by D. P. Prior
But was it real? Was it really hers to use?
Don’t question it, the Witch Woman said. Just believe.
The unspoken words calmed her, allowed her to relax. Left her contented, blissful, like a well-fed cat.
But the Shedim wasn’t finished yet. [Not now. Rest later. Take the vambrace. Crude as it is, it may yet advance our plans.]
With a weary sigh, Tey rolled to face Slyndon Grun’s body slumped in the chair, careful to avoid the bloody mess of his face. The spearhead her father had drained her with for all those years was a charred and smoking mess in the sorcerer’s lap.
[See,] the Shedim said. [A plaything compared with your scars, and you will only get stronger.]
The vambrace was fastened by three metal clasps, which opened at the lightest of touches. She sat up on the floor to examine it, traced the score marks on its surface.
[A pattern of coercion,] the Shedim said. [Unlike yours, it does not leach and trap the essence of others. It grants the power of command. My people had similar craftings that aided our rule.]
“You used them to compel?” Tey said, still studying the etchings. She intended no criticism. It was the Witch Woman in her weighing up the possibilities.
[Sometimes it is necessary, when evil is to be overcome.]
“So, what do I do? How does it work?”
[Focus. See the filth of this man’s essence as fire in your veins, coursing through the marks on the vambrace.]
Tey put the vambrace on her right forearm and tried, but all she could picture was Slyndon Grun’s bloody eye, the needle jutting out of it. In place of fire in her veins she felt only an icy sludge.
[Remember the moment you sprung the trap. Relive the death throes.]
Coldness turned to heat in an instant, and heat into a roaring furnace at her core. On her forearm, the vambrace burned, and as she looked, its patterns of lines were fired with scalding iridescence.
[Yes,] the Shedim said. [You feel the connection? Imagination is the key that links your well to the vambrace and primes the patterns for use. Now, cut the link. Power must be preserved. Your well is still far from full, and what essence you have taken from this brute will not serve you long.]
“I must kill again?” A quaver had entered Tey’s voice. The Grave Girl was returning and starting to make her shake.
[If you will have magic, Tey Moonshine. If you will have control.]
She shunted herself back from Slyndon Grun’s corpse, pressed herself against the wall. Oblivion closed in around her, crushed her into an infinitesimal space filled with her own whimpering.
[It is necessary,] the Shedim said. [If you are to fulfill your promise to me.]
“What promise?” Tey said through chattering teeth. The heat of the vambrace lessened, till it no longer scalded her arm.
[To free us. Is that not what we agreed? In return for knowledge and power, the ability to control your own fate. I have shown you how to make real your dream of turning attacker into prey. Are you going to renege on your side of the bargain?]
There was an edge to its inner voice, but whether it was a threat or fear she might not continue with its plan, Tey could not tell. But the Grave Girl was a coward. It was safer not to argue.
“I’ll continue,” she said. “Do whatever it takes to free you.”
The Shedim settled into satisfied silence. It had the guarantee it wanted, but Tey was left feeling she’d signed a pact in her own blood.
“But I need to know,” she said. “Free you from what? From where?”
The Shedim did not answer.
“Where are you? Not just in me. Where is the cavern of coal?”
Stop it! the Witch Woman said in her head, violently supplanting the frightened girl. Look what we’ve done! Killed a sorcerer, that’s what. And we have the vambrace. This is enough for now. It is enough.
Tey faced the chair again, transfixed by the knitting needle she’d thrust through Slyndon Grun’s eye. She had the sense that if she pulled it out, he’d return to life. An irrational fear. A superstition, Theurig would have called it. All the same, she was taking no chances.
She looked away, resolved to give the Witch Woman her head. She, at least, seemed to know what to do. She stood and crossed to the door that led to the library, a plan already hatching in her mind.
“Hirsiga!” she yelled as she pulled the door open. “Hirsiga!”
There was a succession of sighs and thuds, then the sound of feet slapping on the wooden floor. Hirsiga appeared on the far side of the library, barefoot, her nakedness covered once more only by her metal breast cups and the strip of cloth between her legs.
