Estimated reading time — 27 minutes

Read Part One here

(Author’s Note: These stories are meant to be read in reverse order of the zodiac, so this chapter comes first, though it deals with Scepi, the Keeper of the Fishes’ Dagger and the Pisces sign.)

THE FESTIVAL OF SUMMER in Milham’s Ford was a sanctuary day: no public humiliation, no arrests except for the most heinous crimes, and no executions, except for the same. It was one of four days a year in which everyone was allowed to let out a long breath they hadn’t known they were holding. Throngs of jolly folk, peasants and nobles alike, filled the town square. Food vendors hawked their wares: bakers, cheesemakers, fishermen, butchers, and vegetable farmers, all producing scents that quelled some people’s appetites as much as they whetted others’. Clothiers lay out vibrant silks and satins among the plain linen garments most people bought. Street performers danced and juggled, presented magic tricks lacking the genuine article, and put on puppet shows lampooning anyone and everyone. Save for Inquisitors and the Exarch, of course.

Today was one of four days a year when the masked priests usually weren’t on patrol, hunting down those who broke the Law: the five hundred ecclesiastical rules governing daily life. As long as they didn’t draw attention to themselves, sinners could walk free for twenty-four hours. Murderers who were also witches, however, had no such luxury.

Hence one reason why Rose, newly named Brialla, decided not to show her face at the Festival.

It had been five days since she’d stoked her masters’ rage and made them kill each other. Since then, she’d hidden in Arisa’s safe space: the attic in the abandoned home of an alchemist. The owner had met the Inquisitors’ Final Justice decades ago for attempting to turn lead into gold. His estate was said to be haunted, not only by his ghost, but by those of his darker-minded brethren. Every creaking floorboard and cold draft had more than a natural cause, said several rumors. Oddly, these rumors kept the blood mages safe. If their existence could be traced to nothing more than stories meant to frighten and entertain, no one would go witch-hunting in the real world.

However, slavers were on the hunt for the indentured servant belonging to two of their number. If they caught her, she’d be returned to the auction block to clear her debt. The Inquisitors might also have questions for her about the dead couple, punctuated by the prongs of a heretic’s fork.

Brialla knew she could afford to miss today’s special occasion, and many others afterward.

That was why a five-tapped knock on the attic’s trapdoor came as such a surprise.

The knocks corresponded to the five letters of Arisa’s name. Hoping for bread and water, Brialla opened the hatch to find not the senior blood witch but Scepi, the sixth blood warlock and Keeper of the Fishes’ Dagger. With a merry smile and eyes a-twinkle, he climbed into the attic space.

“Good Summerday,” he said. “I’ve come to get you out of here and take you to the Feast.”

“Are you joking?” Brialla cried, finding his expression disarming. “I’m a wanted criminal.”

“Not yet. Only the slavers know who you are, and we can evade them easily enough.”

“Why risk it? Besides, where is Arisa?”

“Despite how secure this place is, you can’t hide forever. None of us can. We have much to teach you. If you’re going to practice your art, you need our tutelage, though we may or may not be senior mages. As for Arisa, she and several of the rest of us have business in the city.”

Brialla shuddered. In the city, slaves were traded by the hundred-head and worked to death as fast as they were sold. Humans were slaughtered alongside livestock in the abattoirs. Above all, the shadow of the Exarch and the Inquisitors loomed large, dark, and ubiquitous.

“May the Moon keep our brethren and sisters,” Brialla said, the prayer tumbling from her lips before she had a chance to think. “May the Moon guide them safely, then guide them home.”

“So be it.” Scepi held out his hand. “I’ll help you down from here if you’d like.”

Brialla almost shook her head, then remembered how weak a lack of food had made her. The few morsels Arisa was able to sneak, she shared, though they amounted to little. “Much obliged, sir.”

“Scepi. I’m not a senior warlock. I’m just the dreamer among us, and it’s time for you to awaken.” He winked. “Once we’re down on the first floor, we’ll begin your first lesson.” He led the newly minted blood witch down the teetering ladder, rung by wide-spaced rung. Brialla was afraid one or more of them would crack under her weight, having been in disrepair for decades. Still, they all held. She hoped Scepi might be able to help her find a new hiding place on ground level.

Once they reached the front hall of the alchemist’s home, Scepi unsheathed his dagger: a silver blade encrusted with aquamarine gems. “Watch,” he said. “My weapon’s talents are twofold. The first gift it grants is concealment. If you cut a half-moon shape into your palm, like a closed eyelid, no one will be able to see you for one hour. If you want to remain hidden for longer than that, you must refresh the enchantment with more blood. Do you understand?” Brialla nodded. “Since you have the Balanced Dagger, you’ll be able to bestow it with this spell for half an hour. May I cut you with my own for the full benefit?” The girl stretched out her hand toward Scepi, but then he shook his head. “No. Not yet. We’ll blend in at the Festival, and if trouble arrives, only then will we use our magic. Remember the sigil, and learn the Law of the Fish.”

“Is that another of the Inquisitors’ laws? Number five hundred and one?”

