The Rising Scythe

by S G Dunster

  “It . . .” Beatrice breathed out, blinking, meeting Thessaly’s gaze again, her forehead all furrows. “It was a gift from his majesty.”

  Thessaly felt another image coming, as she let the card slip onto the cover. The magicks were needling through her now, pouring. Too hot. The card edge was beginning to singe, to smoke. Thessaly gasped and dropped it.

  “Vinculum,” she said between gritted teeth, and the bound magicks whipped through her lightning-quick and became their contained orb once again.

  Beatrice was staring now.

  “You are,” she said quietly. “You really are.”

  “I really am,” Thessaly replied.

  “She really is,” Rosalie echoed, her addition odd, misplaced.

  “Are you afraid?” Thessaly asked.

  Beatrice stared for another moment, then leaned closer, looking directly into Thessaly’s eyes, her own dark ones moving slightly as if she searched every fleck of Thessaly’s iris for some answer. Finally, she sat back. “No,” she declared.

  Thessaly gusted out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “Good,” she said. “It can be hard, sometimes.”

  Odd. Awkward. A moment where nobody knew what to say. Rosalie was chewing on a finger.

  “Oh,” Beatrice groaned suddenly.

  “What?” Rosalie shrieked, alarmed. “What happened?”

  “Bloody hell,” Beatrice said. She blew an explosion of air through pursed lips and fell backwards flat onto the bed, scattering the cards. “I don’t need that added to all the other tangled skeins. Love? Really? Ok. Do another reading. This time, I want to ask, “how do I avoid what you just told me?”

  Thessaly laughed, part real amusement and part pure-relief. It came out sounding a little hysterical, so to cover her emotion she tossed a card at Beatrice’s face, and it bounced off her forehead. Beatrice cursed, a French word Thessaly didn’t know. “All right,” she said, sitting up again. “Rosalie. Now you.”

  A bell rang.

  “Supper,” Rosalie said. “Come on, Beatrice. You need to meet these boys. They’re completely lovely.”

  “No boys,” Beatrice growled. “No love.”

  “They’re all priests or going to be,” Thessaly said. “I don’t think you’ll be in danger here.” Rosalie wrinkled her nose, but did not say anything about her favorite, the small dainty Robert, who seemed so interested in her company. Thessaly was glad. She was tired of feelings.

  All seated in the refectory, even the oldest of the priests stared as Beatrice entered the room with Thessaly and Rosalie. In response, Beatrice lifted her chin, made her gaze steely, queenly, and walked to the table Thessaly pointed to with the grace of a lion. She waited for a moment, and one of the young serving men scurried over to her and pulled out the chair. All but bowing and scraping, he offered her the water to clean her hands.

  “Beatrice DuNought,” Thessaly said to the Abbess.

  “Ah, a guest from the Tor.” The Abbess nodded. “She is welcome here.”

  “She’ll stay the night with us,” Thessaly said. Seeing the Abbess’s raised brow, she added, “if that is alright.”

  “I believe so,” the Abbess said. “I hope she does not mind the plain arrangements. It would be helpful to have some advance notice if you plan to bring guests to the table,” she said. “And if it happens often?“

  “I have coin to compensate the table,” Thessaly said. “Do not worry.”

  The Abbess nodded. “I have to think practically. I have mouths to feed and sick to tend to. I hope you do not take offense.”

  “No offense,” Thessaly reassured her and went to sit next to her friends. They were lovely, the two of them—Rosalie and Beatrice. Lovely enough to be in any court, even Milan’s. The men in the room, even the priests, were noticing in spite of themselves, and the young men who sat at the students’ table made continuously covert glances.

  Thessaly enjoyed the bread and butter, cheese and fruit. It was a simple meal, but the best sort—hearty, flavorful. A belly filled before sleep. She felt, suddenly, content. Happy. When was the last time she had felt that way?

  She and Rosalie were telling Beatrice of the Abbey at St. Michael’s when a noise suddenly sang out—a melody. A tune. Music.

  It shimmered.

  That was the only word for it. Shimmered, strong and golden, hovering for a moment, before it leapt into a flurry of notes that rollicked and cried, shouted and then whispered.