“So soon?” she said in a dreary voice.
Two other women appeared behind her, both dressed seductively, one in wisps of satin, the other in a warrior’s leather harness with her breasts and the thatch of hair between her legs exposed. Her left leg was shorter than the right, causing her to limp. The other had a misshapen face, and the fingers of both hands were truncated, useless. It looked like they had been waiting, expecting to be summoned by their master, to assist with whatever perversion he’d originally planned. In some way to join in.
Tey stood to one side as they processed into the room then stood there dumbly, staring at the corpse of Slyndon Grun.
“Get his keys,” Tey said to Hirsiga.
No response.
She triggered the vambrace with a violent image of the needle piercing Slyndon Grun’s eye, felt the flow of his essence leaving her well and flooding the patterns and lines with white fire.
“Do it,” she commanded, and Hirsiga obeyed.
To the others she said, “Get everyone out of the cellar. Wash them and feed them. Oh, and wash my black dress, too.”
As they set about the tasks she had given them, Tey broke the link to the vambrace. She felt a pang of hunger, suppressed it, stifled a desire to yawn. Weariness was the ocean the Grave Girl swam in. She didn’t intend giving her any quarter. She’d killed a sorcerer. What was his was hers now—not just the vambrace: the women, the house, the victims in the cellar.
She already knew what to do with them. Judging by their deformities, they’d all been sent here, same as she had, to be apprenticed to the Weyd. Instead, they’d ended up as prey.
The victims came up from the cellar one by one, naked, covered in filth. The few who met her gaze swiftly lowered their eyes. She wished she could see herself then, see what she must have looked like.
When Vrom emerged from the cellar, he rushed toward her, till she stopped him dead with a flash of her eyes. Already, the vambrace was warming on her arm, and she’d not even thought about the connection this time. He mumbled something with downcast eyes, then followed the others out of the room.
But seeing Vrom once more reminded her he was supposed to be dead. Would have been, had Slyndon Grun not cured him of the rot. It made her think of Snaith, of his parents, driven from the village for bearing the marks of the disease. And the Witch Woman persona cracked a little. Enough for her to know she had to do something, anything to help the man who believed he loved her, the man she had made her own. She was the one who had to suffer, and she would do anything to spare him the same.
“Hirsiga,” she said, and the woman came without need for the vambrace to compel her.
“What do you know about a cure for the rot?”
THE LONG WALK WEST
It was still dark when Theurig woke Snaith, though the sorcerer insisted it was morning.
Snaith dressed as quickly as he could manage with one working arm. In the days since the injury, he’d developed a method of sorts, but even so it was a source of shame to him, and hurrying was out of the question. He found it best to pull his tunic sleeve up his maimed arm first, then maneuver his head through, and finally his good arm. Britches were an easier affair, save for fastening them. He’d started leaving them laced up, so he had to squeeze into them. He only hoped he didn’t lose any weight and have them fall down around his ankles. A belt
was what he needed, with a simple buckle he could fasten with one hand, but for now he had to make do. He shouldered his mother’s satchel, patted it to reassure himself his father’s book was still inside, and then followed the smells of cooking to the kitchen.
A swift breakfast of bacon and eggs, prepared by one of the crones, then he and Theurig were out the door as the first streaks of pink, crimson, and purple topped the earthworks to the east.
The other two crones were waiting in the yard. One handed Theurig a hemp-weave shoulder bag. The other hefted a heavy pack from the ground and situated it on Snaith’s back.
“Thought you might need some help, darling,” she said with a nod at his useless arm. “I tell you, I don’t envy you lugging it all the way to the Wakeful Isle. Theurig don’t travel light now, do you, petal?”
The sorcerer’s face tightened into a grimace, and he gave her a seething look of irritation. The crone’s hands flew to her lips, and she muttered an apology.
With a shake of his head, Theurig led the way down the path to the gate. Once there, he turned and called back to the crones, “Don’t forget to feed the pigs.” Then, under his breath, he added, “Or they’ll be feasting on scabrous hag for a week after I get back.”
