by Scott Hale
“So you’re not fine with it!”
Aeson rubbed his face red. “Of course I’m not, Vrana, and you wouldn’t be if it were me. How could I be?”
“Promise me you will not stay down here the entire time while I’m away.” Aeson moved to interrupt, but Vrana held up her hand and continued. “You owe me. When I left for the third trial, you promised me that you would do whatever I asked, and this is what I’m asking of you.”
Aeson sighed and slumped down onto a chair. “I don’t think those were your exact words.” His eyes darkened as he retreated inwards for a moment. “I don’t hate them. I’m not scared of them. It’s just my parents…”
“I know,” Vrana said softly. She stepped towards him and went around the chair, placing her hands on his shoulders and rubbing them gently. “Don’t go back on your word.” She wrapped her hands around his neck and squeezed. “Or else.”
“Water,” Aeson said raspily. Vrana released her grip, and he turned around to face her. “Water: That is how the Witch enters our world.”
“I picked up on that, too,” Vrana said as Aeson stood up, massaging his neck. “Sorry. You’re so fragile.”
He waved off her apology. “Water can represent life, as well as death. What better an example of those two concepts than something which has been living and killing for longer than anyone can remember?” His voice increased in pitch as it often did when he became excited over a topic. “And there is water in nearly every story told of her. Whatever tale is true, it began in water, so water is how she enters this world.”
“Well, good thing about seventy percent of it is covered in the stuff.” Vrana pulled back her hair to braid it. “What’s stopping her then? Why not leave the Void permanently? She clearly takes pride in her work, the cunt.”
“Fear, I think,” Aeson said, walking toward the large wall of stone that divided the Inner Sanctum. “It’s what gives her power over us, but too much, and we’ve power over her, like it said in one of those books. She’s had ages to learn how to keep the scales balanced, like us. The Void is her home, her hideout. The one place she can be safe when people start asking questions and saying enough is enough.”
“How do we kill her?”
Aeson laughed and bit his lip. “You find a way into the Void and drag her out of it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Void exists simply to sustain her. I’ve never heard of it in any other writings.”
“Point me in the right direction, and I’ll cut the bitch’s throat.”
A look of solemnity fell across his face, the excitement in his voice gone. “Vrana, I don’t want that. I… I know more about death than anybody else. I know the effect it has on people. I know the necessity of it and all the awful ways to induce it. I know more than I should and need to about countless subjects, yet here I am, underground, only as useful as the person forced to do what I say needs to be done. What I’m trying to say is… it doesn’t have to be you. Besides, I don’t know how to reach her.”
“You’re lying,” Vrana said. “You at least have ideas. Tell me them.” She put her hands together in front of her and made a choking gesture. “We’re not children. We can’t just talk and expect nothing of it. She came to Caldera and killed our people. If we have a solution, we can’t sit on it, twiddling our thumbs, hoping she dies of—what—old age? Come on, please.”
“A spell maybe,” Aeson said through his teeth.
Vrana stepped forward.
“I meant to ask the spellweavers, but I took too long. Maybe the Witch knew that I’d found a way and that’s why she came.”
Vrana took another step.
“When his replacement arrives, I’ll try to convince him to tell me, but I doubt that’ll happen; the elders won’t even let me talk to the ones that are left.”
Vrana continued, halfway to Aeson.
“Also, there are artifacts—black bangles with red Death engravings, bone goblets scorched in hellfire—kept in the northern cities, used for religious purposes. I don’t know how they work, but some say they can be used as portals to the elsewhere lands. There’s the Black Hour…”
Vrana stopped an arm’s length away from Aeson.
“But we can’t control the Black Hour, or predict it, so that’s out of the question.” He coughed. “It may be possible to reach her if one could convince Death to ferry them to the Void.” He closed his eyes and shook his head at the ridiculousness of the statement. “This isn’t worth discussing. I’m sure this is what the Witch wants, for us to kill ourselves trying to find a way to kill her.”
