The Witch of Webs: Book 12 (The Wandering Inn), page 33
“There’s no beating being done, Mister Ram. Or exile—yet. We know who the [Thief] is, and he’s high-level, but figuring out the exact punishment will take a bit. He’s being confined in his house under watch, so I don’t want anyone doing anything until Lady Rie and I pass formal judgment. What’s important is that the thefts will stop; at least, from him.”
That didn’t sit well with the crowd. There was a lot of frowning, and then a woman called out.
“Why not? That man stole from our [Traders]—stole money we made for the village!”
“There’s complications, Miss Prise. The man’s from Lancrel—”
“So? They came to Riverfarm, they have to obey the laws, same as everyone else! What makes this [Thief] so different?”
Durene, watching, saw most of the villagers nodding. She nodded as well; there was only one recourse for a [Thief]. Either you taught them a lesson so they stopped for good or they had to leave the village. In a small community, you couldn’t have people like that. Prost just grimaced.
“It’s not that simple. The [Thief] that Durene helped catch? It’s Master Elmmet.”
There was a moment of stunned silence and then a roar of outrage from the crowd. Durene blinked as fury swept over the familiar faces. Ram shouted out, his face red.
“That snooty [Councilman]? And the Lancrel lot said the [Thief] wouldn’t ever be one of theirs! Just goes to show! Let’s tar and feather the bastard and run him out today! I’ll get the tar myself! Who’s with me?”
Half the men and women in the room shouted, and some seemed ready to do so right this instant. On the dais, Prost shouted for silence, then gave up. He put two fingers in his mouth and issued a piercing whistle. Everyone, Durene included, clapped their hands to their ears. Frostwing, who’d been content to perch on Durene’s shoulder, shrieked happily in accord.
“No one’s punishing Elmmet for anything, so get that out of your heads. Especially you, Ram. He’s under guard.”
“Put him in the pillory and let us throw some rocks! Under guard in his home? You’re not treating him special on account of him being from the city, are you, Prost?”
Ram’s glare bounced off Prost. The [Steward] frowned, and Ram, realizing he might have gone too far, hesitated. Prost’s voice shut down every murmur as he replied with iron in his tone.
“Not at all. But Lancrel’s folk are insisting their [Councilman] did nothing wrong. Never mind that he was caught by Beniar. They insist it was a setup—”
Another roar of outrage. Prost shouted over them.
“I know, I know! Shut up, all of you! We’ve got work to do—stop acting like wet-bottomed babes before I spank the lot of you!”
The affronted crowd shut up. Prost, breathing heavily, glared at them.
“That’s what Lancrel’s lot says. But they’re not in charge, and justice will be done, I promise you. What we’re doing is—we’re setting up a trial. With a truth stone. Lady Rie sent for one from her estates, and it’ll be here by the end of today. Tomorrow, we’ll be having a public trial for Master Elmmet to show everyone he is the [Thief]. His sentence will be handled then.”
The angry crowd quieted a bit. A woman shouted out as she lifted a girl up to see Prost from the back.
“What if Lancrel’s folk don’t want him punished? There’s more’ve them than us, Prost. Them and the other villagers who came here. They’ve been saying they deserve the best houses and more consideration—as if we weren’t here first!”
Durene saw more aggrieved nods. Prost sighed.
“They can say what they want. But justice will be done tomorrow. I’ll be handling the trial myself. You’re all free to watch. With that said—we have jobs to do! There might be rain, but I want more fields being plowed and sown! And we’re putting up more houses for our crafts folk! That means more of you all will be doing your primary class’ job soon enough! Think of that and don’t let me catch any of you starting a fight with Lancrel’s folk! They’ll be here right after you, and they’ll hear exactly what you said.”
“Us? Start fights?”
Ram looked innocently around. Prost glared.
“That’s all for now. Anyone who’s got a complaint? Find me when I’m checking in on you! Get to work!”
Grumbling, but good-naturedly, the villagers dispersed. Durene watched the back of the crowd begin to troop out of the room with no more than a few complaints. They were hardy folk, the [Farmers] and [Woodcutters] and so on. More than a few stopped to greet Durene. The first was a bald man with huge arms and an apron.
“Durene! Dead gods, girl, it’s good to see you.”
