Chapter 2: 1: In which Iwona Evenwood waits like unclaimed luggage and finds a witchard

This was now.

Iwy looked up and down the dusty crossroads for the fifty-seventh time. Noon had come and gone. Still no one. This apprenticeship was not starting out great.

Still, it was better than being hanged.

She moved a bit to keep within the shadow of the tree. Her parents and siblings would be taking their break now. Someone might be passing around the harvest cider already. And for the first time in twenty-three years she wasn’t there.

No one up the road, no one down the road. Nothing but a checkerboard of fields on one side and nothing but forest on the other. Everything looked peaceful. Iwy twisted the hem of her skirt until it trailed threads.

Iwy’s only company was a middle-aged woman who snored loudly in the tall grass a few feet away, a travelling trader judging by the large bundle she used as a pillow. She had already been lying there when the girl arrived. Iwy had tried to rouse her briefly, to ask if she had seen a mage before she fell asleep. The woman had opened one crusted green eye, then a waft of smell as if from the depths of a whiskey barrel had hit Iwy in the face as the woman mumbled “Nope”, turned over, and the snoring continued.

Down the road. Nothing but the sun-bleached sign that indicated the way to Srol’s Point and Fallhaven and eventually ended at the shore, and behind this sign the edge of Riansfield, a typical Midlands village travellers liked to describe as quaint. Her older sister Josie had decided it was a foreign word for ‘small and uninteresting’. Iwy thought it had been a good enough home up to now.

Up the road. Nothing but the road that went west alongside the forest, leading to Ocrance and after a few days’ travel to the next major city, Riestra. She’d been to all these places, but she’d never been away from home for longer than a week.

Here she was, in the old blue kirtle and white blouse that had once belonged to her older sister, both of which her mother had freshly pressed because she was adamant that Iwy should make a good impression. Iwy wasn’t at all sure if mages went for first impressions. Hadn’t they other things on their minds? The secrets of the universe? Something?

And even if they approved of her dress, they might still notice her heavy work boots poking out underneath. It was the only pair of shoes she owned.

It wouldn’t have mattered if things had gone according to plan. Until this morning she had thought she’d be hiding out at Aunt Beryl’s cloth shop in Ryebridge, halfway across the country. Then Ma had announced that her life would be a bit more complicated yet while she pressed the travel bag into her hands.

Seeing as she had nothing to do, Iwy’s mind played the conversation over and over again.

She remembered she had nearly choked on her apple. “A what?”

“A mage came by, heard of, uh, your little trouble,” Pa repeated as he led her out of the storm cellar where she had been hiding the last few days. “Says you have great potential.”

“You’re going to be an apprentice,” her mother said, making sure the breadknife was in the bag; no girl of hers would venture out into the world without a long, sharp knife, she had told her. “Make sure you don’t lose your things, yes?”

Iwy was about to ask if the supposed mage had asked for money, and more importantly even was a mage, when her mother had put a hand on her shoulder: “You need to learn to control it.”

Iwy had felt her face burn, and thankfully this time it was only a metaphor.

Pa had given her a comforting pat. “Sweetie, your mother’s right. And this way, you’ll be protected.” Her father had twirled his straw hat. He always did when something bothered him. “There was a party of witch hunters spotted over in Srol’s Point. Rumour at the pub is some are heading this way. The faster you’re out of here, the better. If you don’t like this mage, you can still go on to Ryebridge. They’ve mages there too.”

“Alright. If I’ve no choice.” Iwy had blinked away tears as her mother pressed the bag into her hands.

“We know you didn’t mean to burn down the barn. You know that, don’t you?” her mother had said.

“Yes,” Iwy had managed while forcing down the lump in her throat and her stomach turned into guilty knots.

Her father had nodded sagely. “Yeah, we raised you better than that. If you’d meant to set the barn on fire, you’d have killed the witness.”

Her dad always had that morbid sense of humour. She’d miss it.

“And if you’d meant to kill him, he’d be dead.”

“Pa!”

“What? I never cared much for the fella. Glad the cows got out alright. See, it’s not that bad, you didn’t harm the cows. Gave ‘em a fright, but nothing more.”

“The mage said to meet you at Streah’s Junction at noon,” Ma had said. “You better hurry. And keep out of sight.”

They had hugged her one last time. And then she was gone, down along the fields.

Now she had no idea what to expect. She’d been trained up to be a wheat farmer and she was good at it. Honest, meaningful work, that was all she’d ever wanted to do. Magic was something different entirely. And all because of her ... accident.

