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minutes later, hoping he would be able to return home in time.

    *****
Odara lay naked on a block of cold stone in the town dungeon. Her body was covered with welts and slimy with sweat, blood, and grime. A dark cap of stubble covered her scalp. (Her head and pubic hair had been shaved when she was fi rst arrested so she could be closely inspected for hidden charms, amulets, and devil’s marks...but none were found.) She had been imprisoned down here, along with Colin—one of her servants—for almost three weeks now. During that time she and Colin had been tortured. She had been repeatedly raped and fl ogged, her arms crushed, her fi ngernails pulled out with red-hot pincers. But she had not confessed. She was too afraid of what would happen to her if she had. She had even told her captors of her pregnancy, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. A witch’s child would be a witch, and as far as the clergy and courts were concerned, all witches deserved death.
    When Odara realized she was condemned, she decided to remain silent. She didn’t want to give her inquisitors the satisfaction of her confession, even though she was—to a greater or lesser degree—guilty. Odara knew it would be futile to confess. She was going to die, and nothing she said would be able to prevent that. Now, having been tried and convicted, she awaited her execution.
    She sobbed.

    *****
67
    The Necromancer
    Fergus was three miles south of Lincoln, England, when Dreng stomped to an abrupt halt, raised his head up high, whinnied, staggered, rolled his eyes back in his head, and collapsed to the ground with a loud thud, throwing Fergus almost twenty feet off the road. Dreng breathed laboriously for a minute or two, then stopped.
    Fergus knew he had been pushing the animal hard, but felt he had rested it suffi ciently. But when they arrived back in England, Fergus sensed that time was dwindling away quickly, and he drove the horse harder with fewer rest stops. Now Dreng was dead, and he would have to get a fresh animal. He felt bad for Dreng. The horse had served him well. But time wouldn’t allow for mourning.
    Fergus gathered up the few items he hadn’t left behind in Weimar to lighten Dreng’s workload and proceeded to run north. He wasn’t sure how long it would take him to reach the next town, but his intuition told him it wasn’t very far. He only hoped this setback hadn’t cost him his family.

    *****
The dungeon door opened, and the public executioner entered accompanied by two guards. Odara, who was sleeping, awoke.
    The guards approached the stone block she lay on and proceeded to undo her chains.
    “It is time,” the executioner said contemptuously.
    All color and expression abandoned her face.
    “Dress yourself, wench,” he said as she sat up. “The pyre awaits.” He threw her clothes at her feet.
    She was sore and stiff. Many of her wounds hadn’t healed properly and were still open and suppurating. Dressing was a torture in itself. Her arms and hands were swollen and 68
    Odara
    mangled and didn’t work properly. She fumbled with her buttons and laces. She was scrawny and malnourished now, and her clothes hung loosely on her body when she put them on.
    “Move it, wench!” The executioner kicked her hard as she stooped over for her bodice, making her crash face fi rst into the cold, hard fl oor.
    She began to cry again.

    *****
Fergus rode up to the cottage on the black mare he
    had purchased in Lincoln. It was a cold, overcast November morning, a few minutes past ten o’clock. He’d been riding since dawn from Hadrian’s Wall where he had spent the night, and now he was fi nally home. It had taken him less than a week to make the journey, and he felt terribly exhausted, but it wasn’t over yet.
    He dismounted the horse and ran inside.
    “Odara! Odara!” he called.
    But the house remained quiet.
    He ran from room to room calling Odara’s name, but found nothing.
    Then he heard a voice call, “Master