“That is quite the story,” the witch said. They leaned across the circle of cushions to put a gentle hand on Mari’s. “I’m sorry you’ve had to endure so much so quickly. And so young.”

Mari shifted under the touch of a stranger, her already compact and hardened mind retreating further. Whether they read it in her posture or her thoughts, the witch noticed, and pulled back quickly.

The girl had barely said a word as I’d recounted the events of the last two days, and showed no signs of breaking her silence, so the witch turned to me and Kross instead.

“And both of you, too. It must have been a rough day.”

Kross shrugged. “Had worse.”

So had I. But I didn’t want to get into that right now, so I just said, “thank you.”

The corner of the witch’s mouth twitched up, but there was a wet shine to their big eyes. “I appreciate the warning about the gold men, but when it comes to your gift, I’m afraid I can’t be much help. I’m not a witch in the way you are using that word. Or perhaps if I am a witch, we need a new, different, word for what you are. One meaning is wrong, in any case.”

“Eh?” asked Kross.

“I haven’t developed extranormal abilities of any kind myself, only heard the same stories we all have. What I do here is chemistry and trickery. I can’t read minds. Or knock people unconscious with a thought.” The witch gestured at me with their head. “That’s quite the thing, by the way. If we have some time, I’d love to hear more about how that works.”

I gave what I hoped was an affirmative smile, it might have come across as more of a grimace. I’d taken credit for all of Mari’s magical actions. I trusted the witch not to sell her out, but I still wasn’t sure about Kross. Not at all.

“You reckon the gold men will understand that distinction?” Kross asked the witch.

“I don’t think they’re the understanding sort of people,” I said.

“No, they sound nuts to be honest,” the witch said. “If they’re coming here, then I might need to get away for a bit. I haven’t been out in the world much, but I can’t stop an army of Sweepers and weird monster-witch-men from crossing the river if their hearts are set on it.”

They looked uneasy for the first time, the usual casual confidence slipping. Their mind had been churning around something since I’d started my story, and I wasn’t sure what.

“You’re welcome to come with us,” I said. “I’m sure chemistry and trickery would come in handy on the road.”

“Thank you for the offer,” they said, and some of the tension seemed to bleed away from their mind. “Where are you going?”

“West, I suppose, through the Labyrinth. Away from the Gold Robes. I don’t have much more of a plan than that. You were my plan, to be honest, before I figured out the Sweepers were likely coming after you already.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” they said, a sad smile on their lips. “I’ll sleep on your offer. For now, perhaps we should all get some rest? Unless you planned to march off through the pitch dark?”

I shared the question with Mari, and her weary mind gave a pulse of agreement back. We could both use some sleep.

“We can afford to rest a night,” Kross said. “Sweepers won’t be traveling in the dark either.”

“The Gold Robes might be,” I pointed out. “Who knows what they can do.”

“There’s not many of them though, is there?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And they wear a load of really visible shiny stuff?”

“Yes.”

“And magic doesn’t work unless you’re close, right? That’s what you said.”

Perhaps I shouldn’t have given so much away. Kross knowing my limitations might not have been a good thing. “It seems that way.”

Kross shrugged. “Then if they show up without the meat shields, I’ll just pop their heads before they even see me.”

I tilted my head in a half-shrug. I didn’t doubt she was capable of that.

“Well, that seems settled then,” the witch said. “I have space for you all here, and blankets in the back-room.”

No one objected to the idea of sleep. I’d barely had a chance to close my eyes since the massacre, and only now when the opportunity for rest had finally arrived did the weariness truly hit me.

Mari went to feed Thunder and get him settled in for the night, whilst Kross and I helped the witch turn their front-room into a sleeping chamber. Kross collapsed into a bed almost as soon as we’d finished, cradling her rifle like a lover.

I waited up with the witch for Mari to get back.

When she stepped back through the airlock, her mind was more relaxed. Still alert, but her guard had come down a little.

“Is Thunder okay?” I asked.

