by Jude Fisher
‘And some with big—’
‘Teeth!’
‘Tits!’ yelled Fent, drunkenly.
‘Arses!’ cried Gramma Rolfsen, grinning insanely.
‘Eyes,’ supplied Tam demurely, and the ‘Rosa Eldi’ pranced around some more and clutched his enormous false chest.
‘Eyes!’ repeated Tam with a bellow, and there was a great gale of laughter.
‘All the ladies were fair, so fair
But not one of them could compare
With the Rosa Eldi, the nomad Queen
The prettiest girl he’d ever seen.’
And now Tam had his hands on the Rose of the World’s huge fake breasts as well, which earned him a hefty swat from the other player, who made an obscene and unmistakable gesture to the crowd, then proceeded to pick the King up, hoist him over her shoulder, arse in the air, and march from the room to a great crescendo of horns and catcalls.
Even her mother was laughing, Katla noticed; but Aran sat there with a faraway look in his eyes, as if the minstrels had performed some ballad telling an affecting tale of tragic heroism. A little while later he took a small piece of folded parchment from inside his tunic and gazed at it lovingly for a moment; then he got up and went over to his sons and the three of them left the hall. Curious, Katla shifted on her seat and also made to rise, but Festrin put her hand on her arm.
‘Stay and talk to me, Katla Aransen,’ she said softly.
Katla, surprised, settled back again.
‘What do you believe in?’ the seither asked.
It was a hard question to answer, because Katla did not know what level of response she was expected to give, so after a while she laughed and said simply, ‘Myself.’
It was supposed to be a joke of sorts, but Festrin put her head on one side and her big single eye regarded Katla solemnly. Then her lips quirked. ‘I sense that that belief has got you into quite a bit of trouble so far in your life. I also sense there’s a lot about yourself you do not yet know. What are the things you do best?’
Mesmerised by the eye, Katla blurted without thinking: ‘Oh, climbing cliffs and rockfaces, and making my knives and swords—’ And then stopped dead as she realised what she’d said.
Again Festrin smiled. ‘So what belief is left when, with only one hand, you can do none of those things?’
Katla felt unaccustomed tears well up. ‘I . . . I don’t know.’
The seither leaned in closer. ‘What of Elda, Katla? What of your connection with the world – don’t you feel it? I think you do, but that you don’t understand it yet.’
Katla stared at the one-eyed woman. She remembered how the palms of her hands tingled when she worked metal in a particularly pleasing fashion; how a jolt of energy would sometimes run up her arms when she climbed; the way that the rock of Sur’s Castle had spoken to her, in some language that only her blood and body comprehended; how the timbers of the ship had thrummed with life beneath her hands as they neared the islands. How even lightly running a hand across the warm granite above the hall that very morning had made a jelly of her bones and how for just a moment she had sensed words in her head, as if the world itself were communicating with her.
‘Something has happened to you recently, Katla Aransen, something not unconnected to your injury, to bring you to the earth-magic. I can feel it in you, and all around – I can feel it everywhere lately, but in you, Katla, it is strong. What happened to you? All your grandmother told me was that you had been burned. Was it in the smithy?’
‘The Istrians tried to burn me at the Allfair.’
Festrin’s eye flashed. ‘They are superstitious, dangerous fools. They have destroyed thousands of poor souls who carry the magic without even knowing it and have never done anything more harmful than to offer a few weak potions or charms.’
‘It was not for witchery,’ Katla said, and went on to tell her tale. When she came to the burning itself, she frowned. ‘I remember seeing my brother Halli and our cousin Tor in the crowd; I remember being tied to the post, and the lighting of the fire; and I remember an Istrian that I thought was my friend coming at me with his sword – then I can remember nothing until I woke up on our ship, bound for home.’
‘And this—’ Festrin touched the unbandaged hand ‘—happened in the burning?’
Katla nodded.
‘Would you like your hand back, Katla? As it once was, strong and fine, with four fingers and one thumb, as perfect as before the fire?’
No need to think about that. ‘Of course.’
