The Starlit Wood

by Dominik Parisien

  “You,” she said, entering the hall and finding the Steward just outside the parlor, holding a satchel in his chubby white hands. “You are not permitted in my lady’s home on Sundays. Where are our guards?”

  He gave her a startled look, but only for so long as it took him to remember who he was.

  “How dare you,” he replied. “You desert cunt. Our lady gave me special permission to come here today. She has errands for me to run.”

  “You are a liar,” replied the Duelist in a cool voice. “And a thief, I think.”

  His mouth twisted. “It hardly matters. We’ll all be turned away from her employment, soon enough. She’s going to live with the Lord Marshal, and he has his own staff.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  The Steward let out a laugh. “Of course you don’t know. You never speak to the serving class. Our mistress is pregnant with the Lord Marshal’s child.”

  The Duelist went still. The Steward looked past her, and his smile froze.

  “Oh,” he said.

  Rose stood in the hall, staring at him. The Duelist watched her, every nerve on fire. Her slender body, covered in fine linen—her hands at her sides, slowly rising to touch her stomach.

  “How does he know it’s his?” she asked. And then laughed. A cruel, unhappy sound.

  “M-my lady,” stammered the Steward.

  The Duelist slid a thin wire from the back of her belt, stepped behind him, and in one smooth motion brought it down over his head and pulled back hard on his throat. He stiffened, choking, but it was easy enough to kick the back of his knee and ride him face-first to the floor. Bones crunched. His feet danced. The Duelist pulled back so hard she felt the wire cut through his throat.

  He died quickly. The Duelist slid off his back, tugging the wire free. Blood dripped, but she cleaned the thin steel on his fine jacket. Her face was hot, heart pounding. She felt deeply troubled, and knew it was partly because Rose had seen her kill.

  The young woman said, “Thank you.”

  The Duelist finally glanced at her. “He was a dead man the moment he saw you. He would have brought up this conversation.” She paused. “But you knew that.”

  Rose gave her a cold smile.

  They tossed his body into the slop pit where all the excrement flowed. It was a tight fit. The hole in the cellar was only meant for garbage, but the Duelist used a sledgehammer to break and twist his arms and shoulders until they resembled pulp, and kicked his body through. Someone else might have wavered or lost their resolve, but this was the sort of work, sadly, she excelled at. The work of eliminating foes.

  She cleaned. Got down and scrubbed the stone floor where she’d cut his throat, checked the walls, the stairs to the cellar, examined every place his body had been. And then she had Rose hold out her hands, and examined her nightgown for blood.

  “I can’t truly be with child,” she said.

  “Your hands are trembling,” the Duelist said.

  “The sun has gone down. I’ll have to sleep soon.” She hesitated. “I was angry before, but now I’m just afraid.”

  The Duelist led Rose up the tower stairs. It was harder going up than down, and there were long moments when the young women was forced to stop and rest. It was not just the drugs in the previous evening’s tea—it was the arrival of night, it was the curse, it was the witch beginning to stir from her own brief sleep. The Duelist could feel Rose slipping away from her. Sunday was almost over.

  In the tower, in her room, the young woman collapsed upon the bed with a groan.

  “Briar,” she said, as the Duelist sat on the mattress beside her. “I will try my best to dream. I will look for a way to be free.”

  “I will be with you,” replied the Duelist. “The next time you open your eyes, mine will be the only face you see.”

  A month later the Lord Marshal announced he was divorcing his wife to marry the incredibly wealthy daughter of a foreign duke. The girl was rumored to be only a little better-looking than the sea sloths that spouted water in the harbor.

  Within days Carmela was confined to bed complaining of a stomachache, but her bitterness prowled through the house. Maids were dismissed or beaten with hairbrushes, dishes were thrown at the cook, even the Duelist found herself nearly slapped for standing too close, but perhaps—even in anger—Carmela was not quite that stupid.