Mari nodded. {He’s nervous, but he’s glad that we’re close, and glad he can have a rest.}

{I know how he feels.} “We should probably sleep too.”

“Actually,” the witch interjected, “Mari, you please help yourself to a bed. Red, may I talk to you in the kitchen?”

I looked from the girl, to the sleeping mass murderer, and back again.

{I’ll be fine,} Mari sent.

“All right,” I said to the witch, slowly. {You get some rest,} I sent to Mari. {Really. You need it.}

The witch’s house seemed to be comprised of four equally sized rooms. The front room was where we’d entered and had now made our beds. The back-room was filled to the brim with rusty salvage, jars of colorful powder, and large tins filled with who-knew-what. The bedroom, which we’ll be getting to eventually, was much like you’d expect given the rest of the witch’s decor.

The kitchen was different. No fabric on the walls, only the bare, no-longer-white plastic. There were work surfaces around the walls, and an additional one bisecting the room, all white too. Everything was covered in glass beakers, burners, pots and pans of assorted sizes. Several different containers were bubbling away as we entered. ‘Kitchen,’ didn’t really seem appropriate, but the word ‘laboratory,’ had faded into obscurity.

The witch sat themselves on a stool on one side of the central work surface and pointed out a second for me to pull up on the other side. We sat facing each other, the only clear space in the kitchen between us. I waited for them to speak.

“So,” they said, and fixed me with a dark-eyed stare. They might not have been able to read minds, but I didn’t doubt those eyes could read my face just as easily. “That question Kross asked you earlier: How many people have you killed? What is the answer?”

I looked away, the stool creaked as I shifted on it. “I haven’t directly killed anyone.”

“Have you… indirectly killed anyone?”

I grimaced. “I stabbed a woman with a spear in self-defense, but I’m not certain that was what killed her. I forced some Sweepers to crash their bike, but there’s a chance they survived. I injured a man, and someone else finished him off. I’ve killed plenty of animals I suppose, to feed or protect myself.”

“You don’t take life easily. That’s good. But you do fight when necessary.”

“I suppose so.” I shrugged my shoulders, which were suddenly very heavy, and dared to glance sideways at them.

“Hmm.” The witch stroked the smooth skin of their strong jaw as they stared at me. “And you know how to read and write. And you’re a… ‘witch.’ And you’re collecting outcasts and orphans.”

None were questions, so I didn’t answer them.

“Yes. You might fit the bill,” the witch said, staring off into the distance behind my head.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “What is this about?”

They blinked, as if waking from a dream. “May I read your fate?”

“Chemistry?” I asked. “Or trickery?” The library had taught me better than to put stock in superstition, rituals, and long dead gods.

“A bit of both. People are willing to trade me a lot for it, usually. But don’t worry, it’s on the house this time.” It must have been obvious that I was reluctant, because the witch leaned forward to rest a hand on my forearm. “I really think it might be important. I wouldn’t offer otherwise.”

I stared down at the warm hand on my forearm. Someone else’s hand. A gesture both generous and obscene, and given so casually, as if people went around touching each other all the time.

I swallowed. “If you think it’s important, then I’d be happy for you to read my fate.”

They smiled that half smile again and released my arm to reach under the work surface. They took out three palm-sized circular metal tins of different colors.

“Bronze, steel, silver,” the witch said, laying them out in a line from left to right. They pointed to each in turn. “Past, present, future.”

“What’s the logic there?” I asked.

They shrugged. “All were considered magical at one point in history. When bronze was new and rare, it was the magical metal, thought to bring luck and things like that, but it grew commonplace and mundane with time, and steel took its place in the pantheon of metals. Eventually everyone understood steel, and the rare and valuable silver took its place.”

“Past, past, past, then?” I asked, most likely failing to hide the superiority in my tone. “Shouldn’t iron be in there somewhere too? To keep the fairies away?”

The witch tilted their head at me in curiosity, causing their hair to flop to one side. “You know a lot about such things?”

