by D. P. Prior
[I see,] the Shedim said. [I shall have to think more. What you lack, he has in abundance, but what you have, no human I have seen comes anywhere close to. It is good, at least, that you are friends.]
The Shedim went quiet then, leaving Tey alone in the slowly darkening room.
For an indeterminate time, her mind was awash with images of the lust and cruelty she’d seen when linked to Slyndon Grun. Khunt Moonshine drifted in and out of focus, siphoning off her essence with his spearhead. Old wounds smarted, from where he’d hit her or where she’d cut herself. Blood, sickly sweet and coppery, haunted her lips and nostrils. The stench of the victims in the cellar. She could still feel black scales beneath the skin of her ruined leg, hidden from the world, but not from her. The vitriol of all she’d endured burned through her veins, and corrosive thoughts teemed within her skull.
Broken, blood, shit…
She saw herself rubbing down her grisly talisman with ashes from the brazier. Then the Hand of Vilchus, scuttling like an airborne spider, pointing at Snaith, wanting him, and Tey relieved that it didn’t come for her.
Her awareness of the Shedim lurking in her marrow grew more acute with each excoriating memory. Bile rose in her throat, burned as she swallowed it back down. Her stomach clenched, and cold sweat beaded her brow.
Was it her leg, infected with the vile, in spite of Theurig’s best efforts? She’d get a saw from Slyndon Grun’s torture room and cut it off, if it was. In the dim light, she couldn’t see, but where she probed with her fingers, she found no weeping wetness. It was almost a disappointment. But she was ill, she knew she was, if not in her flesh then in her spirit. Was it the Shedim’s parasitic presence, or had she always been sick? Was that why her mother had died? Had she contracted her daughter’s disease? Was that why her father had punished her?
She rolled to her side on the floor, wanting to curl up like a child, but unable to because of her leg. She closed her eyes, willing the onset of sleep, but the images kept playing, over and over, and in between them, relentless, the jagged barbs of thoughts, derisive, derogatory, demeaning.
Hour after hour she lay there, only shifting position each time her arm grew numb beneath her head. When the first ruddy glow of dawn lit up the clerestory window, it was a merciful end to a fitful night. But it was also a presage of worse things to come. Morning, and with it the expectation she would leave this room and have to face the victims she’d released from the cellar, and the women who ran the sorcerer’s household.
The thought of leaving the room sent her heart pitter-pattering in her chest. She caught herself breathing too fast, shallow and gasping. She could feel the Witch Woman's scorn, but then she heard her advice, too, in some strange, silent way.
Rising from the floor, she crossed to the workbench and flicked through Slyndon Grun’s journal. Perhaps there was a remedy for the fear that transformed this room into a prison of her own making.
As she turned the pages, she kept glancing at the shelves, comparing their contents to what was listed in the book. And then she had it: the jar labeled “Truth Telling”. According to the journal, it relaxed the subject to the extent they had no inhibitions and would be highly suggestible. It made it all but impossible for them to lie. But a larger dose, Slyndon Grun had noted in the margins, could be used for sedation, and a smaller to relieve the fear of one “too agitated for purpose.”
She took down the jar from the shelf, unscrewed its lid, and dipped her fingers into the white powder it contained. It tasted bitter, and her tongue began to fizz. Returning to the journal, she checked the dose for agitation, then scanned the shelves for something to measure it out with.
There, stacked one inside another, were small wooden cups with measures inked on the sides. She selected the one marked 1/8 and filled it with the powder. It needed to be dissolved in liquid, and that threw her into a panic. To get water, she’d have to leave the room, and that meant running into someone. Already, she could hear floorboards creaking, muffled footsteps, the clatter of pots and pans.
And then her eyes fell upon stubby glass bottles on one of the lower shelves. They were stoppered with corks, and the labels read, “Moonshine,” like her name. She snatched one up and uncorked it, sniffing the contents within. Her eyes filled with acid tears, and she almost choked. She emptied half the liquid onto the floor and quickly added the powder to the rest, re-corking the bottle so she could give it a vigorous shake. And then she opened it once more, threw her head back, and drank the mixture in one.
