The Witch of Webs: Book 12 (The Wandering Inn), page 98
Ryoka did too after a moment. She had never known that feathers could hurt that much.
Night 60 – Wiskeria
The [Witch] did not go back to her tent immediately. She stared at the cottage for a long time. And her stomach churned despite Durene’s cooking actually being good. But Wiskeria hadn’t tasted much of it. Ryoka’s words had bothered her too much.
The pretentiousness of someone to lecture Wiskeria on talking to her mother! The worst part was that it stuck a bit because there was truth in the statement. Even if it was an idiot’s point…it was a point.
It felt, to Wiskeria, like when she had observed someone locked out of their home in a city, trying the doorknob as they felt for their pockets, looking for a key, figuring out what to do. They kept rattling the doorknob as if expecting it to unlock. Hoping it might.
Now…she understood how they felt.
So Wiskeria walked into Riverfarm. The journey from Durene’s cottage was silent. Few people were about on the streets. Two of the Darksky Riders passed her, doing sweeps, but they saw her clearly in the darkness and only greeted her quietly.
Wiskeria knew where Rehanna’s house was. A light still burned in the window. And another Darksky Rider had been posted outside the door. The man let Wiskeria in after a moment’s conversation. She had been a [General].
But it was a [Witch] and a daughter who went to see Rehanna. Wiskeria paused when she came in through the doorway.
The woman was…working. Quietly, humming to herself. She had some cloth spread out on the table, and she was neatly pinning sections together, ready for sewing. She was making something small. Very carefully creating…Wiskeria’s heart twisted.
“Baby clothes?”
Rehanna looked up. Wiskeria braced, but the woman’s face lit up. She stood.
“Miss Wiskeria! What brings you here?”
She curtseyed. That was the worst part. Part of Wiskeria wanted to run. Just seeing Rehanna’s graying hair, the way she was slightly stiff as she tried to offer Wiskeria a chair—all of it hurt. She shouldn’t have come here, no matter what Ryoka had said.
Then Rehanna surprised her. The woman smiled as she pointed back towards her room.
“I would offer you tea, but he’s sleeping. How can I help you? Or are you checking up on me like the rest?”
She smiled as she went back to pinning the clothes together. Wiskeria stared at them, at the needles and thread. Then she looked at the woman.
“The—your baby’s sleeping?”
She’d meant to say the doll, because that was what it was. But she couldn’t. Not in front of Rehanna. The woman nodded.
“Mihka. That’s a name my husband and I came up with together. He’s Mihka. The very same. I don’t know how Lady Belavierr did it.”
She used your memories. Wove them like a thread into the baby. You’re making him as much as her magic. Wiskeria bit her lip. She paused.
“I—I just came to see you, Rehanna.”
“I’m glad you did. I wanted to apologize for how I have behaved.”
“No—you have every reason.”
The woman paused.
“I might. I was angry at you for being a [General]. For not being punished. But I still attacked you for doing what you did. I regret it now, because it was senseless. I ruined friendships. I hope I can mend them. And I am so grateful to your mother.”
“Don’t say that. Please.”
The [Witch]’s head sank. She tugged her hat lower, as if it could hide reality. Rehanna looked surprised.
“But she’s done me such a favor. I only wish you could see it. You, Mister Prost, and the others. I understand you fear Mihka, but he’s no threat to anyone. You mustn’t take him. I couldn’t bear it again, Miss Wiskeria. Tell the others. Please.”
She looked at Wiskeria, and there was a bright sincerity, a pleading in her eyes. The [Witch] hesitated. She looked at the table, at the cloth, the baby’s clothes.
“Are you happy, Rehanna? After making the deal?”
“Can’t you tell? I actually want to work. And I’m happy. Actually happy. I didn’t think I’d ever be happy again. Not after Mihka—and then the news from Lancrel.”
The woman smiled. She was teary-eyed. Wiskeria clenched her hands.
