by Kate Elliott
But Deacon Joceran had lived many years in Sant Laon and had never once in Daniella’s memory spoken out against Mistress Hilde’s potions for lovelorn lads or old Ado’s reading of thunder and the flight of birds and the movement of the heavens in order to predict the weather for the farmers, especially since old Ado was always right. Once she had mildly rebuked the congregation for giving credence to a travelling mathematici who offered, for a price, to read a man or woman’s fate from the courses of the sun and moon and stars, but who Deacon said was a charlatan.
Now she simply handed the amulet back to Daniella.
“These are strange and dark times,” she said. “You must wear this. What will you do with the horse? How feed it? Such a horse must have grain, and there are those, alas, who will envy you the having of it, and its fine bridle and saddle. Some gifts are as much of a curse as a blessing.”
The gray gelding grazed out on the commons. Like an orphaned child, it suddenly appeared to Daniella as more burden than bounty. But she rose determinedly and walked over to the horse. He allowed her to approach, but with stiff arrogance, like a noble lord forced to allow the approach of a simple farmer. One of the saddlebags was filled with more coin, coppers and silver, than Daniella had ever seen in her life, some stamped with King Henry’s seal, others with that of his father and father’s father, the two Arnulfs. The other bag contained a book.
Deacon Joceran walked over carefully, favoring the leg that had suffered from an infection this last winter, and when Daniella handed her the book and she opened the plain leather cover and read what was inside, she blanched. Daniella had never seen Deacon at such a loss before.
“These are terrible things,” she whispered. “You must let no one see this.”
“You must keep it, then, Deacon.”
But Deacon Joceran closed the book and with hands trembling not with age, as they well might have, but with something else, fear or passion or some old memory, she thrust it firmly back into the saddlebag. “Once,” she said, shutting her eyes against memory,“I dedicated my life to the convent, before I was cast out from the life of contemplation and sent into the world, to atone for my misdeeds. I was curious, and the old books speaking of the forbidden arts tempted me. They tempt me still, though thirty years have passed since those days. Hide it. Let no one know you have it. If a trustworthy friar passes through here, we can send it on to the Convent of Sant Valeria or to Doardas Abbey”
“But who was she, then, Deacon?”
“A mathematici indeed, child, whom we would call one of the magi. She spoke truth to you. Great powers lie hidden in the earth and in the heavens, and not all believe that the Church ought to forbid their study. I have seen with my own eyes . . .” But she trailed off, and Daniella thought that perhaps age lay heavily on the old woman as much from what she had seen as from the passing of years. “Now you have seen, and those who see are marked forever. Go then, child. Go back to your house. I will speak to the congregation of the storm and what it brought, but I pray that the Father and Mother of Life will forgive me for not telling them all that occurred in the night.”
Daniella led Resuelto home and installed him in the stables next to the sheep, whom he deigned to ignore. He allowed her to unsaddle him and rub him down, but when Uncle Heldric and Aunt Marguerite ventured out, exclaiming over the dark storm that had swallowed the village for the night, he snorted dangerously and would not let them near him. Matthias was afraid to come into the stables at all, with the big horse there, and Robert, for once, was so in awe of Daniella, or so afraid of what she might have seen and what might have seen her, that he left her alone, not brushing against her hips at every chance, not groping at her budding breasts or whispering suggestions in her ear when no one was nearby to hear.
So the day passed, and the next day, and the one after that, except that strange accidents occurred in the village. Mistress Hilde’s prize goat escaped and was found drowned in the pond. Uncle Heldric and Master Bertrand, their neighbor, were hit by a falling tree in the wood, crushing Bertrand’s foot and breaking Uncle’s left arm. Milk curdled and the hens stopped laying eggs. Churns were overturned, looms unraveled, and the candles at the altar blown out every night. Every person in Sant Laon was struck by misfortune, great or small, everyone except Daniella. Old Ado said the movements of the birds and the lizards warned of worse misfortune to come. Fog wrapped itself round the village at night and increasingly during the day, and out of that fog rose the whisper of bells and soft, guttural voices naming a name: “Daniella.”
They have noticed you and will always mark you. You will never be entirely safe from them without this, nor will anyone nearby you. Forgive me for bringing this trouble on you, that is all of the gift I can give in exchange for your kindness.
At dawn on the fourth day since the storm, Daniella woke abruptly and realized that Dhuoda’s child, called Blanche for her pale hair, was gone from the bed. She dressed quickly and climbed down from the loft. No one was awake yet; Uncle and Aunt snored softly from their bed by the kitchen fire, and even Gruff lay curled up asleep on the bricks that lined the hearth. She ran outside. And there . . .
There on the commons a dense blot of fog, as dark as the smoke from a blacksmith’s forge, swirled round a crying, stumbling child, driving it toward the pond. Daniella cried out loud, and little Blanche, hearing her, bawled even louder and tried desperately to turn, to toddle back toward her aunt, but she could not. The galla forced her closer and ever closer toward the water.
Daniella ran. The fog parted before her, hissing, angry, and she grabbed Blanche just as the little girl teetered on the edge of the pond, her dirty dress wet along the hem.