Her throat burned as it went down. Astringent fumes inflamed her nostrils. She started to gag, but instead belched and forced herself to swallow. Her chest ignited, then her belly, then the fire spread to her limbs—even her bad leg.
She took a step toward the workbench, but she underestimated where the floor was and stumbled. Her head swam, leaving her giddy. She tried another step, missed her footing again, and lunged, grabbing the workbench for support. Not trusting herself to pull out the stool and sit on it without falling, she lowered herself to the floor. No sooner had she settled herself with her back to the workbench, than she started to giggle. She let out a cackling caw, clamped her hand over her mouth, and proceeded to snort with muffled laughter.
A gentle tap at the door made her hold her breath. Her entire body shook with suppressed mirth. The tap became a knock, and in response, Tey hummed a tune. The handle turned, and the door creaked as it opened. She should have locked it.
“Tey?” Vrom said from the doorway.
Behind him, at the far end of the corridor, Tey could make out Hirsiga, watching with arms folded beneath her metal-cupped breasts. For some reason, Hirsiga’s outfit, or rather lack of one, made Tey explode with laughter.
With a concerned frown, Vrom stepped inside the room and closed the door. He watched as she wiped the snot from her face, trying and failing to stop giggling. Her stomach clenched, and then she proceeded to hiccup. Vrom hurried across the floor and knelt down in front of her.
“Tey, are you all right?”
She slapped him playfully, but perhaps too hard. He recoiled, hand flying to his cheek.
“Course I’m all right, idiot boy. What makes you think I wouldn’t be?”
“I just thought—”
“Did you now? Ooh, Vrom just thought, everyone. He thought poor Tey needed his help, and he came to give it to her… behind closed doors.” She squawked out a laugh that made her sound a callous bitch, even to herself.
Vrom only looked more concerned. He leaned in, put a hand on her shoulder. Tey’s eyes tracked his fingers, daring them to move, to touch her elsewhere.
“It’s only natural you should feel this way,” Vrom said with a gentle squeeze. “We all do, after what we’ve been through. And what you did—”
“What way? What way do I feel?” Tey slowly pried his fingers from her shoulder. “Hot? Cold? Soft?” She looked him in the eye. “Hard?” This time her laugh was derisive.
Vrom turned his face away, red blooming on his cheeks. “I meant upset. Distressed.”
“Is that how I feel?” Tey asked, pushing him back to make room for her to stand. She tried, but couldn’t get her bad leg under her. Vrom stood first and offered her a hand. Reluctantly, she took it.
They stood facing each other, an uncomfortable silence forming between them.
“The others, Tey,” Vrom said finally, casting a look at the door. “They asked me to thank you. They were hoping to see you, tell you themselves.”
Just what she was dreading. Without the potion, it would have spun her into a panic, but with it… with it, she just felt angry.
“Thought we were talking about how I felt.”
“Tey, please—”
“No, you started it. You’re the one who thinks he knows what I feel like. How about you? How do you feel? How’s my shawl working out for you?”
He dipped his chin to his chest, started to mumble something, but she rode right over him.
“How did you feel when Slyndon Grun—what
did he do to you, Vrom Mowry? Same as your father? And you let him?”
Vrom’s hand came up, causing Tey to flinch. He held it there, shaking, ready to hit her.
“I knew it,” she said. “Like father like son.”
“You don’t know,” Vrom said through gritted teeth. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“Save what you told me,” Tey said.
She stopped laughing. Scorn sloughed away from her, leaving her ashamed of what she’d said. She’d gone too far, and she hadn’t meant any of it. It was the Witch Woman, she told herself. No, it was the Shedim. The effect of the potion.
She met Vrom’s eyes, hoping he could see the sincerity in hers. “I’m sorry, Vrom. Really, I am. I’m not myself. I mean, you’re right. It’s distress or something. I killed him, Vrom. Put a needle through his eye.”
“You did right,” Vrom said, stepping in and cradling the back of her head, pulling her face into his chest. “I just wish… I wish I had your courage.”