I had the sudden instinctual feeling that I’d given away a secret, though I had no reason to conceal anything from them. “I read a lot of books. Used to, at least. It’s been a long time, actually.”

They stared at me for so long that I began to fidget, searching for something. I regretted questioning them.

“The metals don’t matter really,” they said when they finally decided to show mercy. “I just like that they provide a natural segue into talking about the nature of magic in general.”

“Which is?”

“Oh, you want to know now?”

My cheeks flushed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I don’t… talk to people that often.”

They grinned, flashing two rows of perhaps the whitest teeth I had ever seen. Back in those days, it was rare to see someone with a full set. “Magic isn’t a set of rules, or a”—they flapped their hands around in the air—“force of some kind. Magic is just the word we use for things we don’t understand, and when we understand them, they are no longer Magic. The corrupting energies in the air around us, the monsters they create, your gifts, the Gold Robes: all are Magic for now, but one day they will be as mundane as bronze.”

“That’s a strange thing to tell people, considering you make a living of people believing the same about you.”

“Honesty breeds trust, and I think people like the reassurance that one day the world will not be as random and terrifying as it is today.”

I tried to imagine the sort of future we could have if the forces around us were understood and found I could not. How can one imagine understanding something they do not already understand? I did like the idea though. That perhaps one day places like the library would rise again, that the Hard Times was only one era in long line of eras past and future.

I must have begun gazing off into space, because they cleared their throat to pull me back to reality. “Speaking of the future…”

“Ah, right. My fate?”

“Well first I’d like to take a look at those wounds of yours. I can do a better job here than whatever you managed on the road. Otherwise, I predict your fate might be, ‘die of gangrene.’”

I opened my mouth to say, “I’m fine,” but realized I was being foolish. Both bites had been burning all evening. “I’d appreciate that,” I said instead.

And so, the witch tended to my wounds. They made a concerned humming noise as they conducted their inspection, before announcing, “I’ll clean these again, and I think you need stitches.”

Several painful minutes later, after much more human contact than I was comfortable with, they dropped the blood soaked needle and bandages into a beaker of simmering water. It turned a deep red almost immediately.

“There. All done,” they said.

I inspected the bite on my arm. The two ragged rows of punctures had been closed up neatly now, and the stitches didn’t pull too badly as I rotated my wrist. “Thank you.”

The witch grinned. “And now, your fate.”

They took the boiling blood water off its burner and poured a few drops into each tin. They added some clear oily solution of some sort, sealed the lids, shook each in turn, and then laid them back in their place.

“Past,” they said, and twisted the lid from the bronze tin.

My blood had darkened, thickened, and separated, floating in the clear oil like scabrous clouds. The clouds formed a shape, a very clear shape.

“Death comes,” I uttered, staring at the skull staring back at me. My skepticism fled when faced with such an ominous coincidence.

The witch’s brows went up.

“Erm,” I scratched the back of my neck. “Something a crow told me, just before all of the Horse People were slaughtered.”

They stared at me for a long moment, their thoughts darting around like fire flies trapped in a jar—lively and curious. “And before that, further back?”

I averted my eyes again, suddenly finding the back of my hand fascinating.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine,” they said. Though I think they got enough of an answer from my sigh of relief.

“The present then.” They twisted off the second lid.

A chill ran down my spine. “It’s… the same?”

A bulb shaped head with holes for eyes and nose—another skull.

“Hmm,” the witch stared at tin, their brow furrowing. “Well, as portents go, I’ll be honest, that doesn’t look great. But death isn’t always a sign of complete doom.”

“The crow said something else. There was something about opportunity too, and a feast?”

They nodded. “Death can sometimes be a symbol for change in general, for it is the greatest of changes. Sometimes good, sometimes bad, often some of both.”

“It could also just symbolize literal death, though?”

They hesitated a while but, {you poor thing,} bubbled to the surface of their thoughts. “It can also just be very literal, yes. Would you like to see your future?”

