Imperceptible Magic

The days grew shorter.

The nights grew colder.

And the witch in the tower edged closer to death.

The cold stones of her prison drained the warmth from Ankara’s body as cruelly as the neutralizing runes carved on the walls had drained her soul of magic. But despite her pain, despite her loneliness, she had no regrets.

Forcing herself to stand as straight as her manacles would allow, she locked eyes with the Interrogator, “I have no regrets.”

The Interrogator sneered, “No regrets? Truly? Your magic is gone, and your people have abandoned you. You are alone. Forgotten. Unloved.”

Ankara recoiled at his words. She, who had never flinched in battle. She, who had fought with steel and magic and fire and faith; bravely protecting her people against all enemies. How had she grown so weak and helpless that she could be wounded by mere words?

“Alone.” “Forgotten.” “Unloved.”

Ankara sagged in defeat and the Interrogator laughed.

The witch would be dead within the week.

* * *

Necia hesitated at the threshold of Ankara’s cottage, dreading what she might find inside.

Her auntie’s cottage had always been a special place for Necia. Filled with warmth and sparkling with magic, Necia had felt safe and accepted here.

Despite being the only magicless child in a family of witches, Necia had never felt excluded or unwelcomed when she was with her auntie. Other family members had sometimes treated Necia as diminished or insignificant, as if they were embarrassed by her lack of magic. But Ankara always made Necia feel special and important, celebrating Necia’s skills as a seamstress with praise and encouragement.

Necia treasured the moments when Ankara would set aside her spells and weaponry, pausing her magical work to come and sit beside her, marveling at Necia’s intricate needlework.

“Oh, you clever girl,” the warrior witch would whisper with a smile. “You clever, gifted child. Your talent is so much greater than anyone realizes.”

* * *

“Alone.” “Forgotten.” “Unloved.”

The words echoed in Ankara’s mind, sapping the last of her strength – weakening her will to live.

Just as the Interrogator had intended.

“Alone.” “Forgotten.” “Unloved.”

* * *

Before the Troubles, before the ban on all things magical, the duchy had been a community that treated all its citizens equally – those with magic and those without. It had been a time of peace and prosperity. A time of joy.

The Sovereign’s ascendence had changed all that. He taken control of the duchy and declared a war on magic.

Ankara had seen it coming. But her warnings had fallen on deaf ears.

The coven had served the duchy for generations – using their magic to help, heal and protect their people. They could not believe that their friends and neighbors would allow anyone to harm them.

“You don’t have far sight,” Britta argued.

“You’re being an alarmist,” Ollie scoffed.

Jacinta had put an end to the discussion, confidently declaring, “Even if that lunatic somehow gains the throne, no one will follow his crazy commands.”

But Ankara had been right, and the Sovereign had taken the throne. Loudly proclaiming that the witches were the enemy, the Sovereign sent soldiers and citizens to round up magic users of every age and ability. Locking them in a squalid encampment that drained their magic and rendered them powerless.

* * *

Ankara and the last of the free witches managed to break into the camp and rescue the prisoners. Then Ankara put Necia in charge of guiding their people out of the duchy and over the mountains to safety.

While Ankara stayed behind to fight.

Wielding dual weapons of steel and spells, Ankara fought.

She fought for the witches. She fought for the weak.

She was determined to keep fighting until every elder, every child, every person who wanted to escape the duchy was free.

But, despite her implacable will, despite her determination, despite her muscles and her magic, Ankara finally faltered.

The moment she fell, the Sovereign’s soldiers swarmed the witch. Wrapping her in chains, they dragged her to the Interrogator who proclaimed her “Guilty!” and imprisoned her in the tower.

“Guilty of what?” Ankara had wondered. But she knew it was pointless to ask. The Sovereign had declared that the witches were the enemy – and his followers believed it.

* * *

Necia found the ragbag in a forgotten corner of Ankara’s cottage.

The Sovereign’s sycophants had broken every stick of furniture, and destroyed every healing herb and medicinal plant in Ankara’s workshop. They’d ripped and shredded the bedding and broken the dishes into tiny shards of pottery.

But the ragbag had remained untouched.

Necia carried the rags outside. Sitting on a large rock in the detritus of Ankara’s ruined garden, Necia opened her sewing basket and got to work.

Sewing as fast as her nimble fingers could move, Necia held Ankara in her thoughts.

* * *

For decades Ankara had aged slowly and gracefully; her magic kept her youthful and the passage of time had felt as light as a spiderweb.

It was remarkable how quickly she was aging without her magic to protect her. Her long straight hair, once as black as a raven’s feathers, had turned white. Her eyesight had grown dimmer every day, as her fingers grew gnarled and twisted with arthritis. Her lungs began to fail, each breath harder than the last.

Ankara knew death was closing in, and she was almost ready to give up and let it win.

Almost.

* * *

One by one, the neighbors came by to watch as Necia cut and patched the rags from Ankara’s ragbag.

Necia inhaled with pleasure as she trimmed pieces of an old flannel shirt, the cloth still held the faint scent of Uncle Ollie’s pipe tobacco, while the remnants of Aunt Britta’s wool scarf gave off a sweet aroma of elderberry wine.

Necia smiled as she cut blocks of red satin from the hem of Jacinta’s ancient petticoat. The old witch had always had a flair for fashion, dressed head-to-toe in shades of pink and crimson.

Her needle and thread moving with dexterity and speed, Necia smoothly stitched the patches together in a swirl of colors and textures.

The Baker brought her a loaf of bread. Then he tore the pocket off his apron and set it on top of Necia’s rag pile. “When my bakery caught fire, Ankara used her magic to extinguish the flames. She saved my life, and my livelihood.”