“Begone!” Daniella shouted, forgetting to be frightened because she was so furious. She pulled the amulet out from under her tunic and held it forward, driving them away.“Begone! What right do you have to torment the innocent?”
But all they said in answer was to whisper her name:“Daniella.”
The sun rose and the fog faded to patches, retreating to the wood, where it curled like snakes around the trunks of trees. Waiting. As it would continue to wait, forever, not knowing human time or human cares.
Daniella stood silently by the pond, soothing the weeping child, until Deacon Joceran came out of the church to discover what the shouting had been.
“I must leave,” Daniella said, the knowledge hanging on her like a weight. She fought against tears, because she was afraid that if she wept now she would not have the courage to do what had to be done. “They will never leave the village, not until I am gone.”
Deacon Joceran nodded, accepting what was necessary, what she could see was true.
Aunt Marguerite wept, when they held a council that morning in the church, Uncle and Aunt and the eldest in the village, those that had their wits about them still. Uncle Heldric offered Daniella his cloak, but he did not beg her to stay. He held little Blanche on his lap. She was smiling now, playing with his beard, and he even laughed a bit. He was fond of Dhuoda’s child, what was left to him of his only daughter, favored child, the best-loved and the sweetest.
“You take my cloak,” he said gruffly to her.
“You have nothing to replace it with,” said Daniella. “Take my mother’s wedding shawl in exchange.”
“Nay, child,” he replied, looking shamed by her generosity, “we have nothing else to give you. It is all you have left of her.”
She gave Matthias four silver coins, which was all she could spare, knowing that she would need the rest for the care and feeding of the gelding, and Matthias sobbed as disconsolately as he had when their Da had been buried, and their Mother, dead bearing a child. He begged to come with her. Perhaps he even meant it, but with the coin he could buy himself a start on his own farm and get a wife, and like their Da he had the gift of understanding the land and the seasons, for all that he was scared of the wild lands surrounding the fields.
“You are meant to stay here,” she said to him: To Blanche s
he left Dhuoda’s bridal cloth, and to Robert, a single kiss of forgiveness.
“You must go to the Convent of Sant Valeria,” said Deacon Joceran. “You must walk seven days east and ten days north, and there at the town known as Autun ask for further direction. At the convent you will find, if not protection, at least advice, for the Abbesses there are known for their wisdom and for their understanding of the forbidden arts. You must not linger too long in one place as you travel, or these creatures, these galla, may bring mischief onto the people among whom you stay, and you will be named as a witch or a malefici and driven out, or worse. Take this letter and give to the Abbess at the convent. They will take you in.”
Daniella looked long and searchingly at the marks on the parchment, but they meant nothing to her, just as the book left behind in the saddlebags meant nothing.
“She will try to find me,” said Daniella suddenly “For the book, if nothing else.”
“If she has the power, if she yet lives, she will find you,” said Deacon, “but whether that would bode good or ill for you, I cannot say, child.”
Daniella did not reply, but she felt in her heart that she left Sant Laon, the only place she had ever known, not just to spare her family, to spare the others, but to seek after that meeting, as if it was ordained whether she willed it or no.
Aunt Marguerite brought her bread and cheese, which she put in one of the saddlebags, and Uncle Heldric brought her mother’s knife, which he had sharpened to a good edge. She tucked it in her belt, kissed Matthias one final time, and took the reins of Resuelto from Robert.
“Go with the Lord and Lady,” said Deacon Joceran, signing a benediction over her.
“Go safely,” said Aunt Marguerite. Little Blanche, caught up in her grandda’s arms, began to cry, reaching her arms out for Daniella.
But Daniella turned quickly away from them and started down the lane, leading Resuelto, since she did not know how to ride. She did not want them to see the tears in her eyes. She did not want them to fear for her or grieve for her. It was bad enough that they must grieve for Dhuoda, for Da, for her Mother. Let them believe that she went with a light heart, that it was a fate she went to meet willingly. It was the only kindness she could show them, as she left them behind, probably forever.
The gelding walked with dignity beside her, ears forward, eager to explore the road ahead. She kept her eyes on the dirt lane and the wood, and as she passed under cover of the trees, she looked back once to see her village, free of any trailing mist or tendrils of fog, lying in the bright warmth of the noonday sun. The sky was clear above, as blue as she had ever seen it.
At last, with a wrench, she turned to face the road ahead once more, and she walked resolutely on toward unknown lands.
TO BE A MAN
A SPIRITWALKER STORY
IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN the dog, or it might have been the woman. He wasn’t sure.
When he had prowled into the garden from the enclosed parkland beyond, the little pug dog had been yapping in a skull-rattling fashion. His first instinct was to shut it up. He’d also wanted to cleanse his palate of those tickling feathers from the peahen he’d had so much fun chasing down in the parkland. So he’d bounded after the dog, snapped it up, and shaken it. The dog was small and fatty and sour-smelling, but at least it didn’t have feathers.
Then a woman’s voice tensely said, “Blessed Venus, step back out of sight, Felicia. A slow step. Don’t startle it. Just back away and it will eat that hells-cursed pug and not you.”
