by E D Ebeling
The thought of Rischa thumping Savvel was much less funny than the thought of Rischa thumping Vanli. Sarid caught Rischa’s arm. “Let me drag him out.”
“If he hurts you I’ll kill him.”
“For Paronna’s sake.” She pushed him out of the way. “I’ve been doing this all winter, and you said yourself he was harmless.”
She walked after Savvel, pushing branches out of her eyes. He’d come to the glass of the outside wall and was staring through it at nothing.
With the coolness of long practice she took his hands and slipped into his mind. The air changed, became arid.
The trees around them were lifeless and perfectly preserved, leaves hanging off the branches like white rags. The glass was so old it had run downwards against the panes. Chunks of it were missing. She looked up; the top of the dome was gone, the broken sides sticking into the air like teeth.
She forced herself to look through the glass and saw them right outside: a mass of wounds and ribs and teeth, red foam flying from their jowls and spangling the glass. They were big as horses and horrifically ugly. Savvel pulled away from her.
“Savvel.” She grabbed him again and turned him round, and thought quickly about what she might do to calm him. “We must staunch your bleeding so they can’t smell it.” She tore a strip of cloth from her skirt, took his hand, and tied the strip around his bleeding finger. “Now if we keep out of the wind they’ll go away.”
“They won’t,” he said. “Until we die, until we die, until we die.” He rubbed his hands in his shirt, scraping the bandage off.
“They will.” She picked up the cloth and tied it tighter. “They’re just dogs, fierce but stupid. Their minds are easily turned. Where did you cut your finger?”
“By the azalea. It’s all dust.”
There came a crash of glass; the bellowing was suddenly very near. She struggled to remember that it wasn’t real, that she was in Savvel’s head, but the baying blew her thoughts ragged. “Where? Where’s the azalea?” she said.
“The glass had my finger.”
“Where?”
Over here the wind whispered, and Savvel put his hands over his ears. “The hole has got bigger and they’ll come through.”
“Did you hear the glass break?” said Sarid. Wind blew through her hair, tangled her cloak. “They’re already through.” She took his hands and lifted him up. “We must find the azalea.”
“Why?”
But she couldn’t remember why.
Here, here, come here, cried the wind, and it was Rischa’s voice. But Rischa was an old memory. A ghost, or dream that could turn nightmare at any moment.
The howling of the dogs took on a feverish pitch, and the voice cried out to them more desperately. And so Sarid took Savvel by the hand, and they followed it past the skeletal trees and desiccated orchids until finally they came to a ghost azalea next to the glass wall.
A hole gaped behind it, a bit of blood still reddening one of the edges. Savvel’s face grew still and pensive.
“I was clearing the old growth away,” he said. “I nicked my finger.”
The walls boomed like a drum.
A monstrous hound banged against the other side of the glass. It was colored grey-yellow like a rotten tooth, a red tint around its jaws, as though it had been gnawing its own flesh. It snuffed around the wall, wiping its red saliva over the glass.
It found the hole. It stuck its ghoulish head through, pushed all the way inside, and leaped at Savvel. Sarid touched its stomach. The monster yelped, and Sarid spun on her feet and fainted.
She woke briefly on the floor and saw that Gryka had fallen over her chest.
***
She woke in a bed in the infirmary. It was dark. There was no telling how late it was. The air was chilly. Rischa bent over her and blocked her view. “I think,” he said quietly, “you should probably stop seeing my brother.”
She remembered then. “What’ve I done?” She sat up and grabbed his arm.
“Your dog’s alive. She’s got a mess of a hemorrhage, Fedev says.” He knelt by her side as if preparing to relay worse news. “I was thinking,” he said, “maybe you could somehow fix her? Because you did it.”
She thought of Gryka, and saw only the ghastly yellow monster with the red jowls. “I can’t.” She shook her head. “Gods help me, I can’t. I’m terrified still.”
“Scared of your own dog?”
“What’ve I done? You brother––”
“He’s fine. He came out of it.” He left the rest unsaid.
