Witch trial

I had never met Hanz in life, but in death, he seemed so small. He was a slender young man with dark hair, his attempts at growing facial hair only half-successful.

Two women stood by his side when I arrived. One, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Hanz, had to be his twin. Though her age mirrored his, her eyes, dry and fierce, held a silent vow of retribution.

Beside her, an older woman wept enough for them both. She had the wholesome appearance of a baker's wife, maybe even a baker herself. As the wind shifted, it carried her scent towards me – a mix of gingerbread and sweet pastries. She tugged at her blond hair in fits of grief.

"My boy, my poor boy," she wailed, her voice laden with sorrow, "Why would someone do this?"

"Why would someone kill a watcher? The answer is obvious," Augustus Creel stated, devoid of sympathy. He moved with a grim purpose, his stride almost military. "We are under attack. I'll call for reinforcements."

"Summoning demons isn't the solution to every problem," Mireille Dubois countered, her voice calm as she floated gently above the ground. "And are we even certain this was murder? Could it have been an accident?"

At the mention of summoning demons, I caught a chiding glare from Archer. It was worrisome, considering I was the only source of demons I knew of. But he couldn't be talking about my demons. I had learned my lesson. I would never leave one unattended again. Not after what happened last time.

"An accident!" The older woman's grief transformed into anger, her emotions bubbling like an alchemical reaction, acid meeting base. "This is no accident. Someone has torn my poor boy's spirit to shreds while he rode the winds."

Off to the side, I overheard Andrew discreetly ask Grimhilde, "Is she their mother?"

His attempt at discretion was futile; my ears were too sharp.

"No," Grimhilde, the eldest witch, replied softly. "Rosamund is their teacher, but that's almost the same. Being of witch blood increases the chances of becoming a witch, but it's still a rare gift. Poor dears, they were abandoned in the woods by their parents, and it was Rosamund who found the twins."

"Lucky," Andrew commented.

"Not really," Grimhilde said, her voice tinged with a hint of sadness. "Rosamund often takes in lost and abandoned children. But are people grateful? No. Instead, they spread ridiculous rumours that she eats children."

I glanced over at Archer, who was examining a man-sized hole dug under a tree. Following his gaze, I noticed drag marks leading from the hole to the corpse. It made sense.

If wind riding was what I thought it was, another term for astral projection, then such a location would serve as an adequate guard post. A witch watcher didn't need a vantage point; they needed darkness and quiet.

And of course, the location of the watcher and what they were assigned to watch didn't necessarily correlate. Placing them all in one location would be like putting all the eggs in one basket. After all, when astral projecting, the physical body was left vulnerable.

Such a strategy might seem ruthless, and even cruel, to the watchers. But that was their job. To be the first line of defence. To die first, so others may live.

"No one had touched Hanz when he died," Archer stated with certainty, a single drop of blood falling from his nose – a telltale sign of using psychometry.

"Obviously. His spirit was shredded outside his body," Creel sneered in response.

"And yet, even the obvious needs to be checked," I interjected calmly. "Every piece of this puzzle must be carefully assembled. Only then can we discern what doesn't fit."

"It's not a puzzle. It's murder!" Rosamund erupted, her voice filled with anguish. After a flash of anger, she slumped, overcome with grief, and wailed, "My poor Hanz."

"I don't mean to disparage your grief, but grief alone won't find his killer," I said gently.

"The killer is obvious. It's the witch hunters," Creel declared, almost shouting, then began to pace frantically. "The Ungifted have always been envious, always quick to strike at what's different, better than them. But something has changed. The hunts are getting more organized, more numerous. Yet, for each witch they find, a hundred more innocents suffer."

Dubois disagreed, "And how would with hunter shed spirit?"

"Not by a witch hunter, but the one orchestrating them. This whole situation reeks of snakes. If humans kill us, it benefits them. If we retaliate and kill humans, not only do more humans die, but our existence is revealed for the snakes to exploit. Our greatest weapon is our secrecy."

Mireille Dubois nodded thoughtfully. "And they are loath to fight in the Void," she added. "They prefer their covert tactics, using humans as pawns, along with all their clever devices. The answer is clear. Hanz wasn't killed because he was a watcher, but because he was Hanz. This murder was driven by personal interest." She then turned to the two grieving women. "What enemies did Hanz have? Had he offended someone? Stolen a lover?"

"How dare you? Hanz was a good boy!" the older woman shouted back, her voice trembling with indignation, while the younger one remained silent, her glare speaking volumes.

