Authors: Daniel Arenson
At nights, the Snowy Owls would build campfires in forests and fields, and sleep under the stars. Madrila would curl up with the dogs, warm between them, and she would dream... dream of becoming a witch too, of boiling rivers and cracking walls, of having songs sung of her.
"Please, my lady!" Friar Robert would beg in her dreams. "Please forgive me."
Night after night, she would point her wand at him, and shoot him with fire, or lightning, or magical arrows of blue light. Every night, he would die at her feet, burning away into bones.
"Please, Madrila, forgive us!" her true parents would beg, kneeling before her. In every dream, they looked different. Sometimes they were tall and gaunt like Friar Robert, and sometimes they were dwarves like the jugglers she travelled with. But they always knelt and always begged. "Please, our daughter, we're sorry that we abandoned you. Please forgive us."
But she'd only laugh, and point her wand, and burn them too, and smile as they screamed.
"And oh, the witch did cast her spells!" she sang atop a stage in the city of Queenpool, fourteen years old and willowy, a beautiful young woman of golden hair and green eyes. "And oh the mountains shook!"
A thousand people spread out below the stage, listening to her every word. She saw peasants, soldiers, merchants, beggars, tradesmen, even a few nobles. They all listened and sang with her, as around her the Snowy Owls danced, juggled, and played their lutes.
They love me,
Madrila thought.
But if I were a witch, they'd fear me too.
That evening, Madrila walked through the city of Queenpool. It was Summer Solstice, the day of Queenpool's legendary summer festival. Countless people filled the streets, squares, and alleys. Smells and sounds filled the air. Madrila walked by merchants hawking jewels and perfumes, flamethrowers dressed in orange and black, jesters walking atop stilts, knights polishing their swords for duels, drunkards singing coarsely between mugs of ale, maidens in bright scarves and silks, dogs and sheep and chickens, children selling oysters, and countless other people. The smells of candies, cooking meats, perfumes, and spices tickled her nostrils, and the sounds of singing, barking, yelling, and clanging swords filled her ears. She had never seen so many people.
For ten years, I saw nobody but Friar Robert,
she thought.
I never knew the world was so big.
That had been four years ago, and she had not seen the man since, but she had not forgotten. Every merchant who sold a dagger, every knight who drew a sword, every firebreather who shot a jet of flames—they all reminded her of Robert, and how she craved to kill him.
"Your fortune, child," came a raspy voice behind her. "I shall tell your fortune, yes?"
Madrila turned to see a gypsy woman in the shadows. The woman seemed ageless; Madrila couldn't decide if she was twenty or sixty. Her skin was golden and drawn tight over her face. She wore scarves heavy with beads and tassels, and gems winked on her rings. She sat upon a small chair before a table, nestled into an alleyway between an inn and a bakery.
"I don't believe in fortunes," she said. A few of the Snowy Owls had gypsy blood, and one carried tarots around in a golden box. Madrila had seen the cards and knew them to be false, nothing but parlor tricks.
The fortune teller smiled. "Do you not believe, then, that you will someday kill the friar?"
Madrila gasped. Her eyes narrowed. The words seemed to punch her belly, and for a moment, she couldn't breathe.
"How... how did you...?"
The woman gestured at a chair across her table. "Come, sit."
Gingerly, Madrila stepped into the alleyway. Though she took only three steps into the shadows, the sounds faded behind her; she could barely hear them. She could no longer smell the perfumes, foods, and spices, and could barely hear the crowds. A cold breeze moaned through the alley and Madrila shivered. It was summer, but she was cold.
The woman's smile widened. "Come, sit at my table, Madrila."
"How do you know my name?"
"I know much that is hidden. I know that you crave magic... that you crave to be a witch."
Madrila sat uneasily, scrutinizing the woman. A candle burned atop the table, casting flickering light. As the shadows moved, the woman looked either young and beautiful, or old and wrinkled; Madrila could not decide which was the true vision.
"You heard me sing, that is all," Madrila said. Suddenly she felt very young and afraid, like she would back at Friar Robert's hut. "That was only a song."
"Ah, but was it, child? Your voice is pretty, yes, pretty like your eyes and golden hair, but you were not born to be a singer." Her hands reached out, thin and golden, and grasped Madrila's hands. "I sense a greater purpose in you, a greater power. You will be a witch someday, a great and powerful witch who can slay her enemies."