“By the Moon, no!” Scepi laughed, then slapped his hand over his mouth. “‘Tis unique to all of us blood mages, but myself in particular. You might say I’m a specialist at being invisible, whether or not the spell is active. I don’t get noticed. I’ve learned to use this to my advantage. Come along.”

“Hold,” said Brialla. “You said your dagger had two talents. What’s the second one?”

“Ah. I’ll teach you that as night draws near, when the Feast is over and we need to hide again.”

Slightly disappointed, Brialla followed behind Scepi as he turned and headed for the rear hall of the mansion. They left through the back door, circled round, then set out for the town square. They heard raucous singing and shouting, along with the clanging of multiple instruments.

“Wait a moment,” said Scepi. “We won’t be able to hear each other over all this racket. That’s why, from now on until I say otherwise, we communicate telepathically. Mind to mind.”

“How?”

“Brush your blade across your lips, and draw a little blood. That’ll prevent you from speaking. It’s temporary, lasting as long as it takes for the wound to heal. You do know how to stitch wounds?”

Remembering the fateful night five days ago when she’d learned to do so, Brialla said yes. The word was slight, furtive. She wasn’t ashamed of what she’d done, but guilt still pricked from time to time. Mostly, when she thought of killing her masters, numbness filled her. She followed Scepi’s instructions and licked the blood off her lips as soon as it surfaced: hot, sticky, and metallic.

*There. You did that perfectly. I’d say you’re a natural. Don’t tell Arisa. It took her a while to learn.*

*It did? Seems to me that with her power and savvy, she’d catch on to anything right away.*

*Don’t be fooled. Any magic has a steep learning curve and a steep price. There’s the forum.*

*All right. Let’s stay together as much as possible. I don’t want to get separated.*

The two made their way into the midst of the teeming mass. Everyone Brialla knew in Milham’s Ford, and countless strangers, pushed and shoved their way past each other. Ordinarily, this led to more jostling and cursing, but everyone was in high spirits. They called out greetings. Brialla forgot she was unable to speak for a moment. She tried to wish one of her fellow house servants “Good Summerday,” but found her mouth sealed shut. She panicked, remembered, and smiled weakly. Scepi gave her a warning glance, not unkind, and made a path through the crowd.

*I’m ravenous. Might we stop by a butcher’s stall?*

*A fine idea. I’ll pay.*

After a pause, Brialla asked: *How do blood mages earn money if they’re forbidden their art?*

Scepi turned his head and grinned. *I practice another art as well. Others call it portrait painting.*

*My! You do so for nobles, rich merchants, and aristocrats, don’t you? Only they can afford it.*

*Correct. I’ll tell you all about it later. For now, let us silence our thoughts and fill our bellies.*

At the butcher’s – one Brialla didn’t know – they ordered one turkey leg apiece, for a total of one piece of silver. Scepi handed the coin over, then asked where the nearest spirits seller had set up shop. The butcher pointed toward a booth, then grunted: “Take care. He waters down the wine.”

Watered down or not, Brialla was glad for the warmth and belly tingle that it gave her. Plain water made one ill, especially river water sullied with human waste. The smell was worse a few hundred yards from here, making the young girl hold her nose and drink her beverage at the same time.

Scepi suppressed a chuckle. *Breathe through your mouth. Otherwise you’ll get the hiccups.*

Ignoring the onslaught of a filth-tainted breeze, she wolfed down her meat in several unladylike bites. She tossed the turkey bone aside, slurped her wine, and returned the cup to its seller.

A loud and cheerful voice rang through the air: “Come, all ye children, whether you be young or merely young at heart! It’s time for a marionette show: ‘Lad and Laurel Have Bad Dreams!’”

Scepi and Brialla looked at each other and tried to burst out laughing, but their lips were sealed.

Lad and Laurel Lawbreaker were identical twin puppets. Their favorite thing was disobedience. Every show featuring them had the same moral: follow the Law, and you’ll avoid getting in trouble. Although they were predictable, children loved them because the puppets addressed real fears and problems: being little, getting along with people, not wanting to obey one’s parents, sharing. This particular performance was a favorite of Brialla’s, though she had a bit of trouble recalling it.

“Hello,” cried the puppeteer in his Lad voice as he made the marionette wave. “I’m Lad.”

“And I’m Laurel,” he continued in his falsetto Laurel voice. He made her curtsy.

“We hate the Law,” said Lad. “We think it’s silly as can be. We’d rather jump and be carefree!” The puppet leaped up and down before falling right on its prat. The gathered children giggled.

Laurel said, “The Law says we can’t dance except on feast days. Well, guess what today is?”

“Summerday!” the children cried.

“That’s right! We can dance all we want. Come on, Lad. La-la-la, la-la-la…” The puppeteer tried to make Lad and Laurel waltz, but all he succeeded in doing was tangling their strings together. This sent the audience into fits of laughter and the puppeteer into a fit of swearing. Once he managed to pry the puppets apart, he asked, “Now what was our little show supposed to be about?”

“Bad dreams,” replied some of the children. Others scratched their heads.

“Right,” said Lad. “Have you ever had those before? Grown folk call them nightmares.”

Knowing nods from those gathered. Even the older ones bobbed their heads in the affirmative.

“Yes? What have you dreamt about?” asked the puppeteer.

