For a long moment no one spoke; then at last the father said, “Well, this is an interesting situation. Then you are not Lord Dyssan, but Master Adirane?”
“Master Murau, actually,” Anrel said. “I borrowed my uncle’s name a moment ago, but I think I have no further need of it.”
“And why would you do that? Why give a false name?”
“Have I not just said that I am a witch? Does that not make me an outlaw by definition? Would you really expect an outlaw to give his correct name when asked?”
“Then why do you claim to give it now?”
“Because now, sir, I know that you dare not deliver me to the authorities, since I would then denounce your daughter as a witch—and I suspect, from the looks they exchanged, that your wife is not unacquainted with the arcane arts, as well. Better that we should trust one another, as we are now in a position to give the hangman a few necks upon which to practice his art if that trust is betrayed.”
“There is some logic to your words,” the big man reluctantly admitted. He frowned. “What would you have of us, then, Master Witch?”
“For the moment, I would be content with some of that stew I smell,” Anrel replied, gesturing toward the pot on the fire. “There will be time to discuss our situation further once we have all eaten; I find negotiations always seem to go better on a full belly.”
The big man’s frown faded. “Hungry, are you? Well, even if I did sire a witch, I am not so lost to common decency to refuse a hungry man some common hospitality. Tazia, serve us out a bowl apiece, won’t you?”
One of the other daughters fetched wooden bowls and a ladle from a box nearby, and began scooping stew from the pot into the bowls, glancing occasionally at their guest. The youngest daughter then distributed the bowls. Anrel watched with interest, and eagerly accepted the bowl she proffered him. He was aware that there were still several important questions that should be asked and answered, but the yawning emptiness in his belly took priority.
“Thank you,” he said, as he set the bowl of stew on his lap. He then realized he had not been provided with a spoon; he hesitated only briefly before drawing the dagger from his boot and spearing a chunk of pinkish meat with it. He tore off a bite and chewed enthusiastically.
The meat was rabbit, and it might have been better had it stewed a little longer, but in his famished state Anrel found it quite satisfactory just as it was.
When everyone had a bowl in hand, and had taken at least a few bites, the father of the family set his bowl down for a moment and said, “Now, Reva, suppose you explain to your father why you thought our guest was a sorcerer, and why you were so open about your own unfortunate situation.”
Anrel was startled by the man’s tone, which seemed to carry an undercurrent of menace.
The eldest daughter looked uneasy; she glanced from her father to her mother, then at Anrel, then back to her father. “He could feel the binding we tried,” she said. “That meant he was a magician, and I never thought we would meet another witch in a place like this, so I called him a sorcerer.”
“And why, daughter, did you say this out loud, and announce to the world that you’re a witch?”
“Because he already knew, Father! He had felt the wards, and the binding—he knew there was magic here, and he saw Mother and me react, so he knew we were the magicians. There was no way to hide it.”
The father shook his head sadly. “Haven’t I told you, girl, how easy it is to persuade people that they did not see or feel what they have just seen or felt? We might have talked our way out of it, if you hadn’t proclaimed the truth as you did.” He turned to Anrel. “Tell me, sir, did you realize she was a witch before she said she had set wards and attempted a binding?”
“I certainly knew magic was in use,” Anrel said, as he speared half a carrot with his dagger. “I had not yet identified her beyond doubt as the source.” He took a bite. “But I think I would have in another moment.”
“Well, perhaps you would have, and perhaps you wouldn’t. I see you’re enjoying your supper.”
“Very much, sir.”
“Tell us, then, as payment for your meal, how you come to be wandering about these woods, alone, on foot, and by the look of it, half starved.”
Anrel swallowed, looked regretfully at the remaining chunk of carrot on the point of his knife, then set down his bowl.
“My name is Anrel Murau,” he said. “I lived much of my life in the village of Alzur, a few miles up the Raish Valley, where Lord Allutar, the landgrave of Aulix, makes his home, away from the noise and stench of Naith. My dearest friend in Alzur was my uncle’s fosterling, Valin li-Tarbek, a young man with an unfortunate tendency to speak his mind; a few days ago he indulged this tendency in a manner that infuriated Lord Allutar, and the landgrave retaliated by killing Valin. Oh, he arranged a legal pretext, so that the magistrates accepted it as the proper exercise of Lord Allutar’s authority, but in truth it was at best little more than simple murder.” Anrel closed his fists and his eyes as he remembered Valin dying in his arms, and paused for a moment, unable to continue.
