Confusion from the question molds Eymaxin’s face. “Trade with many of the surrounding villages.”
“The witches extort protection from the surrounding people.”
“What did Tilel import?”
“What relevance do your questions have?” Eymaxin demands.
“I’m not sure the trolls are the offspring of the Sandmen, but the Sandmen are using them to dispose of the surrounding villages. The Sandmen may not be able to enter your city with so many wizards and protective charms, but magic doesn’t ward off hunger.” Reynard points to a road beyond the city where groups of people lacking the regal robes of the battlement sentries scamper.
“Villages don’t travel to Harrowing in such great numbers. Harder to protect,” Haldon Sy offers.
“Other villages have been destroyed,” Reynard guesses.
Haldon Sy spurs his horse, racing down a narrow goat path.
“He’s going to break his neck.”
“If the Sandmen are decimating the population, we must report this to the Thaumaturge,” Eymaxin says. “If the villages fall there will be no food in Harrowing.”
“So Haldon speaks truth about your coven?”
Eymaxin reaches behind her and draws her finger over the three-inch scar over her right cheek. “I’m not allowed. I must earn more tattoos. As I’m awarded I learn what the Nologies knew of the Sandmen. To admit so means we have to acknowledge our magic comes from science.”
••••••
A PASTY WHITE arm shoves a spoon of mushy food at Reynard’s mouth.
“I’m stuffed.”
“Eat.”
Eymaxin white-knuckles the bar at the end of the table as two more lavender-clad young women jab needles into her back. All three female acolytes have the same single azure tattoo symbol on the back of their left hands.
The lighter-haired girl extracts the tattoos from the dead flesh of the wizard. She drops the azure into a bowl, cooking it back into reusable ink. Her tunic robes lack security for her skin and dance around her body as she moves. Reynard notes that on her right posterior cheek where the curve creates the most appealing shape she has a pink scar identical to the one on Amye’s—Reynard reminds himself that Eymaxin is Amye’s doppelganger in appearance only.
She’s evidence that he’s in an alternate dimension. He adjusts his seated position in order to hide his glance at her lower curves. The two women don’t have similar scars on their butt—they have the same mark cut into the flesh.
“No more. My stomach overflows.”
“You need more.” Eymaxin winces. “You must keep eating.”
“My stomach has been too upset to eat this much,” Reynard protests.
“You need our food.”
“I don’t need a servant to shovel it in.” He catches the girl by the wrist and spins her around with the bowl in hand before gently forcing her to rest on his lap. Focused on not spilling the mush, she lacks any resistance to his maneuver. When he releases her, she returns to her kneeled position to continue feeding. Reynard catches a glimpse of her backside flesh and the scar identical to all the acolytes.
“Why do you all have the same tattoo?” And scar. From the saddlebag, he withdraws a bullet and pliers.
“In order to protect the people of Harrowing, a wizard must grow his power. The mineral enhances this. So we tattoo ourselves with the story of the Sandmen as we learn to control the magic. The more powerful, the more of the history a wizard knows.”
“You’ve moved from your arm to your back. Aren’t you breaking the story?” Reynard asks.
“I’m doing more. This tattoo breaks with all tradition.”
Reynard collects the gunpowder in a bowl and the azure shells in another. “Won’t that prevent you from becoming a Thaumaturge?”
“These young ones pray so. They also pray I am punished and stripped of all my ink in order for them to earn it. They serve the Thaumaturge faithfully in hopes to be rewarded with further tattoos.” Her right hand reaches back and traces the scar on her rump.
“As you were, Eymaxin.”
Despite having only a few sections of skin exposed, the man has covered his body up to the neck in the story of the Sandmen. Reynard wants to tear at the covering to learn about his adversaries.
“You’ve traveled beyond our forbidden borders.”
Reynard recognizes that this man knows what rifles are for. “I must return to my reality.”
“Eat.”
“Wizard—”
“I’m the Thaumaturge.” As he raises his arms to match his booming voice, his tattoos glow with his power.
“I doubt even your power will stop a bullet.”
Eymaxin grits her teeth. Her eyes warn not to challenge. Her blast knocked him down. The Thaumaturge’s blast would cook him.
“Strangers—all the same. You’ve no power here. You don’t exist for long.”
“I’d last a lot longer if your witches were educated in battling the Sandmen.”
“The Sandmen brought you here to die. No further education’s needed.”
“On my world they simply consume the brain. Why bother to bring anyone here to kill them?” Reynard asks.
“Eat,” the Thaumaturge commands.
“Not an answer.”
“You’ll exist longer if you eat.”
Exist. He used “exist” twice, not live. “Why bother if you won’t assist me in escaping?”
“Conjurers of the Blue Flame know of the Nologies. The time before magic dealt with Sandmen. Knowing about is not the same as practical use. You understand the mechanical devices they used to combat the Sandmen.” He points to the bowl of growing shells. “Payment for knowledge must be rendered.”
If Eymaxin were able to leap to her feet in protest, she would. “Helping him will only weaken the Sandmen and the children who are destroying outer villages.”
“Each village conjurer can handle a few Sandmen children.”
“A few, but Tilel was overrun by dozens, maybe more.”
Unable to view the Thaumaturge’s eyes from her prone position, Eymaxin misses what Reynard catches—the glint of already knowing about the destroyed villages.
“Why were you out there, Eymaxin?”
She fails to answer.
“I’ve more of the blue mineral you convert to ink than he does on his body,” Reynard says. “He holds no power over you any longer.”
“Ink, yes, but I lack the history the ink must tell,” Eymaxin whimpers. The Thaumaturge maintains a fear over his charges.
“You’ve already deviated from it by what’s inked on your back.”
“Some of