Snaith’s pack snagged repeatedly on branches as they weaved a way west through the trees of the forest that skirted the inside of the ring of earthworks. Theurig strode ahead blithely, at one point stopping at a lightning-blasted tree and breaking off a half-hanging branch. He produced a knife from his shoulder bag and stripped the branch of knots and leaves, then thumped its butt against the ground with a satisfied grunt.
“To replace the one that was charred to ash when I saved you from the bear,” the sorcerer said, before setting off again, leading with his new staff.
Snaith felt a sudden urgent need to ask how he’d done that, how Theurig had driven the bear back with lightning and flames that issued from his staff. Despite what Theurig had told them at the Copse, surely that was evidence of magic. Or was it just a cunning form of trickery? And even if he asked, would he get a straight answer? He decided it was probably better just to observe and say nothing.
The sorcerer slowed considerably as they made the ascent of the hills, but even so, Snaith lagged further and further behind under the weight of the backpack. As they neared the top, he was too exhausted to care that he’d come as far as he’d ever been, and as far as anyone was permitted to go. Save for those up to no good, or warriors out on a skirmish. And save for Theurig.
They rested awhile atop the crest of a hill, Theurig leaning on his new staff, scanning the way ahead, where a sinuous river wended its way into the heart of a dense pine forest.
Snaith sat on the ground, looking back at the village, the only place he’d ever known. He didn’t dare slip the pack off his shoulders in case he couldn’t get it back on again. Last thing he wanted was to ask for Theurig’s help, and something told him the sorcerer probably wouldn’t give it.
He focused on the black specks of people down below, starting to rise and go about their business; likely the same people he’d seen on his way to the circles for training each day. He felt detached from them. Numb. He’d expected to feel longing, sadness, a desire to rush back down the hill and beg to rejoin Malogoi life. But he’d have been chasing illusions or mourning phantoms, and right at that moment, already tired beyond belief and with an unknown distance still to go, he had no energy to spare for such fantasies.
As Theurig made ready to set off once more, a man hollered, then appeared from behind an outcrop of grass-tufted chalk. He drew up sharp when he saw the sorcerer, glanced nervously at Snaith, then backed away again, out of sight.
“Forty-three years I’ve been coming and going,” Theurig said with a dry chuckle, “and this is the first time the dunces have noticed. I shudder to think what would happen if the Wolvers or the Valks got cocky and came against us in the night.”
Snaith rolled to his knees and used his good arm to help himself stand. The weight of the backpack made him stumble, and when he’d steadied himself, Theurig asked, “How do you feel?”
You don’t want to know! “I’ll manage.”
“Not the pack. About being on the threshold. Down the other side of the earthworks, and you’re out of Malogoi territory. Surely you feel something.”
Snaith shut his eyes against the tangled mess of emotions vying for supremacy. He’d already done his looking back. There was no use dwelling on all that was lost.
“No different to stepping in the circle to fight,” he said, but when he opened his eyes, the sorcerer had already disappeared down the other side of the earthworks.
Snaith made the descent on his backside, scooting, half-tumbling, cursing the fact he was the one to carry the pack, while the sorcerer was already at the foot of the slope and striding for the woods. He cursed louder as he passed over a bald patch, where the bank had eroded, and the chalky bones of the hill ripped a hole in his britches.
At the bottom, one of the pack’s straps snapped, pitching all the weight to his injured side. With a wriggle and a roll, he managed to extricate himself from the load and get to his feet.
Theurig hurried back, either concerned or irritated—it was hard to tell. He looked down at the frayed ends of the broken strap, chewing his lip thoughtfully.
“I guess the easiest thing for you to do is to drag it,” the sorcerer said. And without further ado, he was back off toward the tree line.
Irritated, then. But not half so much as Snaith felt.
A sharp pain lanced through his injured arm. Then a spasm. With difficulty, he was able to roll the shoulder, partially flex the elbow. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
They headed on into the forest, Theurig in the lead, Snaith struggling to pull the pack along behind.
