Father Seville was, mercifully, sequestered in his private chambers when Hubert arrived at the monastery. It saved him the inevitable awkwardness of facing the man again.
Though don’t rest too easy. This isn’t over, Hubert reminded himself. He is a zealot on a mission, and you’ve put yourself right in the middle of his pet cause.
To say nothing of the fact that Hubert had, technically, assaulted the abbot — and he was sure Seville knew that it was Hubert, not Torath, that had smote him. Seville was not likely to forget that either.
But Nun Guillou said that Seville had been taken to his chambers when he arrived, where a few sisters were praying with him and giving him tea and a broth made from chicken bones.
“We trust that will speed his recovery of — whatever ails him,” Guillou said. She had a steely look in her eyes when she said it, and she stared down Hubert.
Did Camilla tell her what I did on the road? He wondered. She’s sharp enough to put things together if so.
He just smiled. “I trust it will be enough to see him through God’s wrath,” Hubert said blithely.
Fortunately, Guillou seemed to accept that. “Good,” she said. “If you aren’t here to help Father Seville, then what can we do for you, Brother?”
“I had hoped to meet with a different man. I heard that you’ve been tending to the man Seville spoke of? The one he claimed was struck down by the evil eye?”
“Claudio? Yes, he’s here,” she said. “We have been helping him through his troubles as best we can, but… he is not well.”
“Can I see him?” Hubert asked. “I know a little about medicine.”
“Of course, Brother,” Guillou said. “This way. But I should warn you: it is not medicine he needs.”
She truly believes his plight is caused by the evil eye, Hubert realized as he followed the old nun. She spoke dismissively of Seville’s hunt for witches, but she still believes that a witch struck this man down.
Soon enough, Hubert believed it too. He had not intended to, but he couldn’t doubt what he saw with his own eyes.
He did not have Agrippa’s immense expertise, but Hubert was well versed in all the basics of medicine. He knew how to identify dozens of maladies, and usually knew at least a few simple ways to ease them.
The man, Claudio, was clearly struck with some sort of palsy. He was feverish, disoriented, his limbs twitching pitifully. Hubert went through a litany of simple tests to try to gauge Claudio’s responsiveness and measure the severity of his illness. It was bad, but not so bad. Surely it was treatable, and there was no reason to blame witches.
Until he saw Guillou tend to the man. She leaned down at his bedside, dabbing at his brow with a cool damp cloth, and she quietly sang a little ditty. Hubert’s Spatalian was excellent, but she sang quickly and quietly, and in a dialect that sounded particularly rural to his ear. Something about health and protection, rhyming verses about warding off witchcraft.
Claudio’s reaction was, from a medical perspective, inexplicable. His tremors abated and his breathing seemed to become more regular. He looked much improved. By a song, Hubert thought. Either your eyes are lying, or this man was indeed cursed by a witch, and cured by a song.
“Fascinating!” he blurted out. “You were right, my dear Guillou. That was not any medicine I have heard of. And yet you seem to have helped ease his pain. So… what was it, exactly?” The unspoken part of his question, of course, was: And are you also a witch?
Guillou sighed. “I know a little about the magic of the land,” she said.
“Witchcraft?” Hubert asked.
She grimaced. “That is what Seville would call it, of course. I—I am trusting you a great deal, Brother Hubert. Camilla told me that you are a sorcerer yourself—that you protected her on the road. I believe I can trust you.”
“Most definitely,” Hubert agreed. “I am not a sorcerer, but that aside, your secret is safe with me. You’re a witch, sister? Truly?”
“No,” Guillou said. “Not truly. I know a little, as I said. But a proper witch knows much more than that. I have never learned the proper magic, only bits and pieces of it over the years.”
“Enough to help this fellow, it seems.”
Guillou shook her head. “It doesn’t last. It eases his pain for an hour at most. He needs more. He needs a cimaruta.”
“Pardon? A what?” Hubert asked.
“Every power has an inverse,” Guillou said. “Good acts and bad. Heat and cold. Strega and befana. Malocchio and cimaruta.”
“That—pardon, Guillou, but that didn’t really explain it,” Hubert said. “I’m not familiar with these words. Cimaruta—a wreath of rue branches? Have I got that right?”
Guillou sighed. “Come this way,” she said, turning away from Claudio’s bed.
Hubert followed as she led him out of the infirmary and down a drafty corridor. They soon found themselves in a small room, sparsely decorated. It looked to be some sort of extremely spare solar or private dining quarters, with the main furniture a table and a few chairs.
Guillou gestured to one of the chairs, and Hubert sat.