"Even the good can have enemies," Grimhilde interjected softly. "But this is not how we should proceed. First, we need someone to cover Hanz's patrol route. We cannot afford to leave any weak spots. Only then can we dedicate ourselves to solving this mystery."

"I will take his place," Mireille Dubois volunteered assertively. "If there is danger, it should be faced by someone who can handle it. And who better than me, the Moonwalker?"

"Then depart with my blessing," Grimhilde stated, and Mireille Dubois faded away, her presence dissolving like a dream upon waking. "Creel, you may not proceed with your summoning. After all, you too are a suspect."

"Me? A suspect? Why? I barely knew the boy," Creel protested.

"That's not true," the twin suddenly spoke up, breaking her silence.

"Greta?" Rosamund queried, surprise evident in her tone.

"It's a trivial matter, hardly worth mentioning," Creel tried to dismiss.

"Let the girl speak," Grimhilde commanded authoritatively.

"He pestered Hanz to visit him," Greta revealed, her voice steady but filled with underlying tension. "He wanted Hanz to act as a stud for his daughter, hoping for grandchildren with the gift. When Hanz refused, Creel became really insistent."

"Still, that's hardly a reason to kill the boy," Creel objected.

"And then, Hanz lost his temper. He insulted the Grand Witch. And now, he's dead," Greta concluded, her accusation hanging heavily in the air.

The air grew warm, then oppressively hot, as if we were inside an oven. I quickly realized that Rosamund was the source of this sudden heat. Her anger was palpable as she shouted, "You killed my boy!"

"Enough," Grimhilde commanded. Her voice was more than just a sound; it was a decree. I resisted its force with ease, and I noticed Archer did too. But the others were not so fortunate.

Rosamund fell back as if she were a puppet whose strings had been cut.

"We will not resolve this matter in such a way. We are better than that," the eldest witch continued, her voice now calm and controlled. "We shall lay Hanz to rest, and then we will hold a court."

"And who will preside over this court?" Creel asked, his attempt at composure betrayed by his trembling hand. "You said it yourself: even you are a suspect."

"That is why I will ask the Master to preside," she replied confidently. "He and his companions are the only ones who had absolutely no connection to Hanz."

Though unclothed, I cloaked myself in a mantle of dignity and spoke, "If it is the collective wish, I will preside over the proceedings. But remember, I am here to oversee, not to pass judgment. That responsibility remains yours alone. Pretorian will accompany me."

"Then the legends of his curse are true. He can neither speak nor hear untruth?" Grimhilde inquired, a hint of curiosity in her tone. "It's such an old story that I had almost forgotten it."

That was the tricky part about time travel. It had only been an hour since I had given the translation amulet to Andrew, and yet its features had already become the stuff of ancient legend.

It would have been preferable if this detail remained unknown, but it could still work to my advantage. Instead of catching someone in a deliberate lie, this situation would make anyone with something to hide overly nervous and cautious. That would make it easier to spot inconsistencies and deceit.

"But for Archer I have another task," I said and then turned to the grieving woman. "I hope that you can forgive him for missing the funeral."

We all dressed for the funeral, and by that, I meant we finally put on some clothing.

Creel's outfit was ostentatious, at least for the time period. Grimhilde, on the other hand, wore simple homespun clothes that didn't quite fit her frame. Yet, she projected a natural sense of authority, like a queen poorly disguised as a peasant. And if the stories held any truth, she had indeed been one, once upon a time.

A strong, resinous scent of pine permeated the air, emanating from a large cast iron cauldron that seemed to have leapt right out of the pages of a witch's fairy tale. The pungent aroma of pine, sharp and cleansing, was intense enough to mask even the smell of cooked human flesh.

That was precisely its purpose, as the cauldron was the final destination for Hanz's remains.

This was not a practice of cannibalism, but rather a ritualistic separation of flesh from bone. The boiling water within the cauldron would facilitate this process, ensuring that the separation was complete.

Once the process was finished, the flesh would be given back to the forest, a gesture of returning to the earth, while the bones would be carefully preserved and handed over to the family.

It was suspiciously close to Tohsaka funerary practices.

But in the case of the witches, they would be using the bones for psychometric purposes, rather than as necromantic reagents.

The bones would hold the memories of the dead. It was one way to remember departed ones.

It was also a practice that could be easily misunderstood.

"Until we meet again, in the twilight forest," the last of mourners said their parting words, tossing some flowers into the pot, and went and gave a brief hug, first to Greta, then to Rosamund.

