My back is shoved gruffly, and I’m forced to take a step closer to the riser. A symphony of noise rises around me, and I try to concentrate on the dark brown knots in the wood, saddened that this tree died for my own death. But I can’t shut them out. Shouts. Questions. Cries. It is overwhelming. I notice how the guard who has brought me lingers a few feet away, how he looks at me with something unspeakable in his eyes.
After all, I am dangerous.
The voice in my head is quiet for now, but she is here. She sees what I see, hears what I hear, and I wonder if it reminds her of that day, and if that is why she has been reduced to silence.
Or perhaps it is because someone new stands to watch.
My heart races when I see how elegantly dressed he is, how the folds of his sleeves swallow his arms, how the glinting ring on his finger shines in the brilliant sunlight that shimmers overhead. I’ve grown up secluded, but I know well the person I face.
His balding head is covered with a white, skin-tight caplet. He is robust in size as well as shape, a sign of wealth and prosperity, and he reminds me of Rolf, which makes me feel angry. I notice he keeps his distance from me. Perhaps he believes the idea of heresy is a contagious one.
“You’re a difficult one, they tell me.”
Quickly, I think how to answer him. Sweat beads down the center of my back.
“Tell me, witch, do you confess to your crime?”
I am silent. After what I’ve done, I don’t attempt to defend myself.
“Your silence tells me you truly believe you’ve done no wrong.”
My mind is a flurry of questions. All I can focus on is his ring. It’s by far easier to look at than his face. From the corner of my eye I see him nod, and soon after, I feel the touch of someone taking hold of my wrists, leading me up those little steps. One foot after the other, I reach the top. I’m turned to face the courtyard and everyone in it. What I see are dark eyes and still mouths stretched into harsh lines. They hold their breath, as do I. The stake behind me has been shaved smooth. I feel it with my fingertips. Rising within my chest is a steady beat that threatens to burst. I cannot breathe. I cannot think. If it were not for the tight binds fixing me to the pole at my back, I’d have fallen to the floor of the riser by now; my knees no longer know how to hold me up.
I think of Matilde. I think of the Sacred Mother.
I try to be strong.
And then, it comes—the fierce whisper I’ve been dreading.
Let them burn. Let them all burn…
My eyes are filled with the man who walks closer, torch in hand, flames bouncing in the same gentle breeze that kisses my cheeks. I want to scream out. I want to tell the voice that is my mother she doesn’t make sense. That it’s I who will burn, not them.
The flame is closer, hovering over the wisps of straw that poke out from beneath the branches. It has not been lit yet, but I already feel the heat beneath my feet. I am already stamping out an invisible fire that feels so real because my fear has made it so.
The town will burn from the flame that takes you. I will breathe life into the air that will carry it to our home and beyond, to any village that has wrongly accused, wrongly condemned, a woman for what she has not done. And then, my daughter, then you and I will be together… This is how it ends. We will all burn. We will all burn. We will all burn
.
The bishop steps closer, a sneer stretched across his wide face as he looks into my own, anxious to taste my panic—but to my surprise his expression changes, and his eyes reflect something close to the fear I hold inside me. He shakes his head to and fro, then closes his eyes. When they open, he takes a deep, long look at me.
“Wait,” he says, holding up his hand.
The man with the torch stops.
I bite the inside of my cheek for fear of speaking out loud.
Look closer, and you will see me…
My mother’s voice stirs.
As if commanded to do so, he leans in inches from my face, close enough that I smell the ale and meat from his lunch souring his breath, and then he draws back, like an animal sensing what humans cannot.
A woman’s voice floats invisibly between us.
And all I hear is laughter.
Chapter 28
Laurentz
I
round my horse along the exterior wall of the Drudenhaus courtyard, where a good portion of the city has gathered, their murmurs heard from the street. The height my horse elevates me to is ample to peer overhead without drawing attention to myself, and I see a good number of empty wooden stocks and containments.
The bishop’s carriage is at the gate. It is easy to recognize, and I look at it in disgust, understanding now that what he has set in motion will result in the deaths of many innocent women. I am not defying him out of spite. I am not choosing to save Rune because I want to play with fire.
