“Witch!”
The crowd echoed the word, but the priest was the one shouting loudest. He cast out a hand, finger outstretched in accusation.
“We must cleanse ourselves!” the priest raved. Hubert recognized that voice. “We must cleanse the city and restore Torath’s grace!”
Hubert pushed his way through the crowd until he could get a good look at the man and woman on the platform. The man was dressed in the finery of a priest, and Hubert knew his face: Father Seville, the head of the Torathi church and abbot of the nunnery in Tarraconesis. The pompous fool that Hubert had met when he escorted Camilla to her calling.
The woman on the stage was dressed simply, as a peasant might, in a dirty woolen smock. Her hair was long and tangled, with a sharp nose and a frown that gave her a severe expression. Understandable, given her predicament.
Hubert could tell her hands were bound behind her back. He thought he saw a bruise on one cheek. The woman spoke no words in her defense, but then Hubert doubted the crowd or frothing priest would listen if she did.
“You have heard the accusations!” Seville declared. “Now she will suffer for her crimes and black sorcery! A witch’s curses must not be suffered!”
The mob shouted their agreements. That’s a hell of a perversion of the scripture as I recall it, Hubert thought.
“Shall we stone her?” Seville shouted. The crowd cheered. Yes, they shouted, they ought to stone her. “Or shall we burn her? Cleansing fire to burn away her black magic! That is how they slew the witches of old!”
This is about to get much, much worse, Hubert realized. Once again, Seville was grossly misrepresenting Torathi holy texts. But Hubert knew that neither Seville nor the mob would care or listen to an esoteric debate on theology. Folks in the crowd, Hubert realized grimly, already carried the means Seville called for. He saw men carrying stones, and men carrying bundles of sticks, pushed to the forefront of the crowd.
Hubert quickly wove through the rest of the crowd until he reached the stage, then clambered up. The crowd murmured at the interruption, but the noise died down quickly—no doubt after they saw the robes Hubert wore, marking him as a Torathi monk. But Seville glared at him as he approached, and he was not so easily mollified.
He may remember you, Hubert noted. He knew he ought to tread carefully, but tread he must.
“Brothers!” Hubert called out, letting his deep voice carry. “Father Seville! You rush to judgment, but recall that God bids us practice patience, and forbearance: Step slowly in tall grass, lest your feet fall upon a viper.”
He did not know how many in the crowd would recognize the quote, but if Seville studied his scriptures the way Hubert suspected he did then he would recognize it immediately. He expected they would all understand regardless. It was a good quote.
It had been a while since Hubert had last tried to give a sermon to a crowd of this size, and longer still since he had done a mummer’s performance on stage, but the skills returned to him easily. If anything, he had missed playing a crowd.
“Who are you?” Seville challenged. “Why do you interrupt us?”
So much for him remembering me.
“I am Brother Hubert, of Arioch’s Monastery,” Hubert said, giving a shallow bow. “I have walked here from the birthplace of our faith, Torathia itself, to minister the good folk of Spatalia. I have seen many lands and spoken with many faithful, and—”
“You have no authority here!” Seville declared. But the crowd was curious, and for the first time they did not shout in agreement with Seville. Hubert could guess why—they were of the Faith, and to them a monk was a man of god much the same as a priest was. They would give Hubert a chance, at least.
“Indeed not,” Hubert agreed. “But I have read the holy scriptures in Temple Torathi, the mother tongue of the Faith. I have walked the hallowed halls of the Ammud Kahal, and studied in the libraries there. Authority? No. But perhaps I might share some wisdom with your parish.”
The mob was interested, now. Seville seemed to realize that perhaps he had overstepped, and he reined back his vitriol.
“I welcome you to find me in my church,” Seville said. “You could minister the crowds at temple, on a proper holy day.”
“A crowd’s already formed, Father,” Hubert said, sweeping an arm out towards the onlookers. “And I fear they are about to make a grave mistake. You must not murder this woman.”
“Murder? Not murder, no!” Seville shouted. “She is a witch! This will be a cleansing!”
“They thought much the same of Adah, the Sand Viper, in ancient days. As I recall,” Hubert said.
A slight miscalculation. The crowd may have heard of Adah here or there—she had an entire Book in the scriptures—but clearly they were not very familiar with her. It didn’t surprise Hubert that Seville did not spend much of his sermons speaking on the mighty women that had supposedly served as Torath’s molts over the eons.
“Preposterous!” Seville sneered. “You would compare this witch to one of God’s Molts? Madness! She struck a man down, monk! Struck him with the malocchio, and rendered him insensate!”
Malocchio, an old Spatalian word. The Evil Eye.
Hubert had seen his share of strangeness in his travels. Including a handful of folks claiming some manner of witchery or other magic powers. But he’d never seen anything that could not be explained by coincidence, luck, alchemy, or—very rarely—dabbling in the ancient secrets of the Thaumati.
“A bold claim that requires proof. Not the condemnation of the mob,” Hubert said. “What—”
“Proof? We have seen the proof! I have seen the man tended in the abbey! Witnesses saw her hex him with the malocchio! What more proof is needed?” Spittle flecked Seville’s lips as he screamed. The crowd still seemed fired up, and Hubert saw a ripple of shouts as they voiced support for their priest.