“I see,” the father said. “And you did something foolish in response?”
“I gave a speech,” Anrel said. “In Aulix Square, in Naith. I explained Valin’s beliefs to the crowd, and told them that Allutar had murdered him for espousing those beliefs. While I did not stay to hear the magistrates explain exactly what I was being charged with, it appears my little talk was deemed criminal. I fled, and stole a small boat, and put ashore in these trees so that I could hide that boat, and then I saw the light of your fire, and here I am.”
“A speech? I’d have cut his throat!” the big man bellowed.
Anrel shook his head. “Lord Allutar is a powerful sorcerer,” he said. “I could not have just walked through his wards as I did through yours. Besides, he killed Valin to silence him, so it was fitting that Valin’s words be spoken, even if not by himself.”
“You said you’re a witch,” the youngest daughter said.
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you use magic against him? Yes, he’s more powerful, but couldn’t you have found some way around, and caught him off guard?”
“I don’t know how,” Anrel admitted. “I have some talent for magic—not very much, I don’t think—but I don’t know how to use it.”
The sisters exchanged glances.
“How did that happen?” their father demanded.
Anrel sighed. “I took the trials to become a sorcerer when I was twelve,” he said, “but at the time I did not want to be a sorcerer, so I deliberately failed them. Since then I have done my best to never admit having any magic at all, not even to myself, even though a young man without magic has few prospects in Alzur. Only when Valin lay dying, and I tried to heal him, did I finally want to use my talent again; before that I had not touched the power since I was a child. That attempt, useless and inept as it was, seems to have reawakened what little natural ability I have; a season ago I doubt I would have noticed the ward you had set.”
“So you aren’t really a witch,” Tazia, the middle daughter, said, looking at him with an expression Anrel found unreadable.
“Perhaps not,” Anrel acknowledged. “I am a man with a completely untrained talent for magic, though—is that not enough to make me a witch?”
“To the magistrates, maybe,” the father said.
“I am, I believe, already condemned as a traitor,” Anrel said. “Calling myself a witch can scarcely make matters any worse.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” the mother said. “There are other dangers besides the law.”
“The law is quite enough for me,” Anrel replied. He looked around at the family. “Now, perhaps you would like to introduce yourselves, and tell me how you came to be camped in this place.”
“Our tale is far more ordinary than your own,” the mother said. “When I was a girl I was frightened of sorcerers, even though my mother said my late father had been one, so I never dared apply for the trials. In truth, I did not even think of what I felt and did as magic; it was not until I was married that I realized that it was, that I should have put aside my fears and faced the trials, and by then it was too late. Even if I had somehow managed to claim I had not known the truth, I was married to a commoner, and therefore could not be a sorceress; instead I learned a few simple spells, little things that the nobles can’t be bothered with, and began selling them.”
“As you can imagine, I was not pleased to learn this,” her husband said, and the mother flinched at that. “I had not realized I was marrying an outlaw. But we made the best of it.”
“I thought we might keep it a secret,” his wife said. “But somehow everyone found out.”
“Of course, we couldn’t stay in one place after that,” the man said. “Sooner or later someone would have been jealous, or sought to avoid paying us, and would have turned us in. Besides, one little village doesn’t need enough magic to keep a witch busy year-round. So we began traveling.”
“We’ve been traveling ever since,” the mother continued. “In time our girls started to show their talents, as well, but we couldn’t send them for trials, not without risking our own necks, so we’ve kept them with us.”
“We didn’t want to go anywhere else,” Reva said. “Not when we were of an age to be examined.”
Anrel saw Tazia throw her sister a glance that implied perhaps Reva was not speaking for all of them, but she said nothing.
Indeed, Anrel had his doubts about some details of the account. He knew that sometimes talented children of commoners were missed, especially girls; parents were often reluctant to face the possibility of sending a daughter away to be fostered by sorcerers, since there were rumors about the uses sorcerers might have for young women, rumors that Anrel believed had some basis in fact.
