Elian… Elian…
Neeps thought he heard his real name in the wind, in the sighing, shifting chorus of a hundred thousand blades of tall grass. Or perhaps, after fifteen years of looking for miracles, he was finally starting to hallucinate.
For as long as he could remember, Neeps had watched for signs: talking animals, arcane omens cracked into yolks, or messages in drifting clouds. Anything to prove he had magic. If he did, his life could finally begin. He’d imagined it many times. If he had magic, he’d work his way through the minor and major ranks of magedom. Perhaps even rising to the Empress’s Royal Cadre, elite protectors of the throne, sworn to guard Lanistava from enemies within and without.
It didn’t make sense to anyone in his family, but he had a fire burning inside him. The desire to rise beyond anyone’s expectations. To achieve something so final, so complete, that there would be nothing left over which to triumph. But despite all his yearning, some things were simply true. He was the son of a drelk farmer, like his father and grandfather before him. Three generations, maybe more, and not one had shown an inkling of magic.
In the distance, the town where he was headed shimmered like a mirage, its stone buildings rising faintly above the sea of feather grass surrounding him. As he walked the familiar path, Neeps’ mind drifted back to the night before.
After dinner, his mother and eldest sister had taken the little ones to bed, leaving him alone with his father to clean up.
They worked in companionable silence until his father spoke.
“So… any signs today?”
Neeps groaned. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
He was practically a younger copy of his father. Standing side by side at the washbasin, the resemblance was unmistakable. Both tall with gangling arms and legs. Both with unruly hair the color of burnished copper. But Neeps had his mother’s hazel eyes that crinkled when he smiled.
His father chuckled and reached over to ruffle his hair. “It’s never too late. Maybe tomorrow you’ll grow horns and talk to the drelk.”
“Great… and then I’ll never leave for sure,” Neeps muttered, scrubbing a plate even harder.
“Hey now…” his father said softly, a mixture of understanding and hurt in his voice. “I know our life is simple, but there’s joy in it. One day you’ll learn… it’s not where you are that matters.”
Neeps looked down and nodded, guilt forming a lump in his throat.
He hadn’t meant to sound ungrateful. He loved his family in a quiet, secret way—deep beneath the cracked earth, where the soil is richest and teeming with life. But his dreams stretched far beyond the hills and their fuzzy-horned beasts.
His father dried his hands and cleared his throat. “Your ma says we’re still waiting on that hoof brace for Clover. Stop by the Tinkerer’s tomorrow, will you?”
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Neeps was jolted from his thoughts. He’d just reached the edge of town, but something was off. The bell tower was ringing, loud and insistent, echoing from the heart of the plaza. A steady trickle of people began to form, drifting toward the sound. As Neeps followed, the crowd thickened. They were shoulder to shoulder, murmurs swelling with interest, curiosity, and… unease.
He pushed through the throng of townspeople to see what was going on. A soldier stood in the center of the plaza bearing the Empress’ insignia: a lion’s head with a siren’s tail.
“We believe there’s a witch hiding in these parts,” the soldier called out, voice cutting through the noise.
He gestured to two others, who hauled a limp man from the back of a massive pallacedon. The war steed snorted and pawed at the cobblestones, muscle rippling beneath its coat.
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
The man’s tunic was soaked in blood, a jagged claw mark slashed across his chest.
“This witch has killed,” the soldier said coldly, “and we believe she will kill again.”
He swept his gaze over the onlookers. “And I trust we don’t have to remind you that harboring a witch is punishable by royal decree.”
“Report anything suspicious at once. Anyone who provides information leading to her capture will be rewarded by the Crown.”
Neeps shuddered, wondering what reward would be worth drawing the ire of such a deadly witch. Moments later, the soldiers mounted up and rode off down the main thoroughfare, leaving a pair behind to take post at the town gates. The crowd began to disperse.
Splash!
