The Witch’s Betrayal
A Short Story
By Cassandra Rose Clarke
When I stepped out of the shadows, the scent of night-blooming flowers overwhelmed me. I wasn't expecting a garden, not this far into the desert, and the sight of it put me on edge. Everything about this commission suggested it was simple, routine -- but these flowers spoke of magic.
I did not want to deal with magic tonight. I wasn't supposed to deal with magic tonight.
I threaded through the garden, coasting on the backs of shadows, the metallic taste of the tracking spell lingering in my throat. The house loomed up ahead, wrapped in heavy ropes of jasmine. It was a simple house, white clay glowing in the moonlight, and it had been simple to track the target here. Simple, as I said. Routine.
The windows were dark, no candles or magic-cast lanterns illuminating the night. Good: the thick shadows made my magic easier. I dissolved into darkness, sliding away from the garden and the scent of flowers and the cold night air. The darkness was a different sort of cold -- death-cold, a friend at the Order always said, and I knew what he meant, because of the way the shadows curl into your nose and mouth and lungs, as if to drown you. But I didn't mind. That drowning cold meant I was hidden. Protected. It meant I could watch unseen from the places people did not look.
I passed through the walls of the house.
I pulled myself out of the darkness.
Something was wrong.
I stopped, half-in, half-out. The air was charged, crackling with residual magic. Through the haze I saw that the garden was not confined to the outside of the house. Shrubs emerged out of the slats in the floorboards, vines grew along the walls, palm fronds hung from the ceiling beams. Every plant was heavy with blossoms, and I could make out the scent of them, heady and unnatural.
Too much magic in too short a time. No one ever intended these plants to grow here, but the magic transformed the house so completely that they did anyway. They were a side-effect, a dangerous one.
Fallout, we called it in the Order.
By instinct, I sank back into the shadows and emerged a safe distance from the house, in the dry desert sands. The house and its garden rippled in the night wind. I took a deep breath, steadying myself. The fallout hadn't begun to affect me, not in that short a time, but no human could stay in that house for long without transforming with the magic. Fallout’s nature was such that it could never be controlled. Not even by someone like me.
I retreated into Kajjil, the Order's secret space between worlds, and cast the tracking spell again. I found my target immediately: he was in the house, still alive and still human.
This wasn't right. If he was in the house, the magic would have subsumed him. If the magic had subsumed him, I would not have been able to track him with my spell.
I cast it again and received the same results. Frustrated, I stepped out of Kajjil and stood in the wind and tried to decide what to do next. My first thought was that this was someone from the Order, a rival, hoping to ruin my commission – that sort of thing happens frequently enough that it was worth the consideration. But the magic in the house was not ack'mora. More likely, the target had received word that was I coming and had escaped -- although I didn't know how he could have heard, or what magic might have confused my tracking spell.
The wind picked up, blowing from the direction of the house and bringing with it the scent of the garden, the scent of living magic. I couldn't leave, not with my commission incomplete. When I am given a target, they must be eradicated. I have no say in the matter. Ever since I was a little boy taken away from his mother, my actions have belonged to the Order, and I’ve learned, over the years, to accept it.
But if I wanted any hope of finding this target, I would need something, some clue, as to how he had evaded me.
I traveled through the shadows. When I was back inside the house, I did not emerge completely, though it was difficult to see. Going inside was dangerous, but I could not go back to the Order empty-handed. Flowers crowded the rooms. The fallout tugged at the edges of the shadows, trying to draw me out. I didn't let it. I worked quickly, moving from room to room. The fallout made things confusing, difficult to latch on to.
And then I found something.
The highest concentration of magic was located in the bedroom. It was so dense and unstable that I didn't dare move beyond the doorway, not even half-wrapped in shadow. But I didn't need to go further to recognize the eerie, glowing white flowers twining around the bed. They were a particular flower, bred by a particular woman. I had seen similar flowers as seedlings. I had walked through a garden of such flowers, side by side with the woman who had grown them.
"Leila," I said, and the shadows took me away.
#
I rapped on Leila's door. She didn't answer. I shouted her name and rapped harder, the door banging in its frame. Still no answer. A discouraging sign.
I stepped away from the door, turned and looked at the empty street. A magic-cast lantern flickered overhead, casting eerie golden-limned shadows along the rows of houses. Despite being in the city, the air here was clean and bright in comparison to the magic-soaked air surrounding the target's house, and I breathed it in, trying to clear my head after the journey through Kajjil.
The stillness settled around me. I turned back to Leila's house and pulled out my sword, banging on the door with its hilt. The sound echoed up and down the street. "Leila!" I shouted. "Let me in!"
A light flickered on in one of the nearby houses. I cursed and sheathed my sword, melting into the shadows. I didn't want to enter Leila's house without permission. That's something I only do with targets. But I couldn’t wait.
When no one came onto the street, I stuck out my foot and kicked her door one last time for good measure. And only then did it slide open, pale light spilling across her porch, illuminating the flowers she grew in ceramic pots, the same ones I'd seen at the target's house.
Her face appeared, beautiful in the moonlight. Her hair curled around her bare shoulders and her eyes were lined with that dark, smoky make-up she wore when she wanted something. It was clear she had not been asleep.
"Oh, well, isn't this a shame?" she called out, peering into the street. "I was certain it was my dear friend Naji at the door, but I don't see anyone here." She pouted. "I guess I'll have to go back inside."
She began to pull her door closed. I stuck my foot out again and it jarred to a stop.
"You know I'm here," I said softly.
Leila turned in the direction of my voice and gazed at a space over my left shoulder. She smiled wickedly, her eyes glinting.