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THE TREK TO THE CASTLE takes an age as always. I make certain to leave at roughly the same time, early in the morning, as I always do. I wear my travelling cloak, as I always do. I wear my hair loose, as I always do. I take my basket to bring back supplies, as I always do.
As I walk along I feign nonchalance. I hum and sing, as I always do.
If this cloaked stranger, who will kill so cowardly, can see me, if he is watching me since his visit, he will see nothing to arouse his suspicions. I value my life and take care of it.
The route to the castle meanders through the houses, past the river, along the fields and through the castle square.
The guards at the castle recognise me and lower their spears. I smile and saunter past.
I am never sure where to find Halfreda when I visit. She can be anywhere. She has chambers, rooms, a herb room. She might be in the great hall, or with the King. She might be in the gardens or the forest.
Usually I ask around and try to focus my thoughts on her and before long I come across her. This time though, my thoughts are all jumbled up with worry because of this cloaked man.
I cannot think where she is.
I see two little maids and beckon them to me. They lay down their jugs and scurry over.
I ask them about Halfreda and they point me towards the rose garden and tell me that Halfreda is with the Kingmaker.
As I wander through looking for her, my basket still tucked in the crook of my elbow, I see her coming towards me.
“Halfreda,” I call out to her.
She smiles as she spots me. “Ginny.” She comes over and places her hand on my head, her familiar greeting. I feel her power rush through me; I know this is one of the ways she transfers her wisdom to me.
She has spoken to me in the past about taking over her role here, once she’s gone. I know she has spoken to the King about me. I don’t like to think of her dying, she is as old as the world itself.
She turns her head to the side. “Oh. Come with me quickly.” She seems alarmed and I follow her. We go to her herb room.
This room fascinates me.
It is a big old square room, with rushes on the floor and hangings on one of the walls. There are no windows. The other two walls are shelved from floor to ceiling. A table sits flush against one wall. There is a big book on there today, open, and a few jars of herbs.
The shelves are jam packed with jars and bottles of herbs, dried and powdered. The smell is thick and usually gives me a headache. There are too many fragrances all jostling for my attention. Too many to be pleasant.
“Ginny.” Halfreda gestures to the bench that runs alongside the table.
I sit.
“I know why you’re here.” I nod. I thought she might. Her visions don’t just come from fires, spirits or stars. She knows things.
She looks grey. She sits next to me, heavily with a thud.
“Halfreda, are you ill?” I have never seen her look so frightened.
“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m just worried. I know what’s been asked of you. And for now, I need to give you the draught.”
I interrupted with a gasp.
“Shh.” Halfreda puts her hand on my head again. “This cloaked man, he is not to be played with. We will make the draught and when he calls, you will give it to him and accept his payment.”
I nod nervously, thinking that maybe I will swap the draught for something more innocent.
“No, Ginny, you must give him the death draught. He will probably try it on an animal or something to test you.”
I should have known that she would know.
“Ginny, the cloaked man is bad news. I have never seen it before. It has been closed off to me. The cloak he wore when he visited you is a cloak he wears in public too.”
I nod. I will do as she says. She is wise and I am only learning. I must ask, though I’m not expecting her to tell me.
“Who is he?”
Halfreda shakes her head. “I will tell you but not yet. There is a lot going on here this week. Things are changing. I only need you to trust me.”
I nod. I do and she knows it.
“Follow me.”
I follow her from the herb room still carrying my basket, she turns around abruptly, goes back into the room and comes out with two jars and three bundles of different herbs tied up with string. She drops them in my basket.
We walk out to the castle grounds again and then around to her chamber. I have been here once or twice.
She gets down on to her hands and knees and roots around under her bed. She comes out with a blue book, dusty and too big to hold with one hand.
She passes it to me. I feel the anger and hate coming from it. It feels hot and spiteful in my hand.
I shake my head. “I don’t like it.”