  “I would have killed the child anyway, before it had a chance to grow too large inside me,” she told the Duelist outright, watching her as if she half expected recrimination. “It was only a whim, nothing more. I thought it would be an interesting experience being a mother.” She patted her breasts. “Thankfully, I came to my senses. I alone am allowed to cannibalize this body.”

  The following Sunday, when Rose found herself still spotting with blood from the miscarriage, she wept with all the force of a monsoon. Relief, yes. But grief, too, that a life had been forced inside her womb without her even realizing it.

  “What am I?” she cried, scratching her own arms. “I’m not human anymore. I’m just a thing she uses.”

  The Duelist said nothing. Outside the guards were shouting about an oversized cart. She left the tower early.

  The angry season passed and with it the summer plague. The only person who died in the house was the new Steward, but that was the final indignity. Before the corpse cart could drag the poor man off to the pits, Carmela announced it was time to move.

  “This is not a place for a woman with ambitions,” she declared.

  “So where do we go?” asked the Duelist.

  They were standing over a map of the Known World, a gift from an admirer, his name long since forgotten.

  “South,” said her mistress.

  The entire household fit into three barges, and they traveled down the river into the rich farmlands of the southern valleys, where from the deck one could see lush rolling hillsides over which ran countless grape arbors, and local children in dusty rags played along the shore amongst ragged herds of goats.

  It was idyllic, lovely—except for the boatloads of mercenaries heading north. The Duelist could smell them from nearly a mile off. War was coming again, perhaps. Across the sea, over the mountains, in the desert, in these perfect valleys—no place was ever quite safe enough. The Duelist had learned that the hard way. Peace rarely lasted.

  Carmela turned her nose up at it all—the vineyards and mercenaries alike—and rested beneath her parasol, the latest Steward at her side. When an undine slid under the barges, she refused to come to the rail to see. The Duelist crowded with the crew, gaped at the creature’s massive graceful passage. The Duelist wished she were a painter, so that she could show Rose these sights with more than just her poor words.

  Their new manse was even larger than the last, tucked within the most elite neighborhood of the capital; a steaming sprawling riverine city where every canal and building was part of some ancient ruin. The Duelist did not care for the place; its rulers had funded the invasion of her desert kingdom, hoping to possess the endless, gnarled groves of a rare spice tree her people were famous for, which grew only in the perfect sandy soil at the base of their mountain.

  She could smell that spice everywhere. It floated in the air, on the breath of everyone who spoke to her; she tasted it in every meal that curdled on her tongue, and even her clothing began to reek. To her, it smelled like ancient history. Like blood.

  “I’m sorry,” said Rose, when the Duelist could no longer hold her bitterness inside. “I remember hearing of that terrible invasion, their awful greed. My father was too far away to send help.”

  “It would not have mattered,” the Duelist said, amazed at the ease with which she lied.

  Carmela had no such reservations about their new city. Her target was the Regent, a man both cold and restless, and with immense power. He had the long-lobed ear of the king, some said—and most certainly held the keys to the coffer.

  When the Regent came with them on the tour of their new home, he asked the
Duelist, “You, with the sword. Man or woman?”

  Carmela answered for her with a laugh. “Oh, how you jape. A woman, of course. I can’t have a man guarding me while I sleep, can I?”

  “You could leave that to me,” he replied, with absolute seriousness. “Your guard won’t be necessary in this city, I promise. If you must have protection, at least hire someone less . . . frightening to children. I’ll pay for it.”

  “Oh, you,” demurred Carmela, and later said to the Duelist, “The Regent is a very generous man.”

  “You think quite far ahead,” she replied.

  “A woman must,” said Carmela. “Only men can surrender themselves to the Fates. If a woman is to make something of herself, she must plan. Otherwise, even the most precious gifts”—and she waved her hand over her face—“will go to waste.”

  This, the Duelist knew, was true.