Hubert could sense that he was losing them. They want fire and brimstone, the shouted arrogance of a man so sure he is holy that he persuades those around him by sheer force of will.
Hubert looked past Seville, to the blank-faced frowning woman whose life may well hang in the balance. If that’s what the crowd wants, fine. You’ve pleased plenty of crowds.
“Father Seville!” Hubert declared. “You claim proof, but you have only one man bearing witness against another!”
Seville opened his mouth to argue, but Hubert continued raising his voice. It boomed out across the crowd. “This is not the way of law Torath taught us! This is not God’s plan! You do not seek justice, you seek only to accuse and punish! Your obsession is well known: Witches! Always it is witches, without evidence or cause!”
I hope Nun Guillou isn’t the only one that noticed his obsession, Hubert thought. He recalled the nun commenting about how Seville’s latest obsession was with uncovering witches in the city, and so he had taken a gamble that she was not alone.
The crowd seemed interested, at least. Hubert had recaptured their attention.
“I have plenty of evi—” Seville began to shout a protest, but Hubert would not let him regain control of the stage.
“You are blinded!” Hubert declared. “Blinded by hatred and prejudice. That is not God’s way! Torath prizes mercy! Understanding! Freedom! You have turned away from God, and now you threaten the life of an innocent woman! In Torath’s name! God will not stand by such blasphemy, Seville!”
Hubert could feel his voice grow louder and more passionate with each sentence. This is actually kind of fun, he admitted to himself.
And the mob ate it up. They shouted, but now their angriest shouts were directed at Seville, not the woman. Hubert saw fear in Seville’s eyes. Fear and rage, as he glared at Hubert. He seemed to collect his wits, and opened his mouth to shout his side of the argument.
Hubert timed his next outburst perfectly. Just as Seville took a breath, Hubert bellowed a new declaration.
“You must abandon this path, Seville! You blaspheme God at your peril, and the peril of your abbey! I fear if you do not recant, the only one to be stricken down upon this dais will be you!”
The mob gasped at that. It was near enough to a threat that even Seville was taken aback momentarily. Like any good warrior, Hubert pressed the attack.
“I can feel God’s presence even now!” he declared. “Your blasphemy and persecution has drawn his lidless eye! He has marked you, Father Seville. He has marked you! I beg of you, recant. Recant your scurrilous accusations now, before God strikes you down for such hubris!”
Alright, alright, Hubert warned himself. Laying it on a mite thick, aren’t you?
Indeed, Seville just looked irate. The crowd’s reaction was mixed. Some seemed to be pointing and shouting at Seville, but others now looked at Hubert with open skepticism.
Time to bring it home.
“Your shoulder!” Hubert shouted. “Torath’s fangs are upon you! I see it now!”
He strode forward, flexing his hands in preparation as he got close to Seville. Seville tried to shove him away, but Hubert was not easily moved. He outweighed the abbot by several stone, and he had learned half a dozen methods of fighting and wrestling—Seville, he expected, had not been in a fight since his youth. If ever.
Hubert batted Seville’s protesting hands aside and roughly grabbed the man by his shoulder. Seville yelped in shock as Hubert grabbed at him, tugging on his habit and making a great show of it.
“Unhand me!” Seville demanded. It wasn’t a good look. It did not speak of the powerful priest in total control. He sounded terrified.
“I can feel it, Seville!” Hubert said. “Torath’s mark! Look!”
He tore the habit a little, but he managed to pull it down over Seville’s shoulder, baring the man’s flesh. It was unseemly, and the crowd was murmuring in confusion, unsure who they ought to support.
But then Hubert stepped back and summoned all the drama he possessed. He threw out his hand, index finger pointing fiercely to Seville’s bare shoulder.
The mark was small. Hubert saw it plainly, but he knew most in the crowd wouldn’t see it. Maybe a few of those closest, but Hubert knew he just had to sell it.
Because Seville really was marked. Twin punctures marred his skin, close together, leaking small rivulets of blood. They truly did look for all the world like the bite of a viper.
“Torath’s fangs! He has marked you for your blasphemy, Seville! You must recant! Look!” Hubert pointed with all his might, and Seville, bless him, looked down. He saw the marks, and Hubert knew that Seville’s reaction sold it to every single man and woman in the mob, no matter how far they were.
“Impossible!” the abbot protested. But the conviction in his voice had been replaced with fear and confusion. He would never control a crowd that way.
“You can see the mark for yourself!” Hubert said. “His holy venom is upon you! You must recant before he strikes you down! Release the woman, desist in your follies, for your own good if not for love of God and justice!”
“She is a witch! It is no folly! How dare you!” Seville shouted. “I am just! I am righteous! She is a witch!”
A little of his fire had returned. Too little, too late. The crowd stared at him in a mixture of nervous fear and the thrill of voyeurism. They wondered if Hubert was telling the truth. Would Torath really strike their abbot down? Of course they didn’t really believe it, but the seed of doubt was there.
