Content advisory: Ablism, misogyny, brutality, brief references to torture, injustice. Also, this story is anvilicious in how it addresses the matter of unquestioning, rigid adherence to tradition. Traditionalists who see themselves in the villagers may walk away from this story offended.

This story was first published on Wattpad on October 15, 2024.

Length: approximately 5,600 words.

Wynd was glad that he had survived to see his twelfth birthday. At last, he would go before the elders and get himself apprenticed. The great mystery, of course, was to whom he would be bonded. After all, what kind of crafter would want a clumsy, half-sized weakling who broke everything he came into contact with, and could not even tell his right from his left?

Magic was his secret dream. The dream was, however, impossible. He had the ability to memorize an entire book of spells, but no wizard could possibly have the patience to teach him the spells and vocalized runes by rote.

Well, there was always farming...

He grimaced. His idea of hell consisted of a backbreaking job with no mental stimulation or opportunities to discover anything new.

Somewhere, out in the universe, a god with a twisted sense of humor had taken a thin, reedy boy from the great southern city and placed him in a northern village that was very far away from anywhere else, and not very close to nowhere, either. And somewhere in the far-off civilized south there was a tall, stocky youth with powerful forearms and cooked colly-flower for brains. An athletic and action-minded person, who was miserably apprenticed to a mage or a skald.

"Happy birthday, half-pint."

He turned around in the direction of the voice.

"I wish you wouldn't call me that," he said, complaining, and turned his back on his sister.

"All right, snub me just because you're an old man now. See if I care."

Her arms had been resting on the outside window ledge, but she pulled herself off the ground and sat on the wide stone frame.

Her lithe form was clearly visible inside the brass mirror, but he was not paying attention. He had his left arm bent in front of the mirror and was flexing to see if he was any more handsome than he had been a day ago.

"I think that's a muscle, Debora."

Debora hoisted herself off the window ledge and planted herself inside, tracking in mud that had appeared in the wake of a sudden and unseasonal thaw, and inspected the arm in question.

"Are you sure it's not just a vein?"

"Very funny. Of course, it's not a vein. If it were a vein, it would be blue."

She laughed.

"I'll have to restock your supply of healthful herbs, I can see that. So, how does it feel to be of age?"

"Underwhelming. My voice only started to crack yesterday."

"Poor baby," she said sarcastically. "Don't worry, you'll grow. Just keep eating."

He stared at her with a mixture of envy and worship. She was as unalike to him as was naturally possible. The gap between them was only four years, but it seemed an aeon. Physically, the difference was even more dramatic. While he was pale and sickly, almost ghostlike in appearance, Debora was wild and dark. Hair so brown that it was almost black cascaded over a pair of large, suntanned shoulders to swing insolently at her waist. Her hands were as strong as his were delicate. She was built like one who had been born to fieldwork.

Debora was no farmer, though. Although she often helped the field hands during the spring planting and summer and autumn harvests, her role in the village was that of healer. After their father had died, leaving them alone, she had assumed his position, setting bones and catching babies and, through some miracle that Wynd could not even begin to comprehend, had even gotten herself apprenticed to the healer in the next village to learn more of the mysteries found in plants.

And then she had actually escaped from the confines of the constellation of midrealm villages under the pretext of learning more, to wander around the countryside. She would not talk about her travels, but somewhere she had learned magical and strange things, about such esoterica as "bacteria" and "hygiene" and other bizarre concepts. Apparently this knowledge was what had saved the life of old Greer when he lost his hand in the last barley harvest.

Wanderer, laborer, midwife, physician - Debora managed to collect titles the way Wynd collected interesting rocks.

He brought himself back to the present with a rueful shake of his head.

"I'll need muscles if I'm to be apprenticed to a farmer."

"Don't be silly. You're going to be apprenticed to me."

His eyes widened with longing, but then he snorted.

"And just how do you think you're going to accomplish that?"

It was impossible.

"I'll pull my weight on the Council of Elders, convincing them how intelligent and eager and quick to grasp you are, and how retentive your memory is -"

"Oh. Really. And who would listen? You're the village healer, which is how you managed to get into the Council, but you're still only a woman."

She lowered her eyes and let her hand fall upon his shoulder.

"Don't I know it," she said with a smirk. Seeing his startled expression, she laughed with gloating pleasure. "Wynd, my elf, never underestimate the power of a beautiful woman. The men in this village might think they have the upper hand, but we'll see who's so superior in the end."

"Sure. I believe you."

