Of Wolves and Wardens by Sylvia Mercedes
The witch requires me to serve at her table again tonight.
I stand at the wall, clad in the glamoured server’s uniform, my beard trimmed, my hair slicked back and tied at the base of my skull. I’m as still and silent as any other decorative feature in the elaborately magicked dining hall.
This time, Elorata has me dressed and ready before the guests arrive, and I’m left on my own for some time. This I do not like. It would be better if my duties began at once, if I could fill my mind with the monotonous bustle of ladling soups and handing around plates of cut meats.
It would be better than standing here, seeing that image in my head over and over again . . . that image of Brielle, her bow upraised, her eyes bright, her arrow newly loosed.
She’d saved my life. When she could have simply fled for cover and left me to my fate.
I close my eyes, trying to drive out those recent memories. But it’s worse now. In the darkness of my mind, I see again the look on her face when she held that apple in her hand. When I begged her to destroy it, to not fulfill her mission. It had seemed for a moment as though she really did want to resist. And I had dared hope my suspicions were true—that her lineage really did give her a leverage against her grandmother’s magic. I could almost smell the movement of blood in her veins, working, churning, pushing against the equally potent flow of enchantment.
In the end, she’d given in to the spell. Succumbed. Just like I did. Just like we all do.
Elorata is too powerful. And now that she has the tarathieli, the cycle will continue.
I am startled from these dark thoughts by a sudden hum of voices just outside the dining room door. Someone exclaims in a pitchy, nasal tone, “What a most intriguing collection! Did you send out for these specimens, Granny dear?”
“Why no, they were all hunted within the boundaries of my wardship,” Elorata’s voice trills back, silvery bright and full of cheerful hospitality. “You simply wouldn’t believe some of the things one finds in this particular ward.”
“Gracious gods!” someone else exclaims, a man’s voice, a bit raspy on the edges. “How vicious they look! I don’t know what the little people of my county would do if they knew things like these lurked so near to their borders. They’d go quite mad with fright.”
“Well, my darling, the trick is to never let the country people know just how close they stand to peril,” Elorata responds smoothly. “I’ve never permitted any of the fiends to breach the boundaries of the Wood, of that you may be certain. But they will try, won’t they!”
She ends with a pretty laugh, opening the door to the dining room. I see her standing there. For once, she does not wear her brilliant colors, but is clad instead in somber black, which serves only to emphasize the vibrancy of her hair and the pure porcelain of her complexion. She doesn’t look quite as young as usual but has donned the face of a dignified dame of fifty-odd years rather than the youthful countenance she prefers to wear.
Still outrageously beautiful, of course. So beautiful, it makes me sick.
Compared to her company, she is positively otherworldly. Eight figures shuffle into the room behind her: five women, three men. Most of them seem to have made at least some effort to pull themselves together. One of the women wears a richly embroidered shawl around her bowed shoulders, and it keeps slipping and dragging on the floor behind her. One of the men—a goggle-eyed fellow with a throat like an old turkey—has pinned a bit of discolored lace to his black lapels after a long-outdated fashion.
Only one of the party looks downright disreputable. She’s a squat, fat little waddling thing in the traditional peaked witch’s hat with a wide, floppy brim. Her gown is made up of so many patches that the original pattern and style has long since disappeared. She stumps along on bare feet, her gnarled staff clunking in front of her.
The other seven carry their staves as well but take care not to make such a clatter as they go. Elorata also carries a staff this evening, though it is not in her habit to do so. It’s an elegant black cane topped with a carved crystal in the shape of a wolf head. I look away from it quickly.
Seven of the eight guests catch their breaths at the sight of the dining room. They are, I’m sure, well aware of the glamours being used. They must be, for they are all witches and warlocks, keepers of the eight nearest wardships along the boundaries of Whispering Wood. Workers of magic, maintainers of barriers, they stand between ordinary folk of the counties and all the terrors of Faerieland.
I was brought up revering my own local ward witch. She was a mysterious figure, only ever glimpsed at a distance or whispered of in rumor. But I knew whenever her name was mentioned to make certain signs of respect and veneration. We all feared her. Even as we depended on her. Our champion, our protector.
My mouth forms a grim snarl behind my beard. I hastily pull it into a straight line.
One of the witches—the disreputable creature in the patchwork gown—grunts disapprovingly as she surveys the dining room. She totters right up to the wall by which I’m standing and prods it with the end of her stick. For a moment, a flashing red sigil appears, implanted behind the wallpaper.
“Hmmph. Fancy,” the old witch says. Her tone is not complimentary.