But the law took that reluctance into account, and as long as a child, or even a young adult, had not been deliberately using magic illicitly, he or she could still take the trials, regardless of age. Nor did a commoner spouse make it impossible; while sorcerers generally married other sorcerers, Anrel did not believe it was actually required by law—not in all sixteen provinces, anyway. This woman could have presented herself to the authorities at any time, and become a lady of the empire—right up until she first accepted payment for performing witchcraft.
Now, of course, it was too late.
“Are all three of your daughters witches, then?” he asked.
“Yes, they are,” the mother said, with a note of pride in her voice.
“And you, sir?” Anrel asked, looking at the father.
“No,” he said. “I am merely an ordinary man who happened to marry the wrong woman—but I suspect that would be enough to put my head in a noose.” He held out a hand. “My name is Garras Lir, by the way.”
“Anrel Murau,” Anrel said, accepting the hand. “As I said.”
“My wife, Nivain,” Garras said, gesturing. “And my daughters, Reva, Tazia, and Perynis.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you all,” Anrel said, doffing his hat and nodding at the women. Then he clapped the hat back on his head, and picked up his bowl of stew.
Garras waited until Anrel had eaten a few more bites, then asked, “Where are you bound, Master Murau? You said you came from Alzur?”
“Thence I came, yes, but that is not where I’m bound,” Anrel replied. “I was heading for Lume; I have friends there I hope will shelter me until I can make more permanent arrangements.”
“Lume? Ah, we won’t go there,” Garras said. “Too many watchmen, between the emperor’s men and the burgrave’s, and the city has its own witches and no need of us.”
Anrel nodded. “Where are you going, then?”
“Oh, working our way up the Galdin, village by village,” Garras said. “Then when we reach Beynos we’ll cross the bridge and begin working our way back down the far side.”
“Beynos?” Anrel knew the name, and had even visited the town a few times—if one could consider riding the coach through the town square “visiting.” Beynos was a fair-sized town just two or three hours outside the walls of the capital, and to the best of his knowledge had nothing to especially recommend it other than its location. He could remember few noteworthy features; there was a very good bridge across the Galdin there, and several fine houses, but he could not recall any other particularly distinctive details.
Still, it was mere hours from Lume.
“If you are bound for Beynos, perhaps we might travel together,” he suggested.
Garras looked at him warily. “And why would we want to do that?”
“I will tell you frankly what I hope to gain from it,” Anrel said. “The landgrave’s men are looking for a lone traveler; if I am a part of your company, and you swear I have been with you since the equinox, why, even if they stop us and question us, they will not know me and will not haul me back to Naith for trial and execution. What’s more, I will have company, and space in your wagon, and a share of your fine cooking.” He held up his mostly empty bowl.
“While I am sure this would make your situation easier,” Garras said, “how would it benefit me?”
“You will have another pair of willing hands for whatever task you might care to set them to,” Anrel said, “and my sword to defend your family. What’s more, while I am not wealthy, and left most of my worldly possessions in my uncle’s house, I do have my purse, and it is not completely empty. I could pay a little something to cover any expenses you might incur by my presence.” He was not trusting or foolish enough to mention that his purse was in fact rather plump, or that he had additional coins hidden elsewhere; he might yet need most of that money.
“Ah,” Garras said thoughtfully.
“I am sure I need not remind you of the risks you take, should you refuse me, and should I be captured,” Anrel added.
“And the risks you face?”
“Well, let us just agree that we are safer together than apart.”
“I suppose we are,” Garras said, studying Anrel’s calm features.
“It would only be as far as Beynos,” Anrel said. “After that, I will continue on to Lume on my own.”
Garras stroked his close-trimmed beard. “You understand, we are in no hurry,” he said. “We intend to stop at every village along the way, and try to earn a few guilders in each.”
“I am in no hurry myself,” Anrel said. “I have no long-term goal in mind, as yet, beyond my own survival. Perhaps such an extended journey would provide an opportunity for your wife and daughters to teach me a little witchcraft—for a fee, of course! In exchange, I will gladly teach them whatever I can recall of sorcery—which, I concede, will be very little, but my uncle is the burgrave of Alzur, and while I was never trained in the arcane arts myself, I did sometimes overhear the lessons he gave his apprentice and his daughter.”
