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But as soon as night fell…
Only the glowing medallion kept him in check.
The doctors who examined Lomar could find nothing wrong. The last one—an elderly gent who’d long retired—was the only one with the balls to tell Kormac, “This isn’t an illness of the body but the spirit.”
“How do we fix it?”
“I don’t know, but the witches of the marsh might.”
“Witches are but charlatans,” he stated by rote.
“Some are, yes, but the marsh witches aren’t. They can do things no one else can. And before you scoff, I travelled much as a young man. Saw things that if repeated would have many calling me a liar.”
“Like what?”
“I was in a village when a man arrived, heavily injured, his wounds infected, his fever burning and blistering his skin. He should have died. I could do nothing to help him. But then a woman came. She lay her hands on the man, and she glowed. Glowed bright and, to my wonder, she healed him.”
“Or the fever broke.”
“It was more than just the fever that went away. Most of his wounds closed up. Not completely, but enough he didn’t need bandages. The infection, the red puffy skin, the pus, gone.” The old man clapped his hands. “Within days, he was back on his feet.”
“We don’t know a witch can heal what ails Lomar.”
“Then I guess you will either have to kill him or keep him a prisoner for the rest of his life because there is no medicine that will cure him.”
With that statement, the doctor left and Kormac pondered.
Could a witch help? The people, himself included, didn’t hold them in high esteem. Until recently, they used to execute them. Airiok the destroyer had been the one to start the purge of those claiming to use magic, but Kormac’s father had put a stop to that during his reign.
Did he dare invite one to the citadel? Lomar needed help and of a kind Kormac had never imagined contemplating.
Was his friend worth swallowing his skepticism and pride?
Kormac sat down to pen a request.
CHAPTER SIX
The bird alighted on the perch in the aerie where Fionna had chosen to hide lest she be roped into trying to teach novices how to not set themselves on fire. Personally, she thought letting them singe their flesh the best lesson, but Amelia disagreed. And with Amelia being the witch queen, a.k.a. the one making the rules, she had to obey.
As the bird stamped its clawed feet on the perch, Fionna cocked her head and studied it, for it wasn’t one she’d seen before. Sturdier than the pigeons they usually saw, its gray and black plumage thick as if it came from a colder clime. Its leg showed a capsule attached and within, a message, the scrawl of writing bold and masculine, the content even more so. The audacity of it arched her brow.
Tucking it into her bodice, she took it immediately to Amelia as she would be the one to reply. Probably with laughter.
Fionna’s long skirt billowed with each step, an annoying thing. She much preferred the wide-legged trousers she wore when travelling. So much more comfortable. However, within the keep, certain appearances had to be kept. “For whom?”a young Fionna had asked Amelia as she clothed her in uncomfortable garb. “Everyone,”her mentor replied.“Being awitch is more than doing magic. A reputation can sometimes accomplish just as much as a spell when it comes to people.”
Fionna hadn’t grasped the lesson at the time but as she ventured into the world, she saw the difference in treatment that came with garments. The richer the fabric and cut, the more respect usually given.
The trek from the aerie to inside the main keep took her across the courtyard, then through a series of halls to the office where Amelia usually retired in the afternoon to catch up on administrative tasks. There’d been much more of it lately. Ever since the swamp that had plagued Acca for centuries drained, issues kept cropping up that required the witch queen’s involvement, much to her annoyance.
Outside of Amelia’s office stood a pair of witches dressed in black leathers, the attire of choice for the combat trained.
Wearing leather that appeared painted on her body, Jezebel, her long blonde hair braided tight, eyed Fionna. “Afternoon, Witch Adjutant.” The fancy title given to Fionna that essentially stood for “personal assistant to the queen.”
“And a lovely one, it is. I assume Amelia is inside?” Fionna replied.
“Yes. But she asked to not be disturbed.”
Fionna held up the message capsule. “She’ll want to see this.”