I am doing it because the bishop is wrong.
My anger motivates me, as does my conversation with my father nearly two hours ago. My horse enters the gate and I see Rune at the far end.
“Now! Do it now!” The bishop orders a guard to light the straw and timber, but the guard is distracted. The sound of a crying infant slices the gathered silence. A woman in a hooded cloak carrying a small bundle to her chest creeps along the wall of the prison. Her previously inconspicuous escape is now the center of attention, and people begin to whisper among themselves.
The wind picks up and her hood is thrown back. It is the woman from Württemberg—the witch bottle woman, the very one who had accepted payment from the bishop’s carriage. Her eyes meet the bishop’s in a moment of steely acknowledgment. There is a slight gesture across the courtyard, and in a matter of seconds, she is gone. When the bishop turns to resume the burning, the wind has unpredictably turned stormy, and the guard’s torch now lies at the base of the pyre Rune is fixed to.
Screams rise as the sudden gale fuels the flames, sending spectators to flee in panic for the open gate. The small flame has managed to ignite the entire courtyard, and there is nothing but an orange inferno surrounding us.
A shriek of terror has me running and I stop short to see the bishop’s robe has caught. He and the guard are swatting with all their might to extinguish it, leaving the flames to creep upon the elevated stand toward Rune.
She is more beautiful than I remember—dark hair against light skin, strong against what should be her most fragile moment. Her hands work at the knot that holds her arms behind her, but she can’t concentrate. Her eyes are filled with what is happening around her, so I slip behind the stake, knowing the thick smoke conceals me, and yank my dagger from my boot. I slice the thick rope, and she crumples down.
Chapter 29
Rune
L
aurentz whispers to me, and my heart leaps at the sound of his voice.
“Trust me,” he says softly with a strange calm, though the deep timbre of his voice clearly conveys urgency.
Before us lies an orange world that appears to have split open in mayhem. Flames eat away at the flags that line the Drudenhaus walls. Blurred bodies press against one another, screaming in unison, fleeing for the gate that will spill them out onto the street.
Laurentz too is covered in red, but when a hot breeze sweeps past us I see it is his uniform, red and gold, the colors of the Prince Bishop, the colors he wore in the forest.
“Hurry!” he urges me. I thrust my hand into his, and we are running. The heat from the courtyard is unbearable, and the steady rush of air brings a relief to my skin. We run in the opposite direction of the screams and I try to pull my hand back, knowing the other way is the only way out, but Laurentz will not let me go until we’ve reached a high wall on one end of the yard. He holds his entwined fingers inverted, motioning for me to climb onto them so he can hoist me up.
“Why? Why should I trust you?”
The muscle in his strong jaw contracts, and I watch his throat move as he swallows before answering me.
“Because I know who you are.”
Immediately, I pull my hand back. If I try, I might be able to run into the crowd that pushes past the gate. I might be able to slip away unseen.
“No, Rune,” he says, leaning a little closer. “That’s a good thing.”
I want to trust him. I want to trust something, and I know I must make a most crucial decision. If I run toward the gate, there is a good chance I will be caught or killed by the fire. If I stay here, I’m as good as dead. I don’t think. I don’t let it process, I only trust in the most blinding sort of way, and I find my hand reaching for his arm for support. I place my foot in his open hands, and soon I am being lifted up and over the stone wall that for days has held me prisoner. My legs dangle over the side and I drop, landing a little crooked, but otherwise unhurt. Alive. Free.
Laurentz follows me, scaling the wall and landing on his feet more gracefully than I. He brings his fingers to the sides of his mouth and blows, and I am stunned by the shrill whistle that flies from his lips, more stunned to see the dark brown mare with wild black eyes charge upon us and stop at our feet.
The city of Bamberg flies past us at breakneck speed. The red rooftops and cream buildings are a blur out of the corner of my eye. I cling to the back of Laurentz’s coat so tightly I fear I may pull the stitching, and then we are in a flurry of green that is breathtakingly familiar. We are in the Black Forest.