Well, as her father had pointed out, at least the three family cows were alright, and they were much more useful than Dreas, the farmhand who’d been unconscious for three days. Then again, he only had himself to blame for that comment. You didn’t make that sort of comment about someone’s sixteen-year-old sister, especially when you were going on twenty-seven. “Gonna get used to me”, well, Iwy had shown him. There was a code involved here. It was called manners.

Then again, he’d probably only expected a regular punch in the face. Not a punch with a fist that had suddenly caught fire. Which spread to everything else.

Iwy looked at her big hands. It hadn’t happened since. Might have been a fluke. Maybe the mage would tell her so.

The entire village should know by now. They might even be understanding about the punching part. Not that it mattered, because she couldn’t go home again. If she could only have reined herself in for once ...

It was for the best of everyone. Iwy would keep telling herself that until she eventually had no choice but to believe it. Best for everyone, what with uncontrollable fire on the one hand and witch hunters getting suspicious of other family members on the other.

She looked towards the road that led to the city, a bit more wary. Your typical witch hunter was around forty, skinny, bit of a bastard who liked to round up uppity kids and feel tall harassing old ladies. One lone annoyance who could be appeased with a mug of beer or thrown into the river by the smith. The last hanging had been before Iwy’s birth, and it had been short-lived; apparently, the then-hunter had gotten hold of an actual witch who made his rope slip off her neck until he gave up and went to start a career as a tanner. She remembered last year a couple of them had rounded up Old Woman Marni, who looked meek but could carry a sheep under each arm. Iwy thought that after the beating they had received for that brilliant idea they’d know better than to come close to Riansfield.

Somehow, within only a year, that had changed. Now they travelled in packs, she’d heard. They hadn’t arrested anyone in Riansfield yet, but it set people on edge.

Down the road. She also had no idea what this mage was supposed to look like. Neighbour Danils claimed he saw a wizard once, and he’d said the fellow had a funny hat on and sequins on his sleeves. Iwy had seen a picture of a wizard in a book, and he’d worn something that looked like a nighty with stars stitched on. That was a good starting point, though she doubted it was the official uniform of the magical folk.

Come to think of it, she didn’t know if the mage would recognise her. Iwy looked rather normal for someone who could set a barn on fire with one ill-thrown fist. She was tallish with big hands and feet. There was an overall impression of brown from her hair and eyes and her tanned round face. Her nose was definitely there. She also carried a lot of sarcasm around otherwise decent lips. Her parents had probably told the mage to look out for a girl sitting in the roadside bushes like a tit.

Dusk settled in. Iwy couldn’t camp out here all night.

Beside her, the trader mumbled as she turned around again. She hadn’t woken once. Iwy looked her over. Two scrawny hands poked out of long, terracotta-coloured sleeves that seemed much too big. Ma would have had the time of her life trying to fatten her up, Iwy thought. She wasn’t even half of the hearty farm women that populated the Midlands of Gaetland. Her red hair had some grey streaks in it and came down to her shoulders, presumably; at the moment, most of it covered her face.

She could easily sneak back on the overgrown footpath down the ravine across the main road. She would tiptoe back into the cellar and think about how to get to Ryebridge in the morning. If she had to leave, at least she would be with family. Farmer Danils took his hay cart to the Ocrance market on Wednesdays, maybe he could take her a bit of the way if she could convince him she wouldn’t set fire to his merchandise.

She looked at the sleeping woman again. Iwy had been raised right; it didn’t do to leave someone lying around when it got dark, even though it was a pretty safe area if you weren’t suspected of witchcraft. She might as well stay at her parents’ house, they wouldn’t mind for one night.

She reached over and shook her shoulder a few times. Nothing but an annoyed grunt.

“Wake up, will you? Ma’am? You can’t stay out here, ma’am.”

The woman resumed her snoring.

Iwy considered whether she could carry her, her bundle, and her own bag all the way back. Probably not. She’d tell her parents about her as soon as she was home. They or her siblings could come get her. The trader would likely be fine on her own until then. She was barely visible in the tall grass.

Iwy hadn’t even crossed the main road when she heard the sound of hooves coming from the direction of Riansfield. All day no one and now… She ducked behind a bush, just in case. After a few moments, four riders stopped on the road, looking in every direction. One or two dismounted and stretched their legs. The one in front removed a map from his saddle pocket.

She tried not to breathe as she stole a glimpse through the leaves. The men were clad in black, from their doublets to their knee breeches, but she caught a glint of polished chest armour under their tabards. They wore wide-brimmed hats, black and rather high. For some reason, they had added square silver buckles to the hats, similar to the ones they wore on their shoes. While Iwy knew nothing about wizards, she doubted they’d dress like tax collectors in a year without budget cuts.