“Monsters,” a young boy called out. “Big hairy monsters with massive claws and lots of teeth.”

“Oh, dear. Sounds dreadful. Luckily, monsters aren’t real. They only live in your imagination.”

“What’s that?” asked another child.

“Whenever you think or dream, you use your imagination. That’s where monsters hide,” said Lad. “They’re not here in the real world. Whenever you wake up, don’t the monsters disappear?”

“Yes,” said the boy, “but they come back the next night, and the night after that.”

“We’ll come back to you in a bit. What else do you dream about that makes you sore afraid?”

“Giants,” said a girl. “They’re at least ten feet tall. When they walk, they go boom! Boom! Boom!”

“More things that live in your imagination. There aren’t any giants, and there never will be.”

The girl bowed her head and shrank back amongst her peers. Brialla and Scepi frowned.

“I know exactly what to say to help you, but do you know what? I have something to do, and it’s a big secret.” In his Laurel voice, the puppeteer joked, “That means he has to go to the river!” This made everyone laugh almost as much as they had when Lad and Laurel’s strings got tangled.

The two blood mages glanced at each other and carved the Sigil of Hiding into their palms almost simultaneously. As soon as the puppeteer abandoned his post, Scepi and Brialla took their places behind the stage and picked up Lad and Laurel to manipulate.

*Unseal your lips,* Scepi thought. *Imagine them coming apart, but gently. Tenderly. Lick them.*

Brialla broke the silence enchantment with ease. *What do we do now?*

*We tell these little ones what they need to hear, not yet another dismissal of their imagination. Play along. Pretend this is just another regular Lad and Laurel show. I’ll get us both started.*

“We’re back!” Scepi announced in his Lad voice. He made the puppet wave. “‘Twas a quick trip.”

“Too quick!” Brialla cried in her Laurel voice. “Did you wipe?” Snorts and giggles. “Sorry, Lad.”

“Never mind that. We were talking about bad dreams and the things we imagine when we sleep. Monsters and giants. Aught else? What are you most afraid of in your worst nightmares?”

An older girl stood up, put her hands around her mouth, and called: “The people with no faces.”

Dead silence. Anxious stares. No one dared agree with her.

“Could you tell me more about them?” asked Laurel. “Come up here so I can hear you better.”

The girl obeyed. “They have no eyes, but they can see. They have no ears, but they can hear. They have no nose, but they can smell your fear. They have no mouth, but they can speak the secrets that you hide. They’re everywhere. In my dreams, all I can do is run, but they always catch me.”

“Then what do they do?”

“They put me on a throne with iron shackles. They lock them around my wrists, ankles, and neck. Then I wake up.” The girl wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. “Every single time.”

“Does this happen every night, or only on occasion?” When she answered the former, Lad leaned in as if to share juicy gossip. “I’m not sure, but you might be dreaming about the Inquisitors.”

“In-quiz-what?”

“Inquisitors. They ride on horseback, carry greatswords, and wear hooded cloaks and gray masks.” The girl nodded frantically. “I’m sorry to say, but unlike monsters and giants, they’re very real.”

“Then how do I stop having bad dreams about them?”

“That’s a good question. One that I know the answer to, though I don’t know much else.”

Behind the curtain, Scepi turned to Brialla. *Hold out your hand, and grit your teeth together.*

*More magic? We’re already hidden. Why can we speak telepathically with our mouths open?*

*Do you notice our messages are dimmer? When our mouths are sealed, they’re louder. And, yes, we’ll be casting another spell. My dagger allows me to visit the realm of dreams. All I have to do is carve the Sign of the Fish into our palms. That way, we can both go straight to the source of this poor girl’s nightmares. Be careful. If you die in the dream realm, the enchantment is broken.”

Brialla took a deep breath and held out her hand to receive the sigil. She still wasn’t used to the scraping of metal against flesh, the cutting, the pain. She endured as well as she could, which is to say, not well at all. Nevertheless, with her blood shed, the world tilted upward. She felt herself falling, being caught and hoisted to her feet. She wobbled. Scepi held her fast:

*There, there. Keep yourself upright and stitch the cuts as you were taught. Remember? Imagine the wounds knitting together of their own accord, and they will. Now, then. Take a look around and tell me what you see.*

*Everything’s blurry and dark. Shadows all around. Glowing eyes. Dozens. Hundreds. Watching me. Always watching, never resting. I hear snorts. Grunts. Could there be monsters after all?*

*Stay calm. Those are Inquisitors’ eyes, unseeing in the waking world but seeing all in the dream realm. The snorts and grunts you hear are those of their horses, sensing prey. Sensing us. This is what the poor lass before us sees, night after night, while the rest of the world sleeps. Do you know the way to banish Inquisitors? I suppose you’ve fled from them or ignored them as much as you possibly could, so this incantation is unknown to you. Fear not. I know our Eld Speech.*

Brialla, a plain girl who spoke in plain language, was amazed by the sounds and syllables issuing from Scepi’s dream-mouth. Heavy on consonants and heavier on stressed intonation, the Eld Speech was a complex and fearsome thing. It slithered across the tongue and shed its skin, molting into an even stranger form with long vowels and hissing sibilants. The warlock translated:

*Vile Inquisitors, renderers of flesh, mind, and spirit, begone! Your souls are faithless and your Law unjust. You pile rules upon your subjects’ backs like heavy stones, weighing them down until they can carry no more. Even children like this girl must bear such a burden or die. Depart! Flee from her mind and midst. I command you in the speech of our ancestors, by my own shed blood!*

The shadows recoiled as if from the sun’s heat. The neighing of their steeds combined with their ear-rending shrieks. They vanished into the aether of the dream realm, replaced by midnight-blue calm. Scepi signaled for Brialla to stitch her Fish sigil closed so that they could return to the world.