I breathe in the pine, the pleasant damp, the sweet moss as the horse’s hooves land faster and faster. It is not the same part of the forest I grew up in, but it is connected, and therefore I am home.
Trees careen past, and all I hear is the rush of the boughs and the deep breaths of the horse who, like Pegasus, has given us invisible wings to fly. Gone is the smell of burning timber. Gone is the frightened girl. I’ve left her behind, and they will think she is dead. She
is
dead, and I am alive. I test my bravery and lift my chin, peering over the shoulder in front of me. The trees thin in the distance, and nestled within the dips of the mossy mounds, the ground sparkles like moving diamonds. Just as I’m about to warn him, we are in the stream with spray rising, drenching us. The horse reaches the far bank; with the power of hitting a stone wall at full speed, it rears, and we are thrown back, landing in a heap in the water, our lungs sucking at the air.
Laurentz is up well before I am, brushing moss and mud from his waistcoat. He holds his hand out to help me. “Are you all right?”
I’m soaked, but I’m fine, and I nod to answer him.
He grabs the reins that hang from the shaken animal. He is in the saddle, ready to try it again, when I figure it’s time to tell him the truth.
“You go on ahead,” I motion with my hand. “I can make my way back from here.”
“Absolutely not. I’ve gotten you this far. I’m not going to leave you on your own.”
I have no idea how far I am from the little ruined cottage, but my heart tells me to walk toward the darker part of the forest, the part where the trees bend as if speaking.
“Oh, no you don’t, you’re not going back there.” His hand is out again, waiting to pull me up behind him. “Besides, there’s someone who needs your gifts, your skills—someone who is very close to me. Will you help me?”
My heart stutters, and then plummets. There is someone else. A betrothed? A wife? I swallow the strange feeling that has hit me and hide it away. Fine. He seems to be aware that I’m capable of doing
something
, yet he doesn’t run.
“Didn’t you just see what happened? You can’t go very far with me. Witches can’t…” I stumble with my words. “Witches can’t cross water.”
I’ve said it. It’s out now. I stare at the muddy bank knowing
I should hear hooves by now. He should be leaving, but all I hear is the lapping water as the stream settles into its natural rhythm again.
When I look up, he’s staring right at me, a crooked smile lighting his face. “I suppose we’ll have to walk
in
the water then. The stream leads to the river, and the river leads to Burg Eltz. We should reach home by sundown.”
“Home?”
“Yes, my home,” Laurentz replies. “Now come on.” He extends his hand once again, and this time I take it. I’ve admitted I’m a witch. He’s seen the proof, yet he doesn’t blow the whistle, alerting those who are surely looking for me that I’ve escaped with him into the forest. I climb up onto the horse’s back and resume my position behind him, and soon we are off, trotting steadily through the water.
“Did you say Burg Eltz?”
“Yes, do you know it?” he asks me.
“No. Is it an important place?”
I feel his back shake with laughter, but I don’t see what’s so amusing, unless he laughs at my ignorance.
“Burg Eltz is my home. It’s been my father’s home for years, as it was his father’s before him. My father is the Electorate.”
I’ve heard that word before and know I should feel impressed. In the market, snippets of a great man with as much power as the Prince Bishop would come to my ears. I’d noticed how the people in the village spoke of him, using the word “Electorate” with genuine respect and kindness. If this man is Laurentz’s father, then I suppose I might be in safe company, although I can’t help peering behind me. Surely I will hear hooves or see the flames from the prison following me. I watch the trees move past us, knowing that with each step I’m moving further away from my home.
I want to ask who it is I’m supposed to help, and how, but the steady swaying of the horse lulls me. Without thinking, I allow my cheek to lean against the back of this man who seems to know where we’re headed. In the back of my mind I think of how smooth his jacket feels, not like the itchy wool Matilde would sew into cloaks for us in winter. My head seems to find a spot that fits perfectly, and I see the turn of his head, looking back at me. He doesn’t lean forward, doesn’t tell me not to rest against him even though his back is to me, despite what I am. This boy is brave. He stepped through fire to save me. He is not afraid of what I am. I let myself think about this, feeling the smile tickle my mouth.
Today, I feel safe.
Chapter 30
Rune