Seventh Bride

by T. Kingfisher

  “Oh no,” said Rhea, and threw herself backward, pulling against the gate.

  The resistance gave so suddenly that she fell over backwards, and the gate struck the gatepost and bounced open again.

  The second dog could not slow down in time. It ran its shoulder into the gate, forcing it up against the gatepost, and Rhea scrambled to her knees and jammed the metal cuff down to hold it in place.

  The first dog arrived. It jammed its muzzle through the bars and Rhea retreated.

  “I like dogs,” said Rhea weakly, as the dogs snarled at her through the gate. “I’m not scared of them at all. Really.”

  The first dog’s throat worked, and a sound came out like black, snarling laughter.

  That was not a dog noise.

  Even the Viscount’s hounds, when they went after foxes, did not make noises like that.

  The second dog giggled at her. It was most definitely a giggle.

  Rhea took a couple steps back from the fence.

  “You’re not dogs,” she said.

  Something laughed behind her, and she turned to see a third dog-monster, with its paws on the fence.

  They could jump it. They could jump it easy. I could step over this damn fence.

  But they did not jump the fence. They snarled and snickered at her, pacing around the edges, and they put their broad paws up on the crosspieces of the fence. She did not want to look too closely at their paws. They were long and had something that resembled fingers.

  Rhea stood in the middle of the graveyard, atop the grave of Sophia Elegans, Beloved Wife…and found that she was furious.

  It was so stupid! The dog-monsters were so obviously there to frighten her and keep her from leaving the graveyard. They could have killed her in a heartbeat if they wanted to, but they were just pacing around the edges, making those nasty un-dog-like noises.

  “He’s cheating,” said Rhea savagely. “This is just like the brambles last night. He wants to make sure I don’t get home.”

  He was worse than a swan. At least swans just went for you. They didn’t set you up to fail.

  She shoved her hands in her pockets. The hedgehog prickled against her fingers.

  “Do you want me to put you down?” she asked. “I’m about to do something very stupid.”

  The hedgehog turned a bright eye up toward her and shrugged, as if to indicate that perhaps it was the time for very stupid acts.

  Rhea stalked toward the gate.

  The first two dog-monsters were bunched up there—First and Second, she named them in her head, and the other one is Third. Not very good names, but she didn’t have time to be clever.

  First jammed his head through the bars again, lips writhing against his teeth.

  Rhea yanked out the kitchen knife in her pocket and stabbed the dog-monster in the face.

  It was not a terribly good stab. Millers’ daughters do not traditionally spend a great deal of time engaged in single combat. She stabbed straight down and the knife blade skidded across the monster’s muzzle and over its tender nose.

  First shrieked, a sound somewhere between a yelp and a scream of pain, and yanked its head out of the gate. The knife went flying.

  It took far too long to find the blade again, even with the moon winking off the steel. But the dog-monsters were not attacking her, as she’d half expected. Instead First had his head down, pawing at his face like a dog that has been stung by a bee, and Second had retreated away from the fence.

  Rhea held the knife up in front of her. Her hands were shaking. She shot a glance over her shoulder. Third was watching her silently, but had not jumped over the fence.

  “Well?” she shouted. Her voice trembled horribly, but she didn’t care. The important thing was to say the words. “Well? Come on, then! Are you going to do anything?”

  Second bared his teeth at her, but did not move.

  She clutched the knife in front of her. The silver ring on her finger seemed unnaturally large, as if it got in the way of the hilt, and surely that was impossible.

  If I stop to think about this, I’ll lose my nerve. They’re not supposed to kill me. Whatever Crevan wants me for—and he wants something, clearly, with all this talk of gifts—he’ll need me alive to marry me.

  I think.

  Well, the golem-wife wasn’t alive, but—well, she’s—oh, hell.

  Quickly, before she could think herself out of it, she unlocked the gate and pushed it open.

  Second ran at her. Rhea swept the knife in front of her and shouted “Try it! Go ahead!”

