Her next clear memory was of the drop, the long jagged line of the cliff leading to broken rocks at the bottom. Who would miss her? The witch of Sanaan? Hardly. Laret rocked back and forth, the wind whipping around her naked body. One strong gust would knock her over, one good breath from the True God. She let her arms hang, swaying.
“Ser, are you hurt?”
Laret stepped back from the edge so quickly it made her dizzy. She tore her gaze from the cliff and turned.
A boy, eight or nine, stared at her with wide eyes. “You’re covered in blood.”
Laret tried to speak but found her throat too dry and tight. She licked her lips and swallowed. “What do you want?”
“I heard there was a witch woman who lived up here.”
“If you’re looking for the witch of Sanaan, you’re in the wrong place.”
“No, ser, the young witch, the one who fixed the rich man’s poison.”
She should have known that story would spread. “What do you want of her?”
“My father is cursed, and only the witch woman can help him. Please, ser, do you know her?”
Laret swallowed the tears that sprang to her eyes. “There’s only me.”
The boy frowned, then shrugged with the ease of children. “Can you help, ser?”
Why not? One good deed before dying. She dressed in her rags and let the boy lead the way. He had a small skin of water and an apple, both of which he gave without question. She ate all but the stem and drained the skin dry. By the time she got to the boy’s house, she was ravenous again, and her throat burned with thirst.
The scent of putrescence had infected the small house, and Laret pressed her ragged sleeve to her nose. An old woman waited at the bedside of a young man, both of them with the same sharp features. His color was waxy, slightly green, and he stared at the ceiling with watery, unblinking eyes. He gasped through his mouth, flecks of foam marking his black beard.
The old woman’s rheumy gaze landed on Laret, and she knew how horrible she must look, how terrible she had to smell if anyone could smell her past the stench of rot. Still, the old woman only said, “Please, ser, please.”
Laret took the jug of water at the gasping man’s bedside and drank it down. When she wiped her lips, she asked, “Is he wounded?”
“No, ser,” the boy said.
But she’d known he wouldn’t be. The rotting curse, one of the witch of Sanaan’s favorites, turning a person into a corpse from the inside out. “Do you know who cursed him?”
The old woman spat. “A daughter of pigs and goats!”
“A strange animal indeed.” Laret looked to the boy.
His eyes turned to the ground. “My mother.”
Laret turned the man’s hands over, looking for the curse mark. When she found none there, she turned to the feet. “Is she a witch?”
“No, ser.”
“Do you know who she paid to curse him?”
“No, ser. That was why we came to you. We feared the—”
“Do not say her name!” the old woman shrieked.
Laret nodded. They didn’t go to the witch of Sanaan for help because they feared she might have crafted the curse. Laret wondered if she herself had a reputation now for undoing what the witch had done.
Behind the man’s right knee, she found what she was looking for: a small black mole, green around the edges. She nicked it, but nothing oozed out. “Boy, fill a bucket with water, and stick a knife in the coals. And I’ll need something to eat.”
The old woman patted the man’s chest, and then shuffled through the house. Laret went outside to search for feverfew, for after she broke the curse. When she returned, a knife lay in the coals of the hearth, and the boy had returned with the bucket. The old woman found a heel of bread and some cheese, and Laret wolfed them down before she began.
She pressed her own knife into the pad of her palm and held it over the water. When nothing flowed, she thought, I must have drained it all. The thought made her giddy, and she hoped her laughter would be mistaken as something every mad practitioner of blood magic did.
Laret summoned her spirit, calling to her blood. It dripped slowly and swirled in the water like red smoke. Saliva flooded her mouth, and she shuddered as pleasure hummed through her.
Focus.
To her trained senses, the curse filled the room with more than stench. Laret felt the malevolence of the boy’s mother, the daughter of pigs and goats. She’d stuck a pin or a knife in the back of the man’s leg, needing only the tiniest bit of blood to create a mark, and then the witch’s curse could be passed on.