Vrana took a small step nearer to Aeson and placed her hands on his shoulders once more.
“What the hell are you doing? I thought you wanted to know these things.”
Vrana leaned in and kissed Aeson on the lips.
“I’ll… that’s… I mean, that’s better than choking me, I—what?” He smirked, trying to make light of the situation.
Vrana ignored Aeson and kissed him again. She felt different, aware of the finality of things. She needed him to stop speaking, for she realized that, with every suggestion he gave, he drove her father away, into the North, into death; because if she knew how to stop the Witch, she’d have to try. She kissed him again, and he met her halfway. This wasn’t the first kiss they’d shared, but the thought of it never happening again was too painful to imagine. He pulled her closer, and where she had once pulled away, she now stayed. She was tired of talk about the Witch and no longer felt the need to inquire about spellweavers. She kissed him on the neck, and he did the same to her.
“This didn’t quite work out before,” Aeson said, pulling away, flushed. “Would you be doing this if you weren’t leaving?”
She threw her arms around him, catching a glimpse of her raven mask on the other side of the room. “No, probably not.” She put her forehead to his. “But I needed to be leaving to know what I’d miss.”
Aeson nodded, twisted his mouth. “This feels forced, Vrana.”
“I know,” she said.
Aeson dipped down and kissed her on the side of the mouth. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying it doesn’t feel right, either.” He laughed and held her tightly. “At this point, I think we can endure just about anything. But I can’t take losing you, whether you’re my friend or my lover. You have to come back. You’re the only light I have down here.”
“No pressure, right?” she said, sniffling, hating the tears she felt weighing down her lashes.
He smiled and wiped her eyes. “Not for a badass like you.”
Vrana woke early on her last day in Caldera. Outside, she could hear the weeping of those sleepless bodies that had lost all to the Witch. Her mother, who was tending to the garden in the basement, shrieked when she saw her daughter descend the stairs, spilling a cup’s worth of tea all over her feet. Thankfully, the sprites were more than eager to clean up the mess, hovering over the spill and drinking it until nothing was left.
“That was the last of the tea,” her mother said, cleaning her hands in a small pool of water “You’ve really screwed up now, child.”
“I’m sorry,” Vrana said, trying not to laugh.
“You will be, girl,” Adelyn said, pointing with one dripping finger. “The sun is still rising, and you’re awake. Did Blix leave a surprise for you on your forehead again?”
“Nerves, I think,” she said, using all her strength not to say something she would regret. “That’s never happened again.”
“When you’re gone, I’m not going to have anybody to talk to, and Aeson is not going to have anybody to talk to so…”
“If you—”
“I’m just teasing.” Adelyn walked over to Vrana and hugged her. “I won’t get to do it for a while. Are you ready?”
“I am.” She was not. “Should I see Bjørn before I go?”
“I’d recommend against it, because it would make him feel important, but he may have some things for you.” She ran her fingers through Vrana’s hair, putting her immediately a
t ease. “Listen to Deimos. There are few I trust more than him in this village.”
“Who is he? I’ve never heard you talk about him before.”
“He wouldn’t like it if I talked about him. You’ll see.” She reached toward one of the sprites. “I’m sure the elders have asked you to do all sorts of things for them while you’re gone, but your mother has a request that takes precedence: ingredients. I need them. I’m not going to tell you what I need, that’s up to you to decide. So don’t forget about your dear old mother, otherwise the Witch won’t be the only thing haunting you at night.”
Vrana stared at her mother, and her mother stared back; all at once they began to laugh hysterically. There was little reason for the outburst, or the tears that leapt from their eyes, but it made the pain of leaving a little easier. The cup Adelyn had been drinking out of was a gift from Vrana’s father, and she only drank from it when she could think of nothing else but him. Vrana slid the cup into the small pool of water while her mother was looking away.