Turning from the mirror, he began to step across the room to fetch his tunic, only to trip on a footstool.

Debora shook her head.

"It's a wonder you haven't managed to accidentally kill yourself."

"Oh, shut up," he muttered, knowing that Debora was smiling to herself, the same superior smirk that she'd had when as a child she had succeeded in confusing him by hiding all of his toys in various parts of their cottage - hiding them in plain sight, but in places where they were not supposed to be, where he never would have expected them to be.

His father had still been alive then, since that incident had occurred before the outbreak of the summer plague. He was an orphan now, cared for only by Debora. It occurred to him that had his mother not died within a few days of giving birth to him, and his father of the bloody flux, Debora would probably be an ordinary farmer's wife like any other woman. 

Any other woman of the village would have cursed the terrible necessity of giving up a good marriage to care for her younger brother and the village as well, the only healer being now dead; but it had never actually occurred to Wynd to pity Debora, the way the women of the village probably did. She had, at any rate, never pitied herself - or if she had at any time succumbed to self-pity, she never told anyone.

"Come on, now," she said, glancing up at the sky. "There's no time to grow muscles. You look fine enough, anyway."

He grumpily adjusted his cloak and followed her lead. Why was it, he wondered, that no matter where they were, it was always Debora who did the leading, Debora who made the decisions? It didn't matter, though. Perhaps he never got a chance to lead himself, but at least he could always be secure in the knowledge that whatever Debora wanted, Debora would manage to get.

It was thus a great surprise that at the end of the meeting, Wynd found himself apprenticed to Udell, the village wizard.

"I thought you said I would be your apprentice," he whined. It was all her fault. She had led him on, as usual. He should have stood up for himself.

"Shut up. At least you're not a farmer's hand."

Her highly domed brow was creased with thought.

"But Udell? I don't like him. He scares me."

"So? So do I. It can't be that bad, Wynd. Just put up with it. Actually, I think this is a good opportunity for you. You have the right mind for the work. He must have seen it."

"But I can't read!"

There. The forbidden secret had been spoken aloud, and he was sure that there were spirits in the air that could hear him and whisper his words into every villager's ear. Not all the members of the village could read - what need had a farmer of books and writing? - but the skilled crafters all could, and certainly a magical apprentice was expected to read books. Weak children were usually taught to read and write, and do sums, so that they could make themselves useful somehow when they came of age. But not he. He was unable. Too scrawny to work in the fields, too stupid to cast spells or interpret the ancient laws and lore, he was useless, useless...

"I'll never be able to get the spells!"

"I'll help you. I've picked up a few basic skills, myself. Just tell me what you're doing, and I'll help you memorize it."

He stared at her, horror growing inside him.

"How - where -"

Women were not allowed to study magic, lore, or law; their minds were not to be trusted. They were weak, it was said, and simple, and lascivious. Teach a woman magic, and she will ensnare the village for her pleasure.

"If you breathe a word of this to anyone - even mention it again - so help me, you'll regret it the rest of your life." She grabbed him by the scruff of his tunic, forcing him to stand on the tips of his toes, and glared at him.

Too shocked to look away, he saw that her eyes were filled with even more terror than his own were. He began to shake. This was not allowed. His sister could not be frightened, not ever.

"If they find out you're a witch -"

"I said shut up. Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

"Do we have a deal?"

He nodded dizzily.

"Yes."

"All right, then. Good." She let him down, then put an arm around his shoulder. It was one of the few outward displays of affection she had ever shown him. "I don't mean to hurt you," she said in an oddly shaky voice. "It's just that I know so much, I'm afraid it will hurt you too. It's been so hard."

Her eyes fell on something shining on the ground.

"What's that?" asked Wynd.

Debora picked it up and spat on it to remove the clay. "It looks like a cloak pin."

Her fingers traced over engraved figures until they found the irregularly shaped crystal that lay in the center. More spit showed that the crystal was an odd sapphire color.

"What do these markings mean?"

"I have no idea." She balanced it in her right hand - her hand of power - for a few seconds, then solemnly handed it to him. "Keep it. It's yours." She stroked her palm briefly, then shook it out and flexed it a few times, the way she might have if it had fallen asleep and she was trying to get rid of the pins-and-needles feeling. "Don't lose track of it. The thing's probably worth a king's ransom."

"I won't."

He began to put it in his pocket, but she stopped him.

"Your trouser pocket's too small. The pin will fall out if you move any faster than a snail's pace. Here, let me fasten it to your cloak."