  For nine months she waited. She watched the household prosper. A stable was refurbished to house a matching pair of stallions, a gift from the Regent. The new cook tried to steal some gold, was caught, and survived the amputation of his left hand—but not the removal of his right.

  And every Sunday she listened to Rose’s dreams.

  One day in particular when the monsoons had finally returned and the war in the south was turning from rumor to fact, they sat quietly for a long time, listening to the downpour. Rose looked up suddenly, half-shy, half-defiant. “Do you know what it’s like when you have a word on the tip of your tongue and can’t remember it?”

  The Duelist did, having learned and forgotten three languages before the one she spoke now.

  “Well, it’s not a word precisely,” said the young woman.

  “Is it a song?”

  Rose shook her head. “It’s a life.”

  Then she stood and pulled off her shift, standing naked. And for an endless time neither of them moved nor spoke.

  The Duelist could feel the girl’s breath on her, and she was sure the girl could feel her breath in return.

  Storytellers knew other storytellers and were loyal only to one another—and to those who had a very particular need. The Duelist sought out the old ones who lived in her new city, but they had already heard her tale from their brothers and sisters in the north.

  They had nothing new to offer, but only a word of warning: the body her mistress had stolen was still young and beautiful, but a smart woman like the witch would already be looking for a replacement. In the stories, in the lore, it was so—and once she left one body for the next, her old skin would be destroyed. The witch wouldn’t even need to order it done. The separation alone would kill the body she’d been inhabiting, drop it like a puppet, even with another soul still trapped inside.

  The Duelist was deeply troubled by this. She’d told herself she could wait, wait forever, for the witch to leave Rose. And then it would be as simple as spiriting her away, protecting her from the witch and whoever she sent to kill her.

  But this . . . she could not fight. Which meant there had to be another way.

  And then came the Regent’s ball, on a Saturday.

  In the weeks preceding, the city had been abuzz with rumors of assassins, that this would be the night when western agents attempted to murder the king’s right hand. Carmela laughed such things off as petty, but the Duelist clad herself in cold gray Samarin chain mail. Around her neck, a stiff collar. Even the edges of her gauntlets were ridged in iron.

  “I am always gratified by your professionalism,” said Carmela.

  The Duelist nodded. “Professionally speaking, I find living more gratifying than dying.”

  The Regent had no wife, which made it less awkward when he sat Carmela at the great table, at his side. Her dress was more conservative than any she had worn at previous balls: a high collar, long sleeves, skirts that clung to her hips rather than sweeping outward like a great fondling hand. The dark red silk still served to reveal every curve of her astonishing body, but no one could complain that she showed an inch too much skin.

  The Duelist stood against the wall, watching nothing but her for the entire night, studying the way she touched the Regent—or did not touch him—taking in her new restraint, how her mistress kept her seductiveness in check except for certain moments when the Regent reached for his glass and she leaned in to whisper in his ear, rubbing her breasts against his arm.

  She was quite good. The Duelist watched her with the same admiration she felt for particularly cunning snakes, the ones who put their prey in a trance. It was clear, too, that this was what she’d been trying to achieve all along. There was no mistaking that cold, triumphant smile.

  “Just think, our mistress could be the next queen if she marries the Regent,” said the new Steward, in passing. “Should anything happen to His Majesty, that is. He’s old, doesn’t have any children. The Regent is his chosen successor.”

  “How very convenient,” said the Duelist.

  Unfortunately, midnight arrived. Before the musicians could really get started, Carmela’s hands began to tremble, and a sheen of sweat could be seen across her entire face. The Duelist tried to hide her pleasure as she made her way through the crowd. Her mistress was surrounded by the most elite of the city; men and women whose pale skin was flushed pink from drink and dancing.

  The Duelist ignored the affronted looks they gave her and locked eyes with Carmela.

  “My lady,” she said, bowing. “Perhaps it is time for you to retire.”