As the sun set, the Candlemaker brought candles to light Necia’s needlework. And handed her a scrap of silk. “It’s from my grandmother’s wedding dress. She was a witch, too. Just like your auntie.”

The Blacksmith built a small campfire to keep Necia warm, then wordlessly added a swatch of leather to the pile of rags.

As the night wore on, more and more people found their way to Ankara’s ruined cottage. Some brought food or drink, some told stories of how Ankara and the other magic users had helped them.

Some arrived in secret, staying in the shadows.

Others stood in the open, as if daring the Sovereign’s soldiers to challenge them.

But whether they were bold or fearful, silent or glib, each person who came brought another piece of cloth for Necia to add to her quilt of rags.

* * *

“Alone.” “Forgotten.” “Unloved.”

The Interrogator’s words echoed in her mind and Ankara fought against despair.

Struggling to open her eyes, she looked up through the bars of the prison window, hoping to catch a glimpse of the winter sun moving across the sky.

A raven landed on the window ledge, poking its head through the bars to stare at her.

“Harbinger of death, I see you,” Ankara whispered through her dry, cracked lips.

The raven gave a sharp squawk of disapproval and shook its head, as if to say “No. Not death. Think again.”

Ankara felt a small spark of hope, remembering that ravens were also symbols of change and transformation. Ankara looked the black bird in the eyes and nodded. She would try and hold on a little longer.

* * *

Outside the prison walls, Necia waited.

Prison guards walked past her, looking away, refusing to acknowledge her presence. Necia wanted to believe that their grim, haggard faces meant that they regretted the choices they’d made, choices that had led to the destruction of their communities. Maybe some of them did. She hoped at least one of them did. All she needed was one.

And then she saw him. Jonton, the young father of twin girls.

“Jonton!” Necia hurried forward, clutching the bundle of rags she’d sewn.

Jonton tried to walk past Necia, stepping into the street when she blocked his way on the walking path.

“Jonton, please!”

Despite his trepidation, Jonton stopped and turned to look into Necia’s pleading eyes.

“It’s so cold. You know she must be freezing in that tower.”

There was no need for Jonton to ask who “she” was. Ankara was the only prisoner in the tower. Everyone knew she was there.

And everyone knew she was dying.

“If only the old witch would just give up and get it over with,” the Sergeant griped every day at the start of their shift. “Then we can all just move on and live our lives in peace.”

Jonton never said anything in response to his Sergeant’s griping. He was just as miserable as all the other guards. But he couldn’t wish for Ankara’s death. Not when the witch had been the one who saved his wife’s life – and the life of their baby girls.

Others might accept the Sovereign’s declaration that magic – and magic users – were evil, but Jonton knew the truth. Witches were not the enemy. Even though he was too cowardly to speak up in their defense.

Jonton’s gratitude to Ankara warred with his innate cowardice.

Necia took advantage of Jonton’s indecision and shoved the patchwork quilt into his arms.

“It’s just a quilt. Something to give her a little bit of warmth and comfort before she dies.” Necia’s eyes filled with unshed tears as she willed Jonton to take the quilt. “Please, Jonton. Please.”

* * *

“It’s just a bunch of rags the witch’s niece sewed together. Surely there’s no harm in giving it to her.” Jonton spoke quickly, afraid of losing his nerve.

The Sergeant of the Guards nodded once. He’d seen Ankara on his morning rounds. The witch was so close to death, so pale and wretched in her cell, even he felt pity for her.

He supposed the blanket could be a trick, someone trying to smuggle in a spell or other magical help. But the runes carved in the prison’s stones would nullify any spell.

“Fine,” the Sergeant handed Jonton the key to Ankara’s cell. “Let her have some small comfort. For all the good it will do her.”

Jonton took the patchwork quilt and headed up the tower steps.

Draping the quilt over Ankara’s shivering body, he whispered, “From your niece.”

Then Jonton hurried out of the cell, locking the door behind him.

* * *

Ankara’s crippled hands pulled the quilt tighter, seeking every bit of warmth the rags could offer.

As her fingers explored the tiny, perfect stitches of Necia’s handiwork, Ankara thought she felt a little, barely perceptible spark of magic.

It was supposed to be impossible for magic to exist within the prison walls – the runes were designed to detect and nullify any hint of magic.

But what if the magic was so small that it was undetectable?

Ankara ran her hands over the tight seams and textured patches.

“Oh, you clever girl,” she whispered with a smile. “You clever, gifted child.”

Ankara’s heart and lungs grew stronger as she inhaled the familiar scents of Ollie’s tobacco and Britta’s favorite wine, “You are not alone.”

Other scents and memories were embedded in each scrap of cloth. The scent of fresh baked bread and candlewax tickled her nose, while patches of rough leather and smooth satin conjured remembered faces of friends and family, “You are not forgotten.”

Ankara felt Necia’s love in every stitch, the magic sparked, warming her hands, easing the arthritis, “You are loved.”

The tiny imperceptible sparks of magic suddenly exploded into a magical blaze that filled Ankara’s body and soul until she overflowed with power.

She knew the power would only last a heartbeat, until the prison’s wards detected it and nullified the magic.

But a heartbeat was all Ankara needed.

Wrapping the quilt of rags around her body, Ankara visualized the raven: black winged, sharp beaked, brilliant, and free.

Magic flowed and swirled around the witch, transforming her in an instant.

The raven screeched in triumph as Ankara spread her wings and flew out the prison window.

* * *

Outside the prison walls, Necia watched in awe as the raven flew down from the tower and landed gently on her shoulder.

The large black bird bumped her head against Necia’s cheek.

“Thank you, my clever girl,” she squawked. “My clever, clever girl.”

* * *