“Your uncle is a burgrave?” Nivain asked, startled.
“Yes, he is,” Anrel said. “Lord Dorias Adirane, burgrave of Alzur. My mother was his younger sister.”
“Yet you hide here in these woods, like a common outlaw?”
“I am a common outlaw,” Anrel said. “Guilty of sedition, theft, and witchcraft.”
“But . . . can your uncle not plead for you?”
Anrel shook his head. “Lord Allutar is not so easily swayed. I have seen the landgrave kill two young men against my uncle’s wishes; I have no desire to be a third. I intend to make contact with my uncle at the earliest opportunity and ask for his assistance, but I dare not return to Alzur until I have his assurance that I won’t find the hangman waiting for me. I hope this will be just a few days, but I am resigned to staying away indefinitely, should it prove necessary.”
“But I never heard of such a thing!” Nivain exclaimed. “A man of good family like yourself?”
“Oh, the sorcerers feud among themselves, like any other men,” Garras said, trying on an air of calm wisdom. “Undoubtedly this uncle has fallen afoul of Lord Allutar in some fashion.”
“On the contrary,” Anrel said. “He is doing all he can to stay in Lord Allutar’s good graces, for reasons that seem good to him, and he was willing to sacrifice his fosterling to that cause. I do not know that his nephew will fare any better.”
Even as he said this, Anrel wondered whether it was entirely true. Dorias had indeed let Valin go to his death, but Valin had not asked him to intervene, and it had been a matter of honor. Dorias and Saria had appeared to grieve for Valin, and Anrel had not seen them speak to Lord Allutar after Valin’s death; perhaps they had given up any thought of an alliance between the son of Hezir and the daughter of Adirane.
And after Valin’s death Anrel had not informed his uncle of his own intentions. Dorias had been given no opportunity to defend Anrel from Lord Neriam and the Naith Watch, or to speak on his nephew’s behalf. Perhaps even now the old man was demanding the charges against Anrel be dropped.
In time, when the situation in Naith had calmed down, perhaps when the Grand Council had done its business and disbanded, Anrel would send word to his uncle and ask for his help in resolving the situation. Perhaps there might be some way to obtain a pardon.
His old life might not all be irretrievably lost. For the present, though, accompanying these people to Beynos and then making his way into Lume still seemed his best course; he simply didn’t know what the situation was in Alzur or Naith.
“How dreadful!” Tazia said, as she took Anrel’s empty bowl and brought his thoughts back to the present. Her fingers brushed his hand as she did.
“I do not fault him for it,” Anrel said. “He took me in when my parents died, and raised me as best he could; that I chose to fling caution aside and lay myself open to a charge of treason was in no way his responsibility.”
“Still, it doesn’t seem right,” Nivain said.
Tazia handed Anrel his bowl, which she had refilled from the stew pot. “It’s all so sad! What did you say, that so angered the magistrates?”
“Oh, a lot of nonsense, for the most part,” Anrel said, accepting the stew. “Valin had this theory that the Grand Council the emperor has called can reshape the entire empire into something wonderful and new, if the common people choose the right delegates.”
“You say that’s nonsense?” Garras asked warily.
“Those in power will never relinquish it peacefully,” Anrel said, “and what can commoners do against sorcerers? The emperor has the Great List, but the Grand Council will have nothing but words, and what good are words against magic?” He shook his head. “Everything will go on much as it has for centuries, and that’s just as well—the sorcerers may be as venal and selfish as anyone else, but at least they have had some practice in running the empire, and they do have their magic.”
Garras studied Anrel’s face in the firelight, then nodded. “I would be glad of your company on our way to Beynos, Master Murau,” he said. “You can tell us more about these theories of yours, and your friend’s theories, as well.” He smiled. “Your company, and of course, your coin.”
“Of course,” Anrel said, as he lifted his bowl to drink the broth. “Shall we say, three guilders?”
“For the entire journey? I had rather more in mind.”
With that, the negotiations began in earnest.