Glimpsed through gaps in the canopy of leaves, the sky was clear and blue, the sun a brilliant ball of gold that rose steadily as they walked until it was directly overhead. For once, Gosynag the Grey had taken a day off. Not that it made much difference in the gloom of the forest.
They followed the course of the river as it meandered into the west. In response to every splash or ripple or insect that buzzed across the surface, Theurig would call out incomprehensible words, not dissimilar to the barbarous names he uttered to frighten the clansfolk, or curse them. After about the tenth time, Snaith yelled back at him, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Without pausing, Theurig called over his shoulder, “Egrigorean. The ancient language of the Dark Isle, from before the Restoration of the Gardeners, and before the Hélumites afflicted most of the known world with their drab and unimaginative tongue. You’ll learn it soon enough. It’s the language sorcerers use for cataloguing flora and fauna, and perhaps more importantly, it provides us with a secret code, and an antidote to eavesdroppers.”
“The Gardeners?” Snaith said, recalling what he could from Cawdor’s book.
“Oh, they had no tongue. Spoke mind to mind, so the theory goes. In perfect tune with each other and with all things. Save the Wakeful, it would seem. And save for the Shedim.”
“No,” Snaith said, “not their language. I meant, are they the Gardeners of the second invasion?”
Theurig began to whistle tunelessly.
“And who exactly are the Wakeful?” Snaith asked, feeling his hackles rise. He’d seen the name when he browsed through Cawdor’s introduction, and it was the name of the isle they were traveling to.
“Were,” Theurig shot back. “Who were they. Keep reading, my boy. It’s the best advice I can give you.” He picked up his pace. “And never stop.”
As they pressed on, hour after hour, Snaith’s feet grew sore from blisters, some of them bursting and dampening his socks. He adjusted his gait to lessen the friction, but that only caused other problems. After a few miles more, it felt like thorns pierced the underside of his kneecaps. Sweat drenched his back, pearled along his forehead and ran into his eyes. The palm of his good hand dragg
ing the pack was chafed and raw, his mouth felt full of sand, and his stomach was twisted and growling with hunger.
From time to time Theurig took a costrel from his bag and drank, or produced a strip of jerky to chew on. Not once did he stop and offer any to Snaith. It was a test. It had to be. A physical counterpart to the test in the Copse. Or maybe not so much a test as a prelude to training. Snaith had seen the clansfolk do it with disobedient hunting dogs: break them down physically, then nurture them back to health, and the poor, desperate brutes would never disobey again.
He just hoped Slyndon Grun hadn’t tried something similar with Tey. If he had, he was going to be sorely disappointed. Tey seldom ate anyway. If anything, she’d probably enjoy a forced march and starvation. But then he remembered her wounded leg, and wondered if she’d be able to make the journey to the Valks at all. If she couldn’t, what would become of her? If Slyndon Grun was anything like Theurig, he’d walk off without her, leave her prey to any passing beast. It was wolves they had up there, he’d heard, on the border between the Wolvers and the Valks. Worse, even: creatures of horror, half-man, half-beast, some folk said. Werewolves, they called them.
Imperceptibly at first, Theurig began to slow. He trod more warily now, prodding the earth with his staff. Once or twice, he darted off into the bracken and came back chewing his lip, looking this way and that. As the trees began to thin out, and firs gave way to alder, oak, and ash, he slowed further still, scanning the brush either side of their trail along the bank of the river. A couple of dozen yards more, and he appeared to have found what he was looking for. In the shade of a giant yew tree, jutting out from between two curling roots, was a stick thrust into the ground. It came up to Theurig’s knees. The wood had been worked with some skill: patterns of dots and waves carved along its length.
“Looks like we’ve arrived,” the sorcerer said, stepping back and looking up into the branches.
“Arrived?”
“Not at the Wakeful Isle, fool. We’ve still a way to go. Skaltoop land. This is a marker.” He indicated the stick. “So they don’t accidentally stray too far. It also serves as a warning to other clans to keep out. And in case there’s any doubt…” Theurig reached up with his staff to point at something bulbous hanging from one of the yew’s branches.