Chapter 4: Chapter 3: In which Iwy discovers the value of a magical education and of wasps

In the span of a few hours Iwy had learned about the different magic users, the 576 different ways a witch could draw power, roughly ten different wizarding orders, the fact that magic needed energy same as everything else (in which case, she had thought, the mage should throw out the booze and try a vegetable), the advantages and disadvantages of practising magic without socks on (which earned a large question mark), a history of the witch hunters guild (it had started a year ago down south in Barium, where the king was a bit paranoid and people in general were much too serious), and Triand’s own ten-year-study on whether brandy or whisky made the magic flow better, which was still awaiting pear review, whatever that meant. She now knew more about magic than she had ever wanted to know. And apparently, she was still not done.

Iwy looked through her notes – Triand had let her borrow some smudgy paper from the depths of her bundle. She’d only written down what seemed important, which definitely excluded the socks. There was the base magic that most mages could do, like teleportation. Then there were the magical categories. Wizards got their powers through complicated spells and magical objects. For a warlock, magic came from a higher power, and most of the time not a nice one. Sorcerers were apparently the lucky ones, they usually came from a line of magic users. There were also the aforementioned druids, who had more or less walked into the forest, made friends with a squirrel and a minor wood deity, and now they could kill you with leaves. Mage was used as a general term, but historically, a mage was a wizard with a better fashion sense. Witches were something else entirely and did whatever they wanted, and Triand had repeated three times to never mess with a city witch because they were too adaptable.

“So much overlap.” Iwy had an easier time spotting that the field they were passing at this moment was barley, and it was already harvested off. “They sound exactly alike.”

Triand wagged a finger at her. “No-oh. A witch is something you’re raised as. It’s ... a whole thing, a whole way of living and thinking and doing things. It’s, what’s that word? Cultural. And very local.”

Iwy tried to jot all of that down. “And you’re sort of a witch and a wizard?”

Triand’s flask glugged as she waved it around. “Weeell, emphasis on the sort of. People don’t like it. Say you can’t mix the magic ways, you have to decide. And you have to focus on one thing and one thing only, ‘cause most people are only good with one thing. Elements and such. Rubbish, that’s what that is. Just havta apply yourself.”

“What about the mancers?”

“The what now?”

“You know, all those people that end with mancer.”

“Oh, those, well, that’s only specialisations, really. Like you, you’d be a pyromancer once you get the hang of it.”

“Great, I’ll give the witch hunters the good news,” Iwy said surly.

“Yah, speaking of ... What I don’t understand is why your powers came in so late. I mean, that was the first time that happened, right?”

“Yes,” Iwy said a little too quickly.

Triand cocked one thick eyebrow. “Not before? Are you sure?”

“Yes. Maybe I ... accidentally said a spell,” the girl added hastily. And sincerely hoped there wasn’t a spell that could detect lies.

“Was the spell ‘Burn it all down, I’m sick of this godsdamn barn’?”

“No? That’s not even what I thought.” Iwy’s eyes moved over the staff in search for a distraction. It was a pretty simple object. Gnarled, but polished. Whoever had carved the knob had done a good job in making it look as if the twigs on top had decided, on a whim, to form around a fist-sized ball. “You need to wave a stick around when you say a spell, right?”

“If you wanna take someone’s eye out, sure.”

“No, I mean ... you have to say the right words or use some object, right?”

“Not always. Really depends on how good you are. Both are helpful to tap into magic. It’s like ... you know, you can carry water in your hands, but a bucket’s more convenient.”

“So ... what if you need a tub full of water?”

“Use the bucket more often or drag the tub down to the river. Metaphorically.”

“Can’t you ... jump into the river? Metaphorically?”

“Not at your stage.”

The ripened fields slowly turned to stubbled ones as they walked on. The forest on one side of the road stopped abruptly to make room for even more of them.

“Shouldn’t you have a grim-moo-ire for that or something?”

“I got something better.” Triand rummaged around the inside of her robes before producing a small but thick and rather battered linen-bound volume. “I got a notebook of useful spells.”

Iwy took the book. It said “Notebook of Useful Spells” on the cover. This was the opposite of impressive.

“You should start your own.”

“I don’t know any yet.”

“Still. Maybe you won’t need it. Your magic seems a bit more ... intuitive. In fact ...” Triand stepped off the road into the barren field. “Don’t think you can hurt anything here. Try it.”

Iwy followed and let her bag drop to the ground. “How?”

Triand shrugged. “Whatever works for you.”

“Last time I was angry.”

“Alright. Be angry.”

This should have been the easiest thing in the world, but somehow it wasn’t. Iwy was angry often. Her mother said it would go away with age, but she doubted it. She tried to summon every slight, every unkindness, every memory of anger and felt her skin growing hot and her eyes close. Maybe now ... now ... now ...

Iwy dared to open one eye. “Anything happening?”

“There’s smoke coming out of your ears, that’s a start.”

