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Dedication

The Witch Roads duology is the book that reignited my love of writing during a rough period when I wondered if I should just quit.

I therefore dedicate it to all who persevere even as it may seem easier to give up.

Never give up.

I hope that you, that we, that all of us, find the will and heart to keep going.

1 ON ORDINARY LANES AND BEHIND UNPROTECTED WALLS

ONE HUNDRED AND thirty years after the Pall tore deadly rifts through the Tranquil Empire, it is still prudent to avoid walking abroad at night. Even people holding official tokens that permit them to travel on the safety of the imperial roads will halt before the sun sets. These tokens allow them to lodge at an imperial hostel protected by a split in the road. But many people—most people—have no choice but to walk about their lives on ordinary lanes and sleep behind unprotected walls.

The Shield of Peace and Prosperity so forcefully promised by the empire’s founders has, it turns out, only ever sheltered some, not all. This is exactly what the holy venerables of the Heart Temple predicted at the dawn of the empire, to no avail.

Three hundred years ago, these temple theurgists and custodians wrote uncompromising tracts condemning imperial ambition. They spoke out in village plazas and city markets. They warned against the consolidation of power into the hands of a single military clan.

In answer, the newly appointed imperial censors burned their pamphlets as treasonous. The imperial sentinels accused the venerables of sorcery and burned them as witches. The imperial engineers sealed their bones into the great roads that link together the growing empire and facilitate the swift movement of its armies.

After the rising of the Spore-laden Pall in the reign of the ill-fated Azalea Emperor, it was soon discovered that the imperial roads repelled the Pall and its deadly Spore. The imperial archivists sent out official dispatches proclaiming that it was the harmonious and honorable magic wielded by the reconstituted imperial theurgists, in cooperation with the imperial wardens, that protected the roads against the Pall’s malign influence.

Yet a tradition persists among the common people that the interred bones of the old venerables were infused with a holy power and it is the relics of those condemned as “witches” that have kept the roads safe. Even after all this time, the murdered venerables are said to still watch over the humble and the weak, the menial and the forgotten. Or so it is whispered, where the authorities cannot hear.

A passage censored from The Official’s Handbook of the Empire as compiled by Luviara, theurgist, working at the behest of the Inner Chamber of the Heart Temple

2 THE DEPUTY COURIER

It was early autumn, warm enough in the late afternoon that Elen and her nephew had taken off their long jackets, rolled them up, and tied them atop their packs. They tramped through the rugged Moonrise Hills on a path she knew well because every month for the last ten years she had walked the same route. She was a circuit courier for the local intendant, delivering messages, decrees, news, personal letters, contracts, warrants, and a copy of the imperial gazette to highland villages and hamlets that could only be reached on foot or by griffin scout. Griffins were out of reach for a humble deputy courier, but Elen had two good feet and was grateful for them.

“What are you smiling about?” grumbled Kem with the graceless bad temper of a cranky adolescent. “I have a blister. You said these boots would be broken in by the end of the circuit. And I’m hungry. How soon will we get home?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” He shaded his eyes and peered toward the setting sun as it spread a golden glow along the ridgeline that marked the edge of the hills. A knob of rock rising from the ridge was the best-known landmark, easy to spot. “There’s the lookout! We can’t be more than three hours from home.”

She didn’t need to check her official’s pocket watch to judge the sky. Birds were gathering, flocking toward roosting spots. “It’ll be dark in an hour.”

“Twilight lasts a while beyond that. It wouldn’t be so far to home, just another hour or two past the lookout. The trail is wide and chalky, so it’s easy to see. It’s almost full moon, so there’ll be enough light.”

“No.”

“But—”

“No.”

His voice got tighter and grouchier. “For one thing, Palls don’t rise during the week of the full moon.”

“A Pall is not what I’m worried about.”

“Joef told me there’s been no sighting of Spore in ten years, not anywhere near Orledder Halt or in this region of the hills.”

“All the more reason to assume it could happen at any time.”

“But—”

“How many nos do you need? I haven’t forgotten when you were two years old. I can say no all day and night long and not break a sweat.” She grinned.

“Ugh. Why are you always so cheerful?”

“It’s a passage spell.”

“A passage spell? I’ve never heard of that.” His tone blended skepticism and curiosity.