“But Rehanna. I—no, I have to say this. The baby. Your Mihka. He won’t ever grow up. You understand that, right? He’ll always be a baby. And your life—”
Rehanna took Wiskeria’s clenched fist and put her own hands on it. She was frail, now. The vigor of a younger woman—and she had been younger, still with decades to go before this point—
It was gone. Wiskeria saw time pressing down on Rehanna, so hard that the woman had to feel it and suffer. But even now? Her smile was so bright it was painful. Happiness…Wiskeria saw it in Rehanna, painful, paid for at a great price, but there. To Rehanna, purely genuine.
“My life’s shorter now. I know that. I know that too. She told me all of it. Mihka won’t grow, and I’m close to my grave, if sickness or accidents or monsters don’t take me first. And that’s fine. I’m still eternally grateful for what she did.”
Rehanna looked at Wiskeria. The [Witch] paused.
“Then—why the clothing? He’ll never wear it!”
The clothing Rehanna was making was too large. It was for an older child, one that needed more than swaddling. Rehanna shook her head, smiling.
“It’s not for Mihka. It’s for another child. I don’t know who. But more than a few women are pregnant, and children will need clothing. I can make that for them. That’s what I can do. I think I’ll be happy. No—I am happy already.”
“But it’s an illusion. A spell. It’s not real, Rehanna. That baby isn’t—”
Rehanna stopped her. The woman shook her head. Now, her bright eyes started to overflow.
“I know that. Do you think I don’t? Lady Belavierr showed me what she would make. But I said yes. Because when I held him, he turned into Mihka. The same baby from my dreams. The exact same. And I think my man—I couldn’t pay the second price. I wouldn’t. But sometimes I can hear him, or I feel him. Lady Belavierr did that for me. And more. The baby’s more than just a…fake thing, Wiskeria.”
Tears ran down her cheeks. Rehanna placed a hand on her chest.
“Wiskeria. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Don’t you understand? Do you know how angry I was? How sad and angry and—have you ever felt that way? So much so that you could die?”
Of course. Wiskeria nodded.
“Your mother took that pain away. It won’t come back. For that, I’d have paid almost anything. And I did. She told me she wanted a fair deal. And it was fair. For me, more than fair. I know you might think of me as a fool. But I am happy. Please. Let me be happy.”
“And you will be?”
The woman gave her a tearful smile as she dabbed at her eyes.
“I think I will be. I made a choice, and Mihka will help me no matter what comes. It’s better this way, Wiskeria. It truly is. Thank you for coming, but I must be abed if I want to work tomorrow.”
She politely but firmly showed Wiskeria to the door. It was only after she’d closed and bolted it that Wiskeria realized Rehanna had kicked her out. The [Witch] stared at the closed door.
There was some of Rehanna there. Even happy as she was. But how much? How much was there, and how much had Belavierr torn away? There was no answer. But the second question Ryoka had asked Wiskeria burned in her mind. So she turned as the light in Rehanna’s house winked out.
Wiskeria stomped into the street, foul of mood. She began to curse as she walked ahead. Few people were even awake this late at night, but one group, having been drinking late after working ‘hard’ all day, saw Wiskeria as she stalked away from Rehanna’s house.
“Damn you, Ryoka Griffin. Damn your fickle words and philosophy half-baked for a scene you saw play out, as if it were the truth to every piece of her and me.”
Councilwoman Beatica was never one to run from a fight, you had to give it to her. She and a gaggle of her Lancrel cronies spotted Wiskeria and were about to accost her…until they heard Wiskeria’s ranting. Well, almost a chant now.
“A curse on you, Griffin, who sees a pebble and says she knows the mountain whole. I curse you by moon-filled nights, twice over by each moon, thrice by fake [Hunters] and ill-deeds and iller-conceived plans. I curse your false pretenses, as Lesegoth before the fall. I curse your haughty attitude and arrogance.”
Wiskeria hadn’t cursed like this since she was small, before she knew what it meant to curse someone. She hadn’t done a blood sacrifice or invoked a name of power; she wasn’t even in a ritual place. Councilwoman Beatica opened her mouth—then saw shadows twisting around Wiskeria’s boots.
Bile dripping from Wiskeria’s mouth. Beatica pressed herself against a house, eyes wide, as Wiskeria continued.
