Witch’s Journey

Other Titles by Karen McCullough from ImaJinn Books

Wizard’s Bridge

Witch’s Journey

by

Karen McCullough

ImaJinn Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

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Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61026-025-1

Print ISBN: 978-1-893896-90-1

ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2002 by Karen McCullough

Published in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

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Interior design: Hank Smith

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Dedication

To Jim, for the constant support and

belief that have kept me going.

One

NO, FLAME INSISTED. Not see. Do nothing.

But it’s a child, Jinissa protested, listening to the terrified moans and shrieks from off to her left.

The fire elemental was right, of course. She shouldn’t look. She couldn’t afford to do anything. One of the basic rules for someone in her position: don’t give yourself away, don’t let them know what you are. Public use of her power would tell everyone in town they had a Calavrian witch in their midst. She couldn’t afford any temptation to a revealing display.

She tried to pretend she hadn’t heard the scream, going about her business of carrying laundry to the wash-house. But paying no attention to the fuss would also draw suspicion. She turned to see what caused the commotion. A child, a small boy, maybe six or seven years old, hung on a high branch of a pine tree, at least thirty feet above the ground. Along the trunk of the tree, knots and smaller branches provided foot and handholds, enough to let him climb that high. But he’d settled on a longer limb, and it was now cracking under him. A panicked mother stood directly below him and screamed. Neighbors held out unhelpful arms. A couple began to scale the tree themselves.

Flame, still wrapped around her finger in the form of a lightning-shaped ring, quivered and hissed. Not good, looking. Shouldn’t look. Will think.

They couldn’t climb fast enough to grab the child. And even if the people below could catch him before he met the hard ground, another branch ten feet below might cause considerable injury.

Not safe, Flame insisted. No looking. No thinking. Do nothing. Will hurt you.

Flame was right. She owed nothing to these people, would only endanger herself if she reacted. A ripping crack tore the air as the branch canted even further downward, and the child scrabbled to hold on. The people beneath gasped, while the mother shrieked and begged for help. Jinny bit her lip and ran her hands into her hair. The child was doomed, to serious injury, if not death. She could do nothing about it. She dared not do anything about it.

Do nothing, Flame agreed. Jinny always wondered how the elemental managed to read her mind so accurately.

Even if she did rescue the child, that good deed would weigh nothing against the heinous accusation against her. Witchcraft was feared and reviled in this land, more than the grossest of other perversions and sins. The child’s own life might be forfeit, having been saved by the exercise of a power these people saw as something dangerous and demonic. In their warped thinking, he wouldn’t deserve a life preserved by the use of an accursed power.

Don’t look! Flame’s words hissed and crackled. Too soft, you.

Over the shrill cries of the adults on the ground, she heard the child’s whimper and the clawing of small fingers. She could picture the upcoming scene in her head: the small body sliding off the hanging branch, tumbling down, knocking against other limbs on the way, then possibly caught or possibly not by people on the ground. She could hear the screams, almost smell the blood. Jinissa covered her ears and tried to look away.

Good, Flame agreed. Close eyes. Close ears.

A louder cracking sound from the branch drew even more yells and moans from everyone present. The child shrieked as the branch shook him off. The boy’s blue eyes looked around wildly, and for a moment it seemed that he met her eyes with a pleading glance. Not possible, of course. He couldn’t know she had any help to give him.

But she couldn’t ignore his eyes, either.

No! It was more crackle than word.

She ignored Flame’s protest. It was stupid, it was dangerous, it might well be fatal. She couldn’t watch the boy die right in front of her when she might do something about it.

Jinny held out a hand, focused her mind on drawing the forces of air together around the falling child, calling the breezes and herding them into the path she desired. Wind swirled around the boy. Flame moaned. Wind sang in joy, sailing at her command as it formed a cushion to slow the child’s descent and protect him from knocking against other branches on the way down. She gathered more and more of the air, until she had enough of it, then held it in place while the boy floated down, avoiding obstacles in the way, and came within reach of the many upheld arms. Sudden cries of magic and witchcraft mingled with the gasps and sobbing relief, alerting her to the danger she was in.