I took a deep breath, bracing myself. I had the horrible feeling all of my blood would have disappeared, that I had no future.

I nodded.

The lid came off.

“Great,” I said. “More death.”

The witch sat back to take in all three tins, tapping an immaculate nail on the plastic as they thought. “Three of the same. That has never happened before. Sorry, I must have done something wrong.”

“No. I don’t think you did.” I deflated with a sigh, burying my head in my hands. “I may not be eager to see more of it, but there is a lot of death in my past, and my present, and I imagine my near future holds either death for myself, or those around me, or both. I’m the one that should be apologizing, for dragging it with me to your doorstep.”

“Red…” They said the word carefully, but apparently couldn’t find the words for anything more. Their pity and despair mingled with my own, and I could almost see myself as they saw me, this worn and defeated man, this husk.

Then, a gentle hand pressed against my shoulder. “I don’t believe you are doomed, Red. Fate is only a hazy maze of ever-shifting paths, nothing is certain and nothing is fixed.”

“What makes you believe that?”

“Scholar, soldier, sorcerer.”

“What?”

“You are a scholar, yes?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“You can read, you can write, you have knowledge of the past that has become scarce these days.”

“Those are all holdovers from a childhood long gone.”

“Still, you are the most scholarly person I’ve met, aside from my predecessor and myself.”

“That… isn’t much.”

“And you are a soldier too, after a fashion, you’re willing to fight when necessary, at least. And… you’re sort-of a sorcerer, because of the—” They tapped their forehead.

“What are you trying to say?”

The witch stood suddenly, seizing my wrist firmly. “Come with me.”

They pulled me to my feet and dragged me through the beaded curtains that obscured the fourth and final room of their house. A bedchamber lay beyond, and I couldn’t help but feel like an intruder despite being literally dragged to the place. The usual eclectic selection of fabric adorned the walls here, but the witch strode over to the far corner and ripped a purple blanket aside. Behind it, an image had been scratched into the not-white plastic.

“The first Witch of the Weir left this behind. She was more gifted at reading fate than any that have come after.”

The image showed a crude stick figure standing atop a mountain of some kind. They had an assault rifle in one hand, a book in the other, and appeared to be shooting lightning from their eyes. Around them a swarm of other figures knelt, danced, shot each other, got zapped by lightning, fornicated (actually, the fornicators were the majority demographic by a large margin), and in one instance jousted each other from the backs of what might have been horses— some kind of four legged creature at least. There was also what appeared to be a Tyrannosaurus rex biting an elephant in the neck and a choir of singing penises serenading a giant rose.

Whatever other purpose the witch had in showing me the scene, it confused me enough that I forgot my fatalism for a moment. I was very careful to watch my tone when I said what I said next and was very glad that the witch couldn’t read thoughts after all. “That’s… very interesting. Are you saying that’s me? In the middle?”

“That is the champion of the law. The one who will end the Hard Times and resurrect the Good Times. The one who will usher in a golden age that will last a hundred generations.”

There was a warmth radiating from the witch’s mind. Perhaps pride.

“Or it’s just the doodles of a very bored, very horny, teenager.” They shrugged. They were toying with me, and proud the complete befuddlement they’d managed to invoke in me. “I choose to believe there might be something to it though. Hard times can’t last forever, and if we get one warlord with brains and magic to reinforce their rule, that seems like the sort of person that could conquer the entire city, perhaps even the world.”

“The world’s a lot bigger than people think. And I’m no warlord.”

“In any case. I have something for you. My predecessor told me to give to the one I thought might be ‘the one’ when the time was right. Perhaps you are the gun-toting wizard-king of a glorious future, perhaps you are not, but I have a good feeling about you, Red.”

“Thank you,” I said, because what else can you say to that really.

They turned and left me standing awkwardly in the middle of the room as they rummaged through wardrobes and cupboards, and finally, under their bed.

“Ah! Knew it was here somewhere.”

They emerged holding an olive green tube, a little shorter than my arm.