“But do you see what it is, Ami?”
“Yes, I see what it is. It is a very large and very hungry saber-toothed cat.”
He raised his head just as the dog weakly wriggled, its blood dribbling down his dagger-like incisors.
“It’s so beautiful.”
A woman stood on marble steps lined by troughs of prickly winter shrubs that were dusted by snow. She was anything but prickly. She was delectably plump. She was wearing indoor clothes with a bodice laced tightly over a full bosom and white petticoats pulled up to keep their hems out of the snow. Her ankles were so shapely he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to gnaw on them or lick them.
The pug gave a last little farting gasp.
Her ankles, or the pungent scent. Hard to say which triggered the sudden flowing river of change that cut through his lean cat’s body like the tide of a dream changing him from one creature into another. He shivered out of the skin of the cat in which he’d been born and lived in his natural home in the spirit world, and slipped into the skin of the man’s body he wore here in the Deathlands.
Which meant he found himself sitting on his bare ass in cold, slimy snow.
He spat out a foul-tasting hairy mouthful of bloody skin. The pug plopped limply across his lap like an incongruous set of lumpy drawers. Scraps of the clothing he had been wearing when he’d changed earlier from man into cat shed onto the ground around him with a smattering of pats and thuds. A torn hank of boot leather was caught between toes. His long black hair, and the dead dog, were his only covering.
How on earth did creatures survive in this blistering cold?
“Oh! My!”
He looked up to see the woman the other one had called Ami venture onto the steps. She was tall, strong like a whip, much darker in skin than the first, and with a magnificent cloud of black hair surrounding her head. She also had a metal stick in her hand which she held as if she knew how to whack with it. She halted beside the paler, plumper one called Felicia. Together they stared at him.
“Yes, that was my thought, too,” said Felicia. “He’s gorgeous.”
He wiped his blood-smeared mouth with the back of a hand before smiling at them, for he was sure his half sister Cat would have told him to use proper manners. “I have no clothes. They came off. My apologies.”
The two women looked at each other. The wordless interchange reminded him of Catherine and her spoiled and irritating cousin Beatrice (no actual relation to him, he was glad to know!). Cat and Bee spoke a great deal without saying anything. Sometimes they did it when they rattled on with words to addle their listeners into thinking they hadn’t even a pair of half thoughts to rub together into one. Other times they displayed the uncanny ability to look at each other and come to an unspoken agreement.
“And I’m cold,” he added, aggrieved the two women hadn’t already noticed that he would be cold because he had no garments. Cat would have noticed. “I’m very very cold. And I’d like to wash out my mouth. I didn’t mean to bite the pug,” he added, for it abruptly occurred to him that the rules were different here and he could not just take what he wanted. “Perhaps it was a favorite of someone. However unlikely that may seem.”
“That nasty little beast!” said Felicia, taking another step down as she looked him over. “It pisses on the couches and bites us as it wishes, and we are the ones who get slapped for it by the mistress.”
Rory considered the dead dog. “My apologies, then, if there will be trouble for you because of what I did.” He grasped it by the scruff and hoisted it with a sigh. “It is an unsightly creature. But I suppose it’s dead now and can’t be living again.”
Ami gasped. “Blessed Mother, Felicia! Don’t go any closer! You don’t know what manner of creature he is. He could be anything, prowling about on Solstice Night!”
Felicia reached the base of the steps and halted on a strip of pavement swept free of snow. “What’s your name?” she asked boldly. “How could you be a saber-toothed cat one moment and a . . . man the next?”
The tall one gave a snorting sort of sound like a choked-off laugh. She strode down the steps in an arrestingly commanding fashion, a woman who knew how to take charge. Halting beside Felicia, she brandished the metal stick, which he finally recognized as an implement with which you could poke fires.
“What is your name? Are you a cold mage? I don’t think so, for I never heard that cold mages could change shape. It’s only creatures from the spirit world who can change.”
&n
bsp; Still holding the pug, he stood. Their gazes took in the line of his body, and then they looked at each other again, and Felicia’s brow raised in a deliciously charming way.
“Roderic Barr, at your service,” he said, offering a smile to sweeten the introduction, “but you may call me Rory. That’s my pet name. What shall I do with the dog? How can I help you? I wouldn’t want you to be punished for me biting it. That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Little enough about life is fair,” said the tall one, but Rory noted how she nudged Felicia with her hip, as if reminding her to not say anything. “How did you get in the garden?”
“There was a tree and a wall and another tree, easy to leap and climb if you know trees. Where I come from, I’m used to trees and walls. I’m very agile.”
“I don’t doubt that,” murmured Felicia with a sensuous upward curve of her rich red lips.
“Hush,” said the tall one. “Don’t even think it, Fee. He’s some kind of spirit man. My grandmother would tell you such creatures cross over from the spirit world to seduce women.”
“And then?” asked Felicia. “What happens then?”
“Then everyone is pleased,” said Rory. “Is there something wrong with that?”
A bell rang, shaken impatiently. Ami and Felicia winced.