Once they had both accomplished this feat, they found themselves back behind the puppet stage. Only a few minutes had passed, despite being in the dream realm for at least half an hour.

Scepi took up Lad’s strings again. “Are the faceless people gone?” he asked the girl.

She blinked. “What people? Why would they not have faces?”

*They’re gone. She doesn’t even recall them, and she won’t. Not even if she stares an Inquisitor right in the visage. All she’ll see will be yet another person on a horse, and she won’t be afraid.*

*You wiped her mind clean?* asked Brialla, aghast.

*Clean of them, yes.*

*But that’s unconscionable!*

*So is what we did to become blood mages. Trust me. She can’t remember the Inquisitors, and she’ll be better off if she doesn’t. They can trace your thoughts, find your fears, and pinpoint your vulnerabilities. They forget nothing and forgive nothing. They are fiends, pure and simple.*

*Wait. If they can find your fears, can’t they locate you if you’re not afraid of them?*

*Excellent question. The answer is no. One’s lack of fear is a vacuum they get themselves lost in.*

*So all I have to do is be brave when they’re around, and that negates their power?*

Scepi gazed at her matter-of-factly. *If only it were that simple, my dear Brialla.*

Meanwhile, several of the other children were shoving their way to the front:

“Begone with the monsters!”

“Begone with the giants!”

“Begone with my mother yelling at me. She’s a hag, and at night she turns into a giant spider!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Scepi saw the original puppeteer headed straight towards the stage.

“I’m sorry,” he said in his Lad voice, “but Laurel and I must go. Goodbye, and sweet dreams.”

“Wait a moment,” said Brialla in her Laurel voice. “We haven’t finished the show yet.”

“Yes, we have. Obey the Law, and you won’t have any more nightmares. Tra-la-la!”

Grabbing Brialla by the arm, he bolted in the opposite direction from the puppet show. His Sigil of Hiding was still fresh, but hers needed a little more enhancement. He said so in his thoughts.

*Right,* the new witch replied, *but I yet reel from the cutting of the Fishes’ Sign. Help me.*

*Think of the Blood Moon. It guides, inspires, protects and heals. Imagine its crimson light pouring into your wounds, filling them with life, nourishing them. Closing them and ending your agony.*

Brialla did so. As she felt the sigil pulse, its pain ebbed and rose, then ebbed one final time.

*Good. Now apply what you’ve learned to the Sigil of Hiding that remains upon your palm, after I refresh it with my dagger. We’re going to stay concealed for as long as possible. I sense danger.*

Indeed: a band of slavers was now trudging through the square, manacles ready. People dashed out of their way, as if the Exarch were approaching. This gang, the Red Anvil, was one of the most notorious. Young or old, rich or poor, none escaped their notice. Only those who could afford a bribe of fifty silver pieces would escape their grasp. Not even nobles were exempt. The founder of the Red Anvil had been one. She’d turned to slave trading not only because it was profitable, but because it allowed her to escape an arranged marriage to one of the most despicable lords.

In the midst of the group, Inga Torsten towered on horseback. She was the only one who rode a steed, preferring to spot prospects from a higher vantage point than the rest of her henchmen. With a thick red braid looped around her head, she appeared as a queen among serfs.

*Oh, sod, it’s her,* thought Brialla. *Even my masters are – were – absolutely terrified of Inga!*

*Calm down. She can’t see us or sense us. As long as we don’t get close to her, we’re fine. Follow me as we sneak past that sneering, smelly lot she commands. That’s the way. At the rate you’re learning, you truly will be one of the most powerful among us. If not THE most.*

Brialla doubted it, but knew she couldn’t afford to second-guess herself. She and Scepi wound through the surrounding crowd like snakes, dodging and weaving around the slavers. For a group that worked best under cover of night, the Red Anvil members were announcing themselves quite clearly. With the clanking of their chains and the stomping of Inga’s horse, even a blind man could avoid them. Still, the two blood mages left nothing to chance as they approached the middle of the square. A great fountain spouted and burbled there, filled with clean spring water. Another platform had been constructed nearby, large and rickety, hastily built. This was the main stage of all the seasonal Festivals. A colorfully dressed figure in a jester’s hat called to the masses:

“Step right up! Come one, come all! Marvel at the wonders of nature bent to man’s indomitable will! Be amazed at the talents of the fire eater, golem crafter, lightning fiend, and water worker!”

*What on earth is that man in the fool’s cap yelling about?* Brialla wondered.