“Lift his leg.”
She put the bucket of water under the curse mark and then went back for the hot knife, her breathing deep and even, consciousness hovering just where her body ended and the air began. She wound her sleeve around her fingers and drew the knife from the coals, feeling the heat even through the fabric. When she came back to the man’s side, she kept her eyes on the pulsing putrescence, the curse that coiled around the wound.
Laret splashed the bloody water at the curse mark and yanked at the man’s blood with her own, pulling through them both. He gasped, and she felt the blood finally seep, the black taint of the curse flowing through the wound and into the water, trapped.
The man gasped and heaved as the curse drained, taking a large amount of blood and making pleasure hum up and down Laret’s spine. She could take the rest, drain him dry, and feel his death rattle through her. The more she took, the better she felt, the more pleasure she gained, the more powerful she was. Maybe if she killed someone while trying to change herself, it would be enough.
Laret gritted her teeth, and as the last of the curse filtered out, she pressed the hot knife to the mark. The man screamed and shuddered, too weak to do anything else. When the way was sealed, Laret slipped from her trance and sat back on her heels.
“He’ll be all right now. Brew the feverfew into a tea. In a few days, his strength will recover. The witch shouldn’t be able to curse him again.” She heaved up from the floor and took the bucket of blood water outside. Once she’d dug a shallow hole, she dumped the tainted water in and covered it with dirt.
“That’s the end of that.” The wind shuddered through the trees, reminding her of the drop. Yes, the cliff face awaited.
“Ser?” the boy called as she began the long walk back.
“What is it, boy? I’m tired.”
“You can sleep here, ser. My grandmother will kill one of the chickens for dinner, and my father will want to thank you.”
The chicken did sound marvelous, but she was so tired. “I don’t need thanks.”
“I’ll bring you chicken tomorrow if you’ll still be at the cave. Will you be at the cave, ser?”
He’d seen her standing naked over a cliff, welcoming death. Had he understood what he’d seen? “I will wait for your chicken.”
He smiled widely, and she noted his missing baby teeth, one on either side of his mouth. “I’ll help you clean up your cave, ser. My grandmother would be ashamed to see it.”
Anan brought her meals for weeks and convinced her to stay in an abandoned house rather than the cave. He’d called her ser until she’d asked him if he wouldn’t mind calling her sera, and after another one of those frowns and shrugs, he’d agreed, his grandmother and father following suit. They sang her praises to their small, scattered village until she’d moved on, following a trail of people who needed her help, wearing her scarf and perfecting her concoction until one day a market boy called her sera without prompting. Before long, people just started to assume she was sera instead of ser.
If they managed to look past the red eyes to see anything else.
It wasn’t until they returned to Maeve’s house that Laret said, “I was camping, and I was thinking about someone I’d helped and about a handsome man who’d flirted with me and told me I’d make a good wife.” She chuckled at the memory. “I remember thinking, I would make a good wife, wouldn’t I?”
&n
bsp; “To someone who appreciated you, you’d make a fine bondmate.”
Laret ducked her head and smiled. “I was staring into the fire, and I was…content. I drifted to sleep, and it started to rain, but I didn’t get wet. When I awoke, the trees had laced their branches over me, and I knew I’d called to them.” Such a warm memory. She’d relived it over and over.
Maeve let out a long breath. “No long meditation? No jolt of power?”
“Just peace.” She didn’t say it aloud, but she could see Maeve thinking. Peace was the one thing a person couldn’t force.
Chapter Seven
After camping on the beach for a night, Gilka commanded they sail back through the glowing green tunnel, Runa collecting the rocks as she went, making sure no one else could reach Fernagher. As the mists closed behind them, Aesa had never been so happy to see the sun upon the waves. Her first raid. Her first crew. Her first kill, two at least, dead by her hand.