Flame writhed around her finger. Go, it insisted. Fast.

Once the boy was in his parent’s grasp, she let go the wind cushion, whirled and ran. Too late, though. Before she’d gone far, footsteps sounded behind her, gaining on her, and then hands fell, hooking her clothes, wrapping around an arm and an ankle, bringing her to the ground. She hit hard. Breath whooshed out of her lungs. Flame jerked on her finger. Sudden, sharp pain flashed through her head, her vision fogged. Even the yells and shouts faded moments later as she sank into darkness.

Two

A COOL, DANK draft blew over her, and one hip dug uncomfortably into something hard. Her head throbbed. Even with her eyes open, darkness pressed against her. For a panicked moment she thought she was blind, until she turned her head and noted the narrow slivers of light leaking around what must be a door. Memory dribbled back slowly: the child falling, her foolish impulse to save him, the mob catching up with her.

Jinissa tried to roll over to relieve the pressure of her hip on the unforgiving surface and found it unexpectedly difficult. Her hands wouldn’t go where she needed them to be. A bit of struggling made her realize they were bound tightly together at the wrist. Her ankles were likewise drawn together and held by rough rope. As her eyes adjusted to the low light, she could see more of her present quarters. It was a tiny, rectangular room, with the door on one of the long sides and the rough wood cot she lay on taking up the entire wall opposite it. A narrow foot space ran alongside the cot. The walls were stone on two sides and wood on the other two, all solid, with no openings save the door and a few cracks where boards met less than perfectly. She wouldn’t suffocate, but the air wasn’t fresh either.

Flame could take care of the ropes in short order. She reached for fire with her mind and met emptiness. Nothing. No hint of the elemental, or any other, anywhere in the vicinity. No response at all. She crooked her body enough to get a view of her hands. No lightning-squiggle ring encircled her finger. Her chin rubbed something brittle and dry, bound snugly to her throat by an encircling leather strap. Witchbane.

That explained the absence of flame and the lethargy which made every movement an effort. She tried to twist her neck and shake it loose, with no success.

Unable to do much beyond wiggle, and realizing the witchbane would make her wear out all the quicker, Jinny lay still and waited to see who would come or what would unfold. Nothing happened. No one came to visit or bring food, or water, or word of her fate. Eventually she dozed again. She woke and tried to move again in the constraints of her bonds, then tried to loosen them somewhat. The ropes refused to yield even a bit of slack. She accomplished nothing but to rub skin off her wrists and ankles.

After a long time, someone did come in and bring a bucket of water, which he set in a corner of the cell, then left again. She tried to call to him to stay, throwing questions at him as he left. What’s happening? What are you going to do with me?

He ignored her completely, leaving and locking the door behind him with no comment. The water was welcome, though she had to squirm and hop over to it, then lap it up with her tongue like an animal at a stream.

Time passed. She dozed and woke, drank more of the water periodically and worked at her bonds. Rumbles from her empty stomach told her it had been a long time since her last meal. No one brought food.

The passage of a day was marked by a slight increase of light inside her cell and the subsequent darkening. Jinissa berated herself at least once an hour for her stupidity in saving the child and exposing herself. She was every bit as foolish and incompetent as the Elder Council had feared she was. The weakening of her body from the effects of the witchbane and lack of food brought weakening of her spirit as well. Occasionally a few hot tears leaked from her eyes and trickled down her temples. What would happen to her now? She supposed the best she could hope for was a quick, easy death. Hanging or beheading. Not fire, Powers please, anything but fire.

Just the thought of fire kindled a burst of energy that had her struggling to free her hands. It didn’t work, but did start her thinking of other opportunities she might get to try an escape or even ways to make opportunities. She ran a variety of scenes through her head. If they tried to burn her, perhaps she could bend enough to let the flames consume the witchbane first, then hope she could recover enough strength in the few minutes she’d have after that.