“—curse you from the Kingdom of Shades and grave soil and each and every grief my mother’s caused. I curse you by her victims, you feckless, windblown shit. I curse you to rue the day you take your knowledge as gospel and curse you to regret your arrogance in preaching your pathetic truth. One day, you shall defend monsters like and kin to my mother, if any could ever be worse than she. Let there be no peace between you and others till you humble yourself off your highest horse or it kicks you into the dirt.”
She savagely kicked a piece of dirt to end her cursing. It was, perhaps, the least-effective curse the world had ever seen, but it made Wiskeria feel better. Ryoka Griffin had no idea, none, why Wiskeria had cut ties with her mother. She thought Rehanna was debatable? Maybe it was.
Maybe it was. If all Belavierr did was steal age for pained happiness, she would be a fine mother. The best. Wiskeria closed her eyes.
At least Rehanna was happy. How many others could say that after they got what Belavierr offered? Ryoka had no idea, which was only partially her fault.
Wiskeria could have told her the entire story, but why should she? The [Witch] stood there, thinking back to the girl who had once thought much like Ryoka. Then she wearily decided to try the doorknob one more time.
Partly so she could just rub it in Ryoka’s face.
—–
Wiskeria didn’t know where her mother was. Or if she even had a house to sleep in. Wiskeria doubted it, but she didn’t need to ask. All she had to do was lift her hat off her head and toss it.
It was a dark blue hat. Not as dark as Belavierr’s own clothing, which could be black if you had no eye for the color. But dark blue. A simple hat, meant for a [Witch], with minimal flair. And that was what Wiskeria had wanted. But the hands that had sewn it had not been simple. They had mimicked unoriginality so well that sometimes Wiskeria forgot.
But the [Fireball] that had nearly killed her had reminded her. Where her clothes had burnt away to protect her as part of Belavierr’s charm, the hat had remained.
And it had one other trick. One other element, besides the fact that it had grown with Wiskeria since she was six to always fit her head. A long time ago, a humble [Stitch Witch] who worked across no-name villages in Terandria had sewn something for her daughter. For the tearful child who was afraid of being lost and not finding her mother, who could be forgetful. Ever since that day, Wiskeria had never been lost again.
So for the first time in eight years, Wiskeria lifted her hat and tossed it up. And the hat flew. It caught a breeze, and Wiskeria cursed and chased after it as it was blown across the street. She ran after it, her replacement robe catching the same dry wind.
The hat tumbled down onto the street and around a corner. Wiskeria ran after it, her legs burning, cursing as the hat eluded her time and time again, blown by the infuriating breeze. At last it stopped, and the [Witch] snatched at it, picked it up, and glared at it. Then she put it on her head and looked around.
The street was gone. So was Riverfarm. Wiskeria’s legs hurt, and she was breathless. She realized—in that way memory has of catching up—that she’d been running for seventeen minutes, almost. Quite some distance. But she was where she needed to be, because here was a slight hill. Beyond it, the two moons rose, one waxing, the other waning. Sitting under a tree, her wide hat lowered, her knees partially stretched out, was Belavierr.
Wiskeria caught her breath as she saw her mother. Belavierr’s clothing was as dark as the night. Her head bowed. Her huge hat covered all but the bottom of her face. But one hand was extended. It held something. And the midnight stallion, a giant of his kind, bent and ate from the palm.
Even this was uncanny. Because the stallion made no sound. Nor was what he ate food. Wiskeria was almost certain he was the same horse that had used to carry her about. The same one that had never been bothered when she’d pulled at his ears and had carried her and her mother about the village. And hadn’t it been a surprise when Wiskeria had ridden her first horse who objected to ear-pulling instead of taking it as a sign of affection?
This one was dark. Larger than the horse in her memory as a child, but her mother could have altered him. Wiskeria was almost positive the horse was a thing of cloth. Or if it had been alive, she had stitched him together. He didn’t look up as Wiskeria walked forwards. Nor did Belavierr. Few things could attract Belavierr’s attention.