  Adrenaline made bright sparks in her vision—but Second stopped. The dog-monster halted, bouncing stiff-legged. The air filled with growls.

  She inched her way sideways, keeping her back to the fence. From the corner of her eye, she saw Third slinking around the bottom of the graveyard, coming toward her.

  “I see you,” she said. “Don’t think I don’t.” The dog-monster stopped.

  Second rushed forward suddenly, while her head was turned, and grabbed a mouthful of her skirts.

  Compared to a swan’s neck, the dog-monster was an absurdly large target. Rhea kicked up, hard, and caught Second’s throat with her boot. He let out a gagging cough and fell back.

  She spun in time to brandish the knife at Third, who immediately retreated.

  Rhea’s breath came in short pants, and there was sweat streaming down her back and between her breasts. Much more of this and I’m going to pass out from sheer panic…

  First’s head was up now. There was black blood on his muzzle and a murderous look in his eye.

  It occurred to Rhea that while Lord Crevan might have instructed—or enchanted, or whatever—the dog-monsters not to kill her, Lord Crevan wasn’t here. And she had made this one extremely angry.

  First lunged.

  Rhea sank down and lifted the knife, prepared to sell her life as dearly as she could.

  Something slammed into the dog-monster from the side, a great dark shape that picked it up and threw it aside. First flew a dozen feet and landed impossibly hard. It sounded like a sack of wet laundry being dropped on stone.

  Second spun away from Rhea and leapt for the intruder. The dark shape jerked its head sideways, and Second screamed in sudden pain and fell back, limping.

  The moonlight streamed down on a broad, hairy back and heavy teeth.

  It’s a bear.

  It was gigantic. It looked like a cow or a pony. Shaggy rolls of fat hung over its sides and its paws were the size of platters. This was a bear fattened up on autumn, ready for a long winter’s sleep.

  The bear looked at her with tiny glittering eyes, and Rhea looked back. She was still holding the knife, which now seemed about as useful as a toothpick.

  “Nice bear…?” said Rhea hopelessly.

  She knew of bears, of course. She’d heard stories. Bears were creatures that lived out in the woods somewhere, like wolves and bandits and wisent, and the only humans they interacted with were hunters and the characters in the more unfortunate sort of fairy tale.

  Now and again a bear would take a pig that had been turned out to fatten up on acorns, but that was as much interaction as anyone in the village regularly had with bears. Rhea had never actually seen one, only pictures in books.

  She’d known they were large, but the books had drawn them like thick-bodied, tailless wolves, not like hairy mountains.

  Her only vaguely coherent thought was that if she survived, she was going to demand better illustrations.

  The bear moved.

  She did not try to dodge. It moved faster than anything that big had any right to move. By the time she realized that it was running directly at her, dodging would have been laughable.

  She closed her eyes.

  Fur brushed against her left arm. The fence at her back shuddered.

  Something yelped.

  Rhea opened her eyes again—closing my eyes is stupid—and had time to see Third go flying past her at eye level. It struck the ground not far from
First, and did not move again.

  The bear turned its head and growled.

  It was too much for Second. The dog-monster fled, limping, and left its dead comrades behind.

  Rhea stood very still.

  Perhaps if I don’t move, it won’t notice I’m here?

  She turned her head, very slowly, and saw the bear about five feet away. As she watched, the bear sat up and went “Hwwhufff!”

  It was looking directly at her.

  Well, so much for that idea.

  Rhea took a deep breath, let it out, and said “Errr…thank you, bear?”

  The bear hwuff-ed again. It sounded almost like laughter. The way it was sitting up, the breadth of its shoulders, made her think of someone…and surely that was crazy, it couldn’t be, although in a world where hedgehogs sang up slug armies and men made golems of their wives and the floor fell away at midnight…

  “Maria?” said Rhea doubtfully.

  The bear shook its head, then dropped to all fours and bumped her muzzle against Rhea’s shoulder, like a good-natured dog. Rhea staggered a bit and braced herself against the iron fence.

  Well, if it isn’t Maria...