He spread his arms and gave Durene a hug. She grinned and hugged him back.
“Mister Helm!”
The [Blacksmith] beamed as he stepped back. He was one of the leaders of Windrest, a respected man and the highest-level [Blacksmith] in Riverfarm at the moment. He shook his head as a small crowd gathered around Durene.
“I didn’t think anything could keep you down more than a day, girl. When I heard your wound got infected—it’s a terrible thing. But you’re back, and in a day, you caught that damn [Thief]! And that slimy Elmmet no less! He’d have never been able to get away with it for so long if His Majesty were here.”
Durene nodded soberly. Laken would have sensed Elmmet stealing right off. Helm sighed, but then he adjusted his belt.
“Not long now until he gets back, though. I’m looking forwards to it—he can restore order. Not that Prost and Lady Rie don’t do a good enough job, but Emperor Laken—he’s the one who can get things moving. There’s always more houses that need putting up, and I’d like half a dozen more hands helping me churn out what Riverfarm needs—get us ore instead of having us having to smelt or buy the damn stuff ourselves—”
Someone elbowed Helm in the side and forced him back. Another woman stepped up, scowling at the [Blacksmith].
“Don’t monopolize Durene with your complaints, Helm! How are you, Miss Durene? Ignore Helm. He hasn’t changed from Windrest. When Emperor Laken comes back, kicking Helm into shape’ll be his hardest task, I have no doubt.”
“How dare you, Mallie! You think I haven’t been working from dawn till dusk?”
Helm spluttered at the [Washerwoman] as she shook Durene’s hand with two of her own, smiling. More of the villagers crowded around, and Durene, surprised and touched by the affection, shook hands and exchanged hugs, trying not to blush.
She failed. Durene liked Windrest’s folk. They didn’t have any baggage with her past, and they’d known her and Laken for months before the battle at Lancrel. She didn’t know them all, of course, and some of the villagers in this meeting were here just to meet Durene.
“I…saw you, didn’t I? When the army of his—er, Emperor Godart—sent them to fight the Goblins harassing our village. You were with them. I’m Miss Baker. A pleasure. Miss Durene?”
A small woman peered up at Durene, cautious, but managing a smile. Durene nodded.
“I’m a [Paladin], Miss Baker. I, uh, I fought with the army. I might be doing that again, but today I’ll be helping out.”
“Oh! A [Paladin]? I’ve never heard of that class. What is it about, please?”
The woman’s eyes widened respectfully. Durene felt a surge of pride, and a smile flashed around those in the know. Durene used the easiest explanation she knew.
“A [Paladin] is a special kind of [Knight] that serves [Emperors], Miss Baker. A bit more than that, but you could think of them as…a [Knight] among [Knights].”
“Amazing. And you’re…I mean, will we have [Knights] when His Majesty returns? There’s that dashing [Cataphract], and he’s as good as any [Knight]. Adventurer Beniar.”
Miss Baker’s eyes were shining at the prospect. Durene felt a flutter in her chest at the thought. Hadn’t Laken thought about that? No, wait—he’d complained that he’d given most of his titles, including knighthoods, to the Frost Faeries.
“I imagine Laken could knight a few people, Miss Baker. If they were deserving.”
“Amazing.”
The woman shook her head. The others nodded proudly or with the same amazement. [Steward], [Paladin]—no, they even had a [Lady] among them! It was more than any of them would dream of in their normal lives.
Durene was smiling and introducing herself to the last of the people as the crowd slowly filed out of the meeting hall when there was a pause, then a susurration through those still in the building. The people at the doors cleared a space. Walking through them came a young woman with a familiar blue hat.
Wiskeria. Durene looked up, and a silence fell over the room. The [Witch]’s face was pale, but she walked into the center, chin raised. Prost, talking to Helm and a few of the villagers with authority, turned, and his eyes widened. Wiskeria gulped and spoke.
“Hello, everyone.”
“Wiskeria.”
Durene breathed her name, and she wasn’t the only one. Every eye focused on the [Witch], and Durene, gazing across the crowd, saw a mix of emotions. Surprise, sadness, a flash of anger on a few faces—but, generally, just uncertainty. The [Witch] tugged on her hat, and then, slowly, took it off. She stared around the room as her dark hair fell slightly.