It was only fueled further when Seville suddenly stopped in the midst of his ranting, mouth hanging agape, his breath caught in his throat. And when he keeled over entirely, the crowd was utterly silent. Enraptured. They stared at Hubert in shock.
Best performance in years, old boy, Hubert congratulated himself. He flicked his wrist, secreting the needle hidden in his palm back into its hidden container. Now it was just a matter of wrapping things up. He dropped to Seville’s side and pleaded loudly for Torath to spare the poor man.
“His zealotry does him no credit, God, but he is not an evil man,” Hubert begged at the sky. “He has surely learned his lesson! Please, spare him! I beg of you! We all beg of you! Do not deprive this parish of its priest!”
As he voiced empty prayers, Hubert quickly checked Seville’s breathing. The paralytic on his needle wasn’t supposed to be lethal, it was just supposed to lock a body up for a little while, but the doses of such a venom were fickle at the best of times, and heavily dependent on the victim. How large, how hale, how fat, how old.
Seville was far from the healthiest of men, but Hubert was relieved to find he was still breathing shallow breaths. He had not lost consciousness. His blood still pumped through his veins in regular pulses. He noticed with some dismay that Seville was glaring at him, a look of pure hate.
He knows, Hubert realized. That’s not ideal.
Nevertheless, he continued voicing platitudes, broken scriptural quotes, and vague appeals to God’s mercy. Soon, he declare that Seville was breathing. He called for parishioners to come forth and take the poor man back to his abbey, and several uneasy men stepped forward to do as Hubert asked.
“The rest of you,” Hubert said. “Disperse. Let this madness be the last we speak of burning women for baseless accusations. Go home!”
The crowd had already begun bleeding people the moment Seville was struck down, but that was the final straw. They dispersed fully, leaving discarded stones and sticks scattered through the square.
Finally, Hubert was left alone with the woman, the supposed witch. He untied the bonds that held her hands behind her back, and smiled when she turned to face him.
“That was a near thing,” he said. “My name is Hubert. And you?”
She sniffed, her sharp nose curling in distaste as she looked after the last few members of the mob. She glanced back at Hubert. “Candraca,” she said. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure,” Hubert said. “No one deserves the fate they nearly consigned you to. What was this all about, truly? Why were you marked by Seville and his zealots?”
Candraca rubbed her wrists, where the rope had chafed them. “He was rude to me,” she said.
“Who was? Seville?”
Candra shook her head. “Not the priest. The man. I don’t know his name. We crossed paths in the market, and he was rude to me. Called me harlot. So I put the malocchio upon him, to teach him to mind his manners.”
Hubert blinked. “Uh,” he said. “Pardon?”
Candraca looked back to Hubert. “That was a good trick, bringing him down that way. I’ve never seen the elf-stroke worked so masterfully, nor hex someone so quickly. And without a single rhyme! You must be a master. I scarcely felt you work the hex at all.”
Hubert felt his mouth loll open, as words fled him. She thinks I’m a witch, he realized numbly. A witch. Like her.
“Never seen a witch pretend to be a monk before,” Candraca added. “Clever.”
“Oh, well,” Hubert said. Pull it together. “It has its advantages.”
Candraca nodded.
“Do you—well, I’m new here, you see. Are there many, um. Witches? Like us? Around these parts.”
“We have a large coven,” Candraca said. “Or we did, before that bastard Seville began rooting us out. Thanks again, for what you did. If he loses the crowd, he shouldn’t be half so effective at hunting me and my sisters.”
“Ah, yes, my pleasure, dear,” Hubert said blandly. Seville was right? But— he pushed the frantic racing thoughts aside.
“You should dance with us,” Candraca said. She actually smiled at him, though it was a fleeting thing. “There is a clearing in the woods north of town. We’ll meet there tonight, at midnight. Join us.”
Hubert grinned. “How generous of you, my dear!” he said. “It would be my pleasure!”
A witches’ sabbath, he mused. Well, at least it will be a truly new experience. Something unique for a change. And maybe we can learn a bit more about this situation you’ve stumbled into so blithely.
“Meet me after dark tonight, outside the stables on the north road, near the two willows embracing. I can guide you to the meeting,” Candraca said.
“I’ll see you there,” Hubert promised. The witch gave him a final nod, leaned in, and kissed him on the cheek before departing.
Well, Hubert thought. That’s not quite what I expected. It was good that Candraca trusted him, at least. He could investigate this a bit further. Even if she was a witch, that hardly meant Seville was right. He had been planning to kill her after all. And all for—
Malocchio.
Candraca had cursed a man. She seemed quite confident of that fact. Just as much as Seville was. Hubert had—foolishly, in hindsight—dismissed the idea out of hand. But those that had never seen a Thaumati ruin had a hard time believing in the powers therein. Those that did not understand alchemy, likewise, considered it all either smoke and mirrors or pure, true sorcery. Neither was true.
Perhaps witchcraft is not so simple either, Hubert decided.
Seville had said the man struck by Candraca’s evil eye was at the abbey, cared for by the nuns. If Candraca had truly struck a man down with a curse, and Hubert had set her free from any consequence—well, he knew what he had to do next.
He had to make it right.