Bjørn was fastening straps to the sides of a leather chest piece when Vrana happened upon him. From his sluggish movements and the sheer black cloth draped over the mouth of his mask, she could see he had yet to recover from the festivities. Grunting, he set the armor aside for a pair of dusky daggers of a material not known to Vrana. In one pained motion, he reached for a jar of oil, freed its lid with a struggling hand, and with the other dipped the daggers into the swirling liquid. The substance was a rare and highly valued coating extracted from the glands of nethers, which left whatever it touched nearly impervious to wear.
“What have you got there?” Vrana chirped.
Bjørn sat upright so fast the black cloth flew from his head and landed behind him. He gasped as the sunlight flooded his mask. “I’ve got one fist to be followed by the other should you shriek once more into my ear!” He moaned and bent over where he sat. “How long have you been standing there? I can hear Anguis whispering sweet nothings to his snakes, but where did you come from? Ah hell, girl, you’re not supposed to see this.”
Vrana looked at the daggers and then the chest piece, neither of which she had requested. “How much did you drink the other night?”
Bjørn shook his head. “Only what was left. I’ve no mind for waste. Well, here you are.” He held out the daggers and pointed to the full set of leather armor behind him. “They are yours to have, and you best have them. There’s nothing I hate more than working with a headache.”
“You’ve been at this all morning?”
“All morning? No, I’ve been at this all your life.”
The armor appeared as though it was a sister to the dress her mother had created for the feast. On each piece of dark leather were intricate engravings of feathers that, upon closer inspection, were comprised of tiny runes of protection and power. The breastplate had splashes of crimson along its sides, as though stained with the radiant blood of Vrana’s enemies. A charcoal-colored cloak flowed down from the shoulders to the tassets; when Vrana went to touch it, the material slithered through her fingers, refusing to be grasped, like it had a will of its own.
“Faerie silk,” Vrana realized. “How?”
“Running around nearly naked is all well and good, but it is only a brief distraction at best in battle. Truth be told, I thought my work had been for naught when you started putting on the pounds like you were going into hibernation, but thankfully, that passed. You can’t roll in it, I’m sorry to say.”
Vrana was too ecstatic and overwhelmed by Bjørn’s display of affection to make a witty retort. Instead, she lifted her raven’s head and planted a kiss on the cheek of his mask.
“Thank you,” she said, letting him glimpse her smile before she pulled the mask over her face. “Where did you get the daggers? I’ve never seen anything like them.”
“Yes, you have,” Bjørn said, dipping them back into the nether oil. “Taken from the same bird whose head you now wear. When you came back and told me you’d forgotten the talons, I left with your mother to fetch them. Cut myself plenty on these things. You’re lucky that beast didn’t flay you. They’re not ready yet, so you will wait until Bjørn is satisfied.”
Vrana cleared her throat. “Not that I don’t appreciate this, but does Bjørn have a spare bow?”
At dusk, Vrana’s companions were revealed to her, one which she had seen occasionally, the other a stranger to all but the elders and Deimos. The former was the watcher, Lucan the Beetle, the last of his name and aspect; the man who had asked her during the feast what she intended to do next with her life. He was testing me, she thought, looking for the seam between his mask and his neck and failing to find it. He disagrees. He doesn’t think I should be here.
The stranger’s name was Serra, of Traesk, and he wore the head of a piranha, which shone an infectious yellow and green when light passed through it.
Lucan’s appearance was frightening, but was made less so by his oafish voice. Serra, unfortunately, didn’t have this luxury, because he had no tongue with which to speak. Like Bjørn, Serra saw the world through his mask’s tooth-lined mouth, but unlike the Bear’s mask, the darkness inside Serra’s was unrelenting. Vrana couldn’t see his face even if she were standing right in front of him.
Vrana ate her last meal with Adelyn very slowly. They talked about her father, because they hadn’t done so in quite some time, and at dinner’s end, they were thankful that they had.
“What did he look like?” Vrana asked, feeling the fullness of her stomach with her hands. “I don’t think I was old enough to remember, really.”