  Strings, Thessaly thought. Only stringed instruments sigh that way. She stood to see who it was who played.

  The man—tall, dark, pale, with strong features—was certainly a local. That was the first jumbled thought Thessaly had, and the last one she had that made any sense for a while.

  There were his eyes—dark, liquid. Not pale blue or grey, as she’d seen so many times in these hills. That was different. And he had a fine, lithe figure, mature but also slender, and as he played, he moved about the room with a grace that matched the music well—a slight swing to the steps as if he danced a little. His hair was longer, loose black curls, and his beard was light, dusting his cheeks and chin with dark down.

  He played his song with an especially vigorous flourish, then bowed dramatically as the refectory exploded in applause.

  The Abbess stood. “We have our dinner music back,” she declared over the noise. “And while we are all glad, I must remind you all that applause is not appropriate in the refectory.”

  The noise died down again, with the music shimmering through the thick, listening silence. Smiling, golden silence.

  The nuns and priests sat and listened with tender expressions as the man started another song—a low stirring tune that heightened an octave during the chorus, full of marching beats and jig-like flourishes.

  A song about dancing, Thessaly thought. A song for feet to move to. Her own were moving under the table, agitated with the feelings that flooded her. Her heart was moving, too, and her entire core was a mass of warmth.

  He played another, and another. Thessaly knew that they were sitting at supper long past the usual time the nuns would go to evening prayer, but nobody said a word. All were still, as if in moving they would scare him off, break the golden moment.

  Finally, he set the small, gleaming instrument aside and picked up a bowl. It was the bowl of lemon water, for rinsing after the meal. He began to offer it around, bending his tall height nearly double to accommodate the Fathers and Sisters still sitting.

  Thessaly frowned, completely puzzled. Who was he, then?

  He was quiet, his head bowed as humbly as any of the other serving boys. Men, some of them, Thessaly suddenly realized. And all with those features—dark and fair, sharp and graceful. Probing, touching. Flaring into warmth inside her.

  Magicks.

  But none so strong with it as this man was. Thessaly was certain this time. She saw the glow of gold all along . . . everything. Like a halo, it burst from him. Rather, she didn’t see it. Not really. Not the way she saw the magicks inside her. There was something in her that sensed it, coming off him in waves.

  Who was he?

  Thessaly’s heart beat hard and fast as he came down their table holding the bowl. His eyes seemed to laugh, even as he bent humbly, offering the bowl to Beatrice, who carefully washed her hands, then folded them in her lap.

  “That was lovely,” Rosalie said shyly, taking her napkin and dipping it, then wiping her hands clean as well.

  “Thanks to you,” he replied with a smile that brought even more snapping laughter, and something else, to his face.

  Kindness, Thessaly thought.

  He looked at Thessaly, and she trembled.

  He smiled at her, came around, and knelt down next to her chair, offering the bowl. A smile spread over his face—knowing.

  Could he sense what she felt? Or her magicks, like she sensed his? Thessaly stared at him, blinking, feeling as if she were in a dream.

  “Thessaly,” Rosalie hissed.

  “Tonight�
�s supper wasn’t much of the greasy and smells,” the man said. “But I allow you’d like to wash those hands clean, before touching any of those fine silks and cottons you’re wearing.”

  “Ah, yes,” Thessaly replied. Her hands were shaking a little as she dipped them, submerged them in the bowl, touched the curved wood at the bottom.

  She couldn’t help but look at him, stare at him.

  What was he?

  His eyes, gleaming dark, tilted up and wrinkled slightly at the edges as if he were about to laugh. But seeing her expression, his own smoothed out, from merriment to concern “Are you well?” he asked, bending lower. “You’re pale.” His words were well-formed, refined. Polite.

  Thessaly let out the breath she’d been holding in a laugh of her own, but it came out nervous, shaky. “Pardon,” she said. “Your music had me frozen. I just now thawed.”

  He laughed at this—a sound as musical as the viol; deep, warm, soft. “The fydol can have that effect,” he admitted. He bent a little closer, almost whispering in her ear. “I think it may be why these men and women, shut off in the abbey from many of life’s pleasures, ask for me to play so often.” He stood again, gave her a little bow and moved past her to the next table.

