The Rising Scythe

by S G Dunster

  “No,” Thessaly replied, her voice clear, her word unmistakable even in all the noise.

  “Daughter,” Antonio growled quietly in her ear, “You cannot leave a dance in the middle. You insult—“

  “What sort of insult,” Thessaly interrupted, “would you have me endure? Being pawed by men who are seeking out what sort of merchandise they might buy? I’ll not be so treated.”

  “Don’t be a shrew,” he replied, his voice sharpening. “A dance is a small thing. To hold hands is—“

  “Hands,” Thessaly spat. The man had come out of the dance as well now and sat with two others, all of them muttering now, shooting her dark looks. “How about to touch apples? Does one squeeze before one buys?”

  Her father’s face darkened. “He handled you?”

  Thessaly wasn’t thinking. She knew her father’s temper, but her own was bubbling as well. She nodded and placed her hand on the velvet round of her breast.

  That was the end of Vasco gentility at King Joao’s court.

  Her father rose, fierce, eyes flashing, and strode around the table. He grasped the cuff of one glove with his other hand.

  Seeing what was about to happen, Thessaly immediately regretted her words. She jumped from her seat. “No!”

  Antonio peeled the glove from his hand and threw it to the table in front of the beak-faced man, his hand to the hilt of his sword.

  The man turned, eyeing Antonio with insolence. “You would take to sword the honor of a common shipboard wench?” he sneered, gesturing to Thessaly. “I suppose that’s the role of a pirate—to spill noble blood and drink in the wealth of others.”

  Antonio’s sword flashed out, gleaming silver. “Her blood’s purer than yours, cachorro. And I’ve no need of anyone else’s wealth.”

  The man sat, staring at Antonio as if the sword clutched in his hand were no more than a spoon. “Her blood,” he said. “Yes, you can see it in the tint of her skin. Negra. He turned back to Antonio. “Where comes your wealth, as well. Gold and spices, sweat, salt. Dark, and smelling of shit.”

  The room was silent now. “Stand, sir.” Antonio’s words were clipped, resonant.

  There was a collective inward breath. Joao stood. “What is this?”

  Antonio turned to the king. “My daughter’s body and honor have been touched on,” he said. “And I’ll be touching in return.” He raised his blade. The candlelight chased over the ornate filigree of his handle.

  “I’ll not stand for a cadela de Milanesa,” hook-nose sneered, gripping the black leather handle of his own sword, still in the scabbard.

  “Standing or sitting, you’ll pay in blood,” Antonio roared.

  “Tony,” Joao said, imbuing the nickname with a steadying tone. “Is this not something that can be overlooked? Perhaps a word of apology, a gift in recompense.”

  Antonio’s face darkened. “You believe my grievance can be bought?” He pointed the tip of his weapon at the king. “That I do not require the etiquette of the court simply because I trade? My grandfather was a Dom. I come to the court by right. Do not so insult me, sir.”

  Another collective inward breath, this time of shock, and every gaze was directed at the king, awaiting his response.

  Joao’s eyes were dark fire for a moment. And then he raised his brows, waved a hand, and sat down. He gave Thessaly a narrow look. “What happens,” he asked, “when your father’s blood spills here on my floor? Who takes you off on a ship, hmm?”

  Ignoring the warning, Antonio glared grimly at the hook-nosed man. “I’ll be satisfied,” he said quietly. “One way or another. Stand, sit. Your blood will spill, Senhor.”

  Isabella ran to Thessaly’s side as the hook-nosed man stood, unsheathing his sword. Both men took knives from pouches that hung at their belts. The hook-nosed man’s was long, wickedly curved at the tip. He feinted immediately, then brought his sword around in a swift arc, taking Antonio off guard. Antonio somehow got out of the way, then returned the blow.

  A whir of silk, velvet, and gleaming metal cleared the remaining couples from the dance floor. Men began to pound the table. Women shrieked and buried their faces in kerchiefs. Thessaly sat, frozen, as a red slash bloomed on her father’s face and a split second later, a tearing sound sent a piece of his black velvet cloak fluttering to the floor.

  Hook-face was an accomplished swordsman.