“Dear Mother Ulla.” Elorata stands by the table and ushers the fat witch toward a chair. “Do please have a seat. I know my little charms and runes are not to your liking. You were always one of the natural aesthetic, were you not?”
“Don’t mind a bit of glamour here and there,” Mother Ulla said, casting a narrow look my way and ignoring Elorata’s beckoning. “It’s the excess that gets to me. Why waste good magic on wallpaper and chandy-leers?”
Her gaze roves up and down, from the top of my head to my boots and back to my face. I meet her eye for half a second before turning away and facing forward into an empty middle-distance.
“Well, to each witch her own, don’t you agree?” says a bird-like little woman in a faded, flower-embroidered smock. She sits daintily in a chair that completely dwarfs her tiny frame. “Oh, Granny Dorrel, it’s all so lovely. I don’t know how you manage it! You truly have a gifting. Blessed by the gods themselves!”
Elorata accepts this praise with a nod, then flicks another swift glance Mother Ulla’s way. She pointedly clears her throat.
The fat witch, not to be hurried, twists her lips to one side thoughtfully before finally turning from me and waddling to her appointed seat. She’s placed at the center of the table, a place of some honor. By this, I gather that, disreputable-looking or otherwise, Mother Ulla is one of the higher-ranking witches present.
Not so high ranking as Elorata, however. She takes her seat grandly at the head of the table and claps her hands smartly. I don’t need a spoken word from her to feel the compulsion come over me. I lurch into motion, pushing my little soup trolly around the table. As I do the rounds, ladling soup into bowls, seven of the eight witches exclaim over the convincing glamour, the subtle spices, the creamy texture . . . all as delighted as though the glamour were more than a mere fabrication. They know better, don’t they? They must! Yet they don’t seem to care.
Old Mother Ulla, however, sniffs at a spoonful of soup, making quite a loud to-do over it. Then, her lip curling slightly, she takes a single, loud slurp. Following that, she pointedly puts down her spoon and sits back in her chair, folding her hands across her stomach.
The other witches eye her uncomfortably, their gazes shifting from her to Elorata and back again. Elorata only smiles graciously and turns to the warlock seated on her right, asking him about his journey to her humble abode. He, a pudding-faced fellow of no more than thirty-odd years, probably still new to his wardship, swallows hard and stammers an almost unintelligible answer. While he must know Elorata is wearing beauty glamours, that doesn’t seem to alter his total intimidation in her presence. I sniff the air softly as I pass behind him, my wolf senses detecting the stink of pure attraction warring with terror in the poor fellow’s veins.
The meal progresses from soup, to bread, to little cups of fruit, and on to the main course. Throughout, Elorata maintains a steady stream of conversation, all without seeming to miss a single bite. The other witches take it in turns to engage with her, each one starling slightly when she addresses him or her by name.
When it’s Mother Ulla’s turn to be addressed, she alone exhibits no sign of fear.
“Mother Ulla,” Elorata says imperiously, turning her sky-blue eyes the old witch’s way.
“Yup,” Mother Ulla meets that gaze and blinks slowly, like a cat.
“I understand you had a little . . . intrigue in your wardship recently.”
The old witch shrugs. “Well, if t’aint one thing, it’s t’n’other.”
“I heard,” Elorata continues relentlessly, dabbing her red lips with a linen cloth, “that a few years back, a girl was stolen from your village and made to become a fae bride. That she returned after many years, having not aged a day, wearing next to nothing, but carrying with her a gold necklace full of magic.”
“Mmmph,” Ulla answers. She blinks again.
“I heard as well”—Elorata’s gaze sweeps round to the other witches, who are not quite certain which way to look—“that the same girl left your wardship again soon thereafter, disappearing into Whispering Wood, and taking her magic with her. Tell me, is it true?”
“Might be.” Mother Ulla squints Elorata’s way. “What of it?”
“Well, my dear!” Elorata tilts her head to one side, allowing one long red curl to fall across her cheek and over her shoulder. “It seems rather careless on your part, I must say! To allow a fae to slip in through your boundaries and steal a girl away?” She turns and looks the flower-smock witch in the eye, asking sweetly, “Have you ever lost a girl as a fae bride before?”
“Oh, I, um . . .” The flower-smock witch blinks her watery eyes, her pale lashes fluttering. “It’s not one of those things one—”
“And you?” Elorata turns to the pudding-faced man on her right. “Would you ever allow the Pledge to be thus broken within your own wardship?”
