Fourteen: Lead

“About half the town is out now,” Keegan called from the door as Magda mounted her horse and I the one Keegan had sold us—a short, black thing with a white mark on its nose and front right hoof—and we began toward the road. Keegan had told me its name, but it might as well have been Peanut again, for all I cared. I was way too sore to be riding, and it was difficult to grip the saddle with my thighs.

“You okay then, Sorin?” Magda asked as I gave Peanut the Second a tentative pat. From the back of my saddle, I took a brown, frayed cloak, unrolled it, and fastened it on.

“I suppose.”

“They’re demanding to speak with you,” Keegan called out.

“I’m not surprised. Sorin, stay close, but visible. We’ll ride through the plaza. Show them very clearly we’re leaving, and our witch is coming with us.”

“Hey!” I choked on air, and old, well-honed frustrations about Thujan villagers swelled in my chest.

Magda glared back at me. I pursed my lips to the side and decided against arguing just as we came in front of the stables to face the crowd.

Some fifty people stood in an arc in front of the inn. I recognized many from the factory, but they’d been joined now by men, women, and even a few children from the village. Two in the far back held wooden torches, and at least three factory workers had their scissors.

They’re going to kill you.

An elderly woman pushed to the front and addressed Magda. She wore her hair gathered on top of her head, and her fine red cotton dress had stitching so even I wondered whether they were done by machine. Her left hand held a length of rope. The wind batted at my ears.

They’re going to kill Magda.

Shut up!

You’ll be safe if you return to Thuja.

Magda’s voice cut through the wind. “I’m leaving you in peace,” Magda called out to the crowd. “I apologize for my statements in the factory. I’ll bring this to the queen’s attention, as well as your comments about trade. I’m sure we can find a way for guilds and machines to work together.”

Promise to return to Thuja and both you and the royal daughter will be spared.

What little patience I had ran out. How about I melt you into a yellow puddle instead?

Tinkling laughter scattered through the wind.

I shifted in my saddle, ready to scream out loud at the witch who would not get out of my head. Magda jerked her horse back and put a hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t,” she cautioned. “One more piece of kindling and the town will go to blaze. They don’t care what you are. They just want you, us, gone.”

“I just want the witch out of my head,” I muttered quietly. I settled, though, scratching my fingernails on the leather of my saddle. I’d pretend it was the witch’s face.

The elderly woman stepped up to Magda’s horse. She stomped her foot—not the way a child would when not given a sweet, but the way that told us, definitely, who was in charge. It was hard to ignore the implications of the rope she held, and I could almost feel the rough fibers as her fingers stroked the threads. We needed to get out of town, and it didn’t look like Magda’s royal blood wasn’t going to be enough to do it.

“You brought a witch to our village, Royal Daughter. We can forgive your comments in the factory, but you know what a witch means here, guilded or not. He’s not leaving.”

I rolled my eyes at the pronoun. It didn’t hurt the same way “she” did, but it wasn’t accurate either. Although if they hung me, pronouns would be the least of my concerns.

“If you can find the witch, he is yours, but Sorin is not.” Magda brought her horse in front of mine, cutting me off from the crowd.

The wind laughed.

“Sorin poses no risk to your village, and is an unguilded woodcutter with an interest in alchemy, nothing more. We are, however, being pursued by a witch, and for bringing that to your village, I apologize. As we continue our journey, we will take the north road to avoid more of your rangelands on our way to Celtis.”

Another gust of wind, this one without words, tossed around the smell of burnt wood along with Magda’s blue cloak. I caught a glint of gold on her head as her hair shifted. She’d put her circlet on, although when I wasn’t sure. The added authority didn’t seem to be helping.

The old woman looked right at me, her voice calm. “The witch stays, Royal Daughter.”

You know how Iana dealt with the king’s witches, don’t you? The king’s witches and the king’s alchemists. They tried to take her power with that magic sword, and she killed them all. She hung them, drew and quartered them, then burned them. You could just go back to Thuja. Save Magda. Save yourself.

“I’m not a witch!” I yelled, both to the wind and to the woman on the ground. I tried to guide Peanut II up next to Magda’s horse, but he stayed stubbornly behind. “Damn this horse!”

The woman moved toward Peanut. She reached out, first to pet his nose, then went to his bridle, which she tugged. Peanut began to kneel.

I kicked at Peanut, desperate to get him to move or shuffle or do something. He steadfastly refused until Magda drew her sword. Then Peanut sidestepped at the sound of the metal against leather, but the woman did not release him.

“Sorin is coming with me,” Magda said. Her sword was still pointed to the earth, but if the villagers couldn’t hear the warning in her voice, they were idiots.

The woman spat on the ground. “No heir of Iana would protect a witch or alchemist. They are vile.”

“Alchemists aren’t—”

“No, witches and alchemists are guilded.” Magda spoke over me, her knuckles pink with her grip on her sword. “Iana wouldn’t condone a lynch mob.”

“You don’t speak for her,” the woman snarled. “We are her people. Iana came from a ranch just outside our borders, as the legend says. We carry her legacy, not some city-raised descendent.”

The woman gestured, and the crowd surged forward. Knives came out of sheaths, and I saw bottles of alcohol opened far too close to the torches. I made a final attempt to pull Peanut back, and failed. Magda’s jaw set. Gods, we were going to die here, in this frozen, guildless town. I scanned the crowd, thinking maybe I might see some escape route Magda had missed, when I caught the sight of black curls just to my right.

Sameer. Not holding any weapons, but with fists rammed into his pockets, his brow furrowed, his eyes boring into me. Sameer, who was a guilded textile worker. Sameer, who lived up on the glacier and knew how to navigate it. Sameer, who was trusted by the village.

Damn him for being here, and damn him for being our only way out.