“What?”

“Kidding.” An idea seemed to strike the mage as she pressed the staff into Iwy’s hands. “Here, try this.”

“I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You can’t. C’mon, only once. Might help you channel.”

“Alright. Could you, uh ... step back? Just in case? Further. No, further.”

She thought of the day in the barn. Gods, she had been angry. It had come over her like a wave, crashing down with no chance of escape. Now ... now ... now ...

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Triand decided to give her new apprentice a few more minutes. She watched sipping on her flask as the girl stood in the field and made a variety of faces. Clearly the wrong approach. She might need her own object. Maybe her powers only worked when she was in actual danger and Triand sincerely hoped she was wrong about that, but there was nothing magic liked more than irony.

After a few more minutes she tapped her new apprentice on the back. “Let’s head on for now.”

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By evening they had passed three settlements and Triand had shown no sign of stopping other than to buy a flaskful of strong spirits and – after Iwy reminded her – some travel food. She’d even coaxed her new master into eating a bit, beginning to suspect that Triand ate so little because of money troubles. Iwy had only brought the coins her parents could spare but a body could live on that a while. Triand had waved that away. She never worried about money, she said. It was one of her blessings. She didn’t explain what in blazes that meant.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Iwy had spent hours leafing through the spell notebook, but none of the words seemed to stick in her brain. Did other people need to be angry for their powers to work, too? Or was it only her?

Finally, Triand nudged her. “What with the witch hunter’s fee we might be able to afford a bed tonight. What says we find an inn in the next village?”

“Make that two beds.”

“Fancy, are you?”

Triand stopped dead in the middle of the road before Iwy could find a sarcastic reply.

“Something wrong?”

“Shh!” Triand looked at the landscape around them, fingers drumming on her lower lip. “Something’s coming and it’s not nice. C’mon.”

Iwy turned and didn’t see a thing, neither up the road nor down, but she thought she heard a vague clip-clop of hooves. She had to jog to keep up with Triand, who was running into the empty field. There was not even a tree big enough to hide them out here.

The mage stopped again and prodded the ground with her staff. A few flies fled. “This should do it.”

“What?”

“Stand there.”

She dragged a dusty circle around them both.

“What’s happening?”

“Try not to move and watch the road.”

Iwy remembered a spell like this from the notebook. “Are you making us invisible?”

“Sort of. I’m not very good at it. But I think we’re far enough from the road.” She held out her staff and leaned into it. “I mean it. Don’t move.”

The girl stood as still as she possibly could as the hats came up the road.

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Harold Jenks, witch hunter, took off his hat and wiped sweat from his forehead. He could hardly wait to get out of this armour and the suit and the stockings and everything and into a nice bath instead. These parts of the Midlands were dreadful. Freezing in winter, blasting hot in summer, especially out here in the open, even though they said the weather had been too cold this year. Hah, that was nothing compared to last year ... how he wished the witches would finally stop meddling with the weather.

He looked around in the hazy dusk, trying to keep himself awake. There was nothing but open fields, some already harvested and fallow until next year. No sign of the witches the men had mentioned. He was about to suggest to the captain to call off the search, then thought better of it. The boss was in a mood ever since the horse incident.

Something in the field caught his eye and he leaned over on his horse to elbow a fellow hunter. “Ever seen such a weird scarecrow?”

“No. The locals must’ve been bored.”

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Iwy squinted after them. “I think they’re far enough away.”

“Right. Alright. We’re gonna move, but just a bit over there. And slowly. No sudden movements.”

Maybe they could sneak behind them onto the road, but Iwy quickly realised why this wouldn’t be possible as they crept along the field like the world’s most untalented mimes.

There was an entire dozen of them. They halted on the road a couple yards before the crossroads leading to the next villages and didn’t seem to have any intention of leaving soon. A few of them were inspecting their crossbows, one dragged a whetstone over his sword.

“Dumb people with good weapons,” Triand mumbled. “If you ever want to solve a major problem in the world, start there.”

They might know Iwy’s face. Triand’s as well if any of them had been part of the group they’d encountered.

“Gods, how many of them are there? Can you make us invisible enough?”

“Nope. They’d bump into us, anyway.” Triand tapped her lower lip again. It was impossible to fool all of them and scarecrow their way along until out of sight. Sooner or later someone would notice that the illusion they saw had changed places. Not even witch hunters were that oblivious. “Alright. Ready to see some proper magic?”

With the tip of her staff and without much flourish she drew a smaller circle around them both while muttering, and Iwy wasn’t sure if it was a spell or just profanities. Possibly both.

She felt a shift in the air around them, enveloping her, draping over her skin like soft cloth. Iwy looked down at her hands and arms and legs but saw no difference. Finally, Triand made her step out of the circle.

“Great Mother, I hope this works.”

Triand moved along the field at a slow pace. Iwy followed bewildered. If they weren’t invisible, what were they? “What do they see?”