Even at the end, when the mob had chased them away, Wiskeria remembered it. Screaming for her mother to run, reaching back from the horse’s back, looking behind at the villagers burning their cottage, the child Belavierr had made as the father shouted and strained in the arms of the people who held them—even then, Belavierr’s gaze had been distant, absent as she walked away. She had only looked up when she heard Wiskeria cry and seen the tears. And then—
“Belavierr. Witch Belavierr.”
The hat didn’t rise. The hand didn’t move. Belavierr was still, like a statue—no, a tapestry. Because the wind still moved her dress. The horse still pretended to breathe. It was a scene. And as Wiskeria drew closer, she saw what Belavierr was doing.
As she gave her horse the loose thread it was eating like a snack, her other hand was held out, dangling something in front of Belavierr’s bowed head. She was inspecting something. A bit of thread, tied up in a complex fashion, but still just a single unbroken thread.
Wiskeria recognized it. One of her mother’s ward-spells. She had no idea how powerful it could be. Normally, she’d want to make a spell or ward out of strong emotion and magic. Conventional artifacts of great power, for instance, were never made of pot metal or clay because those were weak materials. Of course, you could make a very specifically powerful wooden enchanted sword, but material mattered.
Unfortunately, Belavierr’s craft was such that logic stopped applying to her abilities. Grand magic could turn even weak thread into powerful tools. It was probably a thread made from a Griffin’s mane or something, anyways.
It was also trembling. Wiskeria paused. That usually meant the magic was being used. She didn’t know what this ward spell did. Perhaps it had stopped some bird droppings from landing on her mother’s hat? Or…it had done something else.
It was just more of the same. Wiskeria squared her shoulders. She had come here for a reason. And she should have done this long ago. Ryoka was infuriating, but she was also right.
“Mother.”
The head rose, and Wiskeria felt a bitter pleasure. She had loved, in that long ago, that only one word and one voice could ever make Belavierr react consistently. But now she looked down and saw that ringed gaze, the orange, luminescent eyes, and she saw…
“Daughter. Do you need something of me?”
Belavierr stood in one motion. She looked down at her daughter, and Wiskeria stared up at her. And just like that…it was like she was a child again.
Without hesitation, despite her task or work—Belavierr stopped and put aside her craft for only one being ever. Her daughter.
It used to make Wiskeria feel so special. Even now, she understood what it meant.
Do you need something of me? Ask and you shall receive. Wiskeria was tempted to ask for a fish or to see the moon and show Ryoka what such requests meant.
But she didn’t.
She sat, regarding the charm, and Belavierr sat too.
“You’re making a ward.”
“Yes. Many of my magics were shattered. Lost. Burnt away or ripped to shreds. You see?”
Belavierr lifted an arm, and Wiskeria saw it. The same strands of broken fiber, like a spiderweb but infinitely more thin and vast, trailed behind her. Wiskeria’s breath caught.
“So it’s true. How many is…? What did that? An Elder Creler?”
“No. That would not be enough. See, Daughter? I have not been so weak in mortal ages. It will take aeons to rebuild. But I begin with thread by thread. As we must.”
Belavierr went back to working, and Wiskeria could admire that. Kick over a sandcastle and Belavierr would rebuild it grain by grain. If it mattered.
“Who did this? What did? What happened in Noelictus, Mother?”
The Stitch Witch’s lips pursed.
“It is a long story. I do not wish to tell my part of it completely. I shall, if you ask.”
“Is…someone going to tell a famous tale about it? A [Bard]?”
Wiskeria would actually prefer to hear it like that than from her mother, who told complex stories, much like the thread she wove. Belavierr stared at her thread, and Wiskeria saw an actual glower.
“Perhaps. But not in song. I would be displeased by a song.”
Now that…that was interesting. Wiskeria raised her brows.
“Someone bested you with a song?”
Dead silence. Wiskeria crossed her legs. She refused to give Ryoka any credit, but seeing her mother so upset gave her a kind of schadenfreude.
“Mother, I ask you tell me the story in its entirety.”
And because she asked—Belavierr did. The Stitch Witch looked up, sighed as she wove her anger and annoyance into the charm, and began to speak.
“It began when I sensed ghosts.”