  “What did he say to you?” Rosalie asked, an incredulous note in her voice. She swatted Thessaly on the shoulder. “Thessaly! What’s wrong with you?”

  “Hush,” Thessaly hissed at her. “Nothing. I don’t know. Let’s go to bed.”

  Beatrice was looking him over as he bent to serve the male students at the other table. “He certainly has a nice prat,” she said to Thessaly.

  Rosalie let out a loud snort, drawing some stares.

  Oh, earth. Thessaly glared at Rosalie, then pressed her fingertips to her temples for a moment.

  She was all warm. All cold. Waves crashing. Both had come undone.

  What had just happened? What was wrong with her?

  “Aye,” Rosalie yawned. “I’m for bed, too.”

  They rose and walked out. When Thessaly left the room, though, it was like stepping away from the fire.

  This man, she thought to herself, has the magicks in him powerful. Does he know it? Does he use it on purpose?

  Could it be she’d found her teacher?

  She shook her head violently. No. That wouldn’t do. All her teachers had been women. Women were stronger in the arts than men, that was known. And perhaps she was just feeling very queer after her long day, and again, she was only settling in.

  This was a strange, strange place.

  Beatrice joined Rosalie and Thessaly in bed, and they cuddled tight together, covered over with Thessaly’s soft coverlet, sunk in her down pillows. Thessaly was tired, melting. Fading. The room spun. She muttered her curse twice to still the crashing waves and was suddenly exhausted, limp, spent. Used up.

  But she couldn’t sleep. His face—those laughing eyes, the sound of his laugh as it escaped his throat; the fydol.

  That was what he called it. It looked to Thessaly like a viol, only smaller, and it had a warm, beautiful sound that stirred her right to the core.

  The man.

  His fydol.

  She was shivering, but she was warm. She was dreaming, but she was awake.

  Her gaze lighted on the box of cards, sitting on the shelf above her head. She frowned.

  Love, Thessaly thought. I already have love in Loredan.

  This place is strange.

  Finally she managed to drift off, her body stilling, but sparking all along her tracks and hollows were magicks—not hers. Magicks that could not be bound inside her core, because they had not come from herself—gold, cold, and seeing. She shivered and moved closer to Rosalie.

  Chapter 13

  B

  eatrice and Thessaly woke at the same time. Thessaly found her legs were tangled with Beatrice’s, and her and Rosalie’s hair piled together on the pillow.

  “That was an odd evening,” Beatrice mumbled as she sat up. She wore a silk cap around her hair and wrapped tight to her head. She drew it off, and a mass of wooly curls fell around her face.

  “Aye,” Thessaly said emphatically. “Must have been something special in the ale.” She shook her head. Then shook it again, harder.

  “Or a dose of the viol,” Beatrice said, giving her a sharp smile.

  Thessaly shook her head again and groaned, dropping it into her hands. “I must have had a little too much wine yesterday.”

  Beatrice nodded. “Well, what next?”

  “I suppose you ought to get yourself up to Dunne’s Tor so you don’t miss your morning lessons.”

  Beatrice groaned. “We do nothing but embroider, embroider, embroider. Sometimes paint silk screens. No. I said I would come to lessons with you, and I mean to.”

  “Well,” Thessaly shrugged, wiggling out from between the two girls. Rosalie moaned and stirred slightly. “We’re late. We’re going to miss half of matins. Guzal, why did you let us sleep?”

  She looked around.

  Guzal was not there.

  Thessaly’s fuzzy thinking cleared slightly and a prick of worry rose. Was she in her rooms?

  Had she come back from the Tor at all?

  “Let’s go to matins,” Beatrice said. “Sit up, you child. I know you are awake.” She shoved Rosalie.

  Rosalie growled like an angry puppy and sat up, her hair a messy veil over her face. “Is it truly morning?” she moaned. She rose and went to the window on unsteady legs, squinting through it.

  “Dress yourself, or you’ll miss Latin and Greek as well,” Beatrice said. “And I don’t mean to miss. Come. We’ll lace each other up.”