He allowed her to touch his light summer cape, squirming a little as she brushed his sensitive skin with the pin's point.

"There. I won't prick you. So, how do you like your new family heirloom?"

He smiled slowly, mysteriously. Here was a new secret for him to keep. The day had been full of many terrible secrets, and he would learn more in time.

"I like it right fine," he said.

Wynd need not have worried about embarrassing himself in front of Udell. Udell never asked him to read anything out of his spellbook. Udell never asked him to do anything more magical than fetching and carrying and doing other menial household chores.

"You don't need me, you need a wife," Wynd complained one day when he was feeling particularly brave.

Udell nearly knocked him to the floor. The blow to his jaw left his head reeling.

"Be grateful I was willing to take you, runt," he said with a growl. "No farmer would look at you, and no half-sane crafter would want what you have to offer in brains."

As Udell left the room, Wynd remained where he was, staring at the deserted space of air as if it might attack him again.

A year passed, and then a miracle occurred. Udell became ill.

"Get your wild she-cat of a sister over here," he moaned from his bed. "I think I'm dying."

Just then, a spasm racked Udell's face, and he staggered to the privy as if mortally wounded.

When Debora was able to spare time to visit the ailing wizard, she hid a smile as she examined him with the utmost detached concern. "You have contracted a disease," she pronounced solemnly. "It is not fatal, but it will keep you bent over for about a month. I will need to treat it every day to make sure your condition does not worsen. You must drink water, and a great deal of it, to replenish what you have lost. I suggest that in the future you boil your water before you drink it."

Udell moaned.

"Just be glad your constitution is as strong as it is," Debora said, as she forced a vile-smelling brew down his throat. "Here. This will make you a little faint, and your limbs flop, but that is its way of working."

After a half-hearted grumble, Udell fell into a heavy slumber. Soon the sound of his snores filled the room.

"What on earth did you give him?" Wynd asked, with an incredulous gasp.

"Oh, just a little something to make him sleep and stop his runs, nothing dangerous. Thank the gods it's quick. I thought he would never shut up, the insufferable prat."

"Debora -"

"At least I have an opportunity now to start training you. We'll have to teach you to read, I'm afraid, but that can wait a few days."

"You mean he's not deathly ill?"

Debora laughed.

"Wynd, your master has a two-day gut flusher that will be over before he knows it. I'm just keeping him too doped up to know it, that's all."

"That's dishonest," he protested.

"Would you rather be a slave for the rest of your life?"

He sighed.

"I suppose not."

"Then let me have my way. I know what I am doing. Now, every afternoon right after dinner, I will come over. This stuff will have him sleeping like a baby the whole afternoon, so we'll have plenty of time to ourselves."

"Isn't it dangerous?"

She grunted.

"Yes. It's dangerous. One of the substances in the tea I'll brew every day is very addictive, and his tolerance for it will increase steadily. After the first few weeks, he won't even be sleepy. Poppy resin was never meant to be used over a long period of time. I will have to keep increasing the dose, which could have unwanted side effects, and once I've reached a high enough dose, the increases will have to stop, or I might risk his life by giving him his medicine, and that won't look good for me. Oh, and at some point, I'll need to cut off his supply for his own good, and that's going to make him extremely unpleasant for you to live with. You might want to make yourself scarce when I do that... Is that what you wanted to know?"

"Yes." He grimaced. He didn't care for Udell, but he didn't want to be blamed, or his sister to be blamed, if something should go wrong. "What about my lessons?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Honestly, Wynd..." Her voice trailed off. "I've been having problems of my own. I heard through a friend in another village that the northerners are going to raid us. The crops are doing badly here, but even worse up north. I'm worried."

"That's just a rumor."

"Rumors sometimes come true. And I have even more to lose than you do... No. No, I don't. Do you still have your pin?"

He patted a fold of his cloak.

"It's good that you're keeping it hidden, now. Well. We've wasted half an hour. Let's get to work."

Time passed, and the afternoons ran on, swift and unceasing. Debora has been right about the early spells - they were so basic as to be practically common knowledge, such as spilling a bucket of water to bring on rain, so he had no problems memorizing them. Furthermore, he had an aptitude for the work.

In a few days, however, there was nothing left in the book of common spells for him to whip through. There was only the huge volume of assorted arcana that Udell kept on the podium in the corner of his workroom, and it sat in front of him tauntingly, daring him to try and fail. Memorization was no good here. The first spell he attempted from Udell's book was so complex that he bungled it almost from the start.