“I’m sorry for—I’m sorry I haven’t been more active of late. I’d like to change that, help where I may. I’m not reforming the army. Beniar will be handling things with his Darksky Riders until Emperor Laken returns. But I do want to help.”
Silence greeted her statement. Durene held her breath, inspecting the audience. To her, Wiskeria had nothing to apologize for. Nothing—but then Durene remembered the cemetery. And she couldn’t bring herself to be the first one to speak.
Nor could Prost, apparently. He hesitated, opening his mouth uncertainly. But before he could speak, someone else pushed her way through the crowd.
A girl. She was young, a village child from her trousers and general appearance. She marched right up to Wiskeria and stared up at her as the [Witch] put on her hat. Wiskeria stared back uncertainly. The girl looked Wiskeria up and down and then asked in a loud, carrying voice, as only a child could do.
“What’re you, Miss?”
Wiskeria blinked. The question wasn’t exactly rude, but it was a bit out of place.
“I’m a [Witch]. A [Witch] and a [General]. But mostly a [Witch]. My name is Wiskeria. What’s yours?”
The girl considered this.
“Agathy. Are you a bad [Witch], Miss? Mother says you’re not. But my brother, Randil, he followed you to kill the Goblins. And he never came back.”
There it was. Durene paused, and in the crowd around her, the folk at the doors, the good mood was swept away and replaced by silence. Outside, the rain blew in, drenching those at the doors. But they held still, looking back at Wiskeria. The [Witch] hesitated. She tugged her pointed hat lower over her brow and knelt, bending down towards Agathy.
“I’d…like to think I’m not a bad [Witch], Agathy. But I don’t think I’m a very good one. I let your brother down.”
“Ma says it weren’t your fault. Nor His Majesty’s. She said—but who’s to blame? Them Goblins?”
Agathy stared at Wiskeria. Her voice was loud, strident even. Bordering on accusatory. Wiskeria hesitated.
“I was the [General] in charge of the army. We were fighting Goblins, but I should have led better. I’m sorry.”
The little girl nodded. Durene was…surprised to see her not crying. But it had been fifty-five days since then. It felt like yesterday to Durene. She closed her eyes. Then Agathy’s voice became uncertain.
“Was he brave?”
A tremble entered her bold tone. A quaver. And the room waited on Wiskeria’s response. The [Witch] gazed up. Perhaps some of those in the room had fought on that battlefield. Durene recognized some faces. She had been there. But she didn’t remember Agathy’s brother’s face. She didn’t even recognize his name. Wiskeria paused, and then she closed her eyes. Then she smiled down at Agathy.
“Oh yes. The bravest. I promise you that.”
“He was a hero.”
The statement was no question, but it begged for an answer. Wiskeria nodded. Agathy went on, her large eyes filled with no tears. But the words poured out in a rush.
“He had a spear. A-and he practiced every day. He was a Level 14 [Warrior]. He killed a lot of Goblins, right?”
“Yes. And he helped the rest of us get away.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Agathy nodded. She stared up at Wiskeria. Then she looked lost.
“How did he—how did—”
She broke off and rubbed at one eye. At last, a woman came through the crowd. She had been wiping at her eyes. She pulled Agathy back. The girl protested, but quietly. The woman bowed to Wiskeria hesitantly. The [Witch] looked down, then forced herself to meet the woman’s eyes.
“I’m Agelica. Agathy’s mother. And Randil’s. Please forgive Agathy.”
“No, it’s perfectly…I’m sorry Miss Agelica.”
The woman shook her head, her eyes bright.
“We know you did your best, General. And you had the wrong orders. Emperor Laken didn’t order that charge. It was someone else. A traitor, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
The word came from Prost. He stood on the dais, watching Wiskeria. He met the eyes of every person as he slowly turned around the room.
“Emperor Laken didn’t order the attack. Someone else did. Knocked out Nesor. Wiskeria did the best with the information she had. But we’ll find that traitor. Wiskeria, it’s good to see you.”
She nodded to him. But when she turned to Miss Agelica, the [Witch] could only bow to her and her daughter.
“I’m sorry. Your son was a hero. If he hadn’t fought, more of us wouldn’t have escaped.”