Madrila saw that a dusty codex lay on the table, clad in leather.
A spellbook,
she thought and gasped. When she looked at the woman's waist, she saw a wand hanging from her belt, curly and black like a ram's horn.
"You're no fortune teller," she whispered. "You're a witch!"
The woman raised her eyebrows. "In Queenpool, witchcraft is forbidden. Here I am but a simple fortune teller. Ah, but out in the forest... things are different. Am I wrong, child?"
The witch's hands still clutched her, cold and long, their nails sharp. Madrila wanted to pull her hands free, but dared not.
"Who are you?" she whispered.
"Nin," the witch said. "That is all, and that is enough for you. And you are Madrila, born to a young woman far away, cast aside, lost, hungry, dangerous. You will be a witch too; a great wielder of magic, and all shall fear you."
Madrila tore off her hat of patches and bells. She tossed it aside. She ripped off her sash, a gaudy thing of yellow and blue.
"I no longer need these bard's things," she said. "I am no longer a Snowy Owl. Teach me, Nin. Teach me dark magic, teach me to be a witch like you, and I will serve you."
She travelled with Nin for a year.
They moved from town to town, telling fortunes for spare coins. They peered into crystal balls, and shuffled tarots, and clinked crystals, and performed other tricks for the gullible.
"This is not magic," Nin told her. "These are fools' tricks for coins."
"Teach me real magic," Madrila insisted, day after day. "I want to learn. Let me read your spellbook."
Nin would only shake her head. "You are not ready."
And so the spellbook remained closed, and they kept travelling, sleeping in hollow logs, and in creeks, and in barns, and atop beds of dry leaves. Madrila cooked meals for the witch, and hunted for her, and washed her clothes, and every day asked to learn. Every day Nin refused her.
"When you are ready, child. When the planets are aligned and the moonlight shines upon you."
One night a mob chased them out of a town. A priest led them, shouting of devilry and witchcraft. Peasants ran behind him, waving torches and pitchforks. Nin and Madrila fled in the night, whisking from tree to tree, but the mob seemed everywhere, swarming through the night.
Madrila found a rock, hurled it, and hit the priest's forehead. The man fell, and his followers rushed to his aid. Nin and Madrila fled into the shadows, wadded through a stream, and crawled to the safety of a wheat field. They hid between the stalks until the sounds of the mob faded, and they heard only crickets, swaying wheat, and a goose honking in the night.
Madrila panted. Sweat drenched her.
"You know no magic!" she hissed, breath heavy.
Nin too panted, her clothes torn and muddy. "Silence!"
But Madrila would not be silent. "All you know is tricks! Reading tarots to fools. Inventing nonsense when gazing into your crystal ball. If you were truly a witch, you would let no mob chase you. You would sear them with lightning and fire."
Tears burned in Madrila's eyes, and her chest ached. She had never felt so betrayed.
I wanted to be a witch. A great power to be feared. Now I hide in a field, trembling and cold.
"No," Nin finally said. "I am not a witch. In Queenpool, I learned your name from a dwarf who danced for you, and who came for a palm reading. I'm sorry, child. I'm sorry."
Madrila grabbed Nin's shoulders and shook her. Her arms trembled with rage. "Why did you lie to me?"
Nin stared back steadily, eyes dry. "You needed to leave the Snowy Owls. I might wield no magic, but I have wisdom, and I could see that. You were not born to sing, to dance, to juggle. You were born to rule, child. Do you want to learn magic?" Nin smirked. "Take my spellbook. It's useless. It's written in dead tongues. This book is my payment to you, for the year that you served me. If you can make sense of it, which I could not, you will find the power you seek."
As the crickets chirped and geese flew across the moon, Madrila left the field, carrying the spellbook. Once more she was alone. She never saw Nin again.
All of summer, and autumn, and winter she studied the book. The letters were but squiggles to her. She pored over them day after day, and memorized the symbols, but still could not read them. The book was ancient, she knew. The parchment was crumbly, the leather binding smoothed and loose.
"Teach me these letters," she begged monks in remote forest monasteries, but doors slammed in her face.
