The word taunts me, and I keep walking.
How many days has it been since Birresborn? My stomach rumbles, and I pull one of the tubers I foraged out of my leather pouches. It’s crunchy and tasteless, but it silences the hunger pains, one small relief in the endless thunder.
It’s well past midnight, whatever day it is. Winter is thinning the forest’s canopy, but enough of it remains that even the palest moonlight is kept at bay. The air is crisp, mixed with the humidity of a recent rain-not-quite-ice that lingers on my cloak in mushy droplets. There is moisture in every breath that smells of coming snow and decaying plants and dense, saturated dirt.
I feel my way onward, relying on touch and sound to move. There are no shadows even here; all is impassable darkness, so I wouldn’t know if I was being followed, would I?
No. I’m scaring myself unnecessarily—if I was being followed, the hexenjägers would have set on me when I stole these clothes. It’s just the darkness playing tricks on my mind.
And exhaustion. That ache is beginning to go deeper than the rest.
Stop thinking. Stop complaining. Just walk.
I check the sky for my direction; I cannot see the stars. Darkness only, everywhere. Am I still going south? My heart hammers, pushing panic through my limbs.
“Folk of the forest, herbs and charm,” I say the lullaby to myself as I take another step. My voice sounds foreign and rough to my own ears. “Keep good children safe from harm. Folk of the forest, grass and bark. Leave bad children in the dark.”
That’s a lie.Leave bad children in the dark.
The bad ones aren’t in the dark. They’re right here, right next to us.
It’s such a lie that I hiccup a laugh, but it cracks in my chest, and pain shoots out, choking me until I sob—verdammt, not again,not again.
The sob begets more, and my eyes burn with tears. How does it burn still? Haven’t I cried out all the smoke and ash?
I find a tree trunk, lean my weight on it. I’m so tired; keep walking.
Another step, and something tethers around my foot.
I scream. It’s a hand—a hexenjäger grabbing my ankle, face in a monstrous snarl—
My arms flail, and I slam to my knees. Nothing more happens, no clawlike fingers dragging me for a stake, and when I turn, feeling over what tripped me, I find only an arched root.
A root.
Not a hexenjäger.
My whole body deflates, and schiesse, how I hate myself. A tree root. I screamed and gave away my position because of atree root.
The chilly dank darkness closes around me, thicker than a quilted blanket. My limbs start to give way, and in a wash of calm fuzziness, I droop closer to the damp undergrowth.
A shake, and I scramble to my feet and slap my cheeks, hard.Stay awake, unverschämt!
Another step. Another. I spot a gap in the foliage overhead—I’m still heading south. Mostly. Good.
Another step.
Another.
One by one, all the way to Trier.
4
OTTO
It is a solemn ride to Bernkastel.
The witch hunts have been going on for half our lives. No hexenjäger—no person in the entire diocese—is untouched by the trials.
