by E D Ebeling
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Hippolyta Press
Chicago, Illinois
Text copyright © 2014 by E. D. Ebeling
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
Author contact:
[email protected]
http://www.edebeling.wordpress.com
Cover design by A. Miller
First Edition
One
Sarid pulled the flame off the candle and held it in her fist. The tip poked from her fingers and licked around her thumb. It felt warm and wet, like a breath.
Her fist started shaking, and she held the flame tighter, and using her whole arm, swung it round and round in her hand. The flame elongated, becoming whip-sized. Fire lashed and sparks fell, and she spun the whip furiously, making a white wheel in the air. A shield. The light flooded her body, driving the fear back––a fear so debilitating she was using saebel magic to dispel it.
She heard a noise behind her: a muffled rustling, cloth moving over stone. Her arm slowed and the whip shrank to a flame. Dropping the flame back on the candle, she looked over her shoulder and squinted into the dimness.
Something big and long crawled out of her fireplace.
Her hands leapt from the candle and a wind snuffed it out. The room went soot-black. She breathed so hard and so fast she was dizzy and had to sit. She missed her chair and sat on the ground, and wondered if she’d only imagined it.
But there was something there. It knocked over a table and dropped a heavy weight of books into the rug.
“What’d you blow the light out for?” it said.
A boy. Sarid’s breathing slowed and the feeling came back into her hands. The fireplace was two-sided; the other side opened into a corridor––he must have crawled through.
She reached for the lamp she knew was beneath her chair. She lit it with her hot fingers and raised it over her head.
He looked younger than her, maybe fifteen. Sarid couldn’t very well tell. Boys were strange creatures: growing, not growing, awkward and unable to fit anywhere.
But this one seemed quite comfortable, with his self-assured appraisal of the mess he had made.
“What are you doing here?” she said, standing.
His hand crept up and loosened his shirt collar. “You live in the fireplace?”
“Does this look like a fireplace?”
He glanced back at the hearth. “Looked like a fireplace out in the hall.”
“The flue’s stopped up,” Sarid said. “And these are my rooms. What are you doing here?”
“I’m here,” said the boy, brushing dust off his clothes, “because a pack of wolves is picking off the cattle.” He reached down and righted the table with a hand. “And I called Vanli Pash a coward, who won’t course them with us tomorrow. And now he says he’s going to beat my head in. The thing is”––he fell to re-stacking the books, in the wrong order––“the thing is, he wouldn’t dare, because I’m taller. And I rank him, so I’m saving him some embarrassment.”
“You’re hiding.”
“I’m backing down,” the boy said.
“All right.” Sarid set the lamp on her desk. “But are you planning on spending the night? I’ve only one clean teacup.” She didn’t get much practice at this sort of thing. She looked over at her cups and bowls––one had a small tree growing from it––then down at her clothes. Stains stared out like sores where the overcoat had become unbuttoned.
“You’re offering tea?” the boy said. “I wouldn’t mind a dirty teacup. Wouldn’t mind a dog dish, actually.” He smiled. “Hard work, backing down.”
Sarid stared. “You can have the clean one.”
She was immediately annoyed with herself. Outside the wind knocked at the walls and a hard snow rattled against the windows. The night was wild, perfect for spellwork, and the fear had plagued her all week. But it was too late, and she decided to make a kettle of elderflower tea.
“Look at that!” said the boy, as she (naturally) lit a fire in an old, dry fountain in the corner of the room. “Am I causing you trouble? I hate to cause trouble.”
“Only a little.” She blew on the smoking straw and the twigs caught fire. “Uncanny in a boy.”
“You’re fairly uncanny yourself, hidden away like this. Why haven’t I seen you before? What’s your name?”
She told him, thinking it harmless.
“Sarid? That’s the name for a fat girl! You’re a bunch of bones. Face is pretty, though.”
Sarid didn’t know whether to feel insulted or flattered. She dropped the leaves into the kettle. This hung above the fire on a rod sticking from the wall: the pipe that used to spout water into the fountain. She stirred the flames with a stick. “You don’t live here year-round. Otherwise you’d know not to bother with me.”
“Gods. What are you that I shouldn’t bother with you? A flesh-eating bauk?”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“I’d ask you, but it’s rude to inquire after family secrets. You’ve probably a saebeline grandfather. Unseelie. Pure malice. You’ve poisoned the tea, I’m sure.” He sat on the ground.
“Too much of anything is poison.” She filled the clean teacup and gave it to him.
“I shall only take two sips, then.” His shadow moved behind him. It was long and black and deep.
She took a pinch of dried yellow petals from a bowl and threw them into his cup. “Drink all of it.”
He eyed the unfurling petals dubiously. “What’s this?”
“Goatweed. Cures sadness.”
“I’m not in the least bit sad.”
“You will be.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve a saebeline grandfather.”
“Will you curse me if I don’t drink this?”
“Drink it.”
“Don’t curse me. I’m potentially very important.”
“You’re already cursed. Drink your tea.”
He drank it, thanked her courteously, and left, more smoothly than he had entered, through the fireplace.
She stood still for a moment, listening.