"It's no good," Debora stated flatly. "Udell will have to teach you to read, or I'll have to teach you, or you'll need to learn to read on your own. Actually, if you can read on your own, you won't need me for much. Do you think you can learn the runes by the time the moon is full?"

"No."

"Good. I knew you could do it. We'll start by studying the ancient myths. Turn to the third chapter of the book of lore, on the left side of the page - here. Left, Wynd. Now, we're going to sound the words out together."

And so the torture began. One week flowed uneventfully into the next. Life was as full of boredom and restlessness as it had ever been. When he was not struggling to pin down the runes Debora forced him to memorize (they tended to cavort all over the page, and often performed acrobatic feats as well, stretching into odd positions when his head was turned away) he was busy trying to keep out of Udell's path.

As time wore on, Debora put ever-larger amounts of the poppy resin into Udell's foul-smelling tea. He often did not fall completely asleep, but would drowse off only to be jolted awake by the slightest noise. He was also increasingly irritable from one day to the next. Debora said that this was a sign that he was growing dependent on the poppies - the thin thread of his temper showed when Udell's blood began to miss the sleeping draught. Wynd's body, once a pale and uniform milk-white, was now covered with deep purple bruises and livid red welts.

One warm night late in the spring, Wynd awakened with a start. Perhaps he'd been having a nightmare. He wasn't quite sure. Unease made him pace the length of the room.

As he glanced out the window at the moonlit fields, he thought he saw someone running past, and decided his eyes were playing tricks on him yet again. No. wait. This was no trick of vision. He distinctly saw someone just outside the cottage, furtively looking backward over his shoulder. His shoulder? Her shoulder? He couldn't be sure.

The figure turned back, perhaps to make certain that it was not being followed, and the pale colorless moonlight fell upon its face, exposing its features. He gasped. The figure was Debora. He almost called to her, but his instinct toward prudence held him back, and she escaped into the night.

He heard the cottage door creak shut. Udell had been up, then. Wynd leapt into his cot and feigned sleep. Real sleep did not return to him that night.

The next day, Udell approached him and motioned him aside.

"Master, what is it? I haven't done anything wrong, have I? I still have to milk the other cow -"

The old wizard took the spellbook down from its supposedly hidden resting place and handed it to Wynd.

"This is for you. I have decided that you are ready to begin your lessons."

He made no further comment or explanation.

Wynd stifled a facial movement. It would not be good to question the gods, for they took more often than they gave.

"Yes, master. Thank you, master," he said, and with a nod of the head, he scuttled past and returned to the barn.

It was a drought season. Usually the summer air was filled with the sound of crackling thunder, and the fields ran with oozing mud - but this time, no rain fell from the sky, and not a cloud relieved the eye from the vast expanse of coppery blue. The irrigation was not good enough to provide nourishment for the stunted plants that forced their way up through the dry, caked earth. Even Udell's sorcery was not strong enough to support the new life.

"I reckon we'll have to give a pig to the gods pretty soon," one of Udell's field hands muttered, whose name was Skepti.

"It'll be more than livestock they'll want," replied Jarl, the old man next to him.

"We haven't had the drought so long as that."

"Well, the last person's blood spilled was a sixthborn, anyway. Nobody would sacrifice their heir. That would be like cutting off your right hand. Your boy's safe, lad."

"Isn't that the point, though? To give up what is precious, to get something precious in return? And there haven't been many children born these past few years."

"Children are a last resort. It'll be dead wood that gets cut off. Maybe some old hag..." Jarl's tongue froze when he realized that his hair had gone white many years ago, and he was younger than his wife by a good ten years. "Or maybe a cripple. Or an ill-formed. I hear Ren's cow had a two-headed calf last night. Maybe they'll take that. The gods shall claim the odd, the saying goes."

"Maybe," Skepti replied, with an amount of false relief and hope equal to that of his partner in the fields. There had been a birthing in his household too, the other night, only it had been done by his wife, and the result had been a shriveled whitish-blue thing that gave one feeble cry and then died without so much as a struggle. "Actually, if it's dead wood they want, why don't they cut young Wynd's throat? That boy's peculiar. Not right. And he's a do-nothing, good-for-nothing."

Jarl snorted.

"Aye, sure enough, but what does Udell do? He can't save any crops, either. Why not offer him, instead? At least he's as large as a house. The little half-pint's too small to do any good, now, isn't he?"

"Udell runs half the village. That's why."

"Oh? No more? That's nothing. Who runs the other half?"

"The rest of the council - oh, never mind, he doesn't run half the village. He runs all of it."

