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Chapter 2: The Witch
Part 1
Junelight tugged at her shirt. Everything was too tight. Crude leather, roughspun furs, half a dozen belts, twice as many cinches and countless hemp laces sucked the Falsesparker clothing against her skin. Every step she took creaked. It was too hot, and a loose end of the rope that held her hair up kept tickling the back of her neck.
And oh, the smell of it all.
A sympathetic breeze whisked through the campgrounds, putting her upwind of the procession for a blessed moment. She walked at the back of a large group of about two dozen, flanked by two hulking bodyguards, personally assigned by the Head of Spark. According to Bettine of All, they were two of the best. June drew little comfort from the claim, since literally every person in the camp seemed to be armed to the teeth. Clubs, bladed weapons, elastic contraptions for hurling blades, spikes and rocks… their commitment and passion for barbarism was impressive.
The group approached a huge tent. It looked much like any one of the other thousands of tents or tent-like structures in the area, with three small exceptions: it was by itself in the middle of a small clearing, there was an orange stripe running up one side, and it was surrounded by a circle of dead leaves. From what she’d gathered, the placement made it a community tent, the colour signified it that belonged to the All family, and the leaves probably meant VIP-only, given that they were headed to a leadership meeting. So she’d been told.
At the front of the parade was the camp’s Head of Spark, Bettine of All All-bit-tel. She was two heads shorter and half the weight of the stomping brutes that made up the rest of the retinue, but no one in this triad so much as blinked without her permission. Junelight could hear Bettine’s long cape snapping in the wind from all the way in the back.
They reached the tent and stopped. An aide of sorts and two more toughs popped out of a flap and consulted with Bettine. A babble of rushed conversation swelled out of the opening. It was a full house this evening. The trio went back in and the crowd inside fell silent at once. Even the breeze died, and the smells of a hundred unwashed souls returned at full force, lightly seasoned with the earthy musk of the woods.
Bettine snapped her fingers and strode in. The group followed, single file.
June steadied her breath and resolved to stop fidgeting. The rope in her hair was not on board with the plan and redoubled its efforts to drive her insane. As she drew closer to the flap, she focused on the sensation of energy cycling between the two crystals buried in her chest, one above each breast. It moved in a buzzing loop, flipping clockwise or counterclockwise depending on how she tilted her thoughts. Wisping up and out of the centre of the loop was another trickle of power, invisible to them, and faint to her. It trailed up into the fading sky like a piece of broken spiderweb. If she concentrated hard enough along its path, she could trace it all the way back to the communal stone at the little logging village some distance north of here. She was right on the edge of the stone’s range, but it would be enough if things went sideways.
The entrance swallowed the line. June and her pair of assigned thugs were the last to enter.
As expected, the stench was formidable: sour sweat (distinctly male), dry smoke, soggy vegetation, old canvas and wood, in that order. She decided it was worth the energy expenditure to reroute her olfactory sense to something less distracting. Her crystals pulsed the tiniest bit, and the clean scent of a fresh snowbank filled her nose.
The interior formed a slight oval, lit at regular intervals along the sides by tall, angled torches. The crowd filled most of the space. They sat, most on logs or other crudely fashioned chairs. June’s end of the tent was pitched over a flat, exposed rock, and its edge served as an uneven, lumpy stage. June, the bodyguards, and most others in her group stood stage right. Bettine and two of her entourage stood centre, facing the crowd. The crowd mostly watched the short Head of Spark, but June felt a few curious glances shoot her way.
The aide said, “Eyes, your eyes and focus! Bettine of All All-bit-tel, Head of Spark All-bit-tel, to speak!”
Bettine stood with her hands clasped behind her back and seemed to wait. She sported leather and an excessive amount of belts like everyone else, except this gear was nice. Her breastplate and leggings were polished and fitted. They formed a checkerboard pattern of alternating black and smoke coloured patches, which were studded along the seams with little orange stones. Her burlap cape was fastened with a complex rope braid. Perched on her head at a ridiculous angle: an ash coloured hat with one half of its wide brim folded all the way up. Her bone white hair was a wild mix of braids and dreadlocks. A single thick strand was dyed vibrant, blood orange and beaded with tangerine baubles.
She still didn’t speak. The seconds ticked by as she stood there, lips locked in a line, eyes tracking the crowd. They waited. The crackle and pop of the torches thundered over the bumps and thumps of the outside world. It was as if she was daring someone to speak.
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