Halfreda nods. “I know. It’s not a nice book. It’s full of dark magic.” She makes room on her table, and I put the book down. She blows the cover, and dust and cobwebs fly into the air, before settling.
“It’s not a book I use often,” she says and I nod. Only a truly terrible witch would revere a book such as this. As she opens the pages and starts flicking through the different spells, I can feel it. “You really think he will test it?”
She nods without hesitation. My face falls.
“Don’t,” Halfreda says. “If he kills a cat or a bird or a horse or a human to test this draught we cannot help it.”
“But it’s an abomination. It will be my fault. I am not innocent in giving it to him. I cannot say that it’s for anything else.”
Halfreda puts her hand on my head again and I feel calmer. “You are not at fault. You are doing my bidding.”
I nod. I don’t feel happy, but I do feel better.
She taps the page. “Here.”
I peer over her shoulder. The writing is stark, written in a rusty red hue, which I have a nasty suspicion is blood.
DEATH DRAUGHT
Underneath in normal ink are a series of complicated instructions, more ingredients than for any spell I have ever seen, and several illustrations of the steps involved. “It looks tricky,” I say, watching Halfreda’s eyes travel over the steps.
“It is. I have only ever made it once before.” She takes a deep breath, refuses to look at me. “The King needed it and I had to do it. I felt unclean for an age afterwards.”
“You made one? But-”
“It’s an abomination. I know. But during my time with the King I have had only one job. To keep him safe. I haven’t always been able to do what I wanted or what I would choose.”
“It sounds awful.”
“There have been more good times than bad. But serving a King is serving a higher calling than your own.”
I say nothing. I don’t know if I want to take over from Halfreda if this is what it means. My heart hurts knowing that I will hand over one death draught. I do not want to make decisions about whether enemies of the King should live or die. It’s too much responsibility.
“We will make it together. It will be quicker.”
It seems like something so evil and dangerous should take weeks or months to brew. “How long will it take?”
She shrugs. “Not long. I know what you mean, though. It should take long enough that maybe whoever is making it has the time to change their mind.”
I laugh. I forget that she can read my thoughts. Not always, but often.
“Most of the stuff we need is pretty common. It’s the precise mix of ingredients which make the reaction. More or less of one thing can change the outcome completely. You could never make it by accident, however.”
I read through the spell, deadly nightshade, a given, a spider’s web, predictable, the heart of a dead animal, disgusting. I knew there was a reason I was a good witch.
“Do we have to kill the animal?”
“The heart of a freshly killed animal is required.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Me neither, but we have to do it. We choose an animal that kills, like a fox, then it doesn’t feel so bad.”
“Not like an innocent puppy or kitten?”
“Exactly. Bad witches would kill the puppy.”
A kill is a kill. Are we any better because we kill a hunter? Not really. I am feeling more and more unhappy about this. “How do we catch a fox?”
“If we go in to the woods there are many. We’ll use a chicken as bait. A dead one from the kitchen.”
I hate this day, this week.
We stroll through the grounds and into the woods. We each have our baskets, and people are used to seeing us forage for potion ingredients. Halfreda’s basket is filled with cloth to soak up the blood. Mine contains a dead, plucked chicken.
She took a dagger from a drawer in her potion room and the unspoken decision is that she will do the dirty deed. I am trying not to think that we are adding another innocent soul to my list of casualties. The fox, whoever my cloaked man tests the draught on and whoever the original intended victim is. Three deaths, all on my conscience. It gets worse and worse.
We walk deep into the woods; we don’t want witnesses to our sacrifice. Though no one would question Halfreda. I am guessing that many imagine she puts worse things than the heart of a dead animal in her potions and spells.
Hunkering down at the edge of a copse of trees, Halfreda groans. “I am too old for this,” she mutters, but I don’t offer to take her place. I pass her my dead chicken, and slip behind a tree to watch, or not. I may close my eyes and wish myself someplace else.
We are dead silent and dead still, waiting.