Scepi offered her a playful smirk. *Care to find out?*

Grinning, she followed him past more people and approached the apparatus.

“Welcome, welcome,” continued the barker. “Step forward. No shoving. Keep it nice and orderly. That’s the Law. Behold our best troupe of wonder workers, who have mastered Nature’s decrees!”

*Pish-posh,* thought Scepi. *Not unless they’re elementalists.*

*Could they be? Witchcraft is illegal, even today.*

*Watch and wait. Keep your hand on your dagger’s hilt. There might be something amiss here.*

Brialla bit her lower lip, drawing blood to keep the silencing enchantment active. *All right.*

The barker clambered onto the stage and caught his balance. “First we have Dulcibella, Tamer of Fire! She’ll extinguish her blazing baton using only her mouth, but first, she’ll twirl it with both ends lit. A fabulous dancer and easy on the eyes as well. Come here, lass, and entertain us!”

A willowy woman in gaudy costume twirled onto the stage, bearing a fire baton. She did as the jester had promised, earning murmurs of astonishment and even gasps of fear. Fire eaters were common stage performers in the city, but in Milham’s Ford, they could only be something else.

*Is she what I think she is?* Brialla gaped as she watched Dulcibella huff out her baton’s flames.

*No. With thousands of hours of practice, you’d be able to do as she did, without magic.*

*Even so, the idiots around us might mistake her for a fire witch.*

*True. Here comes the fool again. Be silent for a moment, if you please.*

“Many thanks, Dulcibella,” the jester said as his audience erupted into cheers. “Now for our next nature-master, Honza, a constructor of golems. He’s just finished a new one. Voila!”

A man in leather armor strode onstage, followed by a creature built of stone, or at least it seemed to be. It thumped its way toward its master, then let out an ear-splitting roar.

*Before you ask, that’s a tall man in a clever disguise. An actual golem would break the stage.*

“About face,” said Honza. The false construct pivoted by slow quarter-turns. Someone yawned.

“Raise your arms above your head.” The ‘golem’ obeyed, to the amusement of no one.
“Jump up and down.” The creature jumped, but its costume was so heavy that it made the man inside fall right on his tailbone. Several people cried out in dismay. The actor stood back up.

A drunk woman hollered nearby. “Booo! You’re a fraud! A pretender! Where’s the real thing?”

“I’m afraid you’ve found me out,” said Honza ruefully. “Time for Ishi, the lightning fiend!”

Another man appeared, carrying an unusual glass orb. Brialla had seen fortune tellers with their crystal balls before, but they had been empty. This one was full of pinkish-white bolts that danced across the sphere, leaving small pinpoints where they touched its inner surface.

Ishi held the ball out toward the onlookers, as if offering a gift. He pressed his hands firmly around it, and his ebony hair began to stick straight out. Some of them laughed at this, but most were entranced by the mysterious object. The more they watched lightning bolts branch out from the ball’s central mass, the more convinced they became that they were beholding a marvel.

“It’s a miracle!” The inebriated lady who had booed Honza now fell to her knees in rapture.

*Is it?* Brialla asked Scepi.

*Again, no. The orb itself is magical, but it’s been crafted by a true elementalist. Ishi is not.*

*I’m disappointed. Are all of these performers simply that and no more?*

*I don’t know. We haven’t seen the water worker yet.*

“Isn’t that thing glorious?” the jester cried, breaking the hold Ishi had over his audience. “Is it not astounding? Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think our friend was a warlock of the air!”

Ishi dropped the glass globe. It shattered into a hundred pieces at the foot of the platform.

A cacophony of jeers and catcalls rang out. The so-called “lightning fiend” bolted offstage.

*Oh, Law! You really are a fool, you capped dunce. You’re drawing the wrong attention near.*

*Silence! If they’re here and if they’re searching, Inquisitors will be able to hear us think.*

“Ladies and gentlemen, be calm! No need to cause an uproar. Ishi has just broken his favorite toy. He’s no practitioner of magic. I was joking. Ha, ha.” The jester grinned. No one laughed. “Last but not least comes Una, the most famous water worker of the city, here to shape our fountain!”

Everyone abandoned the stage and gathered round the town square’s other main feature. On the fountain’s rim stood a lady in a diaphanous gown that hugged all her curves and billowed out into a cloudlike skirt. With white hair and colorless eyes, she appeared to be not of this world.

She raised her arms. The middle pillar of the fountain soared high, higher than it had ever been, spraying those who were too close with fine mist. As Una turned around, balancing carefully, the pillar pivoted too. Thankful for the relief from Summerday’s relentless heat, the crowd rejoiced.

Una then made the column bend and twist, molding it into the shape of the sun, the moon, a heart, a flower. She did all this with her hands forming rough approximations of the designs.

The spectators had gone quiet. Brialla could hear naught but her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

Before Una could shape the water into more exotic forms, a shrill neigh broke the silence. An Inquisitor and their horse surged through the throng, making people shriek and swear as they darted out of the way. Even Inga Torsten in all her fire-haired glory could not match this figure, a nightmare made flesh. They would have crushed poor Lad and Laurel into sawdust.