Neeps turned just as Berta, the keeper of the inn across the plaza, sloshed a bucket of water across the flagstones. As if she were washing away the last traces of the scene from her doorstep.
“No good’ll come of this I’ll tell ya,” she grumbled.
He jogged over.
“Miss Berta!” he called. “Isn’t this the second witch hunt this month? What do you make of it?”
“We’re lucky,” she said in a low voice. “Got word from Nerth half the town burned down in a skirmish between the Empress’ mages and witches.”
Neeps looked shocked. “That’s awful… but did you say witch-es?” he asked. He’d always heard witches were solitary creatures; he didn’t realize they ever worked together.
Berta nodded gravely. “And further north, in Pontus,” she said, “they lost their town healer. Turned out she was a witch. Townsfolk tried to stop the soldiers, but they dragged her off kickin’ and screamin’.”
He pondered that for a moment. Nerth and Pontus were both larger towns. It made sense they might attract witch activity. But Trelan? Home to two-and-a-half inns and a single tavern? He couldn’t imagine it.
“What do you think the reward is?” he asked.
But Berta had already turned away, muttering curses as she sloshed another bucket across the stones.
Neeps noticed the sun dipping lower in the sky and started. He’d nearly forgotten his errand! With a determined shake of his head, he pushed the unsettling events of the day from his mind and made his way toward the Tinkerer’s shop.
Inside the shop, tall, narrow shelves crammed with inventions ran the length of the room, stacked so tightly they formed walls of clutter. Sunlight filtered in through the grimy windows.
“Oi, Neeps! Finally payin’ me a visit, are you?” the voice wheezed from deep within the shop.
At the very back, behind several barrels of rusted gears and wood scraps, sat a modest workshop where the Tinkerer hunched over something small, a nest of white hair perched atop his head.
“Good day, sir!” Neeps called. “I’ve come with an order from my ma.”
“I’ll be right with ya. Just finishin’ up with this one.” He gestured with a tool to the customer nearby.
Neeps nodded politely and drifted into the shelves, happy to explore the mysterious devices. Most of them looked like they did something useful, but figuring out what was anyone’s guess.
“As I was saying,” came a haughty voice near the back, “they are the worst of the worst—agents of chaos. They reject law, reject duty, reject the very foundation of our genteel society.”
Neeps turned and his jaw dropped. A slight man was pacing beside the worktable, a wooden staff tapping rhythmically against the floor with each step. His plush green cloak embroidered with the unmistakable sigil: a lion’s head on a siren’s tail. A mage. From the Empress’ Royal Cadre.
“Mm” The Tinkerer didn’t look up. The sound he made barely qualified as acknowledgment. He was, quite literally, focused on the task at hand. In one, he held a compact object; in the other, a delicate prying tool.
“I think you’re right,” he said at last, handing a palm-sized golden disc to the mage. “It’s reinforced by magic. I can’t open it.”
“Hmmmm!” The mage let out a delighted squeal, eyes lighting up. “How curious! This is the first time I’ve seen anything like it.”
He turned the object over in his hands, eyes gleaming. “Normally, when we confiscate witch belongings, it’s all the same. Foul-smelling skins, powders in cracked jars, dried-up plants no one can name. Useless filth. But this…this is…” He trailed off, as if stopping himself from saying too much. With a practiced flick, he opened the lid protecting the device. Inside sat a bejeweled compass, its needle suspended. The underside of the lid shimmered with silver etchings. He held it closer, one finger gently tracing the delicate symbols, as if reading them.
“Even curioser…” the mage’s voice lowered, “did you know witches abandon their young? He looked away from the compass, his expression contemplative.
“We don’t know why, but that’s why they’re always alone. So you see…” the mage said with a small, pitying smile, “they’re barely human.”
Neeps hung on the mage’s every word, spellbound, until something flickered in the corner of his eye.
From within the shelf, two green eyes stared back at him. Floating. Unblinking.
[…] Neeps […]