  (Rhea was just fine with it not being Maria, mind you, because a were-bear in the house would have been rather difficult to get her mind around—and anyway, if she was a were-bear, why hadn’t she just eaten Crevan? Still…)

  “Maria said she had a familiar once,” said Rhea slowly. “A bear the size of a cow. Is that who you are?”

  The bear let out another Hwhuff! and rubbed her muzzle on Rhea’s arm. Rhea had to cling to the iron cross-piece to avoid being lifted clean off her feet.

  “Oh…” she said faintly. “It’s…um…lovely to meet you…”

  An irritated clicking came from her skirt pocket. The hedgehog poked its nose over the edge and gave the bear a very stern look.

  “Hwuff?”

  “Chik-ik-ik!”

  The bear looked abashed, and retreated several feet away. Rhea brushed herself off.

  The hedgehog huffed in annoyance, and settled back into its pocket. Rhea could feel it stomping around, and gritted her teeth against the prickling.

  “So,” said Rhea. “Um. I’m going to go back to the house now. I suppose you…err…would you like to come with me?”

  She was torn between hoping very much that the bear would come with her—what if there were more dog-monsters?—and hoping that the bear would amble off and leave her alone. It seemed friendly, but having an animal that size right there was unsettling.

  The bear strode out alongside her. Rhea decided to be grateful.

  Under the moon, the grass broke into silver. Nightbirds called to each other and she heard a frog ratcheting to itself from the woods.

  It was peaceful again.

  They walked. The bear took one step for every three of Rhea’s.

  The grass rippled as something approached. Rhea tensed, watching the wave come toward them—and then the bear halted and stood up on her hind legs.

  The wave stopped, then reversed itself very quickly.

  Maria’s familiar watched it go, then dropped back to all fours, grumbling.

  “What was that?” asked Rhea, forgetting momentarily that no one could answer her.

  The bear glanced at her. After a moment, the beast wrinkled up her muzzle and bared her teeth, then shrugged.

  “Ah,” said Rhea. “Not friendly, then.”

  The bear grunted.

  They had no more trouble. Once or twice something looked out from the grass—Rhea caught a glimpse of flat green eyes reflecting moonlight—but they did not step into the path.

  When the manor house loomed in the distance, the bear stopped. She stood up again, gazing at the house as if it were an enemy.

  “I know,” said Rhea glumly. “But I have to go back. He knows where I live.”

  The bear sighed, and rested her muzzle across Rhea’s shoulder. Rhea had to lock her knees to support the weight.

  The bear was hot and smelled of beast. She sighed again and her breath steamed over Rhea’s cheek. It was rank and damp and gloriously alive all at once.

  Then she pulled away and ambled into the grass. She left a trail of broken stems behind her, a dark swath that resisted the rippling moonlight.

  Rhea watched her go for only a moment. There were still things in the grass, and her protector was leaving. She hurried down the path to the house.

  Nothing accosted her on the lawn. She glanced up the side of the house, at the windows that looked like eyes, and it occurred to her that while there were a great many windows on the outside, there were far fewer on the inside. Lord Crevan’s study had a few, and there was a narrow little slot in her bedroom, like an arrow slit in a castle wall.

  Other than that, nothing.

  Hmm.

  She shook her head. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Of all the terrible things in that house, a lack of adequate windows is pretty far down the list. For all I know, there’s a space between the interior walls and the outside windows, and he’s crammed it all full of wives.

  She immediately wished she hadn’t thought that. She snuck a glance at the window nearest her, half-afraid that she’d see faces pressed against the glass.

  There was only a reflection of the sky and the lawn. Rhea breathed a sigh of relief.

  Things are bad enough here without inventing new ways to scare myself.

  She stepped into the kitchen. Maria was seated at the table and looked up at her with a faint, secret smile. “You made it back, child. Good.”

  “Do you ever sleep?” asked Rhea.

  “All the time,” said Maria. “But mostly here at the table.”

  “Isn’t that uncomfortable?”