"Read me these words," she demanded of merchants climbing off ships in distant ports. They would scoff and toss a coin her way.
She travelled from port to church, from library to cathedral, but none could read her book.
She was sixteen when she met Elizabeth.
That evening, Madrila was wandering a dark, creaky town whose name she did not know. When she came upon a curiosity shop, she stepped inside to find shelves laden with skulls, crystals, charms, potions, scrolls, bat wings, pickled eyeballs, and sundry other items.
A magic shop,
she realized, sucking in her breath.
There will be answers here.
She approached the counter and found the shopkeep. He was an old elfling, barely taller than the Snowy Owls dwarves. His nose was long, his ears pointy, and his white hair grew down to his knees. Madrila placed her spellbook upon the counter.
"Can you read this?" she asked.
The old elfling grumbled. "Of course I can, girl. Now what will you buy?"
Madrila had no money; she was a tattered wanderer, moving from town to town, eating what she hunted in the forests... or found in city gutters.
"I'm not interested in your trinkets," she said. "Read me this book."
The shopkeep only snorted.
Rage flared in Madrila. Finally she found one who could read these words! And he would not help her? She wanted to draw her knife and stab him. Before she could react, however, a voice spoke behind her.
"I can help you."
Madrila spun around and found herself facing a witch.
Her breath left her lungs.
She knew this woman was a witch—she had to be. She wore long black robes and a pointy hat. A bat sat upon her shoulder, and she held a broomstick. She had long brown hair, wise brown eyes, and pale skin.
"Please," Madrila said, eyes stinging. "Ma'am."
The witch smiled. "My name is Elizabeth. Come with me. We'll find a quiet place to talk."
That night, they sat in a rough, grimy tavern. Elizabeth insisted they sit in a corner, hidden in shadows, away from the revellers and drunkards who sang by the fireplace. She ordered them onion soup, bread and butter, slabs of roast beef, sizzling bacon, stewed greens, and pints of strong ale. Madrila devoured the food and drink; she had not eaten this well since her days with the Snowy Owls, perhaps ever. It was a feast.
Yes,
she thought, licking gravy off her lips.
This is power. This is what being a witch means. Not cowering in fields like Nin, but feasting and drinking with no fear.
As Madrila ate and drank, Elizabeth barely touched her food. The witch merely sat in the shadows, watching Madrila, her face stoic. There was sadness in her eyes, but curiosity too. Finally, when Madrila had polished off the last crumbs, Elizabeth spoke.
"Where did you find this book?"
Madrila wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "From a fraud—a woman who could not understand its power. But there is power to this book. I learned a little from it."
In the shadows, Elizabeth's brown eyes sparkled. "What did you learn?"
Madrila placed the spellbook on the table. She opened it to a page showing a bolt of lightning. Hundreds of words were scribbled in circles around the lightning bolt. Madrila pointed at a few letters.
"This makes a sound like the letter B. And this... this is a deep, guttural scratching of the throat. This mark here is a clicking of the tongue." She touched the old parchment, feeling its power. "I travelled from town to town, speaking to all who could help. Most knew nothing. Others knew only one symbol. Can you read this spell?"
Elizabeth looked at the book. Her eyes did not move. She raised her hands.
Madrila caught her breath. The room suddenly seemed colder, and the sound of the drunkards behind them seemed muffled. The shutters on the window creaked. The lamps swayed.
So fast she barely caught it, Elizabeth uttered a spell. Madrila heard many words in an ancient tongue, a sound like B, a scratching of the throat and clicking of the tongue. Light flared. A small, blue bolt appeared in Elizabeth's hands, painting her face a ghostly azure. Icy wind ruffled Madrila's hair and she gasped.
Smiling softly, Elizabeth closed her hand, and the lightning bolt vanished.
"You cast it!" Madrila whispered, and suddenly she was crying and shaking, and she was a child again, hurt and angry and hungry, longing for power. "You're a real witch, with real power."
And oh the witch did cast her spells, and oh the mountains shook.
Madrila trembled too, and her tears fell upon the spellbook.
"I am a witch of Batwog Coven, child."
Madrila took a deep, sharp breath. There was an entire world she knew nothing about: A world of witches and warlocks, of power and magic, of knowledge. She grabbed the spellbook. She stared at the page through narrowed, blurry eyes.