“There are two kinds of witches,” she began. “The strega is, perhaps, what men like Seville imagine when they hear the word witch. Strega can be spiteful and cruel—in fact, their magic demands this of them. They are fueled by anger, misery, and hatred. The magic of the strega is used to exact revenge. They punish those that wrong them, or those they perceive have wronged them.”
“The woman Seville was trying to burn, Candraca,” Hubert said.
Guillou nodded. “Yes. A strega. The malocchio is the purview of the strega, the most straightforward hex. Though it is whispered that a powerful strega can summon much more dangerous curses.”
“Strega and befana, you said,” Hubert prompted her. “So what is a befana, then? A good witch?”
The old nun smiled. “Exactly this, yes. While the power of strega is fueled by unpleasantness, the power of the befana is the opposite. The magic of kindness and generosity. Strega harm, befana protect. They know how to craft cimaruta—defensive charms that protect against the malocchio.”
“But you’re not a befana?”
She shook her head. “I am not a witch at all, Brother. Neither befana, nor strega. Just an old woman that remembers the lore of her people, and the lessons of her mother and grandmother.”
Hubert fell silent, chewing on her words for a few moments. He had seen glimpses of folk magic in his years of travel, but most of the time such things had a clear explanation. Coincidence, most often. Occasionally, someone with an old alchemical recipe handed down through their family generations. But now he looked back and wondered. Have I met witches before, and dismissed them as charlatans? Dismissed real magic as tricks or alchemical concoctions?
His old mentor Navid had spoken to him of magic, decades ago. But Navid mostly knew of the deep, ancient magic of the Thaumati. He had met the rare keepers of knowledge that dabbled in the Words of Power from a distance, such as the Cassaline Order of Gnomon. Hubert knew of such things, believed such things were real.
Is this witchery another form of that? It certainly doesn’t seem so, but then, how much do you really know about true magic? He asked himself.
Very little, came the answer.
“I must say, Sister Guillou, I find all of this quite fascinating,” Hubert said. “It would be hard to believe, had I not already seen the truth of it. If you are not a befana, what is next for Claudio? How will you help him?”
“There is a woman in the city. A true befana. She could craft a cimaruta for Claudio, powerful enough to counteract this malocchio. I am sure of it. When Father Seville wakes, I will ask permission to venture out into the city to find her.”
“He’ll give you permission to seek the help of a witch?” Hubert did not hide the skepticism in his tone.
“Not exactly,” Guillou said. “But I will not phrase my question in such a way.”
Hubert scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Why wait?” He asked.
“If Seville wakes and I am gone, he—”
“No, not that. Why wait to send for her? You wish to ask this befana for help. Alright. I can find her for you, if you point me in the right direction.”
Guillou gave him an odd look. “You?”
He shrugged. “Why not me?”
“This is not your trouble. He is in our care, Brother Hubert. We shall find him the help he needs.”
Hubert ground his teeth a little as his jaw clenched. “Perhaps it is my trouble,” he said. “A little.”
“How’s that?”
“The woman that hexed him,” Hubert said. “Candraca. I’m not convinced Seville was right to want her burned, but… perhaps I acted hastily. She did curse this man, over a petty slight. She as much as admitted it to me. I meddled. I may have made the situation worse, and at the least I have no confidence I made anything better. But this would. Helping that man—that would assuage my feelings of guilt, if nothing else.”
He spoke the admission reluctantly, but the truth was he was not reluctant. He was eager. He did feel a little bad for his meddling, but much more important than that was this: He was curious. He had never seen a witch work magic, at least not that he was aware. A new experience, a truly unique experience, that felt increasingly rare with each passing year.
Guillou studied him for a long moment. If she sensed his ulterior motive, she did not voice it. Instead, she finally nodded. “Well then. Yes, that will do nicely. The befana you seek is called Nonna Mettucci. She dwells in the poorest area of the docks, along the riverside on the north end. Everyone around there knows her, and they love her. If you ask about you should find her easily enough, unless you give the people cause to mistrust you. Tell her Nun Guillou sent you, and tell her what has happened. That you need a cimaruta.”
“That’s all?” Hubert asked. “No secret code? No personal message? Shall I pay her?”
“No code, no. Just tell her I sent you. And she never accepts payment for anything. She gives freely—such is the way of the befana. A harder life than that of the strega in many ways. And yet… not. Nonna Mettucci is a godly woman, though she does not attend church. She is kind and generous and her heart is filled with love. That makes poverty easy to endure.”
I’m not sure it makes it easy, Hubert thought. But I can see that it would make it more tolerable, anyway.
“Wonderful,” he said. “I’ll leave at once. ”
After all, he had no interest in being there when Seville woke up.