“You’re no woman, you’re a witch,” corrected Sieur Aron, nodding to the Banewight. “Go on, Logan. Go home.”
As if permission were all he’d awaited, Logan’s body freed itself from its stasis. He took his foot from the marble and stepped away, turning his back on Laetitia.
“Master Logan Chastain!” she cried, fear swelling in her voice. “Please!”
Perhaps it was only the desire to not appear cowardly that stilled him once more. He snapped his head toward her. “I will not ease your suffering, witch. Goddess reclaim you from the god you serve. May your spirit be cleansed of its abomination.”
Laetitia fell quiet at last. The priestesses nodded to one another and began a prayer for the same liberation, and Sieur Aron retrieved a torch. All the while, the Banewight stood in front of her with crossed arms and a stern glower.
Logan started to leave when the fire took, but panicked screams stopped him once more. The few villagers in the square backed up as far as they could manage, too intrigued to leave and too terrified to come closer.
He wanted to run, to get away from the awful sound, but there was no way to escape its range—he’d hear it all the way to his log house at the edge of the woods.
“Master Logan Chastain!” Laetitia managed to squeal, the smell of her impending death filling the square. The fire consumed her legs first, quickly spreading up the whole of her dress. A wild look possessed her, and for a moment it seemed as if the flames came from inside of her, a manifestation of her wrath. Logan flinched, incapable of moving. “You will have a daughter, sir, and as my pleas fell on deaf ears, let her voice be her curse! As the whole rotten lot of you are heartless, let any man who hears the sound of your daughter’s voice be moved to a covetous, irrevocable love, and may she never know what it is to scream before an audience that yearns for her death!”
The last of her words were shrill, escalating until all she could release were unholy wails of torment. Logan’s heartbeat countered the sounds of anguish, throbbing in his ears until at last she fell silent. Her blackened form hung its head, meat dripping from her bones.
“Banewight…” Logan uttered when he was sure she was dead. “What am I to make of that?”
Taran scratched his nose. “Nothing, sir. She had no implements to channel her intentions… It seems she merely wished to waste her final breath attempting to frighten you. A petty revenge.”
“M-my wife…”
He couldn’t finish his sentence. Sieur Aron did it for him. “His wife is with child.”
“The child will be safe. No witch can curse without a circle. They were only words.”
Logan still wasn’t sure. He wasn’t a specialist in the subject, and Taran was, yet his doubts lingered. If it was true, he’d find out the hard way. The only way forward from there would be to salvage his honor and take his life.
Taran took a firm grip of his shoulder. “My business is concluded here. I will ride to Witchfall Keep and speak with the grand inquisitor. If he informs me that it’s even slightly possible for Laetitia’s curse to have taken hold, I’ll send a falcon.”
“And if she is cursed…my child…” Logan continued.
The Banewight’s lips thinned into a line. “Then either smother the girl before she cries, or rupture your ears.”
Stunned into silence, Logan watched the Banewight take his leave.
Sieur Aron cleared his throat. “Banewights. They’re a tactless lot. Are you well, Logan?”
Logan nodded, though he wasn’t.
“Perhaps you’d best head on home. Go be with Petra until your spirits have recovered.”
“Yes,” agreed Logan, unsure how a man was supposed to recover from any of this.
He broke away, heading downhill from the town square and straight to his home. A different scent filled the air here—a pleasant aroma of roasted herbs and vegetables. He heard the door open and shut at the back of the house as Petra Chastain made her way out and began pinning their clothes to a line. She sang to herself with blissful disregard; the windows were shut, and the walls were made from thick timber. Bless her, she hadn’t heard a thing.
Logan dropped behind the fence and listened to her song, his arms curling around his knees. He sat for some time before he was noticed, to his wife’s great alarm. She looked down from over the fence, raising a brow in curiosity. “Logan, darling?”
He shut his eyes. “Please keep singing.”
“Is something the matter?”
Logan thought of the curse, of what it could mean for the baby. What it would mean for him. His face pinched. “I just want to hear your voice.”
Petra raised an inquisitive brow, then came around the fence and sat beside him before she sang again. Her folk song was hopeful and lovely, the words an ancient language still spoken in pockets of Gallae. Logan listened and rested his head on his wife’s shoulder, hoping to memorize her sound so that he had something to remember if the worst came to pass.
Chapter 1