“An old man with a scythe and a slightly less old man, now keep walking.”

What were they even trying to do, give everyone who passed some sort of witch test? What would that even be? Or did they wait until someone came by to denunciate a neighbour because it was a slow weekend?

They kept their heads down, two old farmers returning from the field. Iwy could feel her heart drumming in her ears.

One of the hunters stepped off the road and into their path anyway. “Who goes here?”

“What?” Triand said louder than necessary.

The man leaned down. “I said: Who goes here?”

“What do you mean, who froze your ear?”

The man turned to Iwy. “Is he deaf?”

“What?” said Iwy, catching on.

“I said: Is. He. Deaf?”

“No, my father always gets this way when he’s drunk!”

Another witch hunter approached from the blockade and tapped his colleague’s shoulder. “Just let them pass.”

He nodded. “You can pass.”

“It’s not grass, it’s wheat!”

He waved them along impatiently.

Iwy fought the urge to run. They continued in their old men pace until they reached the road.

Triand leaned toward her. “Good job.”

Iwy glanced over her shoulder briefly. They didn’t even look in their direction. “Can’t you ... blast them to pieces or something?”

“Can and would, but I can’t afford to draw too much attention. I got some other things to do, and they’re difficult enough without dealing with reinforcements every two days. Keep walking. We’re almost out of sight.”

Iwy noticed movement out of the corner of her eyes and looked down.

She almost screamed.

Not now. Oh, good gods, not now.

The flame spread over her knuckles and up her arms. Iwy pushed her hands deep into the pockets of her dress, but that didn’t stop it. It tickled slightly as it crept over her face. Not now!, she thought. Go away, go away, go away ...

“What are you doing?” Triand whispered. Of course she’d noticed; someone becoming a human bonfire right next to one was not easily ignored.

“Nothing! It just keeps happening!”

“Alright, take a deep breath and breathe out slowly. No, slower than that. Slower ... and breathe in again ...”

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A bit behind them, Harold Jenks glanced down the road briefly and scoffed. Farm folks, he thought. Worked themselves to the bone even in old age. A right wonder they could still keep on their feet. Especially the younger of the two, what with him being on fire and all ...

His tall hat thudded on the ground as the witch hunter startled.

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Further down the road, Iwy didn’t dare turn around. “Can they see it? Through the spell and all?”

“Hey you! Stop!”

Triand sucked air in through her teeth. “I think they can.”

Iwy could feel the illusion drop off her like a coat as they legged it towards the crossroads.

“Can you hurl it at them?” Triand yelled over the sound of hooves coming closer.

“I can try ...” She turned briefly and aimed. The flames her hand and arm glowed pleasantly as a campfire with no intention of going anywhere. “It’s not coming off!” She shook her hands a few times. The fire trickled into her skin and was gone. Running it was.

Though they wouldn’t keep their head start for long.

An arrow whizzed past them. And another one. A sudden, hot pain shot throw Iwy’s upper arm.

“Keep running, mind the wasps, I’ll catch up,” Triand said as she came to a halt. Iwy kept going for a few more yards and slid down the side of a ravine for better cover. She had no idea what Triand was planning but she shouldn’t be doing it alone against six armed hunters. Her hands, her arms; even her feet ... whatever had brought the fire out again was gone. The only thing she had was a bleeding arm. And a bread knife, somewhere. Iwy dug around her bag.

Then she heard the buzz.

As her gaze followed the sound, she saw the mage in the middle of the road. The hunters weren’t shooting now; it seemed their orders were to take prisoners alive.

The buzzing grew louder. A wasp whizzed by Iwy’s head. Then another. Then a dozen. By the time they reached the road, their number had grown into a cloud.

The hunters never reached the mage as their mounts bolted in every direction. Wasps didn’t randomly decide to sting half a dozen horses. They were almost obedient.

Two of the witch hunters apparently took their job more seriously than the others, jumped off the running horses and made for the mage. A sword sliced through the air in front of her nose.

Knife or no knife, Iwy scrambled up and…

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The mage hadn’t moved. She grinned.

Of course magic has boundaries. They are yellow, and behind them you can just make out some human-shaped chalk marks. And then there are people like Triand, who sneak back there and have a bit of fun until the authorities arrive.

She performed a rude gesture and a second later the hunters’ belts and garters came untied and gravity took hold of their breeches. They met the dust road face first and scrambled up to a dedicated yellow and black welcoming committee.

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Iwy, still in the awkward half-squat of scrambling up, tried hard not to look impressed as the mage brought distance between herself and the hunters, waving her arm in the direction of the other path where dusty footprints appeared.

“Thought I told you to keep going,” Triand panted as she caught up with Iwy, who had finally located her knife long after she had need for it.

“I thought maybe I could help. I’m sorry ...”

“No apologies. Let’s head down there and find a bribable innkeeper. I need a nap.” Her look fell on Iwy’s arm. “And you need a bandage.”