“I’m terrified still. I can’t go look. I can’t go look at my own, poor dog.” She started to cry.
“It’s okay, Bones. She’s alive. You held back, must’ve known, somehow. We’ll see how you feel tomorrow. It’s the middle of the night.” He rubbed her hands and kissed her palms. “You’re cold. I’ll shut the window.” He drew the casement closed and walked toward the door.
“Don’t leave.”
He sat on her bed until she slept.
***
The next morning Sarid stood in the doorway of Gryka’s kennel, unable to walk in. The dog was gigantic, certainly, but she was beautiful and utterly unable to move from her blanket, or so Sarid tried to convince herself. Rischa smoothed back the hair on the dog’s head. Gryka rolled her eyes toward him.
“I hoped you would do to your dog what you did to mine,” said someone behind Sarid. She turned; it was Leva. “Now it’s happened I feel awful.”
Leva scared her more than Gryka did, so Sarid walked into the pen. The dog’s tail gave a thump. Leva leaned against the door. “Sad thing is you can’t frighten or beat the love out of them.”
“Can you do anything?” said Rischa to Sarid. The dog’s stomach was swollen and bruised, a purple mess held in place by the skin. “Otherwise there’s no help for her.”
Sarid knelt and placed a shaking hand on Gryka’s side. She began crying silently, because of the repugnance she felt. She reached into the core of her power––it was closed, hard as a diamond, and her fingers stayed cold. Was this what it felt like to be human? Cold everywhere and constantly aching in the chest and groin?
“I’ve lost it,” she said, standing up.
“You had it only yesterday,” said Rischa.
She shook her head. “I was mad.”
“Mad?” said Leva in disbelief. “You need to be mad?”
“Try for some empathy,” said Rischa, but Sarid suspected Leva was more right than she knew. “You were doing so well––”
“Stop preaching.”
“Hush.” The dogs were barking in their runs. Other people were drawing near, voices growing louder. “I want to hear what they’re saying.” Rischa pushed the two girls into an empty run next to Gryka’s.
“-–obviously dangerous,” said a young man––Vanli Pash. “Could’ve killed you––”
“This is my fault, shitbrain.” Rischa frowned at his brother’s voice.
“It’s good of you to think so, sir, but we mustn’t disregard the facts.”
“That you struggle with an insecurity toxic to anyone even hypothetically threatening your claim to this fox-hole?”
An older man coughed, and said, “My lord. Do consider the girl for a moment. She could’ve bewitched your brother.”
“Are you blind? He’s bewitched her.”
The voices went softer––they’d moved into Gryka’s pen.
“Horrifying,” said Vanli. “Imagine if it had been you.”
“I’ve imagined worse.”
“We should kill it,” said Vanli. Rischa grabbed Sarid’s hand; she doubted the gesture was meant to be consolatory. “She’ll think her dog died on her account. Perhaps she’d leave.”
But Rischa hadn’t accounted for Leva, and she strolled boldly into Gryka’s run.
“If you touch that dog, cousin,” she said, “I’ll knock you down. Now get out. You too, you arrogant rake,” she said to Savvel. “A fine one you are to sneer at your brother
’s philandering. Insanity must be a blessing indeed to have driven you so thoroughly from the same vice. Get out, all of you. You’re causing the dog more pain.”
Sarid peered past the door and saw them leave silently, except for Savvel, who said to Leva as he strode past, “Good day, madam.”
“Sorry,” said Rischa.
“For what?” Sarid said.
Five
Gryka could keep down only water. To take Sarid’s mind off her dog, Rischa kept her occupied with long, bad games of blind-the-traitor, and lessons in Simargh (a language she already knew but didn’t tell him), and aimless walks through the gardens, where violet, lupine and bluebell were splashing color into the grey.
At noon on the third day, they were walking in the woods below the hall when Mari sped by on her grey mare.
She turned around and thumped back over the loam. She slowed her horse and called out, “They expect you back at the hall.”