“Halt!” Their voice boomed cold and even, magnified by their own faith-manifested powers. “We have a witch before us, one of water, and not merely an actress. No actress could command our fountain to spray the way it has. Gag her and throw her in the river! Such is the proper death for one of her ilk. As for the others? Hang the air warlock, burn the fire eater, and stone the charlatan who has ‘built’ a false golem. So the Law demands. So let it be done.”

“But it’s Summerday!” cried the drunk woman, who’d imbibed even more spirits than before.

“No sanctuary shall be given to those who practice magic or pretend to. Our Law is clear. Do as I say, or I’ll string up the lot of you, four at a time. Our gallows is ready. Will you drown the witch?”

“Drown the witch! Burn the actress! Hang and stone the swindlers!”

Una leapt off the fountain rim and tried to run, but soon found herself entangled in a swell of bodies. Ishi was found, dragged to the gallows, bound and hanged, his neck snapping with a crack that would satisfy even the Prime Inquisitor. Honza and his costumed companion attempted to stop a storm of loose cobblestones from raining down upon them, to no avail. As for Dulcibella, her agonized screams could be heard over all the commotion, making adults shudder and children clap their hands over their ears as she burnt. Una, for her part, made no sound and put up no resistance as she was tied to a ducking stool and hauled toward the fetid river. Leading the funeral procession, the Inquisitor made sure no one tried to free her. In the midst of it all, Brialla and Scepi remained concealed. They only dared to refresh their Sigils of Hiding with more blood.

*It’s not fair,* Brialla thought, unseen tears rolling down her cheeks. *The Inquisitor has executed the entertainers, though they practiced no magic! They’re going to kill Una, though she meant no harm! We must do something. Otherwise, we’re not mages. We’re sniveling cowards.*

*If we come near her or the Inquisitor, we’ll be found out. Self-preservation isn’t cowardice.*

*Can’t we control the Inquisitor’s mind from afar?*

*Not a chance. I’m powerful, but not that powerful. Only Arisa or Apricus could even attempt it. Inquisitors’ minds are nigh-impenetrable fortresses. They’re trained to resist mental prodding and telepathy. Our pitiful efforts would get us noticed immediately. I’m sorry. There’s naught we can do. Una’s only chance is to bend the river into two parts, make them split, and have the ducking stool land upon dry land. That’d be a miracle. One that I’m not sure a city performer can perform.*

The Inquisitor stopped at the riverbank, the crowd swelling behind them. They spoke again:

“Water witch, do you have any last words before your wicked art is turned against you?”

“Aye. May this hamlet be cursed with a plague that has long awaited it, borne in this filthy water. If I’m to drown in an open sewer, may it spread disease to everyone who has condemned me. May Milham’s Ford die, and die painfully. I swear by the almighty ocean, which ye have not seen.”

The six villagers who’d carried the ducking stool plunged Una into the river. She gurgled and thrashed, trying to loosen her bonds, but they held fast. The water itself foamed and swirled, muddy with excrement and her attempts to swim in it. When her head surfaced one last time, some people threw rocks at it. A stone landed right between her eyes, making her forehead bleed. That was the end of her. Her corpse was untied from the stool, and it was hauled back to its place.

“Depart,” said the Inquisitor once the deed was done. “Our Summerday festival is now over.”

“But we haven’t even sung the hymn,” cried the girl who’d had bad dreams about their ilk.

The jester who’d just seen his best traveling troupe die tried to smile again. “Right you are.” With trembling voice, he launched into the opening lines of “Hail Summerday.” Others followed suit:

“Hail this glorious Summerday!
Winter’s chill is far away.
Crops and people will grow strong
As the sun helps them along.
May they bloom and may they flower
In the light of Nature’s power.
Verdant trees and bird-filled skies
Shine from sunset to sunrise.
May we treasure this repast
Till it becomes Fall at last.”

Silence followed. Scepi and Brialla crossed their hands over their hearts and bowed their heads. They knew that to the Inquisitors and the Exarch, such a hymn was blasphemy. They had no songs of their own, whether cheerful or not, to explain or praise the Law. Singing, after all, was for fools.

After this, everyone dispersed. Brialla asked her new mentor whether they were going back to the alchemist’s abandoned estate, and he shook his head. He led her to the outskirts of Milham’s Ford, where a half-rotted barn still stood after being battered by last year’s severe storms.

“Sorry about this,” Scepi said once he’d broken his silence enchantment by licking his lips. “It may not be the lap of luxury, but we blood mages don’t like to spend too much time in any one hiding place. As long as we’re on the move, we’re relatively safe, though we must take care.”

Brialla nodded somberly. “Scepi? Did the Inquisitor really have to kill the performers?”

“According to the Law, yes. One of its most important statutes states that even the appearance of evil must be shunned. It didn’t matter if three out of the four witches and warlocks were not so. They pretended to know magic, and that was crime enough.”

The new blood witch spat on the ground, full of dry straw and petrified manure. “I hate the Law.”

“Like Lad and Laurel, so do I, but it’s best not to say so out loud. Even amongst ourselves.”

“Why, when only the Moon can hear?”

“The Moon’s not out yet. Staying silent is first a necessity, then a habit, then second nature. The more you practice something, the more ingrained it becomes. Like blood magic itself.” He took Brialla’s ill-stitched hand and focused upon it, letting his own healing energy augment hers.