The process was not completely done, but this part could be left unattended.

"You will take care of him until it's my time to join him, Master?" Rosamund said to me, her sorrow crushed into exhaustion.

I remained silent as a grave. What else could I have done? Even being canter of the witches' worship, I knew too little about their beliefs. Only what I had observed, and that was hardly enough.

Besides, I was no fan of false comfort.

Grimhilde came to my rescue. "You know better than to ask Master that. Such knowledge is not for living. Trust in what the twilight forest holds."

"Now that this is done, we can seek justice," I declared to the gathered witches.

"Justice for Hanz," the murdered boy's twin declared, her eyes sharp and cold, like pieces of flint. She glared at Creel as if she could spear him with those eyes.

"He is beyond that. Justice for those who remained," I gently corrected, "This place is as good as any. First, Greta and Augustus, please repeat your testimonies so all hear them."

Great repeated her accusations and Creel defended himself in the same manner finishing with this, "Pretorian, hear my words and affirm their truth. I did not murder Hanz."

"I can hear and understand you," Andrew replied, a bit uncomfortable to be suddenly called. Or could be that, a bit slutty, Roman toga I made him wear.

They called Pretorian, so I thought that he should look the part. Roman armour would be better, but I did not have any at hand.

"Hear, all," Creel declared, "I am innocent."

"That is yet to be determined," I said. "That alone is hardly enough."

For example, if he did not view killing Hanz as murder, either because he believed that he had the right to kill the boy, or because it was an accident, that statement would be true from the point of view.

After all, it was not as if the amulet worked on objective truth.

Or Creel could have erased any memories he had of the crime committed.

Or even simpler, had someone else do it.

"Will you explain?" Creel asked, gritting his teeth.

"No," I replied. I could see his point of view, but the facts remained the same. "Giving more detailed information on exact methods and limits is unwise."

"And then, how can we know that you speak the truth?"

"You just have to trust me. But that is the case anyway. After all, if you don't trust me, how could trust any explanation I give?"

"Consistency, perhaps?"

"Enough, you are not going slither out this, you snake!" Greta shouted. "Pretorian, hear my words and affirm their truth. Augustus Creel murdered my twin brother."

All witches turned their attention to Andrew, he wilted under it - like several days cut rose. "I hear and understand."

"See!" Greta said, triumphant.

"Foolish girl," Creel retorted, unshaken. "If my truth wasn't sufficient, why would yours be any different?"

"He's right," I interjected. "That alone isn't enough for a conviction."

All of this was problematic. The murder of Hanz was almost a perfect crime.

Because it happened in the Void, there were no witnesses, and no clues. We did have a time of death, so searching for alibies was pointless.

That left only motive. And such things were dubious, at best. I could be certain of my motives, much of someone else's.

But Greta knew beyond any doubt that it was Creel. The question was how did she gain such certainty?

Mentally I reviewed my memories of her, from the moment I saw I saw by her brother's body, until now.

It could be just grief, latching at first possible scapegoat, but there were hints of something else.

The tension. The way she avoided looking at her brother's corpse. The way she filched from her teacher and adopted mother.

"But you know more," I asserted, locking eyes with her. "You wouldn't be so certain otherwise. Unless Augustus Creel is a notorious tyrant, known for killing over minor transgressions…"

I let the words hang in the air, using the pause both as a rhetorical device and an opportunity to observe the reactions of those around us. As expected, the shifting gazes and embarrassed chuckles indicated that Creel was not known for such brutality.

So I pressed on firmly, "Now, share what you know, or hold your peace."

"Because he found out about what we did!" Greta suddenly erupted, her words spilling out like water breaching a dam. "He must have! That's why he killed Hanz! And he will kill me next!"

In the wake of Greta's outburst, Creel's face became a canvas of utter bewilderment. His eyes widened, not with fear or guilt, but with the kind of perplexity one might show upon hearing a completely unexpected. His brows furrowed, knitting together in confusion as he scanned the faces around him, seeking any hint of understanding or agreement.

There was no flush of guilt on his cheeks, no shiftiness in his gaze that often accompanies deception. Instead, Creel stood there, his posture rigid, like a man suddenly thrust into a play without a script. His mouth opened slightly, then closed, as if words had abandoned him at that crucial moment. The silence from him was not of a calculating spider weaving lies, but of genuine astonishment, struggling to grasp the narrative unfolding before him.