“What’s happened? My brother?” Rischa dropped the switch of flowering blackthorn he had been dragging behind him.
“It’s Noremes.” Mari shifted in her saddle. It was loose under her, carelessly put on. “Two Girelden––a brother and sister. They’ve just come with a group from Norembry, and they say Reglian’s had another saebel uprising. The saebels killed all the royals except one.”
Sarid rubbed a sore spot on her hand where she’d been pricked by a thorn. She wished it wasn’t saebels, but she doubted her father had anything to do with it––he left people alone, mostly. And besides, the news wasn’t completely unexpected.
Every ten years or so Lorila and Norembry (a neighboring country of mostly Gireldine people) were subject to a number of fleeing Reglime humans, because Reglian (to the north) was often overrun with saebels.
But the slaughter of the entire royal family was unusual and rather malicious compared to the usual turnout of dead kine and crazy folk.
“They think demons were involved,” said Mari. “Djain. The Noremes are leaving tomorrow for Merstig. I hope the Ravyir’s still there. Take my horse––you’ll get there faster.”
“It’s that serious?” said Rischa.
“Probably not. But I like to see you squirm.”
She dismounted, and Rischa tightened the cinch at the horse’s belly.
“Thanks,” he said, mounting. The horse snorted and moved restlessly beneath him. “I’ll make haste, squirming all the way.” And he set off toward the hall.
***
When Sarid and Mari arrived back at Charevost the Noremes were in one of the front rooms, hallooing and shoving luggage around. They wore bright colors, easily picked out from the darkly dressed humans that had crowded in to see them. Count Pash was there, and Vanli, and Rischa, and even Savvel, who must have thought the occasion interesting. Noreme Girelden didn’t come often into Lorila. They were insular and secretive, and Sarid was curious to see them.
“They’re taller and darker than our Rileldine serfs,” Mari had said to her earlier. “A pretty people, but not very charming.”
They were a pretty people, spontaneous and lively in the way of the Elden, with eyes of mostly grey and blue, Sarid could see as she and Mari pushed through the crowd––uncanny in a group of golden-eyed humans. The lady seemed scarcely older than Sarid. “My friend has come back,” she said, and patted Mari’s cheek. “A tramp through the woods has made a wonder of her hair.” She spoke with a pleasant lilt.
“If you want,” said Mari, “I’ll give you the address of the poplar snag that did it. Or you could ask Sarid, who is much more ferociously skilled.”
“I’ve won,” said the lord into the lady’s ear. “Here’s a human who matches you wit for wit.”
“This girl you brought with,” Savvel was saying to one of the retainers, “this princess from Reglian––”
“Is she badly hurt?” said Rischa.
“A coma,” said the lady’s brother, “we think.”
“Then she should stay here,” said Count Pash.
“Maybe,” said Savvel. “Where did you find her? You said all her family were killed––how do you know who she is? Does she know who she is?”
“Right now she’s in no position to expound on the question,” said the lady.
“I mean no offense,” said Savvel. “But your people tend toward the brash––”
“Forgive my brother,” said Rischa. “His wits unravel around pretty ladies.” (Sarid found herself unexpectedly cross.)
“Is it true,” said Edloiva to the Girelden, leaning over Mari’s shoulder, “that your spirits grow outside your bodies? I heard a story once about how a horse trod on a simple violet in the road, and Lord Carywab fell down dead, because it was his spirit––”
The lady laughed. “I hope my spirit doesn’t grow in the middle of a road.”
“When do you leave?” said Rischa.
“Tomorrow,” said the lord.
“You think the djain are interested in Reglian?” said Vanli.
“Why not?” said the lord. “The djain are interested in everything.”
“But who’s to say they were absolutely involved?” said Vanli. “All the news we’ve heard has come from Girelden––”
“And that will have to do for now, won’t it?” This was said in a chillier voice. “We were there to receive the fugitives. You weren’t. And saebels don’t go on rampages like this one. They’re daintier.”