“This, is the Lawbringer!” The witch thrust the tube up above their head, as if offering it to the heavens. I couldn’t help but laugh at the melodrama. Perhaps it was their intent to make me laugh. To cheer me a little.

The witch knelt and offered the tube up, like a knight might offer their sword to their liege lord and cast their eyes to the ground.

I shook my head, but I couldn’t rid myself of my smile. “Are you just trying to offload some clutter? What even is this?”

I took it from them. The tube was surprisingly heavy, and far bulkier at one end than the other. The paint had given way to coarse, corrupted, metal in many places. There was yellow writing along the side, but I could only make out a few words. “Something… anti-tank… something. Is this what I think it is?”

The witch grinned. “It’s a powerful weapon from ages past.”

“How do I use it?” I turned the tube over in my hand. The bulkier end had a scope mounted on the side, but the glass was missing. There was a small raised plate with flecks of white paint on it, scraps of lines and curves that implied drawings or the occasional letter, but whatever instruction those contained had long been lost to time.

“If you truly are the bringer of the law, then when the time is right you will know what to do.” They cocked their head. “Perhaps don’t rely on it doing anything much though.”

I found I was returning their smile still. The gift might have been junk, but the distraction, the amusement, and the rare company had all done a lot to lift my mood.

“Thank you…” I said, and we both sensed the awkward emptiness where I would have used their name, if I had known it. ‘Thank you, witch,’ didn’t quite sound right.

“You can call me Bobby,” the witch said.

“Thank you, Bobby.” I slapped the tube against my palm, sensing the end of conversation topics rapidly approaching but not knowing how to excuse myself gracefully.

Bobby huffed out a little laugh through their nostrils. “You must be tired, Red, I’ll let you go now.”

“Alan,” I blurted, which earned me a confused look. “My name is Alan.”

Their smile broadened. “Well, in that case, goodnight, Alan.”

“Goodnight.” I made an awkward motion somewhere between a bow and a nod, then backed out of the room.

When I got back to the guest room, two small bodies were already curled up on their sides. Kross was snoring aggressively, and her mind was already diffusing into the hazy cloud of a dreamer, Mari’s was mind was still taut and alert by comparison, whirling like a vortex. She was facing the wall, her back to me.

I picked a spot on the opposite side of the room and settled down on a pile of cushions. The sensation of sinking into the soft mounds was comfortable, but too alien to be comforting.

{Trouble sleeping?} I asked Mari silently.

Her thoughts continued to swirl for a moment before they coalesced into deliberate communication. {I could hear you talking.}

{Sorry. Didn’t mean to keep you up.}

{What were you talking about?}

{The witch read my fate. Apparently, I am destined for greatness.}

Despite the lightness of my thoughts, her mind withdrew, growing spiky and hard. {Don’t joke. Tell me really.}

{That is what we talked about.} I replied, without humor this time. When the spikes didn’t retract, I added, {I know you don’t really trust me, or anyone. That’s okay. That’s sensible. You read the witch’s thoughts though. You know they weren’t deceiving us. You know I’m not deceiving you.}

Behind her defenses, she churned on that for a while. I waited, and sleep had begun to claim me before I noticed the spikes had begun to blunt and recede.

{It’s not like that,} she sent, though on some level, that must have been a lie. Some part of her was afraid of me, perhaps instinctively. I couldn’t really blame her. {When the witch said they would help us, when you say you’re going to help me, it feels the same as when the adults in my Tribe said the same. They weren’t lying, but they were wrong.}

I let that sit for a while before I responded. It was tempting to lie to her, the way I had been lied to as a child. Those sweet, comforting lies: “it’ll be all right,” “don’t worry,” “I’ll take care of it.” We believe those as children because we think the grownups are some sort of gods. Magical creatures that can do anything and know more than we will ever know.

Once that illusion is shattered though, it is hard to go back, and besides, she could read my thoughts.