“Well, strictly speaking—” The man interrupts himself with a self-conscious cough. “Strictly speaking, it’s not a break of the Pledge if there are certain mitigating circumstances such as—”
“But we are not here to debate the subtleties of the Pledge, are we?” Elorata says, smoothly cutting him off. The warlock quickly swallows whatever he was going to say, placing two fingers firmly against his mouth as though to suppress any further offending words. Elorata turns from him, leans over the table—just a little, just enough to imply a barest hint of aggression—and fixes Mother Ulla with her stare.
“I wonder,” she says, “how safe the folk of Ellee County feel, knowing that one of their own may be so easily spirited off to Faerieland. And right out from under their ward witch’s nose.” She tsks softly, shaking her head. The diamond combs holding up her elaborate curls glint in the chandelier light. “It’s a wonder the wardens haven’t gathered to coven years ago to discuss this grave situation.”
The witches and warlocks stare, their jaws sagging, breath caught in their throats. But Mother Ulla’s lips quirk in a half-smile.
“Nice try, Granny,” she says, slightly emphasizing the senior witch’s title. “Elegantly done, even. But you ain’t foolin’ no one. No one what gots any brains, that is.”
Elorata draws back, placing a hand against her heart. “What are you trying to say, dear Ulla?”
It’s the fat ward witch’s turn to lean in. She smiles, showing mostly empty gums and three stout white stumps of teeth. “Now, now, don’t go playin’ with me. You knows exactly why we’ve gathered here tonight. No amount of deflectin’ is goin’ to do you any good.”
Elorata looks round at the gathered witches, none of whom quite find it in their power to meet her gaze directly. “Whatever can she mean?” she asks, all sweetness, all innocence.
She makes my skin crawl.
The witch with the colorful shawl coughs and sits up a little straighter than before. “Granny Dorrel,” she begins, trying to make her voice prim and imperious but failing by sheer comparison to Elorata’s poise. She knows it too, which only adds to her nerves. It’s like watching an avalanche of insecurity slowly crush the poor creature into her chair. But she bravely forges on. “It has come to the attention of your local coven, that is, us, that you have not turned out a . . . a trained apprentice. In four decades.”
“Really?” Granny tilts her head to one side. “Are my training practices so closely monitored?”
“Well, Granny,” the flower-smock witch manages, “you are the senior-ranking witch of ten wardships. Everyone looks to you for . . . for . . . for . . .” She casts about desperately for help.
Mother Ulla steps in. “We’s all watching you. All the time.”
The flower-smock witch whimpers and wilts. This was decidedly not the help she was hoping for.
“Indeed?” Elorata’s lips thin in a mirthless smile. “How flattering.”
“Not so much.” Mother Ulla leans back in her seat, balancing on the back two legs. “We knows for a fact that you’ve taken in no fewer than eight apprentices in the last four decades. Yet there ain’t been no witch produced from Virra County in all that time. Ivis County took on Brother Darcassan, who was trained under Mother Zylphie. Jearis County took Mistress Fenna five years back. And Mistress Enharice”—she nods to the flower-smock witch—“were one of my own, and she took Alna County just south of here.”
“Yes?” Granny looks at the flower-smock witch and pudding-faced Brother Darcassan and smiles. “And I’m sure they are grateful for the opportunities afforded them.”
“Grateful, my eye!” Mother Ulla snorts. “You know as well as I do, we’s stretched thin. Enharice here were meant to take on part of Ellee County for a good five years, and I had to rush her off to take the vacancy at Alna instead. Now I gots to find me a new apprentice with stirrings in the blood, which we all know is easier said than done.”
“I think what Mother Ulla is trying to say,” the lace-pinned warlock butted in, using a painfully soothing tone, “is that all the wardships feel the lack of your expertise and training.”
“That ain’t what I’m trying to say at all,” Mother Ulla snaps. “I’m saying, what in the seven gods’ names happened to all those apprentices of your’n? Eh, Elorata?”
Elorata stiffens at the obvious neglect of her title. She draws herself a little straighter in her chair, her nostrils flaring as she takes a slow breath. “Have a care, Ulla,” she says, her voice gone icy.
“We’s all been having a lot of cares. A lot of cares we shouldn’t oughts to have been carin’ for. So where are they? It’s a simple question. You’ve taken eight apprentices and turned out not a single witch or warlock in all that time. Where did they go?”
Elorata’s eyes narrow. One of her fingers is moving slightly against the arm of her chair, and I can just smell the stink of magic. Is she drawing a rune? Right there, seated at her own table? Does she plan to blast Mother Ulla with a curse in front of all those watching eyes? And if she does, is there a gods-blighted thing any of them could do about it? Combined, their powers must be tremendous. But not one of them could stand alone against the accumulation of magic simmering within Elorata Dorrel.