Even his hands, which might have betrayed his inner turmoil, remained still, hanging loosely at his sides — not clenched in anger or wringing in nervousness, but simply motionless, as though they too were stunned by Greta's vehement accusations.

My gaze fixed on her, unyielding and sharp, akin to a hawk eyeing a rabbit. In a voice as gentle as a mother's embrace yet laden with the gravity of Jupiter, I asked, "And what have you done?"

"We had to! We had no other choice!" Greta exclaimed, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance. "The rumours are worsening by the day. It's only a matter of time before they attack us. Before our neighbours drag us out to be burned at the stake, hanged, or drowned in the river. Ungrateful, superstitious fools, all of them. We needed something, anything, to protect ourselves."

"Greta," Rosamund interjected, her voice a blend of sorrow and disappointment, "it's my job to protect you, not the other way around. We could always leave if the rumours worsened."

"Leave? Again?" Greta's voice cracked, a mixture of frustration and despair evident in her tone.

"But what have you done?" I reiterated, gently steering the conversation back on course.

"We stole demon-calling spells from Creel's mind," Greta confessed, her voice trembling with the weight of her admission.

"Stop lying, girl," Creel retorted, his voice dripping with disdain as venomous as that from a spider's mandibles. "No journeyman witch could steal from my mind. My mind is a fortress. And besides, why would you need to? I freely share my spells, as is our custom."

"Only with those who study under you," Greta countered, her frustration palpable. "We couldn't leave our teacher alone."

Creel's response was firm. "Because those spells are perilous. You must learn them under strict supervision, or demons will tear you apart."

"Could Hanz have died from such an attempt?" I inquired, considering the possibility of a neat solution to the mystery.

"No," Creel declared emphatically. "Demons hunger for flesh, not spirit. And his corpse was intact." This confirmed my suspicion; the demons involved were not of my creation, which fed on emotion. If they devoured flesh, it was to evoke an emotional response: fear, pain, disgust, or perhaps even lust. "And the girl is lying. Those two couldn't have stolen a spell from my mind."

"It was easy," Greta retorted, her voice rising with defiance. "We just had to instil a bit of fascination, spread a rumour that Hanz was seeking a witch or a child of one to father a child. A simple bait, but irresistible to you and your stupid obsession with bloodlines. Hanz lured you in, subtly inflaming your emotions, and when he insulted you, for a brief moment, your mental shield flickered. That's when I seized it. Here is the proof."

With a threatening gesture, Greta raised her hand, and the fabric of space itself seemed to tear apart, revealing a gaping wound in reality.

I recognized it instantly – a pathway to Xen. Its familiarity had grown with each exposure. Xen, coiled around this universe like a python strangling its prey, was a fitting metaphor, though perhaps a hydra would be better, considering its entanglement with every parallel universe within my reach.

The entities they called demons were, in fact, alien creatures from Xen. The term 'demons' was a misnomer but understandable. Everything from Xen was lethal in a manner unfamiliar to humans. Bears and tigers were dangerous, but they were dangers humans understood. Xen's threats were entirely different.

This scenario was more plausible than the notion of my own creations running amok. It wasn't without precedent either; I knew Jane had opened a similar portal in the future.

"Stop, you fool girl! You can't open it without preparation!" Creel's voice cracked with fear as he reached out towards Greta, his actions bordering on desperation.

I acted swiftly, though I wasn't entirely sure why Creel was so alarmed. My observations of Xen, conducted through the palantir atop the Aperture Hawkins Facility within the anomaly post-crisis, continued. However, due to time constraints, much of this research had been delegated to Ten.

Yet, my knowledge was sufficient to understand that while Xen's wildlife was lethal for the unprepared, anything emerging from such a small breach would be manageable for me.

My fingers moved fluidly, weaving the threads of space-time. Diamond. Tower. Ladder. The familiar incantation flowed effortlessly.

Under my spell, the portal imploded, sealing shut and averting any further danger.

"You have proven your ability to do as you claimed," I said, turning to Greta. "But at this point, we have no need for a demon as a witness."

Creel was gawking like a fish out of water, his mouth agape and eyes wide with shock. The rest of the audience regarded me with a renewed sense of awe.

I couldn't say I was entirely comfortable with this adulation. On one hand, it was pleasing to have my skills acknowledged, a testament to both innate talent and hard work.

But there was something unsettling about being placed on a pedestal. Such positions are often both high and narrow, easily shaken and prone to toppling.

Still, I cloaked myself in dignity, carefully moulding my body language. I stood composed, radiating a calm confidence that belied my internal reservations.