She dozed and woke several more times before the door opened to admit several people. As a group, they came and took hold of her arms and dragged her roughly to her feet.

Come on, witch, one man said as they pulled her toward the door, heedless of her difficulty walking with bound ankles. There’s business to attend to.

She squinted as the light assaulted her dark-adapted eyes. Several minutes passed before she could see well enough to sort out the people in the room. Four men and two women. She recognized all but one of them. She knew them reasonably well after six months of living in the same town and interacting with some on a daily basis. They’d been reserved but not unfriendly, accepting her as a stranger with reservations. There was nothing but hostility now, even from the father of the child she’d saved. Given what she knew of their attitude toward her kind, she could have expected nothing else.

The stranger, a short, stout man with a red face and bad teeth, was no better. He glared at her as she was pulled forward. This is the witch? he asked the others. She doesn’t look like much.

Don’t be fooled, the boy’s father answered. She put a curse on my boy, Sam. Made him think he could fly. Damn near killed him. Witch’s trick if I ever heard of one.

Jinissa tried to jerk herself loose from their grasp, but at least four persons held her and she couldn’t shake off all of them.

We’ll put a stop to that nonsense, the newcomer said. I see you’ve used witchbane to contain her, but I’ve got something better. He opened a cloth sack and withdrew a circlet of metal from within. Fixed in the center of the band was an iron disk, engraved with . . . Jinissa sucked in a sharp breath when she looked closely at the design. She tried to back away when the man advanced on her, holding the band, his intent to fasten it around her neck all too clear. But the others held her, halting her retreat, preventing her from wiggling clear of it. Despite her desperate efforts to evade it, the circlet was brought to her neck and the disk pressed against her throat. Only when it was touching her skin did they remove the strap holding the herb in place.

The metal burned faintly where it touched her skin. The sigil of the witchbane, cut into both sides of the disk, produced an uncomfortable tingle. She made one last desperate effort to jerk her arms and head loose from their grasp, enough to use her power, but she heard the tiny click of a lock mechanism closing. It sounded like a death knell.

At least the sigil wouldn’t have the same sapping effect on her energy as the herb itself. But it would be just as effective in preventing her from using magic, and far harder to remove.

The stranger turned a mocking smile on her. Not so feisty, now, eh, witch?

Her own rasping breath sounded unbearably loud in her ears. The skin of her throat prickled where the disk lay against it, but she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her rub or scratch it.

What now, magistrate? one of the townspeople asked the newcomer.

A trial, of course, the magistrate answered. Summon the witnesses.

A woman and man left the building, to go round up the rest of the town, it turned out. People arrived quickly, pressing into the small area that served as the public meeting room. Jinny was dragged to a side wall and held against it. The magistrate seated himself in the only chair in the room, behind the only other piece of furniture, a rickety table. When the crowd filled the room and flowed out the door, he pounded on the table with a heavy wood seal and yelled loudly for order.

The charge against this woman, Jinissa Var-Ton as she was formerly known, Jinissa Calavrian as she will now be called, is that of being a witch, a traitor and a spy for the Calavrians. Who accuses?

A number of people stepped forward to offer their accusations. The incident of her saving the child was presented, although several people agreed they’d seen her making odd movements toward the boy before he climbed the tree. Consensus soon grew that she’d ensorcelled the child into going up the tree in the first place so he’d be injured or killed. Then other incidents suddenly occurred to people. Animals had died soon after she passed by, objects disappeared, people taken sick following visits from her. None of it true, but the more the stories were repeated, the more they were believed.

When all had finally had their say, the magistrate stood and faced her. You’ve heard the accusations made against you, Mistress Jinissa Calavrian. Have you anything to say for yourself?