It was a wonder he’d found her. She was hidden (just like a hungry bauk) in an abandoned part of the hall, far from whispers and prying eyes.
She bent and picked up the cup he’d left on the floor. Her hands trembled and turned cold; she couldn’t feel where her fingers stopped and the cup began. She dropped it.
It shattered into three big shards and a thousand little ones, and instead of going for a broom she backed away and sat down in a chair. Her heart beat violently and her hands and legs shook in big jerks. Her candle spellwork had done nothing, had flickered and gone out. The fear was back. Irrational, completely irrational––the worst kind. She couldn’t find the source to stem it. She could only cure the symptoms.
And so she decided, after a few hours of spinning sleeplessly under her dusty sheets, that she would go get herself a wolf bite.
***
Wolf bites were a quick, rather desperate cure for unrelenting dread. Well, Sarid was desperate and her dread unrelenting. Early that morning, with shaking hands, she stewed some oats and sliced an apple. She broke her fast and hunched over the floor, trying to settle her stomach. Then she stepped into her boots, opened her little postern, and walked past her herb garden straight into the forest.
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She picked her way through the first trees and found she didn’t need her boots. It was autumn, the earth was still alive, albeit sleepy, and the snow of last night had gone into the ground.
The mountains north of Charevost––the hall where she lived––were black with firs and crowded close like a flock of crows. The wolves came down from these mountains every winter to carry off cattle, and Sarid knew where the pack denned. Plants she needed for certain procedures flourished among wolf places.
It was cloudy, silent, except for the knock of a woodpecker. A wind tossed Sarid’s hair, and her feet sweated in the boots as she thumped over the moss and bald rock. The ground inclined enough to tax her calves and warm her uncomfortably. Ten steps more and the rock curved down suddenly into a bastion of oaks before shooting up into the first black hillock. The sun was a boss of bright silver behind the cloud. She picked her way down and came among the oaks.
The boughs shook above her, a brace of wizened arms pushing against the sky. Over the chattering of dead leaves she heard the bark of pups. She whistled, and curious, they came. Born in the spring, half-grown, they squeezed through the brambles on their ungraceful joints and big paws. They were cautious at first, but when she squatted and held out a hand, whispering strong words, they nosed into her crotch and hair and boots, tails wagging. The mother was close behind, not so trusting, fur standing down her back. The grown ones didn’t much like Sarid.
She stood up and backed away. She wasn’t here to play with pups. She was here to rile the mother. She did her best to look threatening, rounding her shoulders and baring her teeth, thinking all the while about the stupidity of it. And fleeting, fleeting came the feeling. It was foreboding, a prick of dread. Sarid should have dropped the act, told them to run, but she wanted what she had come for––a bite. So she growled and leapt at the wolf bitch. The wolf met her in the air and caught her by the arm.
Vaguely, through the pain, Sarid heard the baying of hounds.
An old grey wolf burst through the brush, and a little ways after loped a gigantic hound, tongue lolling. The old wolf disappeared into the trees. The wolfhound slowed, spraying dirt; it knocked Sarid aside and caught the mother wolf by the neck.
The dog and wolf rolled snarling over the ground, locked together, and a horn sounded. Two more wolfhounds tore from the trees, followed by a number of bloodhounds. A horse and rider followed; the rider, a young girl, gave a sharp command. The hounds set upon the pups and made a great mass of snarling bodies. After a short while the three pups lay on the ground, dead, twisted into grotesque lines, and Sarid looked on them, holding her bitten arm. At last the mother wolf slowed beneath the hound and the rider dismounted. She pulled a dagger from her belt and slid it neatly between the wolf’s shoulders.
And as the other riders came, as the mother wolf grew still, something in Sarid snapped. Her finger reached and touched the wolfhound’s belly. The belly burst open, showering her with blood. The hound collapsed, and the lady rider stood up short, her face white.
“Leva,” called one of the riders. He brought his horse round, looking at the hound Sarid had killed. “Did the wolf do it?”
“No.” Leva pulled her dagger from the wolf and wiped it in the grass. “The wolf was dead. I don’t know. Some sort of––” She dropped the dagger and knelt next to her dead dog, touched the broken seams of skin.
“I did it,” said Sarid. Already she was damp with guilt, shaking with fatigue.
“Witchery,” said Leva. “Look at her eyes. Black as pitch.” The man dismounted and flung his leads round a tree branch. Sarid hid her bloody arms in her skirts. “Why’d you do it? The wolf was attacking you, looked like. Where did you come from?”
“I provoked her.”
“I don’t understand,” the girl said. “Why did you kill my hound?”
“They killed the pups.” Sarid thought of getting up, but she wasn’t sure her legs could support her.
“What pups?” said Leva.
Another of the hunters, a boy, jumped down from his horse.
“The wolves,” said Sarid.
“The young wolves?” said the man. “Who are you?” He shook his head. “Whatever you are, you’ve no business this close to human folk and neither have wolves.” He had a fur coat. He sounded ridiculous, silly. These were nobles hunting for sport.
He bent and examined the dog, keeping his coat clear of the blood. “How did you kill her?” he said. “The stomach looks as if…it burst. It filled with air and burst.”
