Ilse Witch

He found the man he was looking for in a marketplace toward the south end of the village, not far from the beginnings of the docks and building yards. He was a scarecrow dressed in brilliant but tattered scarlet robes. He was so thin that when he braced himself against the occasional gusts of wind that blew in off the water, he seemed to bend like a reed. A wisp of black beard trailed from his pointed chin, and his dark hair hung long and unkempt about his narrow face. A vivid red scar ran from hairline to chin, crossing the bridge of his broken nose like a fresh lash mark. He stood just off the path of the traffic passing the stalls, close by a fountain, head cocked in a peculiarly upward tilted fashion, as if searching for guidance from the clouded skies. One hand held forth a metal cup, and the other gestured toward passersby with a fervor that suggested you ignored him at your peril.

“Come now, don’t be shy, don’t be hesitant, don’t be afraid!” His voice was thin and high pitched, but it caught the attention. “A coin or two buys you peace of mind, pilgrim. A coin or two buys you a glimpse of your future. Be certain of your steps, friend. Take a moment to learn of the fate you might prevent, of the misstep you might take, of the downward path you might unwittingly follow. Come one, come all.”

Walker stood across the square from the man and watched silently for a time. Now and then, someone would stop, place a coin in the metal cup, and bend close to hear what the man had to say. The man always did the same thing: he took the giver’s hand in his own and held it while he talked, moving his fingers slowly over the other’s open palm, nodding all the while.

Once or twice, when the man shifted positions or moved to take a drink from the fountain’s waters, the scarlet robes shifted to reveal that he had only one leg and wore a wooden peg for the other.

Walker held his position until the rain quickened sufficiently to drive most of the crowd elsewhere and force the man to back away under the shelter of an awning. Then he crossed the square, approached the man in the scarlet robes as if seeking to share his shelter, and stood quietly at his side.

“Perhaps you could read the future of a man who seeks to take a long and hazardous journey to an unknown land?” he queried, looking out at the rain.

The man’s gaze shifted slightly, but stayed directed skyward. “Some men have made journeys enough for five lifetimes already. Perhaps they should stay home and quit tempting fate.”

“Perhaps they have no choice.”

“Paladins of shades revealed only to them, questers of answers to secrets unknown, ever searching for what will put an end to their uncertainty.” The hands gestured helplessly. “You’ve been away for a long time, pilgrim. Up there, in your high castle, alone with your thoughts and dreams. Do you really seek to make a journey to a faraway land?”

Walker smiled faintly. “You are the forecaster of fates, Cicatrix. Not me.”

The scarred face nodded. “A teller of futures this day, a disabled soldier the next, a madman the third. Like yourself, Walker, I am a chameleon.”

“We do what we must in this world.” The Druid bent closer. “But I didn’t seek you out for any of the skills you’ve listed, formidable though they are. I require instead a small piece of information from that vast storehouse you manage—and I would keep that information from reaching other ears.”

Cicatrix reached for the Druid’s hand and took it in his own, running his fingers over the palm, keeping his ruined face directed skyward as he did so. “You intend to make a trip to an unknown land, pilgrim?” His voice had dropped to a whisper. “Perhaps you seek transport?”

“Of the sort that flies. Something fast and durable. Not a warship, but able to be fitted to withstand an attack by one. Not a racer, but able to fly as if born to it. Her builder must have vision, and the ship must have heart.”

The thin man laughed softly. “You seek miracles, pilgrim. Do I seem to you the sort that can provide them?”

“In the past, you have.”

“The past comes back to haunt me, then. There lies the trouble with having to live up to another’s expectations, when those expectations are founded on questionable memories. Well.” He kept running his hands over Walker’s palm. “Your enemy in this endeavor wouldn’t happen to wear silver and black?”

Walker glanced out into the rain. “Mostly, my enemy would have eyes everywhere and kill with her song.”

Cicatrix hissed softly. “A witch with a witches’ brew, is it? Stay far from her, Walker.”

“I’ll try. Now listen carefully. I need a ship and a builder, a Captain and a crew. I need them to be strong and brave and willing to ally themselves with the Elves against all enemies.” He paused. “March Brume’s reputation will be tested in this as it has not been tested before.”

“And mine.”

“And yours.”

“If I disappoint you, I shall not see you again, pilgrim?”

“You will at least wish as much.”

Cicatrix chuckled mirthlessly. “Threats? No, not from you, Walker. You never threaten; you only reveal your concerns. A poor cripple like myself is advised to pay close attention, but not to act out of fear.” His fingers stopped moving on Walker’s hand. “Are the rewards for those who become involved reasonable, given the risks?”

“Well beyond that. The Elves will open wide the doors to their vaults.”