The two men chuckled grimly.

"Quiet. He's coming."

As the village struggled, it let out a stream of curses - first at the gods who had waged war on it, then on itself.

Finally, in an unexpected stroke of good fortune for the village, a bitter old woman died.

Bria, who had been part of the community for as long as anyone could remember, loved no one and hated those she did not love. What she could not do for herself, no one else could do either, and frequently the people around her failed her because, in her eyes, it was part of a conspiracy against her.

Since she could not revive her own failed heart, neither could Debora; and when Debora put her hands on Bria's breast, the old hag accused her as she died.

The village buzzed like a nest of disturbed wasps.

Debora was odd. She thought too much. She traveled too much, and she laughed at the old ways. Furthermore, she had never learned that a woman's place was in the home, serving a husband, and even if she had decided to let someone competent, someone proper, some man be the village healer instead of her, no man would have wanted her for his wife. She was no more subservient or polite than an uppity housecat. No doubt she practiced witchcraft, too. After all, a woman who dressed like a man, spoke like a man and acted like a man could certainly try things only permitted to men, couldn't she? Everyone knew that a woman could never dabble in magic without turning to its evil side. That was why they were forbidden to ever read the runes. Trouble always brewed when a crazy woman thought that she could live without a strong man to take care of her. Perhaps this Debora had been the cause of all the misfortune that had befallen them - it would be just like her to destroy a whole community and abuse the good earth it borrowed just to test her powers.

Perhaps there was redemption for the village after all.

The elders - all but Debora, of course - consulted. Here was a way to please a village, to get rid of a misfit, while pleasing the gods. The earth had provided its sacrifice already.

Satisfied with the simplicity of their solution, they acted immediately and seized Debora while she was working in the fields.

Wynd heard a cry and glanced out the window of the cottage.

Udell, whose presence in the capturing party had not been required, looked up coldly.

"Get back to your lessons," he said.

"But -"

"Do not cross an elder, Wynd. There are others far wiser than you. That is why wise men, not arrogant and useless young boys, make the decisions in this village."

"Yes, master."

He had very little rest that night. Udell's house was across the commons, right next to the meetinghouse. The noises coming from that building made it impossible to sleep.

On the next morning, the elders held Debora's trial, and all the villagers eagerly came forth to watch it. Entertainment like this did not happen very often. Wynd, too, was there. He had wanted to stay home in protest, but he figured that Debora needed all the moral support she could get. Besides, he did not want to throw suspicion on himself.

Although he had been the last one to arrive in the meetinghouse, the elders had reserved a place for him on the front bench.

"I hope they get this over with," the man next to him said. "It's downright suffocating in here."

Wynd grunted and opened his mouth to say something sharp in reply, but one of the elders banged his staff three times on the hard wooden floor, and a deadly silence fell on the room.

"Debora, you are accused of witchcraft," the Village Speaker declared with an angry growl.

A pox on the young, he thought, this is always what happens, because they think they know everything - however, he quickly chastised himself. He had a son of his own, a son who never complained when things got hard, a son who was helpful and good-natured - a true blessing to him, his family, and the village. Poison plants such as this fiery she-devil only sprouted when their parents did not raise them right. And how could she have been raised right, who knew no mother and whose father had died when she was barely of age? He felt a flash of gratitude that his offspring had all turned out so well, guided by his hand.

Debora fought desperately, hopelessly.

"I suppose Udell is criminal also," she spat. "Put him on trial too, and torture him the way you tortured me. You are a council of hypocrites."

"Silence, woman!"

"I practice no black magic," she snapped. "You accuse me wrongly, for the sake of your own convenience. I am no sorceress -"

"That is for Udell to decide. Let him testify."

Wynd's blood ran cold.

Udell stood up and took his place, smiling with smug satisfaction. Wynd tried to not feel how Udell was leering at him. He stifled an impulse to tear out the old wizard's eyeballs.

"Speak your piece, Udell."

"There is little for me to say but this: The temptress cast a spell over me and seduced me so that I would grant her any request, even that I would teach her imbecile brother the basic spells."

"Liar," Debora cried. Her unkempt black hair, splayed out in all directions, gave her the appearance of an angry cat. "My wishes had nothing to do with it, you filthy, hideous spawn of a -"

The Speaker shot her a horrified look.

"Silence! It is you, not Udell, who is on trial. I suggest you act like the woman you are if you want a favorable judgment. Insulting the wizard of the village will not go well on your extensive record of offenses when you are found guilty."