“It did. And I am human, some.” Sarid got shakily to her feet.
“Witchery.” Leva’s face had gone from white to grey and brittle. Like old ice.
“Saebel magic,” said the boy who had dismounted. He dropped his leads and walked over. “It’s not evil. She was scared, I think. Let it go, Leva. The dogs are likely to die on these hunts, and the wolflings were unhappy work.”
“The dog was hardly happier,” said Leva. “She was healthy, in her prime.”
“And you can have your pick of Rasia’s litter. She’s due next week.” He had a sweet way with words and loose red-brown curls, and his shadow was black as a pit. Sarid realized with a jolt that he was the boy who had joined her at tea last night.
“Rischa would have us overrun with wolves.” Another boy had coaxed his frightened mount nearer, and Sarid twisted the front of her skirts so the blood wouldn’t show. “Not if I can help it.” He called to the hunters behind him, “The other hounds have gone on. Let’s follow them. There’re more wolves yet, and they’re heading towards Mikal’s group. We can’t let them have all the quarry. I should like to stick a wolf.” He nudged his horse onward, and another boy after him.
“Sensitive as a princess,” said a girl on a big, black horse. Her hood was drawn close around her face.
“Go on,” Rischa said to her. “We can do this, just us.”
“Try to please everyone and you’ll break into bits, Master Eliav.” She moved around in her saddle, put the reins in her teeth, and rubbed her hands together. “I should have brought a warmer coat.” Using her knees, she directed her horse through the trees and after the others.
The wind toyed with the sedge and the leaves and the dead wolves’ fur.
“Should we bury poor Kaitha, or burn her?” said the man.
“The ground’s too hard,” said Leva.
“Then we’ll make a fire. And I will skin these beasts––”
Rischa looked at the dead wolves. “Maybe not, Peitr.”
“And let them lie there? Attracting things down from the mountains?” The man glanced toward Sarid. She blushed.
“She’s from Charevost,” said Rischa. “I’ve seen her. Burn the wolves with the dog. We don’t need skins. I don’t feel in the mood for more blood.”
The man looked at him, a line between his brows. “Burn them? The dogs’ll be sorry about it.”
Sarid opened her mouth: “The dogs won’t eat wolf.”
“Yes they will,” said Leva.
“If you boil the meat and mix it up with other things. If you disguise it. It’s wicked, eating your own folk. Like killing pups for no reason.”
“Don’t talk to me of wicked.” Leva dragged a sleeve over her runny nose. “You split open my dog! And Rischa, what’s got into you? Has she pricked some enchantment into you? You don’t burn wolves. You skin them and make coats and boots. And you keep you mouth shut,” she said to Sarid. “You’ll probably have me under some wicked spell.” Her chest heaved beneath her coat.
Rischa hid his mouth under his collar. “You shouldn’t say such things to an enchantress.”
“You’re mocking me.” Leva turned to him and her braid whipped against her cheek. “You think she’s from Charevost. But you probably saw some scullion with matted hair like hers. If you were men you would tie her up right here, and burn her instead of Kaitha. If she’s saebeline she’ll save herself, and if not, she’s evil anyway, blowing up a dog.”
Her breath filled
the air, leaving a white film on her scarf. No one spoke for a while. Then Rischa said quietly, leaning towards the man, “Peitr, I don’t think Leva’s well enough to burn her dog.”
“I’ll take you home.” Peitr put a hand on her shoulder. “There’s rum we brought from Affra. Put the color back in your cheeks.”
Leva jerked away from his hand and strode over to her horse. She grabbed the saddle and mounted, all in one, smooth movement. “Bugger your rum. I’m hunting wolves.” She dug her heels into the horse and crashed through the trees.
Peitr ran his hand through his graying hair. “Shall I go get her, as she’s yours to look after?”
“Not by choice,” said Rischa.
“Don’t look so sorry, boy. You’re both half grown.” Peitr climbed into his saddle and gave Sarid a last look. “Watch yourself.” As he crashed after Leva, Sarid wondered if the words were meant for her or Rischa.
“You aren’t going to do her harm?” Rischa didn’t move from where he was. She could hardly hear his voice over the rattling leaves and rushing sedge. “Leva speaks too quickly sometimes––”
“I didn’t mean to do it. It was an accident.”
Rischa swallowed. Awkwardness didn’t sit well on his face. “An exploding dog left to chance?”
She shook her head. “I can control it better than that. I was only trying to––”
“I know.” He noticed, for the first time, her arm. “You were bitten.”
“On purpose.”
He was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I’ve heard of it. Peasant custom. Twisted sort of thinking, my brother says––I’m terrified so I’m going to go anger a wolf.”
“It works.” Sarid was a bit irritated. A breeze felt around her hands.
“Sorry.” He bent and began to pick up kindling. “I talk too much. What’re you frightened of, anyway? People are more scared of you. Skinny enough to warrant it, I suppose. Like Boney Legs, eating children with her iron teeth––”
The wind gave a sudden start, and Rischa’s untethered cream gelding spooked and bolted into the woods.