“Lady Emily!” Emily jerked awake. Someone — a young woman — was outside her door. “Lady Emily!”
Emily rolled out of bed, glanced at the open window — it was early morning — and opened the door. A young girl stood outside, wringing her hands. Emily raised her eyebrows, her imagination offering too many suggestions of what was going on. If Sir Blackley had decided to harass the innkeeper’s daughter instead…
“Lady Emily, you have a visitor.” The young woman sounded as if she was on the verge of outright panic. “Goodwoman Sofia. She insists on seeing you now. She needs help!”
“Don’t bestir yourself,” Sir Blackley said. He stood further down the corridor, one hand on his sword. It went oddly with his long white nightgown. The nasty part of Emily’s mind wondered if he went to bed with his sword. The more practical part asked how he’d managed to get so close without being noticed. “It’s just a commoner.”
Emily felt her temper flare. “If you really feel that way, then stop being a knight,” she snapped. Sir Blackley recoiled, as if she’d slapped him. “We need to find out what she wants before we dismiss her.”
Her thoughts churned as she walked back into her room to change into something less comfortable. She’d read the stories of knights in armour protecting the poor and helpless, but she’d read enough history to know knights had spent much of their time preying on the weak and common-born instead. The history books had, she’d decided, understated the case. The knights were noblemen first and foremost, brutes and barbarians who picked fights with their peers, harassed commoner women and killed any man who dared object. Sir Blackley was one of the decent ones… and wasn’t that hard to believe?
She put the thought out of her mind as she walked down the stairs, silently relieved she’d chosen to sleep in her travelling clothes. They weren’t comfortable, but they were better than a nightgown or nudity. She was aware of Sir Blackley following her — she kicked herself, mentally, for snapping at him in front of the innkeeper’s daughter — as she reached the bottom of the stairs and walked into the bar. A bizarre sight greeted her. A middle-aged woman with a scarf wrapped around her hair, a young teenage boy who looked as if he wanted to run for his life and a donkey, pawing the ground. Emily’s eyes narrowed as she met the donkey’s eyes. They were disconcertingly human.
“My Lady,” Goodwoman Sofia said. She sounded frantic. “My son… I need your help!”
Emily held up a hand. “What happened? Start from the beginning and go on from there.”
Goodwoman Sofia glared at the boy, who inched away from her. “Rufus, tell Her Ladyship what happened.”
Rufus cringed, his eyes flickering from Goodwoman Sofia to Emily and back again. “I… Your Ladyship… you see…”
The older woman smacked his arm, hard enough to hurt. “I said, tell her what happened!”
“Calmly, if possible,” Emily said. “Please.”
“I… there’s a witch who lives out in the woods,” Rufus managed. “She moved in a few months ago. Randor and I… we thought we’d go see how a witch lived and…”
“You went to spy on her,” Goodwoman Sofia snarled. “What were you thinking?”
Emily had a nasty idea where the story was going. “And what happened then?”
“She caught us,” Rufus stammered. “She… she turned Randor into a donkey. She… she took a shot at me and missed and… I fled, Randor right behind me and…”
“This is my son.” Goodwoman Sofia knelt. “Please, help him.”
“He got what he deserved,” Sir Blackley offered.
Emily ignored him and reached out, resting her hand on the donkey’s forehead. She’d always liked donkeys, but… she cursed under her breath as she felt the spell trapping the victim in an animal form. Professor Lombardi had demonstrated something similar, just to show his students what they shouldn’t do, and then lectured them on the dangers.
“If you cast a spell only you can undo,” he’d said, “you risk binding your victim permanently. And if you cast such a spell here, in Whitehall, you will be expelled.”
He’d meant it too, Emily was sure. The prospect of being bound forever was terrifying. Most spells could be unravelled by someone else, given time and expertise, but the handful that couldn’t were dangerous. They were rarely used even outside the school.
“I can’t remove the spell,” she said, grimly. Her magic clashed with the witch’s spell, looking for a way to take it to pieces, but it was impossible. She could neither crack the spellware nor starve it of power. A typical baleful polymorph would wear off — eventually — bit this one didn’t feel as though it was on a timer. “What sort of spell did she use?”
“Anything she liked,” Sir Blackley pointed out. “They were spying on her.”
Goodwoman Sofia started to cry. Emily grimaced. It was a point of law that magicians could do whatever they liked, from transfigurations to enslavement to death, to anyone who broke into their homes. The witch, whoever she was, was technically within her legal rights. And yet… her heart twisted. The witch had meted out a life sentence, if not a death sentence. The poor boy had been punished so harshly it had gone well beyond what he deserved. She looked at Goodwoman Sofia and scowled, inwardly. The poor woman would lose her son — in a sense, she already had. There was no way anyone would assume a donkey was actually human unless they knew the truth, and even if they did they’d have problems taking the beast seriously. How could they?
She took a breath. “I’ll go speak to the witch,” she said. It was her duty to look after the people in her care, even if she’d never wanted the barony and all it brought with it. “I can try and talk her into undoing the spell.”
“The law is on her side,” Sir Blackley said. “And the brat is just a commoner who will stand as a lesson…”
“And how would you like it,” Emily snarled, “if I turned you into a donkey?”
She felt her temper flare and controlled it with an effort. “You can stay here, if you don’t want to confront a witch,” she said. “I’ll be back shortly.”
“Thank you, My Lady,” Goodwoman Sofia said.
Emily summoned her coat and glanced at the boy. “Rufus,” she said. “You can guide me to the edge of the witch’s lands.”
Rufus didn’t look pleased. “My Lady, I…”
“I’ll protect you,” Emily said. “And you can go back before we reach the boundary line.”
The donkey neighed. Rufus looked at his friend, then nodded and headed for the door. Emily followed, silently marshalling arguments in her head. She didn’t really blame Sir Blackley for refusing to come, not when it might end with him as a donkey. Or an ass… she wondered if anyone would notice the difference. Sir Blackley was presumably a brave man — King Randor wouldn’t have knighted a coward — but the thought of being transfigured into something small and harmless could unman even the bravest of men. Emily hadn’t reacted well, the first time she’d been transformed, and she hadn’t grown up thinking of herself as the mistress of all she surveyed.
“It’s this way,” Rufus said. His eyes kept darting to her, then away. Emily suspected she didn’t look impressive, not like Lady Barb or Mistress Irene. She looked like the young teenager she was, not a godlike woman who’d killed a necromancer. “The witch moved into the abandoned lands a few months ago and…”