  Far better than her father.

  Isabella clung to Thessaly’s forearm, her grip like a vice. “Tell him to stop,” she hissed.

  “He won’t,” Thessaly replied, her breath catching. The king’s words echoed in her head. Who will carry you off . . . carry you off . . . . Her father’s swains would take care of her. They did not have money, though. And there was nobody to lead the fleet. She watched the glitter in hook-nose’s eyes and shuddered. She must be ready to run.

  No. The thought would not form in her mind. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. She was not among friends here. Her father wasn't either, though he thought he was. She could feel the intentions—doubts, anger, snubs. She felt all the feelings of the room coalescing like a poisonous fog.

  Without even meaning to, Thessaly closed her eyes and reached out with her inner sight. She found the floes of her father, found the sinewy, tight-coiled flesh-floes of the man who fought him. Heart, she thought. Blood. Heat. Fire. They welled from deep inside, deep at her center, where all the magicks she carried blazed from. They scattered around her like drops, then streamed from her like heat from a well-warmed rock.

  Her father needed her. He needed her heat and her power if he was to survive.

  She reached into her father, knowing what she was doing, yet denying.

  Knowing.

  Denying.

  His heart quickened. His blood warmed. And he saw—he saw as she saw, saw with Thessaly the floes of the cold, peaked, coiled-as-a-spring man who fought him.

  The moment slowed, thickened, and then sprung apart in an explosion of blood and shouts.

  Thessaly’s father stood over the man, sword bloodied. The pale flesh quivered under him, trembling as the eyes lost purchase, as a dark flood spilled out onto the floor.

  Trembling, he dropped the sword. Turned to gaze at Thessaly, his expression going from rage to cold wonder, to . . .

  Fear.

  Horror.

  Thessaly held her father’s gaze for a moment and then walked out of the hall. She passed the sentries, standing with their metal armor and blade-tipped hauberks, passed through the gate guarded by six mounted men.

  They didn’t stop her, a lone woman, but they stared after her.

  She got to the small boat their party had rowed up to the castle’s outer wall. She climbed down into it and waited.

  She’d done wrong. She knew she had. Magicks were not to be used in that way, her Aunt Margarida had said.

  Umbra’s deep, smoky voice trickled into her mind. Floes are for power. For influence. What other way in this world can a woman have power?

  Umbra would not have flinched at the way Thessaly had used floes. To save her father. No, to save herself. Umbra would have called it Thessaly’s right to do so. Fire and Flesh were fragile, and power could take them. Her right.

  But Thessaly didn’t want to be Umbra. She had chosen.

  She’d violated her father. Made him do something. He would be angry. Furious. He hated her powers already. This would be a last thread, making his tolerance for her practice come apart at the seams.

  It was a long time before anyone joined her as she shivered there, back curved into the small boat’s hull.

  It happened to be Bellccior, sweaty and tattered. “That was a good brawl,” he lisped, flinging himself into the bottom of the boat and resting his head on his arm. Thessaly saw in her mind--a flash of image, unsummoned-- of Isabella kneeling at her brother’s side, talking intensely. The look on King Joao’s face did not bode well… a vision? Her imagination? How could she know?

  “How many dead?” Thessaly asked dully.

&
nbsp; “Only the one. But we left behind a great many lopped off fingers and bloodied faces.”

  “Splendid.”

  The others came soon after, and last of all her father, limping, one hand bound with a bloody rag.

  “What you did in there,” he growled at her. “It was not holy. It was not right. You are no wytch. You are a maid and will be kept at a court.”

  “To be pawed,” Thessaly said, raising her voice, standing, “like fruit at market day.”

  “Dom Alvares has a feud with my family,” Antonio replied. “It was not your fault. It will not be so at Milan.”

  “Milan!”

  “Milan,” Antonio asserted in a growl. “We’ve been banned from Joao’s court. So we go on to your uncle Francesco’s. Row,” he said to Bellccior.

  The men obeyed immediately, except for Anrrique, who stared at him. “We cannot trade with both Portugal and Milan.”