All that magic . . . all that stolen magic . . .
“Can you believe it?” a sweet, gentle voice speaks in my memory. “I never thought I had a chance! I mean, I know I’ve got a little something, but I never thought it was enough to attract any real interest my way. But now I’ll get to really learn! To use this gift as it was meant to be used!”
I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the wall. I’m practically unseen here in the dining room, where all the attention of the guests is fixed on either Elorata or Mother Ulla. No one has even noticed yet the fur beginning to creep up from beneath my collar or across the tops of my hands. Maybe they can’t notice. Elorata added extra layers of glamour when she made me ready to serve this evening. Maybe she’s made certain no one in that room will see what I’m slowly becoming.
She has not yet given an answer to Mother Ulla’s question. The silence has held the table captive just a little too long. At last, however, she lets out a charming, tinkling sort of laugh.
“Oh, well! If you must know, I have been more than a little particular in my standards these last few years—”
“Decades,” Ulla interjects.
“Years,” Elorata laughs again, but there’s an edge to it. “Finding an apprentice who can live up to the high ideals of our noble calling is no easy feat. I’m delighted that so many of you have been more fortunate in the selection of magical talent sent your way. Unfortunately, Virra County has never been one for producing great magical effect. Not since I took over the wardship, that is. Perhaps if I were laxer in my duties, a touch more of the influence would seep through from the Wood, but there you have it! I’ve always made the protection of my wardship my first priority.”
“Ah!” Mother Ulla leans back in her chair again, her great bulk tilting dangerously on those two back legs. “So that’s how you’s playin’ it, eh? The rest of us, we ain’t so good at our jobs. That’s why we manage to find such magically inclined help to train up.”
“Well, Ulla dear,” Elorata says, her voice rich and plummy, “I would never state it so baldly . . .”
The pudding-faced fellow sitting next to her clears his throat for probably the fifth time, finally managing to draw some attention his way. “I think we should all be most satisfied, Granny, if you were to assure us that the next apprentice you take on will indeed be . . . be . . . suitable. Should a proper vacancy need filling.”
“And how can I promise so much when I control so few of the variables?” Elorata asks, turning his way. “You have my ongoing assurance that I will do everything in my power to make something of my next apprentice. Indeed, I expect to take on a new one before the year is out.”
My heart plunges sickeningly at those words. But then, I’d known it must happen. Ever since Dreg’s term of service came to an end, I’d known it was only a matter of time . . .
“Does that satisfy all of you?” Elorata looks round the table, smiling with that queenly grace that so easily cows her subordinates. Every gaze she meets flashes then darts away. Every head bows. A few grunts and several uncomfortable nods answer her question.
But Mother Ulla rolls her eyes hugely. “You lot of wet lambkins!” she growls and pounds the table with one tiny fist. “Sure’n it don’t satisfy none of us. There’s rumors of Black Magic goin’ about. Don’t play stupid with me, Granny! You know it as well as I do, for all you never leave this little glamour-world of yours. Now I don’t deny you’ve done a fair job keeping the Wood at bay and protecting your wardship. But Black Magic don’t fly with this coven.”
“I don’t like your tone, Ulla,” Elorata says coldly. “If you have evidence of Black Magic, lay it before me. If not, I would appreciate it if you kept your slander to yourself.”
“You know we ain’t gots no evidence,” Mother Ulla growls. “If we had, we wouldn’t be sitting down to dine on your glamour-feast like so many children nibbling at the gingerbread walls. We ain’t here to present evidence. We’s here to let you know—we be watching. This new apprentice of yours, she better be a good ’un. And if not, we’ll know why.”
Elorata’s eyes flash dangerously behind dark lashes. “Very well, Ulla,” she says. “You’ve spoken your piece. Now let me speak mine: if I discover any sign—even the barest hint of a sign—that any one of you has been spying on me within my own wardship, I shall immediately demand satisfaction by Witch Trial.”
That seems to take the breath out of every member of the party. They drop their faces like so many scolded children. Only Mother Ulla keeps her head up, her whiskery chin quivering with rage, her eyes sparking like flints from behind deep folds of wrinkles and fat. But for the first time that evening, I catch the faintest scent of fear from her. For all her courage, for all her plain speaking, the old ward witch doesn’t relish the idea of facing Granny Dorrel in single combat.
Elorata looks round at the company, her wrathful expression melting back into a hostess’s calm. “Well now, if that’s settled, who’s ready for coffee and cake?”