“Sir Cameron transformed himself into a woman.” The burly man’s posture was pleading, dog-like on all fours. “And—and—it was him that came on to me, not the other way around! He deceived me.”
The witch rubbed her chin. “If that was her true self, then no deception took place. I perform that procedure often, for those who seek it. This is your sword?”
The knight nodded, still not daring to rise. “He took it from me, him and the sorcerer.”
“Shetook it,” the witch said sternly—then, ignoring the knight’s rushed apologies, swept to her feet and exited the small outpost, stepping carefully over the ruined door. Glenda hurried after her.
“You failed to mention that Cameron is a woman now,” Domitia said as they walked, annoyance clear in her voice. The carriage lowered itself like a loyal pet. Glenda imagined that if it had a tail, it would be wagging.
“He was a man again the last time I saw him.” Glenda climbed in after the witch. “It wasn’t his ‘true self,’ just some Cameron stupidity. He was a vulture, the time before that.”
They settled into the cushions, and the witch resumed her snacking on the biscuits. Glenda eyed them with hunger, remembering that the witch had offered some earlier, but gritted her teeth in determination. Better to maintain her figure.
“You help people to lie, then?” She might as well enrich herself with some gossip. Glenda treated the witch to a smile, but froze at a snapping sound; the biscuit in the witch’s hand, destroyed by a tensed fist.
“There is no lie.” Domitia spoke with a hostility that made Glenda recoil. The witch visibly worked to calm herself, before speaking again. “You’re quite invested in religious norms.”
“As we all should be!”
“Even when they cause people to deny themselves?”
“Deny what, objective reality?” Glenda giggled nervously. Seeking to recover the situation, she said, “Listen, we need to find an object of significance to Cameron. Why not try hisfamily home? There should be records with the Church as to where Vaillancourt manor is located.”
The witch nodded absently, and Glenda felt the carriage pick up speed. When the woman spoke again, it was in a gentler voice. “Is it Passionweed that you take?”
Glenda flushed violet, and fixed her attention on the scenery passing by the carriage windows. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”
“I help people, Glenda.” As much as she wanted to tune Domitia out, Glenda found herself pricking her ears to the woman’s musical voice. “It’s a hard journey to reach my cottage, with the mud and the stinging insects, and I make it worse by wandering. There is no set place my home may be found. Those who do succeed are typically desperate. Their friends and family have failed them, and so they pin everything on rumours of my mercy.”
Glenda nodded, happy to have the witch on a different tangent. The carriage passed a pair of gawking farmers on unicorn-back, and she felt brief pleasure at being inside the transport that inspired their awe.
“I’ve tended folk like you,” the witch continued. “Sometimes, it’s a terrible event that renders them numb. Sometimes, it comes from nowhere, ebbing and flowing. Whatever the cause, if they want their emotions restored or enhanced, I help them. If they simply need to make peace with who they are, I help them. But I never prescribe Passionweed.”
Glenda waited in annoyance for the woman to get to her point. Feeling like a child forced into a lesson, she said, “So tell me, great witch. Why would that be?”
“It leads you to seek peaks, surges of feeling. What Irecommend is the redhood flower. You can forage it yourself in the right locations, and it restores emotive abilities without the ecstasy. It’s less flashy, certainly; the highs are lower, the lows are higher. But you won’t lead yourself to destruction under its influence. It’s also cheaper,” the witch added. “Not that I imagine money’s a problem for you.”
Glenda contemplated jumping from the moving carriage. “Thanks, but I’m perfectly fine.”
“You feel a great deal of antipathy toward this knight, Sir Cameron,” Domitia persisted, her voice careful. “Passionweed may be exacerbating this. It could give you some relief, to let go of old hatred.”
“I should hate him.” Glenda folded her arms, in what she knew to be a juvenile manner. She blinked rapidly, fighting the prickle of tears. “There is not a speck of honour in that man’s body, and not a sin under the sun he wouldn’t commit for his own self-preservation. If my hatred needs an end, it can have one with his second death.”
“No one is beyond redemption,” the witch said, looking at her with an emphasis that Glenda failed to grasp. Unable to formulate a response, the elf leaned stormily against the opposite side of the carriage and, sighing, Domitia ceased to press.
CHAPTER 38
In Which I Am Watching My Bony Sorcerer and Contemplating Treason. In Which I Have Already Betrayed My Family, and the Order I Swore an Oath to, and Humanity, and God for That Matter, but In Which This Particular Treason Is Causing a Lump in My Throat that I Cannot Quite Swallow Around.
Merulo sat in deep concentration, whittling away.
With the help of a wickedly sharp knife, he’d succeeded in paring a block of driftwood into a slim wand. The carved channel spiraling from the tip made it resemble a unicorn’s horn, though this illusion was broken by the small compartment cut into the base, where a sigil-heavy vial might be deposited.
As he worked, a transparent tube snaked from his right arm to a steadily filling jar on the table. Dark blood flowed through it, extracted through ancient methods. The colour disturbed me, as did the faint hissing as it spurted from his vein, but the sorcerer paid no heed.
He did, however, notice my gawking. Merulo halted his carving, laying down the wand, and plucked up an empty vialto brandish at me in happy demonstration. “The sigils have no enchantment in them yet, Hydna will take care of that, but this”—he danced the glass between a thumb and forefinger—“will take my own blood for fuel. Like a battery—oh, have I explained batteries?”
“Your sister has, with . . . inescapable enthusiasm.” I had genuinely feared for my own well-being, having been forced to correctly recite her teachings on cathodes and anodes before she would allow me to leave. This took place during a tour of her electronics room, and though I wasn’t immune to the glow and hum of ancient technologies, I’d taken great pains not to return.
