Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 79: Answers

Roland’s room was warm, the fire still going, and Nightingale and Wendy were both sitting in the chairs by the wall when he arrived.

Neither of them looked tired. That was the first thing he noticed. They had been awake through the entire night and into the morning, and their faces showed none of it — only the particular brightness of people who have been running on something stronger than sleep.

“Was Nana’s Demon’s Bite last night?” he asked, before he had properly sat down.

“Yes.” Nightingale was already leaning forward. “The change was so subtle I almost missed it — just a small shift in her power, nothing dramatic. I would not have identified it as the critical moment if I hadn’t been looking specifically. But it was. Your hypothesis was correct.” She said it without hesitation, with the full weight of confirmation behind it. “Daily use causes the power to grow, and the growth reduces the Bite’s severity. If witches maintain consistent training, they have a strong chance of surviving adulthood unharmed.”

Roland exhaled.

He had been fairly confident. The logic was sound — the mechanism he’d theorized made physiological sense, if magic operated anything like a muscle under conditioning. But sound logic and confirmed results were two different things, and he had not been entirely certain.

Nana. Twelve years old, sleeping off an uneventful night while her father sat in a chair beside her and probably would not move until midday.

“Within all of Graycastle,” Wendy said, “only here can witches use their abilities openly. In every other territory, the Church’s prohibition holds, the God’s Stones are weapons, and practice is impossible.” She paused. “In a sense, Your Highness, Border Town already is the Holy Mountain.”

The phrase arrived with more force than Roland expected.

The Holy Mountain. The destination the Witch Cooperation Association had been walking toward through the Impassable Mountain range in the worst winter of the year. The place Cara had promised would receive them. Wendy was saying that it was here — that it had been here, made deliberately rather than discovered, built out of tolerance and a theory about physiology and a policy of paying wages instead of burning people.

“I want to make certain as many witches as possible learn of this,” Wendy continued. “Every sister who knows she can survive her Demon’s Bite by training would come here. Each of them would be willing to help you in return.”

“That was always my intention,” Roland said. “Once the Months of the Demons ends and the town has some breathing room, I’ll arrange for the information to spread — but quietly, through rumor, not announcement. A formal recruitment campaign would trigger a response from the Church before I’m positioned to manage it.” He looked at them both. “That changes when I hold the throne or when the Church is dealt with. Not before.”

“Then helping you take the throne is the best thing I can do for every witch in Graycastle,” Wendy said.

She moved from her chair to the floor. The motion was not quite practiced — an improvisation, clearly, the oath taken on impulse rather than by prepared ceremony — but she recited it clearly and held the position until Roland had formally accepted.

When she rose, she turned to Nightingale. “How was that?”

Nightingale’s expression was the controlled one she used when trying not to react. “Barely acceptable.”

“I’ll improve with repetition.” Wendy looked back at Roland. “You should both sleep. You spent the whole night—”

“Your Highness.” Wendy knelt again.

Roland waited.

“I want to go back to the Witch Cooperation Association’s camp. After the Months of the Demons ends.”

“Wendy.” Nightingale’s voice was flat with alarm.

“I don’t know whether they found the Holy Mountain,” Wendy said, ignoring her. “Perhaps they succeeded. But if they failed — if Cara turned them back — they’ll return to the camp in the mountain range. I want to go to them. I want to deliver this news.” Her voice did not waver. “As long as they use their power daily, they will survive. If I can tell even one sister, it will matter.”

“Cara attacked you,” Roland said. “Without regard for your years of friendship.”

“If she had truly wanted to kill me, she would have used a different snake.” Wendy’s tone was even, certain. “She used Pain, not Death. She wanted to teach me a lesson. I am not afraid of her.”

Roland was quiet. He turned the problem over. The honest calculation was this: refusing the request was the safer choice for him personally — Wendy was a useful witch, a powerful one, and losing her to a grudge in the Impassable Mountain range would be a straightforward loss. But accepting the risk was not only Wendy’s generosity. If she went and returned with even a handful of witches who had chosen to trust Border Town based on her testimony, the return exceeded the risk substantially.

And there was the other thing — the thing he could not make into arithmetic but which was real anyway. Wendy had sisters. She had known those women for years, had walked the mountain range with them, had shared their fear of the Demon’s Bite and their hope about the Holy Mountain. The choice to leave them was not something she had finished making. Letting her go back was not a strategic concession. It was simply the right thing.

“I’ll allow it,” Roland said. “Two months minimum — wait out the Months of the Demons fully. You won’t go alone. Lightning goes with you. I’ll provide firearms for protection, and a God’s Stone of Retaliation.” He looked at her steadily. “Wearing it, Cara’s power cannot touch you. Lightning gives you aerial range. Come back.”

“Your Highness—” Nightingale started.

“No, Veronica.” Wendy’s voice was gentle but absolute. “His Highness’s safety matters more than mine. He is the reason any of this is possible.” She turned to Nightingale, and the look between them carried everything that did not need to be said in front of him. “Stay here. Take care of him.”

Nightingale sat with that for a moment. Then she looked away, at the fire, and was quiet.

Roland watched them both and said nothing. Some conversations finished in silence, and this was one of them.

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