Creel quickly regained his composure. "Foolish girl, if only I had known..."

"What!" Greta interjected sharply, "You would have killed my brother, just as you have. Don't feign innocence."

"Of course not!" Creel shot back. "I would have insisted that you study under my supervision. You're talented enough to be dangerous to both yourself and others. Isn't that right, Grand Witch Grimhilde?"

"If you can convince Greta that you didn't kill her brother," the eldest witch responded evenly.

"Why? Isn't it obvious by now?" Creel's voice rose sharply, his words quickening with impatience. "This entire accusation is a waste of time!" His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and a vein throbbed visibly at his temple. Even his posture, usually so composed, now betrayed his agitation; he leaned forward slightly, as if restraining himself from a more confrontational stance. His eyes darted from face to face, seeking an ally in his frustration, his brow furrowed deeply in exasperation.

Grimhilde replied calmly, "An apprentice seeking vengeance against a teacher makes for a good story but poor lessons." Turning to me, she added, "Apologies, Master, for the detour in the proceedings."

"If I had objections, I would have interrupted," I responded my voice subtly shifting into the slow, hypnotic timbre I had learned from observing Saruman. Each word resonated with a soothing yet authoritative cadence, designed to calm and captivate the listeners. "This is about healing the wounds caused by Hanz's death as much as it is about seeking justice. And some wounds need to be lanced first."

As I spoke, a deeper silence enveloped the clearing. Even the forest itself seemed to hush as if the trees and the wind were eager to listen. My words, imbued with a serene cadence, flowed effortlessly, casting a spell of tranquility over the gathered.

The visible effect was like a wave of calm washing over them: shoulders relaxed, previously agitated movements stilled, and all eyes were intently focused on me, captivated by each word I uttered. In that moment, the pressing urgency of our assembly seemed to recede, opening a space for contemplation and understanding.

Even Greta's fiery demeanour began to wane, her anger slowly diminishing as if soothed by the timbre of my voice.

I had let the argument burn earlier, understanding that heightened emotions often reveal deeper truths. And it had become evident that Greta's accusations were misguided.

Yet, the problem persisted: I lacked an alternative suspect.

But my role here wasn't to find suspects; I wasn't a detective, but more of a mediator. And in this situation, there was no detective at all. I suspected Grimhilde had initiated these proceedings prematurely. Perhaps I should have voiced my concerns, but it's not as if I had any experience with proper judicial procedures.

Then again, neither did she.

This was the fourteenth century, where the zenith of police work often meant torturing the accused into confession.

"If not him, then who?" Greta's voice cut through my thoughts.

Who indeed.

It was at that moment that I received a mental communiqué from Archer, casting new light on the matter.

"Witch hunters," I announced, absentmindedly rubbing the ring on my finger. "An army of men is marching towards us. Hanz was silenced to conceal their approach."

Grimhilde's concern was immediate. "What about Mireille?"

"We must presume her lost. It's evident that the hunters have found a counter to wind riding."

"What should we do, Master?" a faceless voice emerged from the crowd, tinged with urgency. "There are fewer than three scores of us and an army of them."

"Fight or flee. If you choose to fight, I will stand with you. If you choose to flee, I will help distract them," I declared, my voice steady.

"We fight!" Rosamund's voice pierced the air, her fist raised defiantly. As she spoke, the flames beneath the cauldron surged, fueled by her burgeoning rage. "They want to burn us at the stake. Let's see how they like being the kindling!"

"Master is with us…" someone murmured, a tone of renewed hope threading through the words.

"I'm tired of running," another added, their voice firm.

"We should strike back..." the sentiment grew, spreading among the crowd like wildfire.

I turned to Andrew, switching to modern English, a language only time travellers like us would understand in this era. "What about you? Do you want to return, or will you fight?"

Reflecting on his past experiences, the reluctant soldier responded, "I know well enough what Witch Hunters did, and will do. Vietnam wasn't worth it. But this cause is."

"Are you sure? This isn't your fight," I probed gently, aware of the weight of his decision.

"The witches are fighting alien invaders. That's enough for me," he said firmly. Glancing down at his skimpy toga, he added with a hint of humour, "But do you have something better for me to wear? And perhaps some modern weapons?"

"I've prepared something for situations like this," I assured him. "A full combat kit from the Aperture Science Future Warrior program, circa 1985."

"Weapons from the future, cool," Andrew's eyes lit up. "And your plan?"

"I'll don my armour and pound the goblin drums."