“The word witch – like the word wizard - has taken on two meanings throughout history. The first is a master of information stemming from the natural world – herbs, salves, chemistry, even the paranormal. They use relics, instruments, and symbols to ply their trade. In effect, they are the scholars of the magical world. The second is of a master of the word, individuals who can write magic into grimoires and scripts, and that can formulate spells that change reality itself. It is this latter witch that people fear.”

~ Bek Trent, M.A.S.O

Sara’s workshop was everything Bek might have expected from a witch’s workshop, even in his modern day. There were plants everywhere, in various stages of growth or preparation. Neat rows of clay troughs along the edges of the walls held the living ones close to the sun, while the rest hung from the walls and ceiling. Everywhere else there were shelves filled with hundreds upon hundreds of tiny clay, wood, or copper cups. He knew what must be in them: spices of every kind; dried herbs; dried, pickled, powdered, or salted plants; chalk; ground minerals; salts; pastes; balms; and waxes. And then there were less stereotypical tools of the trade. Parchment, ink, tiny copper bells, a mirror roughly the size of his palm, several feet of twine, and stacks of books the width of his arms. What he had said to Silver was true; witches were some of the least understood of all magic users.

Some if it was intentional.

There were witches whose lives were steeped in mystery, covens who passed down their knowledge from generation to generation with harsh punishments for those who shared knowledge with outsiders. Among them were families that had carved out a living in any of the hundreds of witch scares that had gripped the world throughout history. It was no surprise they guarded their gifts jealously. But the result was that the word ‘witch’, in and of itself, did not have any single, definite meaning. The MASO dealt with the problem daily.

In the American MASO parlance, a witch was any person without magic who relied on the instruments and spells of other magic users to call on magic stored in some sort of reservoir. Since their abilities were dictated entirely by the materials and enchanted relics they might possess, they were unpredictable and dangerous. The term sometimes also referred to individuals who used instruments, relics, and symbols to strengthen their own magic. Since it was a time-consuming affair, most people with strong magical abilities preferred to use their power more directly, but the modern spell circuits had been born originally from the practices of witches. Obviously, they were taught to and used by all magic users. Witches were registered with the MASO, like any other magic user, and so long as they followed the law, were permitted to practice in private.

Witchcraft, however, had a long history. It had been turned, in some cases, to medicine, in others to the dealing of blood curses and curse marks. Much older magic, now shunned and illegalized in the western world, had in time been attributed to witchcraft. Thus, the term ‘witch’ remained with a negative connotation. It was associated with the dark side of magic that most people wanted to forget or cover up.

There were a lot of magical things that people wanted to forget or cover up.

“Welcome, welcome. I was expecting you,” Sara called, shuffling into sight from behind a set of shelves. There were several pots balanced on a tray in her hand as she motioned him towards an open spot on the wood floors.

“Illian told you I was coming?” Bek asked, following her arm and settling cross-legged on the floor as she folded into a seated position. Her wrinkled face creased with a smile as she looked him up and down.

“Illian was a fool for trying to treat you himself,” she muttered after a moment, “he tells me you were assaulted by one of the Zara.”

Bek narrowed his eyes at her, waiting for her to say more, but she had turned to touch a tiny gemstone embedded in one of the pots. After a moment, steam billowed from a hole in its lid.

“Bek, yes?” the old woman continued then, eyeing him as the silence stretched.

“Yes.”

“If you survived an encounter with the Zara, you’re one lucky young man. Strong, too. I have a sense for your magic. Ah, to be young again.” She chuckled to herself, seeming not to care that he did not join in. “Illian told me everything. Hmmm, well, almost everything. There was something he held back, but then, everyone here has their secrets. No good in dredging those up. Take off your shirt, then, so I can have a look.”