  “A merchant does not have to pay homage to any king,” Antonio shouted, emphasizing his words by whipping his sword out, brandishing it at the stone gates receding into the distance as they rowed out to the boat. “And a merchant with priceless cargo does not sell it to swains. Joao bans my presence at his court? He bans also my cargo. Row!” He bellowed at Bellccior, who immediately began fumbling for the oars, splashing them about in the choppy waves.

  The storm is coming in, Thessaly thought. The energy of it crackled through her. She looked up and saw the boil of the dark clouds.

  “So, we trade with Rome now,” Anrrique muttered, nodding. “I’ll be doing sums all night.”

  This last comment—irreverent in the face of her father’s bellowing and swanning, made Thessaly laugh. The chuckle, partly nerves, escaped her lips before she could stifle it and rang out musically over the water.

  Immediately, her father got her arm in a good grasp. “Laugh,” he roared at her. “Laugh, wench. Then swim, too!” He picked her up, dangling her by the arm, and tossed her into the surf.

  She had time for a half-gasp before the choppy waves closed over her head. The heavy silk and velvet of her gown weighed her down, but she was able to get to the surface. She spat salty water and fumbled for the boat’s rim.

  Antonio glowered down at her over the side. “You can swim, wytch. Wytches float, do they not? You can damn well swim back to the Espada.” He grasped her wrist, pulled her hand away from the boat, and dropped her back in.

  Bellccior gave her a look that was part smirk, part apology, and led the rowing for the Espada.

  Thessaly could swim like a dolphin. Her father knew that. She’d been able to from the age of three. It had nothing to do with wytchery.

  But it was not fun to do it in such crackling, blowing air, with such choppy waves. And wearing clothing that dragged at her like a full tonne of seaweeds.

  “Good luck to you, then!” She growled after them, treading and shivering. She watched them move toward the flagship for a few moments, and then swam for shore instead. Her aunt lived not far away. She knew the way. She was damned herself, if she’d endure her father’s stripes as punishment for saving him. She was damned if he would further grind in the humiliation she’d already endured tonight.

  Time for some real Wytchery, she thought fiercely as she climbed up onto the rocks of the shore that ran under the castle wall. I’m done being pawed and placed, laced and prodded.

  She felt a stab of regret at the thought of Cerdic and Guzal, who would likely worry, and then shoved it aside angrily. They had let this happen too, hadn’t they? Just like Antonio they thought of her as something to be transferred to a rich lord’s lap. Lady’s lessons and catechism, indeed.

  She bundled her sodden silk skirts around her knees and knotted them, unbuttoned the velvet overdress, undid the belt, and left both on the beach. She began walking east along the sand, watching the sheer cliffs rise and fall beside her. Her slippers had washed off her feet, so the grit bit into her arches—it was a comforting feeling. She’d spent the last four years on Goa’s beaches.

  She began to relax, and hurried even faster. This was not a bad thing. This, actually . . . she was going where she’d wanted to go in the first place, on coming here to Portugal.

  It was cold, to be sure. She was shivering so hard her teeth ached. But it wasn’t far, if she remembered properly . . . not a far distance to her aunt’s high home in the cliffs. Just one curve of beach over from where the docks ended, close enough for consultation with sailors and pilgrims, removed enough so she had the peace she needed for her work.

  The work.

  Her whole body thrilled at the thought.

  I can choose, she thought. Before Papa even tries to bind me to someone, I can choose. We’ll see about these courts of his once I’ve chosen. How little he knows. He’ll be able to do little when I’ve the breath of the wind and the blood of the sea at my beck.

  It was a longer walk than she remembered, but then it had been ten years. And as she walked, she was recognizing, here and there, a rock formation in the cliff that began to rise above shore . . . but they were interspersed between miles of forgotten, unremarkable escarpments.

  She was shivering. She was tempted to stop and get her bearings. If she reached out. If she looked for Margarida in the floes? Was she strong enough to find her, to follow them to her?

  The moon had risen high in the sky, a waxing scythe, before she saw the welcoming light up on the cliff, and the winding stone stairs leading to it. Exultation bubbled through her. There it was. The stairway. The familiar curve to the left, with the extraordinarily tall third step, and there—the seventh slanted enough that you had to be careful not to slide back when you stepped on it.

