Witch of the Lake

Chapter 3-1

CHAPTER 3

Kaspian was late. Very late.

As he stepped out of the shade of the Perun-struck oak, the fields before him weren’t animated with the tall, breeze-rustled ears of rye he always brushed his fingers over. Only bare earth, shorn close to the ground, filled the expanse. The scent of fresh-cut grass drifted on the wind. The reapers had cleared almost the entire field; only stipples of wheat stalks remained. He hefted the painting onto his back, rearranged the satchel’s strap, and picked up the pace. If he missed this year, Tata would have his head, heir or no.

The autumn light had been so beautiful this morning, the perfect time to paint the lake. He’d only meant to linger a little while. For months he’d been trying to capture the esoteric feeling that place emanated. At times it almost seemed aware of him. It was easy enough to replicate the pigment of the dark bottomless lake and the reflection of the trees on its smooth surface. If only he could portray the tingle of magic in the air, or the color of his racing heart when he’d first gazed upon the glassy water. Capturing the magic of that place was as impossible as trying to paint the notes of her song...

That young woman—had she been real or some illusion conjured by the forest, a vivid waking dream? For years his brother, Henryk, had smuggled in paints from Tarnowice, but in recent years, the whispers of villagers had led him to a cottage in the so-called Madwood. Although he’d half-hoped to run into some of the creatures of legend, he’d never snagged more than a half-glimpsed shape from the corner of his eye. It made him uneasy, and yet he couldn’t escape its allure. How many times had he braved its wilderness, seeking out the witches of the lake for their paint? By using it, he’d hoped some of their magic would infuse his canvas, and in all these long months, he’d not once seen a hint of her.

Bundles of rye leaned against one another in piles, casting long shadows reaching for the castle. The two-story building loomed over it, an imposing structure of oak and stone that reflected the might and power of his family legacy. There were few like it, even outside the region of Rubin, and some lords still lived in little more than larger huts, but in his younger, stronger years, Tata had been adamant that all of Nizina’s lords comprehend the strength of the Wolski family.

Squat wooden buildings surrounded the castle, among them the blacksmith, the smokehouse, and the silo. He crept past them to the barn, where the scents of fresh hay and horse tickled his nose. Inside, it was dark—perfectly dark—and in an empty stall, he set down his painting.

She’d liked it. Even though the trees were too muddy and the reflection on the water too bright, and worse yet it lacked emotion—she’d liked it.

If Tata saw it, he’d likely smash it to pieces.

Better to hide it more skillfully. Careful not to smudge any drying paint, Kaspian nestled it behind the golden stalks of rye. He’d have to come back for it later.

At the far end of the field, reapers joked and laughed, clad in their sun-bleached roughspun beneath hats and headscarves, as they gathered bundles of rye, putting them into upright piles to be stored away later. A single row remained, and beyond it Tata’s white hair was a paint smear against the gray clouds gathering overhead. The ceremonial sickle glinted in his hand.

If he weren’t the future lord of Rubin, the rye wouldn’t be the only thing being cut down today.

The harvest ritual was almost over. It would soon be time to hand over the ceremonial sickle.

Kaspian sprinted across the field. If only he wasn’t late, maybe Tata would hear him out, since today was his last chance. He’d left bread and honey as offerings to Perun at the Perun-struck oak. He’d brought a spool of linen yarn to Mokosza’s shrine and begged for Her blessing. And just in case, he’d even lit a candle for Weles, lord of the under, whose new cult of devotees swelled with every passing season. Anything to make Tata listen. For once.

The reapers gathered around, forming a half circle in front of Tata, who appeared healthier today than he usually did. With their backs turned outward, Kaspian could blend in among them as he approached.

“Who do you think will be crowned head reaper?” a farmhand asked.

“Is there any doubt who he’ll choose? Julian nearly worked his hands to the bone.” The second man attempted to jab Julian in the ribs but hit him just above the hip instead—Julian stood nearly a head taller than the rest. Maybe that was what made him so noticeable to the village’s young women.

Julian smiled. “I worked no harder than any of you.”

Not that anyone believed that lie. Not only had he helped with the reaping at Malicki Manor, his home, but he’d also come here to help harvest as well. Double the work in an already busy season.

Kaspian rubbed the flaking paint on his fingers. Julian was comfortable in his role, unlike him. The life he’d led, full of art, adventure, and enjoyment, had given him room to explore the best this world had to offer. But lately all that mattered was studying his numbers, his letters, and his swordsmanship, a futile effort to make up for lost time. For a lost heir.

Henryk’s departure had been so sudden; if Henryk had given him some sort of warning about wanting to join the priesthood, lessons would have mattered more. More than running off to paint any new place, or to make trouble with Stefan at any opportunity. It had all been so simple.

But ever since Henryk had left, nothing had been simple anymore. He wasn’t as smart as Henryk, who had soaked up lessons as fast as the tutor could teach them. He wasn’t charming like Henryk, who had been beloved by all, who had frequently spent more time in the village and at the tavern than at home. He wasn’t as well respected or admired, not compared to Henryk’s skills as a warrior. But as the second-born son, he’d never worried about any of it, especially when Henryk had taken to it like a brush to canvas. With an heir so well suited to ruling, who would expect the second-born son to even bother?