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There were only two roads here, why couldn’t they pick one and move on? The ravine was still a few dozen yards off, she’d never reach it without being seen. Couldn’t they simply go towards Ocrance and be done with it? Couldn’t they ...

A crossbow poked her in the back and someone said: “Stand down, witch!”

“I’m no witch.”

“That’s exactly what a witch would say!”

“Seriously?”

The man dragged her out to the road.

They weren’t like any witch hunters she’d ever seen. These men had armour. Crossbows. Swords. A coat of arms. A damn coat of arms! It looked like a shield with a bonfire on it. They hadn’t even tried to be original.

One of them, younger than the others, gestured to her. “That’s the one. That’s what the young man said she looked like.”

Iwy felt vaguely insulted; with her braided brown hair and brown eyes she looked pretty much like half the girls in the village. If she hadn’t been here, would they have scooped up any girl?

Damn, they probably would have.

“She had this with her,” another man said, rummaging through her bag. “Full of black magic, no doubt. Aha!”

“That’s my supper.”

“What is it? Dried frog?”

“It’s bacon.”

“Frog bacon? Repulsive! And what is this? A sacrificial knife!”

“It’s a bread knife, you dullard!”

If it weren’t for the fact that they outnumbered her and had one hundred percent more weapons on them than she did, Iwy wouldn’t have considered them a threat. Whatever new type of witch hunters they were, they weren’t smarter than the usual ones.

“It’s evidence, is what it is. Pack it up.” Metal clinked as the apparent lead hunter – his wide-brimmed hat was higher than the others’ and he was allowed to sport a beard – grabbed a pair of shackles from the saddle of his horse. “Don’t put up a fight. You know witch’s magic is no use against iron.”

Now that was a lie and Iwy knew it. Also, metal was excellent for heat. She could feel her heart pound in her ears. Her skin was growing warm. Any moment now it would happen. Finally, her stupid powers could be good for something.

Nothing happened. Not even a fizzle.

And they hadn’t even put the shackles on her yet.

“What?” Iwy said to herself and the world in general.

“Didn’t know that, did you?” the witch hunter sneered as the metal clicked around her wrists.

“Actually, tha’ss no’ quite correct,” someone said.

The four witch hunters turned.

The woman from the crossroads stood on the path. She carried her bundle on her back now and leaned on a long wooden staff with an ornately carved knob at the end. Her face was in possession of an impressive pair of expressive eyebrows that developed a life of their own as she talked.

“There’s a long, proud tradition of metal wielding further east. Say, any of you fellas got somethin’ to drink?” The woman marched right up to the lead hunter and began to pat him down, the many bangles on her right arm jingling.

“Corporal, do something!” he barked.

“Yes, sir,” the youngest man quivered a reply, clearly overwhelmed with the situation. “Uh, ma’am ...”

“Not even a hip flask. You boys all sober?”

“Ma’am, that’s ... we can’t drink while on duty, now would you please ...”

The lead hunter was having none of it. His face turned red like Josie’s beet roots and his hand was on his whip before the woman could muse about other hiding places for booze. “Get back, you old wretch, or ...”

“Or what, old sonny-me-Jim, you’ll sell me discount boot buckles?”

“That’s it. Take her in, too.”

And then, things happened. The staff came down on his boot, right below the buckle. It twirled around and the horses bolted at the exact moment the witch hunter leader realised the reins of his horse had somehow wound themselves around his middle.

Iwy didn’t get to watch the carnage unfold as her arm was grabbed and she felt herself yanked around. She wrenched her bag out of a panicked man’s hand before she and the strange woman broke into a run, leaving the screaming hunters behind.

“What did you do?”

The woman’s untidy red-grey hair barely brushed her shoulders as she whipped her head around. “What do you mean, what did I do? You saw it. You won’t need those.” She snapped her fingers and the shackles fell off. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Iwona. Or Iwy.”

“Iwy? Why didn’t you say so? I was supposed to meet you here.”

“What? You’re a mage?”

“Oh, didn’t the staff give me away?”

“Not really, no.” Especially not when it had been lying hidden in the tall grass.

Iwy stole a few glances of her as they sprinted along the road. Taller than her, forty-odd, and she really was skinny, but she was a fast runner. Iwy also realised that the terracotta-coloured overcoat she wore was not so much a coat but a shabby robe. It looked nothing like in the books. The star-and-moon-embroidery had been omitted and there wasn’t a sequin in sight.