  They came into the chapel and knelt, drawing a few glances, especially Beatrice, whose black silk veil was scandalously sheer and adorned with gold.

  Thessaly just skipped the holy water this time. Nobody seemed to notice.

  They stood and knelt, prayed, stood and knelt, and gold, cold and liquid, spread through the room, landing on each person, seeming to stab them through the crown of the head, actually, in Thessaly’s sight, and coiling upward toward the slightly-domed ceiling. It poured from the priest who sang the mass in a steady stream.

  Thessaly blinked several times. She had never been able to see floes so well as she did now, in this chapel. Was she gaining in strength already, then? Without any instruction?

  Was this a good thing or a bad? Was she about to set things on fire?

  She closed her eyes. Yes, she was bound. Properly fettered. But something seemed to be chasing through her veins. A glitter, a glow. Gold.

  She had floes loose moving through her, and they were causing her to see.

  She avoided the basin again on the way out, and followed Rosalie and Beatrice upstairs, her mind completely occupied with the worry.

  Had something happened the night before? With the man and his fydol? He had been emanating magicks. Had they come into her somehow?

  She managed to eat wine and sops with the two other girls, and then they rested.

  But Thessaly did not sleep. When it was time to rise again for lessons, she woke the two others, and led them down into the hall, through the refectory to the little room by the cloister.

  They came into the room just as Father Raymund entered. All four of the men stared openly at Beatrice.

  Beatrice was staring at Father Raymund. Caught, Thessaly thought. She wondered how the Father felt about being so beautiful.

  Thom, the thick fair one with the tusks, startled Beatrice by tapping her shoulder.

  Beatrice glared at him like she was looking at an ant, but Thom was bold.

  He took her hand, kissing it. “Milady,” he said. “I’ve heard tell of you. Now I see you with my eyes and know the praise wasn’t an exaggeration.”

  “Praise for my wit, or my moorish looks?” Beatrice’s voice dripped ice. She gave him a cold smile and a little head-tilt.

  “The latter, of course,” Thom replied unapologetically. “We don’t get many foreign women
here in the marches, and I’ve a taste for them.” He sprawled on the bench, straddling it, and grinned at the four of them. “This learning might prove to my liking if the abbey keeps acquiring nice-looking women.”

  Thessaly felt as if a cannon were about to explode through the room, seeing Beatrice’s expression, seeing her lips part.

  “Thom,” Rye said. His deep tone cut Beatrice’s next comment short and spilled through the room like a cooling breeze.

  “Let’s turn to the subject matter at hand,” Father Raymund said, a wry note in his tone. Beatrice blinked and moved to sit at the place Thessaly indicated at her side.

  They studied Pythagoras again. Thessaly drank it in thirstily. She was starting to understand it better now, especially when Father Raymund bent over her figures and explained more precisely how they were supposed to fit together, and what relevancy they had in the world.

  Means. Angles. Beauty, Thessaly thought. The world is made beautifully. A flash of the face from last night—the man with his fydol—came, and she shoved it away with a touch of anger. She wasn’t worried about men. She had one. She was worried about maths. While Rosalie and Beatrice listened, half-distracted by the company around them, the room narrowed to just Father Raymund’s voice, the figures he used as examples, and the beautiful simplicity of a theory that led to cartography, navigation, and everything that gave Thessaly’s father his trade, the world a profusion of spices that didn’t need to be brought through the funnel of Istanbul and Alexandria. Her mind floated on the knowledge, and her floes slowly unwound, flooding her with a wave of ice, a wave of fire. She didn’t flinch. She felt them, enjoying the frisson of power flooding through her. She felt as if it was not so much pain, but power, pulsing through her body and muscles, and for a moment, she could savor it.

  What was this? She was changing. She could feel it. What had happened?

  Again the man, his face, came to mind. And again, she pushed it angrily away. She was growing and learning. That was all. She was mastering herself. She knew she had to. It was the goal, and she was doing it. It was a matter to rejoice in.

  She let the waves pour through her, closing her eyes for a moment to the parchment and the voice, and felt it.