“The grumpier you are, the more cheerful I become. It passes your grumpy energy across to me and I transform it into bright flowers and sunny days.” She laughed at his eye-rolling.

“You’re awful,” he said as he fought not to smile. But then his shoulders sagged.

“What is it?” she asked, gently now.

“I know you got permission to bring me on the full circuit to give me a taste of courier duty. I know I have to make a decision. I know I have to Declare for something. But … half the month you walk your assigned circuit, and half the month you work in Map Hall at the Residence. Doesn’t it get to be a grind, every month leaving at the new moon and returning at the full moon, walking at the same pace on the same path, seeing the same people over and over every year?”

“Having shelter, food, and a worthy purpose is never a grind. It might seem tedious to you, but I’d rather have had fewer shocks in my early life and more uneventful days like we’ve been fortunate to have, living in the Halt.”

His right hand strayed to touch the faded green ribbon that tied back his long, glossy hair. The ribbon had been his mother’s. She, too, had had unusually beautiful hair of a dark reddish-gold quite unlike the black hair most common in the empire. Although, she’d been more vain of it than Kem ever was.

The sting of losing Aoving would never fade and never heal. Never ever, thought Elen fiercely. But they had escaped, and had many good years before the accident. That they’d had so many good years considering where they’d started was a miracle worth cherishing every single day she woke up missing her sister. And she had the keeping of this wonderful if sometimes grumpy child, a responsibility that mattered more than anything in the world.

“I tell you what, Captain No. You have to make up your own mind whether you want to Declare as a courier. Or whatever profession you are eligible for. But today, I can give you a little taste of the unexpected and the slightly risky. We’ll camp at Three Spires.”

He cast her a shocked look, then a second and a third, like his head was stuck on a chain of disbelief he kept pulling. She wanted to laugh but knew when to stop. The ribbon touch had been a sure sign he was getting heart-tired, so she’d follow his lead. But he was still a youth, eager to hear about the most frightfully appalling things.

“Joef says Three Spires is haunted by the shade of a wicked sorcerer-king who wielded a hideous power that leached the life right out of anything the sorcerer touched,” he said, sounding gleeful.

She chuckled. “Joef has a most amazing storehouse of tales and rumors.”

“His aunt is the intendant’s archivist.”

“And the local gossip, with a finger in every bowl of porridge. Nourishing, but to be taken with a grain of salt. It’s safe to shelter in the Spires overnight as long as we follow the rules. What are the rules?”

He reeled it off by rote, barely listening to himself. “‘Don’t get distracted or sloppy. No shortcuts. Stick to the routine. Stay calm.’ Isn’t that all just the same thing?”

“Is it?”

He sighed dramatically. He was brimful of sighs these days, the closer he got to the decision he’d have to make. “Declaration Week starts tomorrow! How do I decide? I can’t be a midwife like Mama, even though I know she wanted that for me. And I’m glad you had me come along on a full circuit. But I don’t want to be a courier. I’m sorry.”

“My blessed child, my hope for you is that you can be safe, not that you do what you think I want you to do. You like to work with your hands. You could apprentice to an artisan, like … I don’t know … old Seladwin would be a good person to learn from and work with. You’d never lack for customers. She needs someone to take over her shop since she has no heirs.”

“I’m not going to apprentice to the cobbler! I don’t want to make shoes all my life.”

“Well-made boots are a gift of human ingenuity and skill. Never forget it.”

He glanced at his boots, the first footgear he had ever possessed that hadn’t been handed down to him. A pair of new boots was a traditional gift for a youth as they Declared for a profession and thus the path and status they would follow throughout their life. “You told me so, didn’t you? That I should wear my old boots and break these in afterward. I really do have a blister.”

“Blisters hurt a lot, as I know all too well. We’re almost there. There’s a spring in the courtyard between the three towers. You can wash your feet and put on dry socks. That’ll help.”

“You know what I like about you?”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“You never say ‘I told you so.’ Not like Mama always did.”

“Your mama had her own monsters to fight. And she did gloat a bit, didn’t she, when she was right? It’s funny how I miss that about her.”

He fiddled with the ribbon.