"Let Wynd testify," another elder said flatly. The heat was beginning to get to him. So was Udell. That wizard made him nervous. Why did there always have to be complications in a judging that was supposed to be simple and straightforward, anyway? The witch-woman's reaction to Udell had seemed honest enough, unfortunately. That would drag the judging on... He wanted to get back to his fields. There was a well he was deepening. What he wouldn't do for some good soil, a hoe, and an unexpected rain. "Udell, you may step down."

Wynd froze, but the people in his row half pushed, half dragged him forward.

The Speaker began his questioning.

"Wynd, were you aware that your sister practiced witchcraft?"

"I - no - see here, that's an unfair question. It's loaded."

"So it is. Is your sister Debora a witch?"

"She has never practiced black magic."

"But you do not deny that she is a witch?"

Wynd sighed and looked at his sister, who had sagged against the rough wooden table. If he lied, it would be obvious - he was not a good liar - and he might be condemned to suffer her fate.

"I do not deny it."

Debora's eyes closed in despair.

The Speaker sighed with relief. The issue that Udell had inadvertently raised would not be important enough to examine, after all. Things could conclude.

He held the staff of justice between his hands and drove his foot against it, breaking it in two to signify that he had found Debora guilty. Pointing the two broken pieces of staff in the air, toward the direction of the sun's falling, the direction of guilt, he cried, "Since you have been found guilty of witchcraft and sorcery, Debora, we sentence you to death by fire. At high noon today, you will be tied to the stake. You will meanwhile stay here in full view of the rest of the village, as an example to any woman who wishes to defy the laws of nature. May the gods be appeased. Open your smock."

"No!"

"Will you have us do it for you, instead?"

"Bastards," she muttered, as Udell and the Speaker began to move toward her.

Slowly, she fumbled with the strings on her tunic. Her motions became more and more violent as her humiliation increased, and she accidentally broke a string. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the elders bring forward a long, wicked-looking instrument. A hot flash of red burned at its tip. She moaned and backed away, struggling, but a handful of eager spectators sprang to her and pushed her back. One elder held her rigidly still as the Speaker rent her linen tunic off her body. Shreds of smock fell mutely to the floor.

The red-hot brand moved closer to her, and she caught a scream between her teeth as searing fire violated her left breast. She did not want to give the elders satisfaction. Damn them, she thought fiercely as the white blindness of her pain extended seemingly into eternity, damn them, damn them, damn them... A few tears managed to escape anyway, and she cursed them as desperately as she cursed the elders. Blood stained her palms where her nails bit into her flesh.

The crowd drew back. They wanted to see the mark from a distance.

The heat in the meetinghouse had become unbearable.

"I'm sorry, son," the man next to Wynd said, not unkindly. "I know this must be hard for you."

Wynd mumbled unintelligibly in reply and fought tears. If Debora was strong enough to fight them, wasn't he?

A speculator lost his pig. Debora never collapsed. She might have had a fragile appearance, owing to the abuse she had obviously been subjected to the night before, but she had a considerable amount of grit.

The sun reached its zenith, and the crowd half-marched, half-carried Debora outside. The elders thrust her onto a tall pyre. She fought them with what strength she had left when they tied her to the stake that had been buried there in preparation and jutted up from the pile of branches, but she was outnumbered and easily subdued.

Udell took a watchglass from his robe and angled it toward the sun. A small, angry flame appeared on one of the branches.

The villagers in the front of the crowd saw the witch go suddenly limp and pliant, although she was mouthing something - a curse, no doubt. They looked about themselves nervously, making signs against the evil eye.

Blindly, methodically, the flame worked its way of destruction, gathering strength as it went. The fiery mass approached her. A wall of smoke breathed in her face, forcing her to choke as she swallowed it. The air turned thick; heat waves distorted it, swaying back and forth like a line of charmed snakes.

A voice cried out from the back, "The gods are pleased! See, they send us clouds of rain!"

Through the barrier of heat, Wynd saw the first flame reach Debora. His skin burned for her. He nearly screamed, but he caught himself. He did not want to join her. She would want him to remain alive. Surely that was why she had summoned the clouds. A little rain could not extinguish a burning pyre. She would not have been trying to save herself.

Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to remain silent.

A gust of wind fired a furnace blast of air at him. He closed her screams of agony off the way he closed off the first clap of thunder, building a fortification between her death and his life. Tears ran down his cheeks as knowledge attacked him; then he closed his tears off.

Coldly and dispassionately, he watched his sister burn.