Jinny thought of all the things she’d like to say. She could remind the Thompkins family of the help she’d given them with harvesting, the Martins, of all the extra cooking she’d done for them when the mother of the family took ill, and old Halwyn, of the salve she’d offered to ease his arthritis. She could make all the logical arguments about how ridiculous it would be for her to do something so stupidly revealing as ensorcelling a child. But these people were beyond logic. They thought with their prejudices and looked no further. There’s nothing to say, she answered quietly, determined to preserve the only thing remaining to her, her dignity, in the face of their furor.

The penalty for the treachery of spying for the Calavrians is death, the magistrate proclaimed.

She sucked in her breath, but allowed nothing to show on her face. She’d known it was so.

A few folks yelled, Burn the witch, and others took up the cry.

The magistrate allowed it to go on for a few minutes, then held up an arm. He shook his head. I regret to tell you, he said to the crowd, that king’s law no longer permits execution by fire. The witch must be sentenced to hang.

The crowd murmured its regret.

But, the magistrate added, there’s no proscription on the penalties that may be imposed prior to execution. Therefore I proclaim that, as an example to the community and a warning to all, prior to execution by hanging for the charge of treachery to the people of Lendiil, the prisoner Mistress Jinissa Calavrian is to receive thirty lashes as penalty for the charge of spying and be branded with the sign of the witch in penalty for witchcraft. Thus it shall be done in the name of our liege, King Randell of Lendiil.

A wave of cold shock poured over her, freezing her for several moments, followed by the worst fear she’d ever felt in her life. The sentence of hanging didn’t surprise her. She’d do anything in her power to avoid it, but it didn’t hold any terror for her. What would come before did.

She barely heard the magistrate add that the sentences for spying and witchcraft would be carried out at midday the following day, with execution to follow a day later. The buzzing in her ears drowned all else until the exploding lights at the borders of her vision expanded and swallowed her again.

When she woke, she lay once again on the hard wooden bench in the tiny cell. The lack of light suggested several hours had passed and it was night. She wished she could sink back into the faint, but sleep wouldn’t come. Instead her thoughts churned with dread of what would happen. She tried to concentrate on concocting plans to escape or, failing that, to force them to kill her quickly. No good ideas presented themselves, but mulling those possibilities did provide the only acceptable place to let her mind roam.

Eventually she dozed again but roused when someone appeared with another bucket of water in the morning. The next few hours were the longest of her life. The metal disk at her throat created an itchy burn that continued to be uncomfortable. Worse, it drained both the power and the spirit from her.

When they came for her, she tried to be calm and dignified. She’d considered trying to beg and plead for mercy but decided it would avail nothing but to give the gathered crowd yet more satisfaction. Icy disdain would be her course. Four men showed up to escort her to her fate. They untied her ankles, letting her move more freely, before half-dragging her out of the cell. If she got any opportunity to wiggle free of her escort and run, she would take it.

As they led her from the building, someone kept a hand on her at all times, giving her no opportunity to escape. When she saw the whipping post waiting for her, though, she almost collapsed involuntarily. She had to remind herself to keep her head up and not let the tears go. When both her arms were freed momentarily while they prepared to chain her wrists, she ducked quickly and tried to work her way between two of the men. It availed nothing, however. One of the men dove at her and snagged her dress. The fabric tore as she tried to rip herself away, but he held on until the others helped. Moments later metal cuffs circled her wrists and they were drawn up and over her head, pulling her body closer to the post.

The magistrate stood behind her and intoned a speech about the wickedness of the Calavrians, the danger of spying, the wonderful wisdom of the king, and the lesson that the young people of the town should be taking from this display.

With her face pressed to the post, she no longer worried about anyone seeing the tears running down her cheeks. A sharp, hard tug on the back of her dress tore the fabric. A cool breeze blew over the cringing flesh of her bared back. Jinny prayed for help, for release, for strength to bear what couldn’t be avoided. The crowd cheered but she refused to look at what they were excited about. She heard the rustle of the whip being