They walked in silence, feet crunching on the rocky path. Elen kept the pace brisk as the sun sank toward Lancer’s Ridge. Shadows crept down the slope like reaching hands. The wind began to flag. The overwhelming scent of autumn grass was softened by a faint fragrance of rose oil, so brief that, as soon as she registered the smell, it was gone, a phantom. It was only a memory of a similar hike into twilight, long ago, and the shock that had followed. She rubbed her right forearm, caught herself doing it, and stopped before Kem had a chance to notice and wonder.

A white post carved of holystone marked the turnoff to Three Spires. A seam of chalk guided them along a track that curved around and along the rocky slope. At a cairn, the track forked. One branch ascended steeply to the southern edge of the hill where three stone towers clustered together. From this distance, the slender spires looked more like huge stone spears than towers.

The Spires stood on the edge of a striking promontory. Their summits overlooked a long valley that extended southeast. The imperial histories claimed the towers had been built by the first Tranquil emperor as a fort, the location chosen for its view, and were later abandoned. Every local knew the story was ridiculous because the towers were far older than the empire. They weren’t even built with the same materials and techniques as imperial buildings.

The other branch of the track descended into the valley, to a cluster of ramshackle cottages and rough sheds ringed by a water-filled ditch. The village’s buildings were barely visible in the deep shadows pooled at the base of the promontory’s cliff. Any other traveler caught out at dusk would have overnighted in the hamlet. Elen ought to have done so, but she really didn’t want to have to deal with the awkward encounter she wouldn’t be able to avoid if they went there. She excused her reluctance by reveling in Kem’s awed stare as they climbed the final stretch toward the towers. The last light of the sun shimmered along the smooth walls, rippling like water because of an unknown magic woven into the towers that no one living today could name, much less shape to their will. Reflexively, she touched her forearm.

“Did you hurt yourself?” Kem asked, sharp as ever.

“My old injury that aches sometimes,” she said, which was enough of the truth.

His expression scrunched up as he eyed her. He was about to ask another question when they heard the thump of hurried footsteps from below.

A breathless shout caught at their backs. “Courier! Good Deputy, if you will! Pray attend us!”

So much for her attempt to escape a meeting she should have known was inevitable. She sighed, halted, and turned.

3 A THIRD PRESENCE

Three individuals came up the path behind them. The first was a huffing-and-puffing elder aiding himself with a pair of walking sticks. The second was a farmer, a man about Elen’s own age, early thirties. The scrawny youth at the rear carried a bow and a quiver of arrows whose points were carved from scavenged holystone. Not that arrows would help if there was a Spore irruption, but it was better than no protection at all.

“Is that you, fair Elen, Honored Courier?” the farmer called in a wheedling tone that made her cringe. She did her best not to judge him harshly for the awkward way he fawned and flattered. He didn’t know any other way to speak to imperial officials, even one so inconsequential as a local intendant’s deputy courier. “We thought we’d missed you on your return from this month’s circuit. What a shame that would have been! I’ve a plea to make to you!”

Seeing that she’d stopped, the trio hastened their climb.

Kem snickered. “You think he’s going to ask again if you’ll marry him? Be a mother to his motherless brood? How many children did he sire on that poor woman before she died of exhaustion?”

“Let’s not be unkind to a person who knew no other road for her life. It isn’t me he’s enamored of. It’s what I represent. Something he’s never had.”

“What’s that?”

“Enough to eat more days than not. I know what it’s like to wake up hungry and go to bed even hungrier.”

“Mama used to say exactly that when I wouldn’t eat my beets. But she never would say more when I asked why you two got so hungry.”

“I expect she didn’t care to relate the details.” She fixed a smile to her face, the politely noncommittal one she brandished to good effect together with her facility for names, titles, and proper address. “Elder Marsilion. Tiller Urnesso. Deputy Sentinel Willomo. I greet you under the Shield of the Empire’s Benevolent Cloak. It is late. I fear you will be caught out after dark beyond your moat. No need to follow me. Best to return to your homes.”

Marsilion replied first, as was his right as an elder. “When Urnesso spotted you on the hill, we thought you would shelter with us for the night. Yet you turned in this direction at the cairn. Surely you cannot intend to—” He indicated the three towers with a trembling hand. “Moon-bright is a dangerous time at the Spires. Haunts emerge from the moon’s malign shadow.”

“Have you seen a haunt yourself, Elder? Have any of you encountered one?”