  “Plenty of time to lie down in the grave.” Maria stretched her arms out. “I suppose you’ll want some tea—”

  A shadow fell over the doorway.

  Rhea saw Maria’s eyes widen, and she turned.

  It was Lord Crevan.

  She expected him to say something to her—something about the task, or her completion of it—but instead he leveled his gaze at Maria.

  “There was magic afoot just now,” he said coldly.

  “Aye, there was,” said Maria. “And that means it wasn’t mine, my lord husband, because you know as well as I do that I’ve not got a drop left in me.”

  “Then who?” snapped Crevan, his voice like a lash. “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I don’t know,” said Maria. “That’s the truth, if you like.”

  Crevan’s nostrils were pinched. It came to Rhea that he was angry, really angry, and that frightened her. She did not like him cold and sly and amused, but it seemed preferable to this sudden white rage.

  He swung toward her. Rhea shrank back, glad the table was between them, wishing the bear had not left so soon.

  “You’re no witch,” he said. “It wasn’t you. But last night and tonight, you had aid. What was it?”

  Rhea shoved her hands in her skirts and cupped a hand over the hedgehog, heedless of the prickles.

  “Tell me!” he snapped, taking a step toward her.

  “There was a bear,” said Rhea hurriedly, afraid that if he came too close, he’d smell whatever magic clung to the hedgehog. The bear was well away, and probably well able to defend herself. The hedgehog was right here and no match for a boot, let alone an enraged sorcerer.

  Maria laughed. “Still out there, is she?”

  Crevan spun toward her. Rhea felt as if she’d been standing too close to the fire and had been allowed to step away.

  “Your doing, wife?” he said.

  “You know it wasn’t. I couldn’t call her now if I wanted to.” Maria shrugged her vast shoulders. “She does what she wants. Perhaps it amused her to help this girl.”

  “I should have killed that beast years ago,” muttered Crevan.

  Maria shrugged again.

  Crevan ran a hand through his hair. “Very well.” He laughed suddenly, and Rhea
liked that even less than the anger. “Very well. I shall consider this. You’ve done the task for tonight, I assume?”

  “I laid flowers on the grave,” said Rhea.

  He nodded. “Good. Good. Come to my study after dinner. I’ll have another task for you.”

  “Of course you will,” muttered Rhea, but she waited until after he had left to say it.

  Maria exhaled and went for tea. Rhea stifled a sigh. Her mother also believed that tea was the cure for all problems—or at least, that problems would not get any worse in the time it took to boil water, and you’d be a little better off with a cup of tea in you.

  “Was that your familiar?” she asked, as Maria swung the kettle off the stove.

  Maria grinned, fierce and sudden. “Can’t swear to it,” she said. “But if there’s another bear in these woods that’s well inclined to young women, I’m sure I don’t know who it could be.”

  She poured water into the teapot, whistling tunelessly to herself. Rhea propped her chin up in her hand and watched.

  “Mind you,” said Maria, as she set the tea to steep, “I’m not surprised. This house touches more forests than one. And she was always a devil for finding her way. I only hope she can find her way out again.”

  “What do you mean, more forests?” asked Rhea.

  Apparently this was not a dangerous question, because Maria answered easily, without a glance at the ceiling. “A great many of them, I should think. Your village and mine. Sylvie’s, Ingeth’s…I don’t know for certain, but I expect something not far from the city, if only so the groceries get delivered.” She shook her head. “It’s a great magic.”

  “Did…uh…Himself do it?”

  Now Maria did pause. Her next words had a carefully chosen quality to them, like a woman picking her way across treacherous conversational ground. “He’s very powerful,” she said. “Certainly he is the master of this house.”

  She caught Rhea’s eye and shook her head. No.

  This gave Rhea something to think about, while she finished her tea.

  Did she mean that the house was like this before? Did someone make the house like it is?

  If it touches many forests, could I run away? Find a road other than the white road? Will I wind up somewhere a thousand miles from the mill?

  Will he get there before I do?