah- a bit of a situation in the City. We have been busy with many matters.” He evades my eyes. “You will see in time. Be patient and vigilant.”

My brows furrow again. “Are the Higher Ones using Magick then? To oppress us? How is it that their hands have become so heavy?”

“Fear. Surely in all your time you had felt it-perhaps been battered by those driven by it?” He glances to a scar on my hand and I withdraw it into my sleeve. “You know of the dark holes animals can dig for themselves—as if life was a cave to move through until the tunnel ends, in a grave.” I shuddered. “You at least have seen the light–there is yet more to see–for you.” He holds my eyes.

I feel faint again. Revelation after revelation. I feel as if my body was, unknown to me, a wet rag which has now been rung dry. I suddenly feel drowsy.

“You will rest now. We have a long journey ahead.” He swipes the air with a finger.

I nod and lean against the pillow that’s appeared beside me.