In the moment, she’d thought nothing of it. Her crew had needed her help. They’d praised her, her thrain now richer, glory heaped upon everyone. They’d bested Fernagher, and soon, they would conquer it. At last, Aesa allowed herself to feel the joy of everyone around her. She’d faced her fate, could smile into its teeth. When night fell on the ocean, the moon reflected off the waves, and she thought of the sheep woman’s luminous skin without flaw or scar, as perfect as the sky.
When dawn came, Skellis lay in the distance, and the echoing sound of a horn heralded their arrival. The crew would part soon, and Aesa felt a pang of loss. What could compare to her crew, her thrain, or the thrill of conquest?
Maeve? Aesa fought down guilt and rowed with the others.
Gilka moved to the prow. “No one speaks of Fernagher, not to family or bondmates. We keep the secret as long as it will hold.”
But how could they become heroes from song if no one was allowed to sing? So far, nothing on the journey had been exactly as she’d imagined. Aesa cast a look toward the dock, already crowded. If she lived in town, she didn’t know how she’d keep quiet among so many people. Best to hurry through and find her new home, find Maeve.
Unless Maeve had left their hearth cold and sought her fate elsewhere. Aesa breathed through the pain of that thought. It’d been easy not to consider it during the raid, but now her thoughts wouldn’t stop tumbling.
Gilka’s thralls seemed surprised yet pleased to see her. Some of her other ships were already back. Their raids had probably been a ruse so Gilka could bring them to Fernagher if all went as planned.
Della caught Aesa’s arm as she gathered her gear. “One day at home, then straight back here, yes?”
Aesa nodded and pushed through the crowd. She found Gilka’s steward, got directions to her new house, and walked as quickly as she could. At midday, she caught a ride from a farmer bringing home new horses. Still, the sun was already setting when she finally reached her new home. As one of the newest crewmembers, her house sat on the edge of Gilka’s land. If she did well, she could move inward, and conquering Fernagher would certainly help her do that.
In the evening light, someone lingered in the yard of a little house. Aesa’s heart lifted, and she broke into a run, calling out. Maeve ran to meet her, a happy smile on her beautiful face. Aesa felt her own smile slip when Laret stepped out of the shadows.
Maeve threw her arms around Aesa’s neck, kissing her soundly. When they parted, Aesa threw another look Laret’s way, wondering where everyone slept.
Maeve’s expression brightened. “I love that jealous look.” She tilted Aesa’s chin up. “I wish I could capture it.”
Aesa frowned harder.
“Aesa,” Maeve said, kissing her again. “Welcome home.”
“I missed you.”
“And I you. Come see the house.”
It was a good house, and it was hers, a warm hearth for when the raid was done. “I can’t stay long, just the night.”
“Why?”
Aesa felt the words gathering in her throat, everything she wanted to share, but thoughts of Gilka’s hard gaze stopped them. “Gilka doesn’t want us to speak of it.” She expected an argument for that, but Maeve simply nodded.
“Back so soon?” Laret asked as she leaned against the small goat pen. “I understood that raiding took more time.”
“Sometimes,” Aesa said, “sometimes not. How are you enjoying my home?”
That made Laret’s mouth shut. Maeve gave Aesa another of those victorious looks, as if jealousy won her something.
“It’s comfortable,” Maeve said. “The neighbors are nice. We’ve kept everything very clean, just as instructed.” As she led the way inside, Maeve seemed relaxed, happy even. Still, Aesa kept waiting for the fight to begin. Everything had been less complicated on the ship.
Laret didn’t follow them inside, so Aesa only quirked an eyebrow when Maeve undid her belt. “You’ve been well?”
Maeve kissed her neck. “Laret helps around the farm in exchange for staying here. She’s good company.”
“I’m glad.” She tugged at the ties keeping Maeve’s tunic closed.
“Where did you go?”
“I think the time for talking is past.”
“But…” She gasped as Aesa reached her breasts, but she returned the touches with passionate kisses, proving that she agreed about not talking, at least for the time being.