‘Then you must find a way to believe in yourself as you have never done before, and if you can do that, I can help you to heal yourself.’
Katla felt obscurely disappointed. Somehow she had expected either arrant fakery, or an instant and magical cure. Helping her to heal herself suggested a lengthy and tedious process and no miracle to look forward to at the end of it. She hung her head. ‘Oh,’ she said.
Festrin laughed, the harsh note of it making several around the tables look in their direction. ‘Take me and show me the knives you make,’ she said.
Outside, it was full dark and the stars were scattered across the sky. Katla, holding a brand she had taken from the pile beside the firepit, led the seither across the enclosure towards the smithy. They passed the outhouse, where someone was being noisily sick, and the stables, where the ponies whickered softly as they passed. As they neared the barn, Katla realised that someone was inside, for a lantern cast long shadows out of the open door. Puzzled, she motioned for Festrin to follow quietly and together they crept closer. Even before they reached the door, Katla could hear her father’s voice carrying quite clearly in the crisp night air.
‘We need Danson. The Fulmar’s Gift isn’t up to the job – it would never withstand the floes to the far north.’
‘We could modify it ourselves.’ Halli’s tones now, deep and rich, sounding remarkably like Aran’s.
‘It’s just not suited to having an ice-breaker fitted: the Fulmar’s Gift is built for speed. With the extra weight, it’d capsize in a high sea,’ Aran replied impatiently.
Now Fent joined in, his voice, like his mien, lighter and sharper than his brother’s. ‘I say we kill Tarn Fox and take the Snowland Wolf, modify that.’
‘Fent! You don’t mean it.’ Halli seemed shocked; but Katla knew her twin only too well.
‘Of course he doesn’t. Besides, we’d still need Morten Danson to do the work – and if I’m going into uncharted waters I want a ship that’s been custom-built, not some other vessel that’s been hastily cobbled together out of old scraps.’ Aran sounded annoyed now. ‘Damn the man for turning down my money. I’ve already lost a fortune to Finn Larson.’ He paused, suddenly thoughtful. Then: ‘You didn’t happen to retrieve my money when you butchered him did you?’ he asked Fent bitterly.
There was a moment of appalled silence. The seither gripped Katla by the arm. ‘We should away,’ she whispered. ‘I mislike the turn of this.’
But so bound up was she in her family drama that Katla barely even felt the woman’s touch. There came a scuffling noise and an inarticulate cry, and then Halli’s voice rang out. ‘You! You killed Jenna’s father? Tell me it isn’t true, Fent! Surely not even you—’
‘—would kill a fat old traitor?’
‘Enough!’ Aran roared. ‘This family stands together. I’ll pay Tarn Fox to take the pair of you with him when he returns to Halbo to provide the entertainment for Ravn’s marriage ceremony: no one there will notice another pair of numbskulls amongst the company. He’ll not be able to resist an invitation to such an event, Tarn reckons; then you can take Danson aside and make our case to him and see how . . . persuasive you can be.’
‘You mean, knock him over the head and bring him whether he will or not?’ laughed Fent.
‘Whatever it takes. You’ll need to borrow two of his big knarrs, and load the necessary timber onto them. And don’t bludgeon him senseless till you’ve made him tell you which men and which tools he
’ll need for the job—’
‘We can’t just abduct people!’ Halli’s voice was thick with emotion. ‘You’re mad and he’s a murderer, and I want no part of this!’
‘If you don’t, then you’re no son of mine,’ Aran said harshly.
Festrin leaned in close to Katla. ‘This is an ill-fated night. I want to hear no more.’
Katla nodded reluctantly. To her, it all sounded rather exciting. If Haiti won’t go, she thought, then I will. She glanced down and the torchlight made a gleaming orange cudgel of her hand. Her heart sank. Silently, she led the seither to the smithy.
Once inside, she lit two lanterns, hung them up and discarded the torch. The warm light offered up a well-ordered workshop in which tools were hung neatly along the walls, or lay oiled and gleaming on shelves. The great leather bellows smelled of wax and showed but a thin dusting of soot; but the fire was out and not an ember glowed, which endowed the place with the faintest air of neglect. Katla’s face told the story: suddenly drawn and tense, it looked to Festrin for a few seconds that she might break down.
