The air felt clearer, the moment she stepped beyond the boundary line. Frieda took a long breath, tasting summer on the breeze, then kept walking down the rough road. It needed some improvement, she noted, but it was unlikely anyone would bother. The locals certainly wouldn’t. They’d see better roads as a threat to their way of life — it would make it easier for taxmen to reach their village — and the local lord would probably agree. The only thing that let Lord Harold style himself as King of Kings was the simple fact it was difficult for any of the neighbouring monarchs to teach him a lesson by marching an army to his door. A road would force him to tone down his pretensions before he got thrashed by a real king.
And serve him right, Frieda thought, coldly. She’d never liked Alassa’s father — King Randor had been a predator in expensive outfits — but she couldn’t deny he’d always had the wellbeing of his kingdom, as he saw it, at heart. Lord Harold doesn’t give a shit about his subjects. He doesn’t even try to improve his kingdom.
She put the thought aside as she reached the edge of the village. The menfolk were already setting off to the tiny patches of cropland, giving her a wide berth for fear of her power. Their younger counterparts — goatherds, boys too weak to be of any real use anywhere else — gave her weird looks, as if they couldn’t decide if they wanted to stare or do everything they could to avoid catching her eye. Frieda frowned as she noted one of the ‘boys’ was actually a girl, something that should have been impossible to hide. There was no point in trying to keep something like that a secret, not in a tiny village where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Perhaps she was a visiting relative… rare, but not impossible. Or perhaps she was just overthinking it. There was no reason a young girl couldn’t work as a goatherd.
Particularly if her father doesn’t have enough sons, Frieda reminded herself. He’d have to put his daughter to work.
She paused, taking a breath as she stopped outside Garry’s shack. It was slightly larger than her family’s home, with a tiny patchwork of herbs outside the door, but otherwise it was little different. She stepped up to the door and knocked hard, even though she was fairly sure Garry wasn’t at home. The villagers couldn’t afford to coddle their youths. Garry wouldn’t have been allowed to stay in bed unless he was very ill…
… And if he had stolen the tools, she reflected, it was unlikely he was hiding out in his own home.
The door opened, revealing an old woman. Frieda winced, inwardly, as the woman saw her and took a step back, making a hex sign to ward off evil. Garry’s mother probably feared and envied her… she put the thought out of her head and leaned forward, silently asking if she could enter the dwelling. The woman — she looked old enough to be a great-grandmother — stepped back silently, her face unreadable. Frieda tried not to notice the nasty bruise on the side of her face.
“I’m looking for Garry,” she said, curtly. The shack was hot, the air thick and stinking of… something. She didn’t want to know. She was almost grateful for the dim light. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked around the chamber. The bedding had already been put away, rags piled high in the corner to wait for nightfall. A cast iron pot hung over the fireplace, steam bubbling into the air. “Where is he?”
Garry’s mother stammered. “I don’t know,” she managed. “He didn’t come home last night…”
“Shut your mouth, you dumb bitch,” a new voice snapped. The pile of rags seemed to shift and change… for a moment, Frieda honestly thought someone had been transfigured into rags and torn clothing before realising she’d missed the old man lying there. He’d been buried under the pile. “He’s not welcome here.”
“She,” Frieda corrected, tartly. The old man might not have gotten a good look at her in the half-light, but he’d heard her voice. Hadn’t he? She had no idea if he was trying to annoy her or he had trouble recognising a young woman in a position of power and she didn’t really care. “Where is your son?”
The man glowered at her. Frieda could practically sense the alcohol fumes surrounding him. “None of your business,” he growled, something that dumbfounded her. If the entire village didn’t know who she was, and what she’d done to Ivanovo and his gang, she’d be astonished. The story had probably swept from one end of the region to the other so quickly it would outrace a teleporting magician. “My son is not for the likes of you.”
“Great Lady,” Garry’s mother said. “My son…”
“I said, shut your mouth,” Garry’s father said. He stumbled forward, moving quicker than Frieda would have thought possible, and slapped his wife across the face. She staggered backwards and fell, landing on her rear. “I told you…”
Frieda blasted him. The man’s face went open in surprise, an instant before he melted into a frog. Frieda kicked him, her foot picking the tiny animal up and tossing him into the darkness. He’d be fine. Probably. The froggy mind would ensure he landed safely and he could hide until the spell wore off. Unless he tried to hide in an enclosed space… she shook her head. It wasn’t her problem.
“You…” Garry’s mother bit off her anger. “How…?”
Of course, she’s angry, Frieda thought, bitterly. The old woman looked ready to fight. The only thing keeping her from lashing out was fear, fear of ending up a frog herself or dead. It was absurd. How could she defend an abusive husband? But… Frieda already knew the answer. The wretched man was all that stood between the old woman and exposure. He’ll take it out on her, when the spell wears off.
She rubbed her forehead, tightening her wards. No one could ever call a mountain-born woman weak and feeble. Their lives were consumed with backbreaking labour, leaving them with formidable muscles. Garry’s mother could lay her out with a punch, if she had a chance. Looking at her face was like looking at the mirrors of Heart’s Eye, a brief glimpse of the person she could have been if things had been different. If Frieda hadn’t been the runt of the litter, and if she hadn’t had magic, she might have grown up to be just like the poor woman. And…
“I need something belonging to your son,” she said, quietly. She took a pair of gold coins from her pouch and held them out. “Quickly.”
The woman visibly hesitated, before taking the coins and turning to pick up a dirty shirt. Frieda made a quiet bet with herself that one of the coins would vanish before the old man — or his son — ever realised it existed. The old woman might just take it and run… or simply use it to get a better life. Frieda’s heart twisted — the coins were little to her, but wealth beyond compare to the old woman if she took them out of the village — as she took the shirt and performed the location spell. It should have pointed her straight to its owner. Instead, it twisted, nearly ripping itself apart.
Just like the knife, she thought, numbly. Where is he?
She gritted her teeth, reaching out with her mind. There was a faint hint of background magic within the shack, a strange sense that faded almost as soon as she looked at it. And yet… it wasn’t normal. It wasn’t the vague sense of power blowing in the wind she’d known from childhood, the first hint — in hindsight — that she had powerful magic. It felt… wrong.
Something moved, on the edge of her awareness. She jumped back reflexively, narrowly avoiding a fist aimed at her throat. The woman kept coming, drawing her fist back for another punch. Frieda stunned her and watched, dispassionately, as her body crashed to the earthen floor. Garry’s mother… she wondered, numbly, what the old woman thought she was doing. Defending her husband? Or her son? Or herself? Frieda had heard all the tales of hedge witches, exacting gruesome revenge on everyone who crossed them. It was strange to realise she probably counted as a hedge witch too, at least in their eyes…