Page 152 of Night of the Witch
The archbishop moves to sit behind his desk. I take the seat across from him.
“Well,” the archbishop says.
“Well,” I echo. Another laugh bubbles up.Well, like the Well of magic.
How strange that I once thought such magic as that was important. I thought Ineededit. That damn goddess tricked me. Made me think wild magic wasn’t as powerful. Aseasy.
The archbishop’s watery eyes meet mine. “I think a burning is presumptuous,” he says, hefting a sigh. “I’ll dismantle the pyre. A quiet retirement would be best. People will forget. In the spring, as I continue the Lord’s work…”
“The Lord’s work?” I ask. “Sir, you’ve never done that a day in your life. You havealwaysworked forme.”
The archbishop blinks several times.
I stand up and start pacing. I like being able to stretch my legs. It was harder to think, all cramped in that prisoner’s box, but at least the men moved quickly, eager to be rid of me. “It’s that damn tree I did not factor in,” I tell him.
“The tree,” he says blankly.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking—the tree that my little sister grew, that enabled her to break free of my bonds. Not that tree. That’s not the tree I’m thinking of, you stupid man.” I pause, take a breath. He cannot help that he is stupid. “No,” I say, regulating my tone. “I mean the Origin Tree.”
“The Origin Tree,” he repeats.
“Yes, exactly.” My pacing picks up a notch, step, step, step, turn, step, step, step, turn. “I had been so focused on the Well, but when I ripped the barrier, I saw much more than the forest folk ever wanted me to see. Something else Holda kept from me…” I sigh dramatically, even if the effect is lost on such a simple man. “Ah, well, I suppose I shall find out the truth about that tree soon enough.”
“You shall find out,” the archbishop says, nodding.
“That’s the tree I meant,” I tell him, leaning over his desk. In my excitement, spittle flies from my lips, but the archbishop is such a gentleman, not wiping it away, pretending it doesn’t land on his face. “The Origin Tree. I thought, before, that wild magic was just an untappedsource that must be fed evil, must be tempered in some way before it can be used.” I giggle again. “How silly I was. Wild magic is wild, that’s all. And so am I. We are made for each other, no?”
“No,” the archbishop says, a flicker of something in his eye, something I do not like. No, no, no, no,no,you are not going to slip from me again, you are not going to hide from me. You aremine.I lunge across the desk, grab his arm, yank up those pretentious robes he wears.
There it is.
I trace my finger along the white lines of the scar on his arm. A decorative, curling letterD.Branding him had been difficult—getting close enough to do it half the battle—but the risk has paid itself off many times over. I can seep into any weak person’s mind and control them like a puppet, but that requires concentration. At best, it is a temporary measure. The brand, however, is a magical sigil, one that allows me true possession of a human’s body, of a witch’s magic.
“You are mine,” I whisper.You are still mine.There was just a little worry, before, when Fritzi nearly killed me, when she thought she broke my magic. But no. She did not. Not the way she thinks…
“I am yours,” he whispers back.
And so too is Trier. The entire diocese. The entire Empire.
Mine.
Fritzi thinks this is over. Weak and wounded, she thinks I will die at the stake. I know what our dear Mama would have advised—that I should go into hiding.
A god does not die. A god does not hide.
Already, I can tell that my men’s fear is spinning the legends of what happened to me into mythic proportions. Any of them—like that damned Johann—who would think to oppose me wouldneveroppose the archbishop. And if they try?
I smile.
All will be well.
I pat the archbishop’s arm and pull the robe back over the brand on his skin. “Now first,” I say, “you’re going to write a very clear decree that not only am I not a witch, but I remain the kommandant, your trusted ally in the face of evil witchcraft. Actually…” My grin is feral. “Let’s go ahead and give me all the power of a prince. This diocese is a principality, no? It deserves a prince.”
The archbishop picks up a quill and pulls over a sheet of vellum. The nib scratches on the surface, ink bleeding onto the page.
“Good,” I say, looking over the desk at the praise the archbishop writes for me, the way he confirms that I did not bend to the temptations of the devil, but my weak hexenjägers did, led astray by evil. “What is it your Bible says? ‘Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth.’” For so many, all it takes is a word written for them to believe it.
The archbishop continues writing.