Agelica nodded. With dignity, holding Agathy’s hand, she turned to go. Durene let out the sigh she’d been holding. Too quickly. Frostwing fluttered in alarm as someone stormed past her. Another woman, wearing a dress, pointed a finger at Wiskeria.
“Sorry? Sorry doesn’t bring back the dead!”
“Miss Rehanna.”
Prost called out sharply. Durene recognized her, although it took a second. She had been one of the villagers who’d refused to accept Laken’s rule when she’d come to Riverfarm. Durene had disliked the woman’s ingratitude then. And she hadn’t changed. The woman stormed up to Wiskeria as the [Witch] turned.
“You have some nerve showing your face here after what you did. You were the [General]. You should have won! Or—or retreated sooner! Instead, there were thousands dead! From Riverfarm and every village, city, and town that your [Emperor] levied troops from! How dare you come in here and—”
She flinched as Durene put a hand on her shoulder. The half-Troll girl glared down at her. Durene’s voice boomed around the hall.
“Wiskeria saved as many lives as she could, Miss. It wasn’t her fault someone lied to her. She fought the Goblins! You weren’t there—”
“Durene.”
Wiskeria looked at Durene warningly. Rehanna spun, her eyes flaring with hatred. Hatred and disgust.
“So what if I wasn’t? I can say what we’re all thinking. If it weren’t for her, our people might not have died at Lancrel! And for what? A bunch of city-folk who come here and steal our food while complaining all the while? If we’d had a proper leader in charge instead of this—”
The woman cut off as Durene clenched a fist. Durene made no other move, but it was a big fist. Rehanna backed up. Durene glared at her.
“Don’t you dare insult her. You weren’t fighting. You weren’t there! How can you insult Wiskeria?”
“Durene. Enough.”
Someone pulled at Durene’s shoulder. Prost. He couldn’t move her, but he interposed himself between her and Rehanna. He glanced up at Durene and shook his head.
“Wiskeria isn’t to blame, that’s right enough, Durene. But Miss Rehanna’s entitled to her grief. Her husband was among those that fought at Lancrel.”
“Oh.”
Suddenly, Durene’s righteous anger burnt out in her chest. She stared at Rehanna. The woman’s face was red as she glared at Durene. She pointed a shaking finger at Wiskeria.
“My husband followed that bitch into battle. For your [Emperor]. I warned him. I told him what would happen, but he didn’t listen. And he died.”
Without another word, she turned and stormed out of the room. No one spoke for a long while after that. At last, Wiskeria bowed her head.
“I’m sorry. I can’t make up for what happened. I did what I could. I know that’s not enough, but let me help, if you can accept it.”
Prost nodded tiredly. He looked about and clapped his hands.
“Everyone, back to work. We’ve wasted enough time as it is. Tell everyone who’s working in the village on the second shift to come by when the sun’s overhead.”
He marched towards the door, ordering the first wave of people to the fields and the early-morning work. But, tellingly, he didn’t stop a small crowd who lingered around Wiskeria. A man stepped towards the [Witch], taking off his wide farmer’s hat.
“I don’t know if you’ll remember her, Miss Wiskeria. But if you’ve a moment—do you remember my girl? Iglief? She was an [Archer]. Caught an arrow or so I heard. I…I’d like to know if that’s what happened.”
“Of course.”
Wiskeria turned and bowed to him. She looked up once at Durene. And the half-Troll girl silently stepped away. Wiskeria turned to the [Farmer], and the moment of hesitation was so quick that only Durene noticed it.
“Iglief? I remember her. She had—blonde hair, right?”
She looked at the man. He ran a hand through his dark blonde hair and nodded, relieved.
“That’s her. As fair as wheat. And a clear shot with a bow. She could kill a rat at a hundred paces with it.”
Wiskeria closed her eyes.
“Of course. She would’ve been with our archers. The Goblins overran the right. Before Lord Pellmia came, they had to fight and hold them back as we were retreating. Your daughter—”
She looked at the [Farmer]. Durene, walking towards the door with Frostwing, saw the man bow his head. Wiskeria reached out, and he took Wiskeria’s hand. Shook it. When he moved away, it was slowly, but he put on his hat and headed past Durene towards the doors, and there was a firmness in his step. The next person, an old woman, stepped up and urgently grabbed at the hem of Wiskeria’s robe. The [Witch] turned to her.