Bek complied, and she slid closer to expertly remove the bandages Illian had layered across his side and chest the day before. She hissed through her teeth several times, clucking and muttering about Illian’s stupidity. Bek knew why. There was a hole in his side where the Zara’s spine had punctured his flesh, narrowly avoiding his lung and kidney. Crusted and blackened, it had swollen into a hot, stiff knot of pain below his left arm. Around it, the flesh was an angry red, but he preferred that over the creeping gray that had begun to spread from the edges of the wound down his side.

“You have no idea how closely you’ve courted death, young man,” Sara stated once she was done, “or how lucky you are to have made it this far. I doubted what Illian had said before seeing this. The Zara’s magic is like poison to living flesh. It causes necrosis…death of the tissue. I can see it here…here…here.” She reached behind her, picking up what looked like a bamboo paddle and removing the lid from what looked to be nothing but boiling water. She held it in the liquid for a moment before running the warm wood across the flesh of his wound, prodding periodically and asking if he felt pain. After several minutes, she turned to the other pots, measuring and mixing and tutting under her breath.

“Are you a magic user?” he asked after several moments, watching her work. She lifted her dark-eyed gaze to peer at him, but said nothing. It was not until she was done, and had begun to smooth the first numbing clumps of some sort of salve onto his side, that she answered.

“You know a bit about witches. Yes, young man, I’m a rank zero. Not a drop of magic in my blood. It bothers some people to see my skills and know that fact.”

Again, Bek held his silence, feeling his muscles twitch away from the paddle as she found the edges of the knot.

“Nowadays, magic is a way of life for many Altians. Centuries ago, my kind were more common, even valued. They called us beseij, the immune. Some became witches, most lived their lives without any special gifts. Must be hard for you to imagine, hmm.” She stared up at him knowingly, and he wondered if, somehow, she could tell how many times in his life he had wished to be rid of magic entirely. Her expression sobered as she leaned back, replacing the paddle on the tray.

“It’s rare to see a wound inflicted by the Zara. Most people with one die before they ever reach someone like me, bleeding out from internal wounds. If not, the necrosis kills them. Of all the monsters in this world, none reminds us how fragile we are so much as the Zara, hmmm.” She tilted her head, removing a few strands of chalk-white hair from in front of her face. “You’re not safe yet, I’m afraid. Illian should never have tried to treat you himself. The visible damage seems to be healing well. You are resilient against the Zara’s curse. Lucky, as I said. I expect the remaining tissue damage will fade, given a few months. Holtson’ll want to know about training,” she snorted, “weeks, maybe. We’ll see.”

“What are you concerned about, then?” he asked, shifting and feeling the drying salve prickle against his exposed skin.

“Magic,” she said, meeting his gaze with her crinkled eyes. “Your system has taken a magical blow as well as a physical one. Who can say how you’ll recover from that?”

“It seemed fine today,” he observed.

“Hmmmm,” she nodded, standing and shuffling towards a nearby shelf and pulling down a small box. It was filled with rolls of cotton bandages. “I told you what I am. I’ve no magic of my own, so I can only tell you what I’ve seen over the years. Disease of the magical system – most people don’t believe it exists. But magic users decline sometimes for no reason at all. Physically, fit as a fiddle, and yet…hmmmm. It’s hard for me to say.”

Her hands were surprisingly deft as she wrapped the bandages, though they were shaking by the time she was done.

“There’s no one who can help you with your magic, young man. But these wounds…I can patch these up. Illian would have you back here every day. I’ll change the bandages, and soon enough, turn you over to Holtson.”

“Sara,” Bek stopped her as she stood, gathering the pots onto the tray and beginning to shuffle back in the direction she had first come. He saw now that there was a door there, presumably into some smaller room in the back of the workshop. She turned to look at him expectantly.

“What do you know about magical exhaustion?” She cackled as she turned to walk away, but she answered anyway.

“Illian told me all about Silver, too. If you’re worried about her, bring her for me to take a look. Best I can do for her is a hot cup of tea, though. Works wonders on the mind. Calms the soul. You know what the cure is for magical exhaustion? Sleep. Gah. Young people never appreciate sleep. Works wonders for your complexion, too.”