  Another light beamed across the water just after she’d started up the stairs. She knew it was her father’s ship. They knew, by then, she’d not swam for the boat. And her father would know immediately where she’d gone instead. He was moving along with her, but, Thessaly thought, chuckling to herself, it’d take them a while to find a safe port. There were too many rocks and a great many cliffs to contend with. Most likely they’d have to anchor further out and row a mile at least.

  She darted up the steps, panting with the effort, shivering in the cool of night and sodden silks and cottons.

  She got to the house and paused, surrounded by the vines and herbs and trees she remembered, though they were older, more encumbered and more gnarled.

  She walked to the door.

  It slid silently open before she could put her hand to knock on it.

  “Ola, minha flor.”

  Aunt Margarida smiled. Her smile was still young, but her hair was silver, pulled back on her head in a conch-shaped bun. She had a wreath of flowers on her head.

  The sight of her there, after so long—it was almost a dream. Thessaly had been imagining it, hoping for it for so many years. Even with all this finery, all this talk of courts, it was this place, this cave-house in the rocks, that was all Thessaly had thought of since leaving Goa, once she knew her father was taking her back to Portugal.

  Margarida had been framed in her mind, a saint, a lost mother, for as long as she could remember.

  “I . . .” Thessaly didn’t know what to say. It had been so long. And yet Margarida had taught her the beginnings of what she now carried, what she had thought about constantly since.

  Look at her aunt. Blazing with a sort of light that was not seen, but rather, felt. Her power was a soft fragrance around her, soporific with peace and contentment.

  Indeed, Thessaly thought. She felt almost as if she melted—from such strain, outside running stairs with a ship’s lantern beaming across the water after her, and thoughts of duels and murder, to such peace as her aunt’s small, simple home had. All the worries fled, leaving behind them a sure, soft certainty. Even her bones felt as soft as if the peace were a long, steady stew, but suddenly brought to effect in a single second. She was tired. Sleep, she thought.

  Minha Flor, Margarida had said.

  My flower. Aunt Margarida ha
d always called Thessaly that. And now, as she said it again, it was like Thessaly had left her only yesterday.

  “I . . .” Thessaly tried again. She looked down at herself. “I’m wet,” she finally said.

  Margarida’s smile spread wide, revealing the gap between her front teeth. Playful, joyful. “Indeed, you are,” she said, eyes full of laughter. “Come in. Let’s rid you of those things that encumber you.”

  “Papa—”

  “Will be along in the morning. He’d never dare to leave you with me for long. But he’s not likely to be rowing across these rocky waters in this dark, without the castle lights to guide him. We have tonight to ourselves.” She gestured to the fire. “Sit. We have a great deal to say to one another, especially after that little scene in King Joao’s court.”

  Thessaly gaped at her. “Did you . . . see that?”

  Margarida laughed. It was Thessaly’s same laugh—musical. Helpless. Bursting out of her like a geyser. “You mean, did the winds bring images to me of your father making a bloody scene in the court of my cousin? No.” She sat next to Thessaly and began untying the laces on Thessaly’s stays. “What sort of death trap is this? Slave to fashion, indeed.”

  Thessaly gasped in a breath as the corset suddenly came undone, and her chest was freed. She wanted to weep in relief.

  “No,” Margarida repeated, “words simply run along fast in a little place like this. Which is not a good thing for your father, or for you.” She gazed at Thessaly, face suddenly solemn. “You are in quite a bind, aren’t you, dear one? Come, sit by the fire so your shift dries, and you may sleep in comfort.”

  Thessaly stood and moved closer to the fire. The heat seared through the thin cotton, drying it almost instantly. Margarida’s words were nearly as warming. They dissolved the bind of feelings inside—the real bind Margarida had meant. A tear slid down Thessaly’s face. She wiped it away.

  Margarida pretended not to see. “Your father defeated Dom Alvares,” she said quietly.

  There was something in her tone. Thessaly frowned. “He touched me. He had to. It was . . . bloody,” Thessaly repeated the word helplessly. “Kill or be killed. Yes, Papa killed him. Killed a man, because he . . . .”