A Nameless Witch

Had Wyst pretended not to hear the question, I would have pretended I'd never asked it. 'Not much. Although I do find myself aching for a good apple cider on rare occasion.'

I set my own bread aside as if I might actually finish eating it. Newt eyed the slice and backed away a few steps.

'And what about yourself?' Wyst asked. 'Do you ever find yourself aching for something?'

From anyone else, the question might have been bold, but he'd answered mine. It was only fair I answer his.

'It's difficult to miss what you've never had.'

Wyst took a sip of water from his canteen. 'I wouldn't know about that. It's the things we've never had that we sometimes miss the most.'

'I've never had an appetite for anything but flesh, raw and red. It's my curse. So it really isn't the same as denying myself a pleasure. It's more like giving jewelry to a tortoise. Neither necessary, nor appreciated.'

Wyst nodded. His eyes strayed to the evening stars as he finished the last of his meal. 'I see. So there are no indulgences you deny?'

This was an important moment. A good witch would offer a reply that hid away her humanity. A dozen responses came to me, all of them appropriate in their vagueness. I didn't choose any of them.

'There are'—I lowered my hat to cover the blush reddening my cheeks—'temptations.'

Newt mumbled. In many ways, he was a more demanding master than Ghastly Edna, but he wasn't my master. His opinion counted for little.

'Newt, fetch some wood for the fire.'

He squinted at the healthy flames and the small yet ample supply of fresh branches beside it. 'Why don't you send Gwurm? He's bigger and has hands.'

I glanced over at my troll, curled up, boulderlike, in his early evening retirement. 'He's asleep.'

'So wake him.'

My familiar looked into my eyes and attempted to stare me down. His insolence had grown bothersome of late, and another lesson was in order. I should have given them more often, but his contrary nature sprang from his demon. I disliked having to punish him for his enchanted nature. He was, much like myself, engaged in a constant struggle with a part of himself. I only disciplined him when I felt he wasn't giving the conflict enough effort.

I removed my shawl and tossed it over him. 'Now where did I put that Newt?' I asked softly. Then I lifted the shawl to reveal a single white feather left in the duck's place. Wyst knew me well enough to know I hadn't done Newt permanent harm. 'Where did you send him?'

'I misplaced him, so I suspect he's in that place where all misplaced things go: that secret locus where lost keys, loose coins, and almost-yet-not-quite-forgotten memories wait to be found. He'll turn up eventually, like all lost things. Most likely when we aren't even looking for him.

'How does one become a White Knight?' It broke witchly protocol to ask such a question and reveal that there were things I didn't know. With Newt lost, I found myself even less concerned with my witchliness. I wasn't willing to completely abandon it, but it was easier not to worry when the only witnesses were a sleeping troll, a broom, and a horse.

'It's a secret.'

'Witches are very good at keeping secrets.'

Wyst and I exchanged slight smiles.

'Yes, I suppose they are.'

He took his third and last sip of water for the evening and returned his canteen to his pack. Then he laid down on his blanket on the cold, hard ground. It was all I could do to keep myself from pouncing upon him, running my hands down his chest, and maybe biting off his nose. Before that urge grew irresistible, he started his story, looking into the sky as he did.

'No man is truly good or evil. They may be greatly one or the other, but they always have its opposite to some degree. And sometimes, certain men, through either chance or design, find their souls in perfect balance. Both good and evil in exact equality. And when a man reaches this state, fate takes special notice of him and chooses him for greatness. I was such a man.

'The Order employs seers whose only purpose is to wander the land, find men like this, and recruit them. I was in a tavern, half-drunk, when one of these seers found me.'

I tried to imagine what Wyst might look like half-drunk, but even a witch's imagination had its limits.

He closed his eyes and folded his hands across his chest.

'This seer explained to me that I was at a very important moment in my life. A soul can't maintain this perfect balance for long, and one way or another, something would tip me in one direction. Then, as is the tradition, he offered a glimpse of what either choice would bring. After which, I chose to accept his offer and become a champion of right.'

'You make it sound so easy.'

'It was.'

'But if your soul was in perfect balance, not good or evil but neither and both, how could you decide at all?'

He turned on his side, his back to me. 'Usually there's a sign. Some spend months waiting for it, but I wasn't that patient. I flipped a coin.'

I laughed. I'd laughed before, but never like this. It was soft and musical and very mortal. I didn't mind at all.

'So how does one become a witch?' Wyst asked.

'It's a secret.'

Wyst propped himself on an elbow and turned his head in my direction. 'White Knights are very good with secrets.'

I gazed into those deep, dark eyes. A heat rose in my chest, and my stomach grumbled. And I savored the sensations.

'Yes, I suppose they are.'

18

Another weeh passed without a single trial to confront us. Nor anything even as interesting as a spot of disagreeable weather or inconvenience of elves. Newt remained lost, but had he been around, he would have surely observed this journey as far too pleasant for a quest of vengeance. I could wait for as long as required, possessing the near limitless patience that came with being ageless and a good witch, but my conversations with Wyst of the West did help pass the time.

It was nice to have someone to share my secrets with. I'd shared them with Newt and Gwurm and even Sunrise, but that had been a one-sided affair. My exchanges with Wyst were fair trades.

He told me of his youth, of his mother and father, of childhood friends and enemies, and what it had been like to be a mortal boy. I spoke of dark cellars, of Ghastly Edna and Nasty Larry, of not seeing the sky until I was eighteen, and what it had been like to be an accursed girl.

We spoke of hidden desires. Small ones, not overwhelming in their importance, but things we rarely admitted to. I learned his favorite food had been turtle soup, that he loved swimming, and that he had a great fondness for dogs. He learned my favorite treat was fresh rabbit brains, that I enjoyed making crafts with bones, and that I too had a certain fondness for dogs, though of a more rapacious sort.

Wyst never judged me. Nor did he pity me. Gwurm and Sunrise hadn't either, but White Knights lived different lives than trolls and prostitutes. It seemed a rare thing that men who had taken the mantle of unspoiled virtue could remain so accepting of others, even if forced by magic and fate into more unwholesome existence. I had to wonder if Wyst was an exceptional White Knight or if all his order were such paragons of righteousness and humility. If so, then the White Knights deserved every bit of their legendary reputation.

I didn't share all my secrets. I kept my beauty and my carnal desires to myself. Certainly Wyst of the West left a few unspoken himself. Everyone should carry a secret or two, if only for mystery's sake.

By the end of the week, we were traveling side by side, close enough to reach out and touch one another. We