A Ragged Magic Read Free

we turn past the barbican, the castle walls, descend a slope.
    The Inquisitor’s building is squat, brooding in the shadows, nursing a grudge against the tall grace of the castle. The carriage from the square stands in the courtyard, the bay horses pawing at the ground, restless.
    My long ginger hair snags across my mouth as the wind shifts, the sun sets over the crimson sea. So I am to be tried in darkness. If I am to be tried at all.
    Ah, Keenan, if only I had run sooner, farther. If only I’d kept my mouth shut to begin with, the priests would never have hung you. I can still see your body jerk behind my eyelids.
    I slump across the cantle, trembling. A large guard pulls me from the horse roughly. I wobble and fall on my side on the gray courtyard stones. Still warm from the sun, they smell of rain and brine and muddy feet.
    The guard yanks me up and slings me over his shoulder like an empty sack, strides into the Inquisitor’s building, my bonds slapping down his legs. My head bumps against the guard’s back.
    The air grows dark and cool, and I shudder in sudden chill. Tightening his grip on my sore and scratched thighs, the guard shifts and jumps me farther up his shoulder.
    Breathless nausea blossoms, and I nearly let go of my bladder, grunting. My arms hang painfully from my shoulders, but I dare not move again.
    I see black flagstone with no pattern, hear the footsteps echo sharply into darkness. Growing dizzy from blood rushing in my ears, I try to focus on our path.
    Why? my head whispers. There isn’t any way out of the Inquisitor’s building but through Justice. The priests have said that often enough.
    I hang limp, desolate in the guard’s grip.
    The air grows dank: the smell of stale water and mold overpower even my fear-soaked odor. We pass through twisting halls, doorways — a torch flares, and the guard dumps me in a corner. Benches and knives and metal spikes dance dully in the light.
    I scramble to sit, my bound hands slipping on gritty damp stone.
    “So, this is the witch of Weaver’s Guild,” a nasal baritone declares above me.
    My back against the cold wall, I look up into flat blue eyes, no emotion: a boy studying a fly whose wings he’s torn off. He bends down to examine me more closely.
    “Yes, Bishop Gantry. She is accused of consorting with demons, summoning the Wasting, and of the spell-killing of Pastor Seaton.”
    “Of course she is. And does she have the Sight?”
    “As reported, sir.”
    The Bishop’s hand slowly wraps, long-fingered, around the rope still at my neck. Suddenly he yanks my head toward him, smashing my ear into his knee. “And do you confess, witch?”
    Stars dance around my head; my mouth is too dry to answer.
    His mouth turns up in a vague smile as he straightens, his dark robe rustling and billowing. Letting go of my harness, he turns to a bench, gestures for the guard to place me there.
    Shackles, sullenly picked out in the torchlight, await my arms and legs. Sweat breaks out on my cold skin.
    No trial, then. But a while yet before I die.

Chapter Two
    I don’t know how long it has been. My hands burn, my feet shoot pain up through my body, my throat is raw. The questions make no sense, and they will not take no for an answer.
    But I didn’t say no, not after they skinned the first hand. I stopped saying words after my feet.
    “She cannot sign the confession, my Lord Bishop.”
    “It doesn’t matter. Witness it and go.”
    “Shall I have her brought to a cell?”
    “No! No, I will summon a guard to do that. Go back to the town, and tell that guildsman it is done. And tell him I expect his report by tomorrow.”
    “I can —”
    “Go.”
    “Yes, my Lord Bishop.”
    I shudder and try not to whimper at the voices. I don’t allow myself relief. I am not dead, yet.
    Bishop Gantry moves around the chamber. I can hear him when I can’t see him. I can’t keep my eyes shut — they keep opening to find him, seek out the danger. But there’s no way to