‘Your father is in the grip of a dangerous obsession,’ she said, to capture the girl’s attention. ‘A ship is made from the living stuff of Elda – borrowed from the world and eventually returned to it; but a ship built with ill-will may not serve its master well. Your father is tempting the fates: they may measure his cloth and cut it short if he persists in his plan.’
Katla said nothing.
‘And you, Katla Aransen. What of you? I felt the earth-magic in you; but has it touched your heart, or is that part of you as dark and riddled as your kin’s?’
‘My father and brothers are brave, good men,’ she said angrily. ‘Don’t talk about them so.’
The seither pressed her lips firmly together as if imprisoning her next words. Then: ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Show me your work. Maybe I can tell the colour of your heart from your working of the metal.’
This seemed thoroughly unlikely to Katla, but she walked over to the great wooden chest at the back of the smithy and opened it up. Inside, wrapped carefully in soft wool and oiled cloth, were some of her finest pieces – the carnelian sword which Fent had so coveted, some of her best knives (the less well-balanced ones she had flintily melted down and worked anew), and some of the Allfair weaponry that Aran had grabbed up from their booth. From this collection she selected the Red Sword, an ornamental knife with a beautifully decorated pommel, and one of her more recent creations: a simple but elegant pattern-welded dagger. These three she brought and laid out on the table before the seither.
Festrin leaned over them. She ran a finger along the Red Sword. ‘Fine work,’ she said appreciatively. She hefted the blade and tested its balance. ‘I’ve not had much use for weapons in my long life. At least, not simple makings of metal and stone.’
Katla felt vaguely annoyed. So Festrin thought her work simple, did she? She reached out and took the carnelian sword from her. At once, a pale-red light played down the length of the blade to culminate in a bright glow around Katla’s grip. Surprised, she laid it quickly back on the table. When she looked up, there was an expression of intense amusement in the woman’s eyes.
‘So,’ she said. ‘So.’ She smiled at Katla then, passing over the ornamental knife, picked up the pattern-welded dagger. In her long hand, it looked little bigger than her paring knife. She angled it into the light and made appraising noises deep in her throat. The noises became more distinct until they sounded almost like a language Katla could not quite grasp, though her skull itched and buzzed with the effort. Then the word beautiful crept into her mind; then rare. She kept staring at the seither, but the woman’s lips did not move.
‘Did you say something?’ Katla asked puzzledly.
Extraordinary.
The seither’s lips curved upwards into her sweet smile. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘But in a way only you might hear.’
Katla frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
The woman pressed the dagger into Katla’s hand and again the light shone, brighter this time, as if the metal were lit by an inner fire. Katla gasped. She watched lines of flame lick up and down the patterns in the blade, illuminating each gorgeous detail. When the woman withdrew her hand the light faltered for a moment and gained a bluish tinge; then it flared out again, brighter than ever.
Festrin laughed delightedly. ‘Your heart knows more than your head, my dear. And it was with your heart that you worked this blade. Just think what you might achieve now, with the magic awakened. I wonder if it is just metal with which you have this affinity,’ she mused. ‘I’d be curious to see how you worked with stone or wood.’
Katla, shaking, placed the dagger back on the board. Her knees felt weak. Little tremors of aftershock ran up and down her arms. ‘It’s hard to work anything one-handed,’ she said dully.
‘Then let us try to remedy that situation,’ the seither declared. She took Katla’s right hand in both of hers. Pick up the dagger, Katla.
Katla’s left hand went to the hilt before the thought had completed itself. Light flamed out, red and white; and then, without knowing what she did or why, Katla found she had poised the point over her injured hand and was cutting down. The seither placed a guiding hand on top of Katla’s. ‘Don’t falter,’ the woman said aloud. ‘Trust yourself. Trust me. Trust the magic.’