{It’s entirely possible we will all get killed, yes. All anyone can do is their best. But I think together we can make it.}

{If my entire Tribe couldn’t stop the Gold Robes, or even the Sweepers, what chance do you three have?}

{Five.}

{What?}

{There’s five of us. Me, the sniper, the witch, the horse, and you. And honestly, I think you might be the strongest of all of us.}

{I’m not strong.}

{I disagree.} I called up my memory of the encounter with Peter, of the overwhelming pressure bearing down upon me, of Mari’s mind beside mine, shoving the Gold Robe back out of my mind. I had never tried to send a memory directly before, but I tried to push the images at her the way I might communication. My grip on the memory was clumsy, and the bordering images were dragged up in its wake: My shock, my fear, my confusion, Peter’s eyes popping grotesquely as his brain was destroyed, my revulsion and surprise at a girl so young killing so decisively.

Her breath caught, her mind buzzing erratically around my memory. Then she crushed the images I’d sent, her mind collapsing around them until the pressure sent their atoms flying back at me in a fine mist.

{Sorry,} I tried. I’d caused her pain and incurred her wrath. {I didn’t mean to send you all of that.}

{Would you have rather I spared him? Let him finish us off instead?}

{No. Of course not. I judged too harshly in the moment.}

{Liar. I can tell you hate me.}

{I don’t hate you.}

{You’re afraid of me.}

There was no point in denying it, so I tried to move on. {Look, all I meant to show you was that you’re much stronger than you give yourself credit for. Me, Kross, the witch, none of us could have done what you did.}

{That doesn’t matter.} The words came at me like bullets this time, punching holes through me. {I ran away. When the Sweepers came, I ran away.}

And I had just sat and watched. I couldn’t contain my guilt and could only hope no specifics leaked out with that sickly hot emotion. {Which… is exactly the plan: run away. But perhaps it won’t always be that way. Maybe one day you’ll be strong enough to stand your ground.}

{I won’t— I’m weak. I’m a coward. I’m scared all the time.}

{So am I. It’s normal to be afraid. Especially after what you’ve been through.}

She lashed out, her thoughts whipping my mind back. {How could you possibly know? Everyone I love is dead.}

Perhaps the blow shook something loose, perhaps I lashed out myself, I don’t really recall this moment clearly. As I retreated from her into myself, I left a window open, and as those old well-worn memories rose up to consume me, she saw it all, and they saw her, and they rushed for her. A sentient disease trying to infect another body with it’s evil.

I tried to claw them back, but I might as well have been trying to pull back a raging river.

Mari coughed in the real world as she experienced lungs full of smoke in the mental realm. My lungs. She saw the fire, and the bodies, the grisly, faceless cadavers that my Tribe had been reduced to. She heard the manic laughter of my pursuers, felt my fear as I ran from them, held her breath as I hid.

I was there alongside her, trying to rip her free from the river of memories even as they battered me along with her. I was there as we hid in the bushes outside the towering inferno of the library, too terrified to move as the residents were dragged out, some kicking and screaming, some limp and bloody.

Our father was dead, we were sure of that, we saw it happen, but we held out hope that our mother had gotten away, found a place to hide the same way we had. When her familiar silhouette was dragged from the building, dark hair glistening with blood in the firelight, our hope died in our chest.

We knew we shouldn’t look. That if we looked it would destroy us. But we couldn’t do anything else, and this had already happened.

Mari and I watched in horror as one of the strangers raised a long knife high into the air, our kneeling, crying, mother gripped firmly by the hair in his other hand. He was laughing, had always been laughing, and would continue to laugh as the knife came down, towards Mother’s face.

And then we felt her hand upon our shoulders, and her breath in our ear.

“You shouldn’t be watching this,” she said. “You know it won’t do any good.”

She pulled us back gently, deeper into the bush, until dark leaves blotted out the flames and muffled the screams, until we had sunk beneath the earth and fallen out the other side, out of the memory.

We split in two, Mari was Mari, and I was only me again.

Both of us were screaming.