An arrow whizzed over their heads and the mage pulled her behind the trees. “Down there!”

Iwy knew a path the local game hunters used; it led to another section of the main road. That should be far enough to throw them off. “No, I know a shortcut!”

“Hey, wait!”

Iwy didn’t bother to check if the mage kept up as she sprinted along the familiar footpath.

When she broke out of the undergrowth onto the road there was no sight of a high hat. That settles that, she thought, turned around, and froze.

Another one stood on the road, next to a dappled horse eagerly sampling the local flora. The man had taken his hat off, revealing an almost bald head that stood in contrast to his full brows and moustache, as if the hair had heard the facial area offered cheaper rent.

This one wasn’t from the party. He had come out of the other direction of the road, probably part of a different group. The eyebrows raised at her.

“Well. What’s the hurry, girl?”

“Um. Robbers. Down there. Tried to steal my bread knife. You better go back.”

“Would that I could, love. But you ...” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “This portrait looks a lot like you, don’t it?”

It was only one. Even if her powers didn’t work at the moment – for whatever reason – Iwy had worked on a farm her whole life. She had some muscle hidden under her respectable blouse. If she couldn’t reach the bread knife, she could still clock him.

The witch hunter pulled out his whip and a lash hit her in the chest before she had time to react. Another one hit her on the knee and it buckled beneath her. The next thing she knew, he dragged her up and towards his horse. No doubt he had shackles of his own. “You’re going to get me a nice provision. It’s nothing personal, love.”

Iwy was about to come up with an escape plan in between trying to remember how to breathe, when someone said, “I say, young man, what’s all this then?”

The mage had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, leaning unbothered against his horse.

“Out of the way, peasant! I’m on business.”

“Ah, and what business might that be?”

“Witch hunter, now get ...”

The woman stepped smiling into his way. “Can I see your license, please?”

“My what?”

“Your witch hunter’s license. You can’t hunt witches around here without a proper license, it’s a new law the county set up, seeing as we’ve had this problem with a lot of scam witch hunters, and I’m the officer, well, for this month, we’re sort of taking turns, what with our other jobs and all ...”

“I don’t have a bloody license!”

Iwy tried to shift her weight and his grip on her arm tightened even more. She had no idea what the mage was planning, but she probably should prepare for another sprint.

“Well, then you can’t have her,” the mage continued.

He raised his whip-holding hand. “Get out of my way or ...”

“Sir, I am shocked! Completely shocked you’d brandish a whip at a harmless peasant woman just trying to do her job and protect her community! I’m gonna fine you for this.” Completely ignoring him, the mage pulled a length of parchment and a pencil out of his own saddle pocket. “Let’s see, witch hunting without a license, illegal horse parking, threatening an officer, it’s gonna be expensive ...”

“I’ve had it!”

The witch hunter lifted his whip. Iwy finally regained some feeling in her leg and brought her foot down squarely on the hunter’s instep before he could strike down on the other woman who, for some reason, still grinned wide. Distracted, he received a length of parchment to the face and then a satisfying whack with a wizarding staff to the head. He landed with a thud. The horse kept on chewing.

“If you want my advice, there’s an inn a few miles down in the village, they’ll take care of you”, the mage said conversationally.

Iwy looked down at the fallen man, only half listening. “What?”

“I’m talking to the horse.”

The equine neighed and trotted off, apparently glad to be shot of its rider.

The mage began rifling through the unconscious man’s pockets. “Why didn’t you fry him like you did that barn?”

“I couldn’t! It was ... like I was stuck.”

“Does that happen often?”

“Dunno, I never tried it before.” She looked down at the shiny bald head. “I’ve never seen witch hunters with a coat of arms before. Where are they from?”

“Big city lads. They got a guild now. Formed only last year. Real trouble, that lot. But strangely enough, not the biggest problem we have right now. Ah, looky here ...” A small leather pouch jingled in the mage’s hand.

“Um. You’re robbing someone. You know that, right?”

“Nope. I’m taking a fee he owes.” And his boots, which she pulled off with practiced ease. They were nice boots, despite the buckles.

Iwy didn’t particularly care for the unconscious hunter, but there were principles. “All those laws you listed don’t exist!”

“What’s your point?”

“And you didn’t use magic to deck him, either!”

“Didn’t have to. Well, I hope you learned something from your first lesson.”

She had known the mage now for fifteen minutes and she was already annoyed. “What lesson? That my magic won’t work when I need it?”

“That witch hunters ain’t the type to give it a rest, even if you tell them you’re not quite a witch. It don’t matter to them.” The mage stretched. “Well, it’s getting dark. What says we hike down a mile or two and set up camp?”