“I want to show you something,” he said after a moment. “There’s a reason I led you here, besides the obvious. This barn is an outbuilding belonging to the estate of a noble I once knew. A vain one who wanted to commission a portrait. He summoned all of the painters from miles around…”

Brialla felt the world tilt again. This time she let herself fall, heedless of the dried muck beneath.

The great hall of a mansion spread out before her, full of people, but not like the festival-goers. No commoners in linen or sackcloth were around. Instead, aristocrats in silk and damask brushed past Brialla, sipping goblets of wine and conversing softly amongst themselves. Not a hair on their heads was out of place; nary a wrinkle could be seen on their clothing. Instead of turkey legs, the nobles dined upon wild boars from the Exarch’s forest and swans from his private lake. They took turns regaling each other with the latest gossip: who had made the best alliances at court and who had fallen from grace. Mingling among them, like servants but not quite, were the artists.

Brialla spotted Scepi, his whitish-blonde hair all mussed, arm in arm with a swarthy gentleman.

“Rodrigo,” Scepi said, “if we can get this blue-blooded bastard to choose one of us – ”

“ – we’ll be set for quite a few months. Maybe even a year, Ilia! May the best man win.”

Jostling one another good-naturedly, they nearly collided with a liveried waiter carrying a tray.

“Sorry, sorry!” They dashed through the great hall like children half their age, old enough to know better but too young to have forsaken frivolity. Turning corners to avoid being caught, Rodrigo and Scepi soon found themselves in a spacious drawing room. Two easels and two blank canvases stood in the middle. Perplexed, the two painters looked at each other and approached them.

“Surely Lord Ponisc doesn’t mean to have two portraits commissioned,” Scepi said.

“I agree. Perhaps the second one is for his wife, who’s even vainer than he,” replied Rodrigo.

“Aye. But at least she’s pretty. He’s got a nose so long it sticks out all the way to Milham’s Ford.”

Snickering and slapping each other on the back, they didn’t notice an armored guard enter.

“What in Law’s name is going on here?” he roared, his voice echoing off the drawing room walls.

“Er, nothing. We were just leaving.” Scepi cleared his throat. “Come on, friend. Let’s go eat.”

“In the drudges’ kitchen, not the dining hall. ‘Tis for nobles only. If you don’t behave yourselves…”

Rodrigo and Scepi marched past the guard, raising their knees a bit too high and letting their steps land a bit too loudly. If he noticed this, it didn’t show on his face. He let them pass. They wormed their way back to the grand foyer, following the aromas of food down to the servants’ eatery.

A ruddy-faced cook wiped her hands on her apron and scowled. “More hungry artists, eh?”

“Excuse me. We may be scrawny lads, but we don’t starve,” said Scepi. “Have you a bit of bread?”

“The end of a loaf. Just the heels. I also have the rind of a cheese wheel with some still on it.”

“I was hoping for some stew,” Rodrigo said.

“Too bad. The others got here and devoured it before you could. Now do you want these or not?”

The two agreed. They shared the meager scraps with what was left of a quart of ale. It tasted flat.

“Once we’re rich,” Scepi mumbled under his breath, “we’ll live high on the hog.”

“Hear, hear.” Rodrigo bit into his bread and tore it with his teeth, reminding Scepi of a wolf.

When they’d finished, they joined their compatriots in the main hall. Lord Ponisc had summoned all of them. It was all the two young hopefuls could do to elbow their way to the front. “Greetings,” Lord Ponisc said. “Welcome to my grand estate. I suppose you know the reason why I called you here, but if not, I wish to commission two portraits: one of me, and one of my lovely bride.”

“I knew it,” Scepi stage-whispered.

“However, only one of you will be selected to paint them both. Hold! You two nitwits before me. One of my guards said that you’ve snuck into my drawing room already. Well? What say you?”

The artists hung their heads.

“I knew it. I should have you strung up to spare myself the expense of two beheadings. However, since I’m in a generous mood, I’ll spare your lives and give you both a little test. I wish for you to sketch the ballroom on the second floor. The candelabra are all lit, so you won’t have trouble with too many shadows. The winner shall paint our portraits. The loser’s life shall be forfeit. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Rodrigo and Scepi in rueful unison.

“Very well. Bring two sketchpads,” Lord Ponisc told a nearby lackey, who obeyed. “Do escort them to the ballroom, and don’t let them leave until they’re finished. Unless they must use the privy.”

Beside him, Lady Ponisc wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Go now,” she said, her voice imperious.

The two artists made their way to the ballroom via a steep servants’ staircase. They set to work, making broad strokes here and narrow ones there, forming rough outlines. Upon these bare bones, they put the meat of contouring, perspective, and chiaroscuro shading for the candelabra’s flames. Though they were meant to focus on their own drawings, they couldn’t resist peeking at one another’s work.

Rodrigo leaned in with a lean and hungry look. Scepi tried to ignore this, but every fiber of his being told him to stab his best friend in both eyes with his sketching pencil.

Thus, he did.