“Oh, no, no, no, not me, Deputy Courier. We never come up here, nor walk beyond our moat at night. But my granfa’ told me, he did. Said when he were young, he lost a friend to a haunt. The lad went to the Spires on a dare one moon-bright night. Came walking down at dawn with a different set to his face and a stranger’s eyes. Walked right past his family as if he didn’t know them and never returned home again.”

“Yes, I’ve heard about your granfa’s story.”

“You have?” he asked, startled.

“Indeed I have.” She hadn’t, but Elen was a cheerful liar. It wasn’t that she thought lying was good but that she’d learned when a certain kind of lie oiled a string that would otherwise ravel into a knot. Sometimes people simply would not listen. It wasn’t that she faulted them for closing their ears to answers they didn’t want to hear or couldn’t understand or were afraid of. But there were times it was pointless to argue or try to persuade, so she’d stopped trying. “After that incident, wardens set a warding circle inside the central courtyard to keep out the haunts, protected by a holystone pavement.”

The elder nodded wisely, although his eyes creased with uncertainty. “Yes, it’s true there is holystone inside. I’ve seen it.”

Urnesso smiled, an expression more desperate than cheerful. “But you would honor us with your presence, if we might host you overnight, Deputy Courier. It would be our honor and duty.”

“It’s just not possible, Tiller,” she replied in a pleasant tone, making sure to use his title instead of his name. “Inspecting the Spires is part of my rounds for the intendant. Each season I make sure the warding is still intact. It’s just turned autumn, so I must shelter there overnight and refuse your kind invitation.”

Studying Urnesso’s hopeful expression, she accepted that she was using lies to fend off a proposal he would keep pressing because he didn’t know what else to do, who else to ask, how else to manage when he had to toil in marginally yielding fields all day among a scatter of five households, none of whom could quite feed themselves on the valley’s agriculturally impoverished land. One of his children had died last winter of an illness the little one had been too malnourished to survive. Kem had forgotten, but Elen didn’t forget what she saw in this hamlet and in the hill villages. She did what she could, and she lied when she had to. Lies were how she and Aoving had survived. Truth was better. Truth was what you aimed for when you drew your bow in life. But truth could so swiftly kill people who had no one to protect them, and she was glad to be alive.

“Here.” She swung down her pack and pulled from it the goat-meat sausage, the round of salted cheese, and the small sack of oats they’d been given that morning at a hamlet whose livestock had prospered on the slopes over the summer. “You’d be doing us a favor to take this off our hands and share it among your families. It will lighten our load.”

Kem’s eyes got round as he opened his mouth to protest. She gave him a hard stare until he snapped his lips closed and took a step back with a huff of displeasure. Willomo shyly looked Kem up and down in surprise, puzzled gaze lingering too long on Kem’s chest. Realizing he was staring rudely, the lad blushed and looked away. Kem bit his lip, annoyed and flushed. He was a surging wind funnel of emotion these days, not that she blamed him, given everything he was going through. At his age she’d never had the luxury, and she was glad he did, even when it made him tiresome to deal with.

“Best we all get on our way, Elder,” she went on, knowing they would have to let her go. “Sun’s setting. You’ve got a longer walk than I have. Peace of the night to you, Elder. Tiller. Deputy Sentinel.”

She beckoned to Kem and, without waiting for an answer, headed on up the track. It was rude, according to the custom of the villages, but fully in keeping with the perquisites of an imperial official, even one so humble as a deputy courier.

After one hundred steps she risked a glance back to make sure the others had taken the food. Of course they had. Urnesso lagged behind as if wondering if she would change her mind, not that she had ever given him an opportunity to ask again, not after the first time.

Abruptly Kem said, “It’s selfish of him to think you would marry a poor tiller from a ragged hamlet that can’t even feed itself. And give up being a courier, if the intendant would even allow it.”

“Hard to say what any of us would do in his situation. I’ve been asking around.”

“Asking around?”

“In the hill villages. Sometimes a person loses their kin or their home, or a stray relative from a distant village turns up and no one knows what to do with them. Can’t turn them out, but can’t feed them. There might be someone for whom Urnesso’s situation would be a hopeful change.”

“You’re the one who just said none of them ever have enough to eat.”

“He’d do better with a second pair of adult hands in his household to share the work. Who’s to say it couldn’t get better, in that case?”

“But not you, Aunt?” He slid a look her way, testing.

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