Iwy wasn’t about to disagree. After those events she felt dead tired.

“Oh right, I think we both got manners. How about a proper introduction?” She extended her hand. “Triand the Terrific.”

Iwy shook it. “Iwy the sort-of-all-right, I guess? Who calls you that?” She noticed the mage pronounced her name in one of those weird northern accents that turned every ‘i’ into an ‘ee’ and every ‘a’ into ‘uh’. Considering her own name sounded like a plant, she tried not to judge too hard.

“I do. Mostly.”

“So, are you a witch?”

“No, I’m a witchard. Or witcherer.”

“Bless you,” Iwy said dryly.

They stepped down into the forest. Iwy was about to rummage for her lantern, but Triand waved that away. She shook her staff a few times until the knob glowed, enough to see the forest path by. Iwy knew these parts well. To think this might be the last time she passed through here …

“Aren’t you going to say, ‘What in the world’s a witchard?’” Triand prompted.

“Fine, what’s a witchard or witcherer?”

“It’s a bit of both witch and wizard and sorcerer. Basically, a master sorceress extraordinaire.”

“Never heard of you.”

“Good!” The master sorceress grinned wide, exposing a gap between the front teeth. “You look very normal, say. Kinda pretty, to be honest. Like the hair. Fits with the whole fire thing.”

“How? It’s brown.”

“With a bit of red. No flames circling, though. Nothing scorched on you, either ...”

“I am normal.”

“Weeell, your folks said you kinda set their barn on fire because you were upset, and they hid you in the cellar for a couple days, so ... might wanna rethink that statement. How’d it happen?”

“I ... don’t know, honestly.” Thinking about that was very far down on Iwy’s Things-I-want-to-do-list. It was ... confusing. One minute, Dreas the hired hand had said something really rude and she had socked him in the eye ... only to discover that her fist was burning. That everything was burning. Everything except her.

“Don’t quite have it under control, hm? That’s common enough.” She pulled a pipe out of a pocket. “Light this for me, will ye?”

“It’s not funny. What do you want?”

“Didn’t your folks tell you? I’m looking for an apprentice.”

Iwy considered the last half hour again. “No offence, I’m not sure we fit together.”

“None taken. Takes a while to get used to. Don’t worry, I’m not into this whole old-fashioned master this and master that thing. But, you know, you do need a teacher. What says you stay on and if you find someone else you go learn with them?”

“Would that be alright with you?”

“Well, I am pretty interested in your powers, but ... sure.”

After another few minutes’ walk, the self-proclaimed master sorceress had found a tree she liked and proposed to camp there for the night. It looked like any old tree to Iwy, especially in this faint light. She unpacked her blanket and considered the ground. There was no way to not get her best dress full of earth and grass, but that was that. She could change in the morning. Triand didn’t seem to care. Considering her state of dress, it was doubtful she even knew what a clothes press was.

Speaking of ...

“I got some questions.”

The mage was rummaging in her bundle. “Go ahead.”

“Why were you sleeping by the road? And why were you drunk?”

“I was all wiped out from casting a protective spell around some farm. You got big farms around here.” She continued to mumble discontentedly as she dug into her bag, finally dislodging a chequered wool blanket. Then she suddenly sprang up and began collecting twigs.

“We should make a fire. Your treat?”

“I told you, I can’t.”

“Come on, try.”

Iwy reached out a hand towards the bundle of twigs. She didn’t know what else to do. Should she ... say something? Maybe wriggle her fingers?

“Um ... burn, I guess.”

Twigs aren’t generally equipped with faces, but they didn’t need them to stare at her with a wooden expression of complete underwhelm.

The mage shrugged. “Ah, well. Got some matches?”

Iwy hadn’t exactly packed for a camping trip. Her bag would have to do as pillow. The mage watched her beat the thing into a more comfortable shape for a while before she got up and dug her staff into the ground around them.

“What’s this now?”

“Protective circle. There, all set. Try to get some sleep. We got a long walk tomorrow.” She sat down, pulled a flask out of a pocket, and took a large gulp. The contents smelled vaguely like fruit but mostly of distillation. Triand handed the bottle to her. “Nightcap?”

“No, thanks.” At this, Iwy realised she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime, but she didn’t even feel hungry now.

The mage tucked her flask back into the safety of her robes, wrapped herself up in the chequered blanket, and more or less fell down. “Night.”

“Yeah. Night.”

Iwy laid back. So this was it. Tomorrow would be her first day as apprentice to an apparent madwoman.

She hoped they would travel by Ryebridge.