The scar tissue began to part, but there was little blood. Katla stared disbelievingly. Again the dagger descended into the clubhand and she watched it with awe, as if it moved of its own accord, or as if it were an entertainment performed for her benefit by others. A piece of dead flesh fell to the floor, followed by another and Katla watched with a kind of fascinated repulsion. Much more of this, some part of her mind thought, and I’ll have nothing left there but a bloody stump.
The glow from the dagger was so bright now that it hurt her eyes, leaving a jagged white after-image even when she looked away, and the whole of her left arm was abuzz, hot vibrations chasing one another through the bones and up into her shoulder joint; then spiralling around her ribs, down her pelvis and into her legs. The soles of her feet tingled and burned; the energy flowing out into the flagstones. She could feel them absorbing it all; she could feel how it was sucked away into the veins of the ground below, only to gather itself and rebound to her anew.
The seither’s face was awash with the light: her single eye gleamed like a moon.
Another cut and Katla ‘saw’ the image of her forefinger and thumb, limned by a red glow, but separate and true. I could pick up a spoon now, she thought incongruously. I could hold a pair of tongs . . . Another release of pressure, followed by the urgent wish to flex her hand, but the resistance was still there. She bore down again with the knife, feeling the incursion of the blade more deeply than ever, and had to bite her lip to prevent herself from screaming out her fear and horror. Remarkably, there was still no pain – just a sense of applied weight and coercion. She became aware of another finger being freed from the club.
The buzzing got stronger, the light blinding.
Suddenly she was conscious of another voice amongst the vibrations: deep and low and a long way off – more of a rumble in the earth than a voice, in truth; more like the deep heart of the ocean, beating and retreating. The sound was hard to distinguish, but it was not the seither, not this time. She closed her eyes so that the light could not distract her and reached after it, down and down, through the flagstones, down into the rock beneath. Then: Hear me! the voice rumbled. I feel you: even in my prison of stone I hear you: hear me! Sirio calls you, through the veins of Elda, I call you to free me. I have been incarcerated here for three hundred years and none have heard me. Come to me—
‘Katla!’
Her eyes sprang open. In her shock at this new invasion, her hands fell away, leaving Festrin in sole control of the bloodstained dagger.
‘My god! What are you doing to her?’
Wild-eyed in the blazing light, his hair a blood-red corona, Fent snatched u
p the carnelian sword and rushed at the seither. ‘Leave her alone, you witch!’ he howled, and with a single vicious lunge spitted the one-eyed woman on the perfect blade.
Festrin stared down at where the hilt had come to a violent halt against her ribs. Her eye blinked furiously. Then one long hand floated up and wrapped itself about Fent’s throat, the fingers tightening convulsively so that his eyes bulged and his hands came off the Red Sword.
‘An . . . evil deed . . . to interrupt . . . a healing . . .’ She coughed and dark blood bubbled out of her mouth and ran down her chin. ‘May all . . . your ventures . . . meet with . . . disaster . . .’ She smiled sweetly, grotesquely; then crumpled to the floor, where she lay canted at an odd angle, half-propped up by the sturdy hilt.
Katla, jarred out of her inertia, pushed Fent aside and dropped to her knees beside the seither. ‘Festrin, hear me!’ Her voice felt odd to her, deeper and more sonorous. She turned the woman over with surprising ease, and laying both hands on the hilt, withdrew the carnelian sword. A gout of blood shot into the air, striking Katla in the face, but she barely registered the fact beyond noting the unaccustomed warmth on her skin. The weapon blazed like lightning in her hands, and she became dimly aware that Fent had staggered back, shouting something incomprehensible. Behind him, another figure appeared as a blur, but Katla’s attention was on the dying woman. She laid aside the Red Sword, but the light continued to pulse up and down her arms. Without a thought, she plunged her new-made hand into the hole in the woman’s chest, and the light went out like a doused fire. Heat surged and ebbed inside her; and ebbed again and again. She felt the tide of power draining away and something inside her mourned it. Let go! came a voice in her skull. Let go! It reverberated back and forth, a miserable, tiny thing like a bat in a cave, echoing until her head ached. It was all too much. I am dying, she thought desperately, feeling the last of the fire go out of her. Here and now, I am dying.