Part of her liked that he thought she was brave to have done what she had, but the truth was, courage had very little to do with it. It was the Shedim’s advice she had followed, and far from bravery, what she’d felt was implacable control, something much more predatory. It was a feeling that calmed her, but it might cloud how Vrom thought of her. Like with Snaith and her scars, she had to hide the truth from Vrom. So, he was doubly wrong about her: wrong about her being a distressed victim, and wrong about her courage. She didn’t even have the guts to reveal her real nature to him.
And why should I? The Witch Woman did her thinking for her. See how quick he is to hold me, to take advantage of perceived weakness? Test him. Go on, put him to the test.
Tey lifted her head, pressed her cheek to Vrom’s. He stiffened, then tentatively stroked her hair.
“It’s all right, Tey,” he said, holding her out at arm’s length so he could gaze comfortingly into her eyes. “It’s going to be all right.”
“Really?” the little girl said, released from her grave for just this purpose.
Vrom took hold of her hands, gently squeezed them. “Really.”
Tey pretended to swoon. Vrom caught her and held her close. She gasped, making sure to leave her mouth open a crack. Her breaths she made into pants, and she locked eyes with him again, her friend, her protector, her savior.
Vrom leaned in to her, hesitated, seeking permission, then a groan escaped him. He kissed her fiercely, and she returned it coldly. Dispassionately. The kiss of a fish.
Vrom pulled back, eyes narrowed with rejection and frustration masquerading as concern.
“What’s the matter? I thought you—”
And she knew she had him then. “If you know what’s good for you, Vrom Mowry, you will never do that again.” To emphasize her point, she reached inside the collar of her dress and pulled out her amulet—Slyndon Grun’s desiccated finger threaded through with animal gut.
Vrom blanched and stumbled away from her. “What have you done?” he asked, backing toward the door.
“Consider yourself warned,” Tey said, advancing on him, flooding the talisman’s patterns with power from her well. Each of its scars effused white light.
“Magic!” Vrom whispered. “By the Weyd, Tey, magic!”
Tey closed her well and the talisman dimmed. She hid it away again beneath her dress. Just a trickle of energy she’d drawn upon, but she was acutely aware of its loss. It wouldn’t take much to deplete her, to use up all that remained of Slyndon Grun’s essence. And then what? Should she go back to being empty, or would she need to drain someone else? Would she need to kill again? She cocked her head, studying Vrom in a new light.
“I’m sorry, Tey,” Vrom said, fumbling with the door handle. “This is too much.”
“No,” Tey said, this time flooding her vambrace with sorcerous energy. Beneath her sleeve, the metal scalded her skin.
Immediately, Vrom let go of the handle and turned to face her.
“It is not too much,” Tey said.
“No,” Vrom replied in a dull, flat voice. “It is not.”
“I’m just the same old Tey.”
“The same old Tey,” Vrom repeated.
She cut the flow from her well, and again felt the loss of power.
The euphoria from the potion had worn off, but in its place she felt calmer, more confident. Was that the intended effect, or was it more to do with her exercise of power? Maybe it was both. Perhaps she should mix up more of the powder and moonshine, just in case. For now, though, she felt strong enough to do what she had to. Now, she was ready.
“Let’s get this over with.”
When Vrom frowned, she said, “The others, remember? They wanted to see me?”
Vrom led her from the workroom and along the corridor. Hirsiga still waited at the end, appraising Vrom cooly. As they passed her, she fell into step behind. Tey found herself hurrying to keep pace with Vrom, lunging with one leg, scraping the other after. The walls of the corridor careened and swayed, and Hirsiga slipped an arm under Tey’s to keep her steady. Vrom turned back at that, a flash of anger in his eyes, but Tey waved him on ahead. Hirsiga’s touch felt less intrusive than his. Less sickening. And Tey was pleased for the support. Though she was back in control of her mind, she still walked like a newborn foal. She made a mental note to mix the truth powder with water next time.