  Time slowed down. In that moment it was like a fairy tale come true, but only the part where the wolf eats the girl, a set of twins gets stuffed into an oven, or the ogre jams a little goat into its massive jaws. The look of malice on Carmela’s face would have broken steel.

  But the Duelist had faced grimmer odds.

  “What is the matter?” asked the Regent, turning from another conversation. “Who are you to address my lady so?”

  The sound of the Regent’s voice broke the spell. Carmela’s face smoothed into something sultry and affectionate. “My servant is right. I must retire.”

  “My love, this is nonsense—”

  But the witch had already risen to her feet and, taking the Duelist’s arm, allowed herself to be walked from the hall.

  And that night, after the witch had fallen into darkness, Rose dreamed of a name.

  They were seated across from each other at the kitchen table, holding hot mugs of tea. The chair was uncomfortable—most chairs were, for the Duelist. Far too small and unsteady. She preferred leaning against the wall, but she liked sitting across from Rose, like a normal person. It was nice to pretend this was their home and it was just the two of them.

  Rose said, “I smell of roasted goat. I loathe goat.”

  “Hunger is much worse than goat.”

  “Perhaps,” Rose said, and stiffened. A moment later, she rattled off a long, complicated word.

  It was not a language the Duelist knew. “What does it mean?”

  Rose closed her eyes. “It’s a name from my dream. A name of someone powerful. An emperor, I think. But he was speaking to the witch, and she was in no other body but her own.”

  The Duelist straightened. “How do you know that?”

  “I just do.” Rose looked startled and set down her tea. She was on her feet next, pacing around the kitchen. The hearth cat, asleep by the ashes, looked up at her and meowed.

  “It’s a feeling,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “In dreams, you just know things.”

  “The name you heard—it was not her name? You’re sure?”

  “She spoke it from her lips, addressing the emperor. It belongs to him.”

  “Repeat it.”

  Rose said it again—and a hundred times after that. The Duelist tried to say the name, but it was impossible. The language was a complex tonal tongue, more nuanced than even Stygian.

  “Perhaps,” the Duelist said, without too much hope, “I could bring a linguist.”

  “I’ll do you one better,” Rose said, reachi
ng into a bag of flour, and tossed a handful onto the table. “I can see it in my head.”

  And in forty-seven strokes, she traced out the characters of the name.

  It took the Duelist a month to find someone who could help her. A young scholar who, for three weights of silver, explained to her that this so-called emperor had ruled two hundred years before, across the sea, not far from where the Duelist’s nation had fallen.

  “Not a very successful emperor. Assassinated by his daughter, or perhaps his wife. His one crowning achievement? A fortress library high up on the slopes of Mount Attarra. With a peculiar covenant. No woman could set foot inside its halls, upon pain of death.

  “He must not have liked women too much,” joked the scholar.

  “Perhaps,” said the Duelist, “it was a precaution.”

  “Against what?”

  The Duelist got to her feet. “What were the names of his wife and daughter?”

  The scholar required a ten-weight of gold and sent out two dozen chiroptera. Six months passed before one finally returned. From the library, no less. “The fates have smiled on you, Duelist,” the young scholar said. “They almost never honor petitions.”

  Such simple moments when lives change, when one world ends and another begins. She remembered another time, another place, how she stared out at a cloud and her mother, in a high voice, called her name, told her to run. The soldiers were already halfway across the field. The Duelist ran. They caught her anyway and nothing was ever the same again.

  The scholar handed her the sheet of vellum, and with her hands trembling the Duelist tucked it inside her blouse, against her heart.

  That night the Regent threw a party and announced to everyone his betrothal to Carmela. At the edge of the banquet table sat his cousin’s daughter, no older than fourteen, and already blindingly beautiful. She was to marry the king in less than a year.

  The witch never once looked at the young princess, and that of course was how the Duelist knew. Twice the witch caught her eye, and the third time she snapped her fingers, summoned her to the dais.