It takes a while, but we are both patient. A fox slinks over, Halfreda is hidden by foliage, but the chicken is on display. The fox sneaks closer again, sniffing, and licking his lips, rotten teeth dripping with saliva.
The fox catches hold of the chicken, and Halfreda catches hold of the fox. The circle of life? She snaps the neck with a scarily practised move and sets about cutting out the heart.
I cannot watch. I am not a weak woman and I know the potency of some ingredients in the work I do. I cannot afford to be squeamish and truly, with my life on the line if I do not fill this order, I certainly cannot afford to be judgemental. But I cannot look. I hear the squelch and slosh of blood and guts and that is enough.
Halfreda moans as she stands up, the heart wrapped in cloth, fingers bloody, gore dripping on to the floor. She wipes her hands on another cloth and I look away.
Love potions are so much sweeter than this nonsense.
We go back to the castle in silence. “You are unhappy,” Halfreda says. I nod, it’s almost like I’m blaming her and of course it’s not her fault.
“Sorry Halfreda, but until this man came to my door, I was just minding my own business.”
“Such is life, Ginny. Sadly, very few of us have the freedom to only do as we please.” It’s an admonishment and I am silent.
“Ginata. This is how a death draught makes you feel. From the moment you first think on it, from the second you open the spell book and put your finger on the filthy stinking words, to where we are now. It makes you feel like your soul is slowly dying, being poisoned or strangled. Forgive me though, we have to make it.”
I think on her words as we make our way to her potion room. And I know she is right. I came to her for help and I am having a tantrum. I’m not being fair to her.
I reach for her basket and pull out the bloody heart, the cloth all soaked through. The smell is nauseating, but I am trying to show Halfreda that I will help, that I’m sorry for being a grouch.
She sets a fire and pulls a copper pot on top of it. She pours in several liquids, not referring to the spell book again and not telling me what she’s doing. I watch, fascinated. She is quick and deft at making a spell, despite her age and the aches and pains I know she feels.
She chants and mutters as she works, and the flames under the copper pot lick bright green. The air around us is shimmering as sparks shoot and fizz out of the pot. The room has an energy and a sound other than just Halfreda and me.
The spell is alive.
When she throws in the dead heart the flames and the sparks turn black and the smell is like a hog roast. It makes me feel hungry and sick at the same time.
The sound of the spell has changed. I step closer to the pot, considering the swirling liquid. I hear it whispering, taunting me and I step away.
Halfreda collects a tiny black vial from a drawer and ladles the death draught in. She mutters as she does and there is a scream from inside the vial; an unholy non-human sound. I have goosebumps all over and a headache. She screws the vial shut and places it to one side.
She lifts the copper pot, oblivious to the heat of it or conditioned not to feel it. “Open the door.” Her voice sounds harsh and deep, not like her at all. I do as she says and follow her. She takes the pot over to the side of a wall and pours the contents on the floor. Instantly the grass fizzes and turns black, dead.
She returns to her room but comes straight back out with a large jug of liquid which she pours over the dead grass. “There is no antidote to a death draught that I know of, but hopefully that will neutralise it for any passing animals.”
I follow her back inside. She is sweating and looks awful. This spell has taken it out of her. “Thank you.” I mean it and I take her hands, giving her some of my strength.
She holds out the vial and I slip it into my pocket and feel its evil potency throbbing against my leg like a physical thing, like a heartbeat from hell.
I shudder but ignore it. If I am being watched by anyone, innocent or otherwise, I don’t want them judging me poorly. If my cloaked man sees me on the way back to my little cottage, I do not want him to know that I fear this power.
I hug Halfreda and she holds me tight. “All you do is go along with it. No questions, no concerns. No fault.”
I nod and hug Halfreda again before I leave her.
I walk back to my little cottage with this thing about my person that feels like it has a life of its own, power and magic and ideas of its own.
I shudder as I walk but I keep a smile on my face.