Slyndon Grun’s kitchen was the size of a hall. The stove took up one entire wall, an enormous iron flue rising away from it and disappearing through the ceiling. A young girl with a hunchback was feeding logs to the flames from a tidy woodpile, while an older woman was stirring a pot. At a chopping-block table, a boy was dicing carrots, a single string of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth. One of the near-naked women Tey had seen upon her arrival was whisking eggs in a bowl. There were rough wooden shelves stacked with bottles on their sides, corked and labeled, coated with dust. Kegs of ale sat in one corner. Cast iron pans hung from hooks. Baskets of mushrooms, cured meats, strings of sausages, pots of spices and dried herbs…
The older woman glanced round, one eye milky and useless, then removed the pan from the heat. The others also stopped what they are doing, and they all followed Tey, Vrom, and Hirsiga through the open barn doors on the far side, into the even larger dining room where the rest of Slyndon Grun’s household were waiting. His servants and victims—or perhaps they were one and the same. Not sitting at the banqueting table, though there were easily enough high-backed, dark wood chairs. They were standing around the edges of the room, all of them sporting some imperfection, eyes downcast, waiting dutifully to be told what to do. Tey started to count them, but she’d reached only six when Vrom broke her concentration.
“We are yours now,” he said simply. His eyes sparkled with the sunlight coming through the windows. It had been the rot that had been Vrom’s imperfection, only that had been a lie. Slyndon Grun had cured him, then rendered him imperfect in another, more insidious way.
Murmurs of agreement spread around the room.
Tey ignored them, got back to her counting. Fifteen, plus Hirsiga and Vrom, plus the four from the kitchen. Half of them had been in the cellar, but now here they all were, gathered in one place, washed and rested and waiting for her to say something.
Hirsiga said, “It is the will of the Weyd.”
“Leave, then,” Tey said. “I have no need for slaves.”
“But where would we go?” Vrom said.
Around the room, the others reiterated his alarm. Mutters were exchanged, and glances passed back and forth.
“How should I know?” Tey said. But she did know they couldn’t simply return home. They had been chosen by the Weyd.
[Think, Tey,] the Shedim said, startling her because it had been so quiet. [Think before you send them away.]
“But, Tey,” Vrom said, “you know what our clans would say: good for nothing, cursed by the Weyd. The only reason these others are alive is because they were apprenticed. And me…” He s
queezed his eyes shut. When he resumed speaking, his voice broke. “I just tried to defend myself against my father.” He opened his eyes, looked at her imploringly, saying without having to, “Like you, Tey. Just like you.”
“And it’s not true,” the older woman from the kitchen said. “We ain’t good for nothing, else how come we can cook and clean and tend the gardens?”
“Maela is right,” Hirsiga said. “It’s a different life here.”
“You mean locked in the cellar?” Tey said.
“In time they would have been allowed out,” Hirsiga said. “Once they had learned what was expected of them.”
“Some never do,” Vrom muttered.
Tey found herself wondering just how many victims had died down there, while they tried to work out what was expected, and whether they had what it took to do it. She cast a derisive look over Hirsiga and the others who had been given the freedom of the house. How long had each of them taken to meet Slyndon Grun’s needs? What sufferings and humiliations had they willingly endured for the sake of their illusion of freedom?
[You could stay here for now,] the Shedim said. [Develop your new powers. There is much this vile sorcerer has collected that may prove of some worth. There may be other treasures here, like the vambrace. And look at all these broken humans willing to serve you. Think about it.]
Tey let her eyes rove the room. She should have felt something for them, a sense of camaraderie, of compassion. But none of them looked quite real to her, as if they lacked density or substance. Any one of them could drop dead, and it wouldn’t change her life a jot. They were just sacks of skin holding in bones and blood. Discards. Nobodies. Nothing.
Her eyes came to rest on Hirsiga, the only one brazen enough to hold her gaze. She was the canniest of the bunch. Tey could see the quiet scheming in her eyes, the subtle vying for position, same as with Vrom, only better at it. Tey smiled, and after an instant’s hesitation, Hirsiga smiled back. It could have been mistaken for warmth, but Tey was a master of insincerity, and she knew it when she saw it. Hirsiga’s mouth parted a crack. She wetted her lips with the tip of her tongue. Tey felt an answering twinge in her belly and she looked away.