“The humans of Reglian probably don’t find them so dainty,” Vanli said.
“We are standing and standing,” said Mari. “I think our visitors need a rest.”
***
“Your hound is wounded, Rischa Eliav told me,” said the lady (whose name was Maerive) to Sarid. What else did he tell you? thought Sarid. They’d moved to a bench now, and the lady splashed her face with water from a basin. “He didn’t say how.”
“What do you care?” said Sarid.
“I could help.”
“How?” Sarid said. “Do you have power?”
“Of the Elde sort.”
“I didn’t know the Elden were capable of stitching up a dog from the inside.” But Sarid couldn’t help her little stirring of hope.
“Some of us have talent,” said Maerive. “My brother and I. We keep some part of what the Elde used to be.”
“You mean,” said Sarid, “you can wrap sunlight around you like a cloak?”
Maerive smiled. “Nothing like that. My brother can do strange things with his feet. And I have some skill with healing.”
“Yet,” said Sarid irritably, looking at her hands, “you were unable to pull the Reglime princess from her coma?”
Maerive wiped her face with a sleeve, and looked under it at Sarid. “You’re canny. I don’t know. Something keeps me from trying. I hesitate to look on her, even. That’s why I think there’s devilry involved.”
“That’s nice.” Mari came up and handed her a proper towel. “Dropping a demon-possessed girl on our doorstep.”
“I fear that’s exactly what we’re doing,” said Maerive. “But the saebels dropped her on our doorstep. They told the story in their funny, roundabout way, said they nicked her from the carnage just for the complication of it. Whether they were lying––we don’t know. There were other accounts of the massacre––from fleeing humans mostly. They never mentioned a fugitive princess. But maybe they didn’t know. And she had the royal insignia of Reglian on her cloak. It was all very peculiar. But enough of this talk.” She stood up. “Let’s try to mend your hound.”
***
Following Maerive’s direction, Rischa carried the dog outside (the girls had to help, as she was so big), and placed her beneath a big, healthy oak. “Strong enough for two lives,” Maerive said.
Though the day was chilly, the Gireldine stripped off her outer tunic. Droplets of sweat were forming on her brow. She knelt next to the dog and patted her snout, and Gryka licked her hand. She put the hand on the dog’s stomach and her other hand on the gnarled trunk of the oak, and th
e earth warmed beneath Sarid’s boots as though a surfeit of energy ran through it. Maerive hummed a low, queer tune. Sarid looked up and heard the tree singing, saw its new leaves tighten and then slump, as though water had been sucked from them.
There was a moment of perfect quiet, as though all things were in their proper places and warring no longer.
“There.” Maerive wiped a damp lock of hair from her brow. “Don’t let her run for a while. She has mending still to be done.”
Gryka raised her head. She got up on shaky legs and tottered over to Sarid, and buried her head in Sarid’s stomach. She issued a long moan and wagged her tail. Sarid laughed, trepidation forgotten, and sat down so her dog might have all of her at once.
She turned to Maerive, who still sat on the ground. “I can’t thank you enough. All my guilt––” She buried her head in her hands, wiping tears around, and the dog nibbled her hair.
“I won’t try to guess what happened,” said Maerive. “But your dog loves you, so the guilt can go hang.”
***
The Noremes were renowned for their music, and Rischa persuaded Sarid to come to the dinner hosted for them. Afterwards Edloiva and Mari clamored for a song, and so one of the retainers stood up to sing a ballad.
“Nobody here knows this dialect of Gireldine, probably,” she said. “But the tune is beautiful. It’s called The Nightingale.”
She began singing; the words were round and smooth as raindrops, and Sarid found to her surprise that she could understand them.
“A girl stole out one winter’s eve
To do a service for her bird,
To bury it beneath the peat,
That once sang sad behind its bars,
To sink it in a pretty bog,
That died for want of sky.
What used to be a nightingale
Was weightless, airless, without breath,
A hole of disappointed hope,
A shackled skin, the spirit fled,