Rodrigo screamed at the top of his lungs, blood gushing from his eye sockets and down his cheeks. He slapped his hands to his face, trying to stanch the carnage but not applying enough pressure. More armored guards clanked down the hallway, ready to arrest whoever had caused it. However, Lord Ponisc, who had been following, laughed to raise the roof once he found out the truth.

“Ho, ho! That’s the spirit, my lad. Survival of the fittest, and your sketch is quite handsome. Let’s see. What’ll we do with this one?” Lord Ponisc gestured to Rodrigo, who was still howling. “Shall we hang him, or shall we let him become a blind beggar and let him hang himself after a while?”

Rodrigo raised his head and lowered his hands from his face. “I’d rather die than beg. My lord.”

“So be it. Guards! Remove him from sight.” Two of them did so. “As for you? I’m your new patron.”

“I’m here to serve,” Scepi said, saluting crisply. “When shall we have your portrait sittings?”

The ballroom began to fade. Brialla began to come to in the real world. Her eyes rolled to their proper position, though her hand still ached from another carving of the Fishes’ Sign upon it. When Scepi took it, Brialla yanked it away as if from burning coals. “Traitor!” she cried. “Fiend!”

“Aye and aye, forevermore,” said Scepi. “At the moment I blinded him, though, all I could think of was survival. To live another day. To see the sunrise and sunset. I knew that if I let Rodrigo finish his work, I was lost. You may not understand, but we artists have an eye for greatness whether we ourselves are great or not. What I beheld once I looked at his sketchpad was absolute beauty. I had drawn the ballroom as it was. He had drawn it as it could have been, well-lit and perfect, ready for dancing couples in their doublets and gowns. I knew in that moment that Lord Ponisc would choose him. After all, what do we want to see in our portraits but our idealized selves?”

Brialla wiped her nose on her ragged linen sleeve. “Yes. You’re still ruthless.”

“As are you. You didn’t give your masters a chance to turn from their slave-trading ways, did you?”

“Nay. They didn’t deserve it.”

“We don’t always get what we deserve. Oftentimes we must act and let justice decide for itself.”

“Where’s the justice in what you did to Rodrigo?”

“He would have done the same to me. Maybe not blind me, but see to it that I was hanged. I had to strike first. So did you. Now, then. You may wonder what all this has to do with the Blood Moon and my becoming a warlock. When Apricus gave me my final initiation test, I told him I’d already completed it. I used the proof of my guilt and Rodrigo’s subsequent death as my murder. Apricus accepted this, though he would have preferred I carry out the deed that very night, as you did.”

Brialla nodded and wiped her eyes. “What happens now?”

“You’ll remain here and hide until another one of us comes to bring you food, water, and another vital lesson. Until then, remember what I’ve taught you. What is the Law of the Fish?”

Despite herself, the blood witch grinned from ear to ear. “That’s simple. ‘Don’t get caught’.” After a beat, she asked, “So what happened to Lord Ponisc, your patron? Why is his barn abandoned?”

“He built new ones.” Scepi ran his fingers through his hair. “Besides, he lost his whole estate via too many bad investments. Failed mines, failed land grabs, failed ruins that lacked any sort of treasure, and so on. He divorced his wife, for she’d had a little dalliance with me in the meantime.”

“You lucky dog! Why didn’t you face the gallows like your friend?”

Scepi winced. “Touche. However, I had my finger on the pulse and the purse strings of every one of these ventures. As his fortunes had sunk, mine had risen. We made a gentleman’s agreement. I’d return to Milham’s Ford in exile, never to see Lord or Lady Ponisc again. In return, he’d let me live my life in peace. What passes for my life, of course, and what passes for peace.”

He stood up, brushed the straw and manure off his clothes, and bowed. “Farewell. I must be off. Another one of our kind will come to you soon. Good Summerday. May your soul be at rest.”

That reminded Brialla of something. “Wait. If you can wipe bad dreams from someone’s memory, as you did with that girl this afternoon, can’t you do the same with my guilty conscience?”

“I could, but I won’t. If you forget whom you killed and why, you also forget why you became a blood witch in the first place. Such knowledge is essential if you’re to continue learning our art. Without it, you might as well be as blind as poor Rodrigo, with nothing to show for your trouble but scarred hands and a scarred heart. I won’t let you stumble in the dark.” He waved goodbye.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Scepi had no mount, but he knew the back roads leading out of Milham’s Ford like the back of his hand. He’d had to learn them by heart once Lord Ponisc’s men had come after him. Not only had the noble broken his gentlemen’s agreement, but also put a bounty on Scepi’s head.

That was why, when he heard a horse’s hooves thundering behind him, he expected to see one or more armored guards. Not an even more imposing figure in a hooded cloak and gray mask.

They picked the young man formerly known as Ilia up like a sack of potatoes, placed him into the saddle, and sped off. Such a prize would earn them not only the respect of the other Inquisitors but great favor with the Prime. The icing on the proverbial cake would be to make up for their humiliation earlier in the day. Let the fools sing while they may. A reckoning was coming.

Scepi, Sixth Warlock and Keeper of the Fishes’ Dagger, was never seen or heard from again.

The rejuvenated masses dispersed and set out for home.

Credit: Tenet