*
Laret wandered around the garden, away from the sounds of passion coming from the house. She hated the feeling of heat in her cheeks. Everything made her blush. Maybe now was the time to move on. Aesa was back, and Laret read in her stares that she didn’t like the idea of company. Or maybe she didn’t like the idea of anything.
Well, she clearly liked one thing. The cries from the house grew louder. Laret moved toward the lake. All her things were in the house, though she didn’t know if they’d even notice her intrusion. She strolled around in the fading light, watching the houses down by the shore as they lit candles or fires. With Aesa back, Maeve might forget about blood magic. And if she didn’t need a teacher…
Laret sighed and sat in the grass. If she left, Maeve’s forays into blood magic would cease. Laret hadn’t sensed any other blood witches in the area. Maeve would have to wander far to find one. Would Aesa go along with that? Perhaps love could convince Maeve where reason could not.
A curious tug pulled at Laret from the darkness. Someone was using magic somewhere past the house, distant but powerful. Either one of Maeve’s neighbors was a witch, or one had wandered close, but as soon as Laret stood, the feeling faded.
After watching the sunset, she strolled back toward the house. If they were going to be in there all evening, she wanted to start a fire outdoors so she wouldn’t freeze to death, at least. An uncharitable thought—it wasn’t even chilly—but she wasn’t in the mood for charity.
Before Laret could start a blaze, Maeve stepped out into the darkness, put her arms above her head, and stretched. The light inside the house caught her expression; she was smiling like the cat who’d caught the lizard.
“Where is your hero?” Laret asked.
“Getting dressed.”
“Well.” She wanted to ask if she should go, but she stumbled on the words even though she’d said them often in her life.
“Is something wrong?”
“Why should it be?”
“You’re frowning,” Maeve said, a teasing tone. “Did you feel left out?”
Laret barked a laugh. “Whether or not you have sex and with whom neither concerns nor interests me.” She turned away, but Maeve jabbed her lightly in the ribs, making her jump.
“Positively dour! Aesa’s only been back an hour. What could she have done to you in so short a time?”
“She’s been back two and a half hours, thank you.”
“Ah! So you did feel lonely; you counted the moments.” She slipped an arm around Laret’s waist and hugged her from the side.
Laret returned the touch softly. Ever since their first
hug, Maeve initiated any friendly contact from the side, as if sensing Laret didn’t appreciate being approached from the front.
“Fear not, gracious blood witch!” Maeve said. “You shall be with us for dinner, and if Aesa is nasty to you, I will leap to your defense.”
“Very well,” Laret said as she disentangled herself. “I shall be as gracious as she is.”
*
Maeve began to wonder if they’d eat dinner in silence, with Aesa and Laret exchanging the occasional glare. Maeve looked between them, smiling. It was like a warrior’s competition for who could cast darker looks. She wondered if they even knew what they were angry about, or if it was just the prickliness of being in a small space with someone they didn’t know well.
“Tell us of your adventures,” Maeve said when she couldn’t stand the silence anymore.
The sudden noise made both Laret and Aesa pause before they continued chewing slowly.
“There’s not much to tell,” Aesa said.
“Your first journey on Gilka’s ship, something you’ve been dreaming of since you heard her name, and there’s not much to say?”
When Aesa shrugged, Maeve reached under the table and caressed her knee. “I won’t be jealous. I’m happy if you’re happy.” She kept her tone soothing, telling herself it didn’t matter if that was a lie or not.
Aesa gave her a smile that was almost shy. “Battle.” She sighed. “It was both the longest and shortest experience of my life. We met some strange villagers.” Her gaze went far away before she shrugged.
“What direction did you sail?”
“Does it matter?”
Maeve shrugged, though it seemed a strange, angry answer. She took a long drink from her cup.
“What made the villagers strange?” Laret asked.
Aesa popped a piece of bread in her mouth. “Why?”
Laret shrugged. “Were they purple? Did they fly? Did they have arms where their legs are supposed to be and legs for their arms?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
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