“Looked like you, mostly,” Adelyn said. “People used to tease us, because they didn’t see any of me in you.” She bit her lip. “He was average height, average build. His hands had a certain look to them that I liked. It’s hard to explain.” Her mother laughed. “He was a quiet man; not terribly adventurous, but he could be persuaded if needed.”
“His mask—what was it?” Vrana cringed. “I see it, but not really. I know he wore one, but every time I imagine him, he’s wearing something different.”
“Iguana,” Vrana’s mother said, her voice heavy with dreamy reminiscence.
“Really?”
“Yup. Not a common aspect.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever seen one.” Vrana thought for a moment. “I don’t think he’s dead.”
Adelyn smiled, reached across, and took her daughter’s hand. “Nor do I.”
“But I don’t think we’ll see him again.” Vrana felt her mother squeeze her hand as she said this.
“Probably not, love.”
“Have you… have you ever considered—?”
“Another man?” Adelyn laughed, smacked the top of Vrana’s hand playfully. “Every day. But I’m picky.”
“What about Bjørn?”
“Get out.”
Vrana told her mother of Bjørn’s gift as they cleared away the food, and Adelyn told her that it had been the only thing that made the man bearable over the years (no pun intended, as Adelyn was quick to point out).
While Vrana was getting ready, which was taking longer than usual—she could count on one hand the amount of times she’d worn a full set of armor—Aeson let himself into her room. They finished what they had started two years ago in the Inner Sanctum, and then he helped her into her armor once more. She asked him if she should bring the books on the Witch, the Skeleton’s key, and the silver necklace, and he could offer up no reason as to why she shouldn’t pack them. He told her that he remembered the necklace was a symbol of a dead faith indigenous to the North, and Vrana told him it probably fetched quite a price up there, which was why the bandits wanted it so. They kissed, and then kissed again, and regretted their timing.
At nightfall, the village gathered at the gates, where Deimos, Lucan, Serra, and Vrana waited beside the elders. Together, Anguis, Faolan, and Nuctea spoke in unison, and a portion of the field began to sink inwards, sucking in nearby crops, scavenging animals, and the wind itself. The
ground eddied as the contents of a cauldron would, and from it ghastly shapes formed, building upon one another with earth, rock, and root, blood, bone, and flesh, until the forms were not one shapeless mass but four horses, horrible and beautiful to behold.
“They will see you to Nora,” Faolan said as the riders mounted the beasts. “And then they will return to nothingness.”
Vrana swallowed her trepidation as roots grew out of the sides of her horse and wrapped around her trembling legs and hips, forming a harness. Bjørn approached and handed her the daggers, a bow, and a quiver filled with arrows, and he gave her a hard slap on the back. Her mother followed, held her hand tightly, and told her that she loved her above all else. Aeson, much to the village’s surprise, but not Vrana’s, bid her farewell, too. His voice was heavy with hurt, and he peered up at her from behind the human skull, with eyes that begged her to stay. Vrana tried to speak, but it was too difficult, so she turned her horse and followed the others into the night.
CHAPTER XI
Vrana pushed one dagger into the priest’s chest and another into his stomach. Warm blood sputtered and seeped from the wounds, soaking her hands. The man bit at her mask as he pulled her down to the ground, desperate to inflict one last ounce of suffering before departing for Death. She shoved the daggers in deeper and twisted; the man writhed, wept, and wailed, and as he writhed, wept, and wailed, she took a moment and looked at her surroundings. Deimos had finished with his Corrupted and was sitting beside his kill, catching his breath; Serra was at the tree line, looking over his priest as though wondering what to do with him; and Lucan, with one foot on his attacker’s crotch, was twisting the man’s neck, tearing flesh and breaking bone, as though he aimed to rip his head from his shoulders.
“He has returned to us,” the man said, struggling to speak. “Your sins will go unanswered no longer.” He opened his mouth to say something else, but Vrana dug the daggers deeper, until the light left his eyes.