But here he was. The heir of necessity.

He’d curse Henryk for leaving this duty to him, but how could he fault Henryk for being summoned to Perun’s service? When the gods call, man must answer. He shouldn’t curse Henryk, no… but some days, he wanted to. Very, very much.

Julian raised a fist as if to playfully punch the man next to him, but he stopped, leaving his hand hanging in the air.

“Kaspian.” Julian stepped aside, as did the other peasants, leaving him exposed to Tata.

Tata’s coal-black eyes met his. Deep furrows lined his mouth and his brow. It was a familiar look. All too familiar these days. The best he could hope for would be for Tata’s ire to pass quickly.

Head bowed, Kaspian took his place beside his father.

“You were in the Madwood again,” Tata said, his words quick and heated, burning like the fire of Holy Swaróg’s forge.

“Yes, Tata,” he answered respectfully. He stood straight, gaze lowered, before he could be scolded for defiance, too.

“Where is it?”

A cold sweat broke out along his brow, but he mustered what charm could be found beneath that layer of apprehension. “Where is what?”

It was a good thing he’d hidden the painting away. It wasn’t perfect, not yet, but he was getting closer and didn’t want Tata to destroy this one when it was so nearly done.

Tata grumbled low in his throat and faced the reapers. “Thank you all for your hard work this harvest. We have been abundantly blessed. You’ve all worked hard, but none more so than Julian.” He gave a rare half-smile to Julian. Tata made it no secret he would have preferred a son like him, hardworking and charismatic. Just like Henryk.

Tata wanted him to be a leader. But how could he do that staring down from on high? Henryk had always been among the people, a part of the community. How did Tata expect the peasants to respect and trust him when he felt no confidence in himself?

The reapers clapped Julian on the back, and he stepped forward to receive the ceremonial sickle, marking him as head reaper and favored by Mokosza. In the square tomorrow, Julian would be crowned and celebrated by all the village before the feast and throughout the evening.

All propriety, Julian accepted the sickle from Tata before turning back to the other farmhands with a crooked smile and his trophy. How fortunate he was to be uninhibited by duty, to work as hard or as little as he wished, to do what he pleased, marry whomever he wanted. How indulgent it must be to have a choice.

With Julian in the lead, the reapers cut the remaining stalks of rye. The kind of respect Julian had among the peasants, and from Tata, couldn’t be expected; it had to be earned.

And it could never be earned standing here, looking down on them.

“Let me join them in the final harvest,” Kaspian said, before he could doubt himself.

“Am I a joke to you?” Tata raised a hand to strike him, but Kaspian caught his bony wrist. He’d moved without thinking; normally he wouldn’t have dared defy Tata this way. This wouldn’t help his case. He should have known Tata wasn’t done scolding him.

“I can’t lead if the people won’t trust and respect me.” It wasn’t as if he wanted to do back-breaking work, but he couldn’t reconcile his role as future ruler against the carefree youth he’d been not long ago. It would be the only way to earn the respect and trust he required to actually succeed Tata someday.

“You cannot be a leader if you neglect your duties. Why can’t you be more like Julian? He knows his place and does his duty without complaint.” Tata bared his teeth and yanked his hand away before erupting into violent coughs.

Kaspian clasped his father’s shoulders, raw bone beneath a tunic that once fit him well but now hung from his thin frame. As Tata bent over gasping for air, his angular collar bone showed—the weight loss wasn’t gradual anymore.

Each of Tata’s rattling breaths was a dagger to the gut. Mama had warned him to be careful, not to agitate his father, but in some fit of lunacy, he’d spoken his mind yet again. At this rate, Tata wouldn’t make it through the winter.

“You should lie down, Tata. I’ll oversee the rest.” He stroked circles on Tata’s back.

Tata inhaled roughly. “I can die peacefully once I see you wed. Until then, I will remain on these two feet.”

They’d finally brushed against the subject, but he’d have to be heartless to push Tata now. Weles’s cold hand was upon him already, eager to spirit him to the world below.

His hand paused in the center of Tata’s back. For as long as he could remember, Roksana, his callow bride-to-be, had always been tugging at the hem of his sleeve, following after him like a chick behind a hen. Their entire lives, she’d been like a sister to him, and even now, thinking about taking her to the marriage bed made him sick to his stomach. “Don’t talk like that. You speak as if you’re on your deathbed. Next year—”

“There is no next year for me.” Tata stood upright and placed his skeletal hand on Kaspian’s shoulder.

In the dying light of day, Tata’s gaunt face shadowed. The wind rustled through his long, snowy-white hair.

It was abundantly clear what Tata expected, and a good son would meet those expectations without complaint. Marry a woman of his parents’ choice to strengthen the region of Rubin and the village of Czarnobrzeg? Fine. He would do it in a heartbeat—

If it were anyone but Roksana.

Roksana, whom he’d remembered meeting when he’d been a toddler and she, a baby in her bassinet.

Who’d tugged his ears to go faster as he’d carried her around the rye-feathered fields piggyback.

Whose scraped knees he’d blown on as she’d wailed from tripping over her own feet in the barnyard.