One Small Step, an anthology of discoveries

by Tehani Wessely, Marianne de Pierres

  He sang of how the clan’s Wyrding-woman had sent the Warlord’s sons on a noble quest to win me — a raid that split the skulls of our valley’s defenders and stole our sheep. He sung of how they had lain with me — raped me. It was no more or less than I’d expected. I was no shrinking virgin — we hill clans-people are a tough breed.

  As I lay under the Warlord’s sons I’d planned how I would kill each one. Slowly. Even the youngest one with the clubfoot, who had whispered that he was sorry.

  He sang of how they had succeeded in saving their Warlord’s soul — they had pinned me down on the bed and squeezed the air from my ribs just as the fierce old fire-brand rattled his last.

  Then Druaric went on to sing of how I would deliver a healthy boy babe who would grow up to lead their clan to greatness. I felt their belief like a physical thing and that was when I sensed Druaric’s power. He was willing events to come to pass. My gaze flew to the Wyrding-woman. She nodded knowingly. She might not have an apprentice but she had a grandson who could shape the world with his words.

  The song finished and Druaric stood up, slinging his zither over his shoulder. It hung from a leather strap, impressed with symbols of power.

  My heart sank. How could I defeat these two?

  The clan moved out of the hall, across the yard, through the palisade and outer gate, down to the shore of the narrow, steep sided bay. As if in a trance, I followed, and watched as they placed the Warlord on his ship, along with weapons and food.

  “Why…?” I began then bit my tongue.

  But the Wyrding-woman guessed my question. “If his soul does not take root in your babe we don’t want him wandering between the worlds. His place in death’s realm will be prepared just in case.”

  Three old slaves volunteered to go into the afterlife to serve him. Lohnan, Murtahg and Druaric strangled them while everyone looked on. They dealt so casually in death, it sickened me. At my old Wyrding-teacher’s side I had dedicated myself to saving life. And, although I had survived so far, I was dying a thousand small deaths, losing my true-self. Standing there on the pebbly beach, I felt as if I was an empty shell.

  Beyond the headlands, the sea was molten gold, lit by the dying sun. At a signal from Lohnan, the sail was set so that ship’s prow faced west. I considered running out onto the wooden jetty, throwing myself into deep water. But it would do no good. Being born with a caul meant I could not drown. One of them was sure to jump in and drag me out. Then they would watch me even more closely. Instead, I would pretend to be filled with despair and choose my moment for revenge. I would find the killing herbs and then I would ensure the Warlord’s last three sons joined him in death.

  If the Wyrding-woman didn’t realise what I was planning.

  I tensed as Druaric approached, but he only sat on a wharf stone beside me with his zither. Hands that had just strangled the life from an old man plucked power from the strings. The clan took up the song, their voices rising and falling in an eerie dirge. I hated it, but I had to admit it was beautiful. Flames engulfed the ship as the outgoing tide carried it through the headlands. A bottomless well of sadness filled me. How could people who created such fierce beauty be so cruel?

  Why had the Wyrding-mother forsaken me? The only explanation was that this clan’s Wyrding-woman had a more powerful call on her.

  When the song finished, Druaric sat with the zither on his lap. “You will be honoured, Sun-fire. You won’t have to work until the baby is born. You’ll have plenty of food and somewhere warm to sleep. If you use your wits, you can be the babe’s wet nurse. Your position will be nearly equal to that of my sisters and my brothers’ wives—”

  “I will still be a captive.” I glared over my shoulder at him. His eyes were the same severe, ice-blue as the old Warlord’s. “Still a slave.”

  “What were you before?” he countered. “A wild savage scraping your food from the unforgiving hills, living in a single-roomed sod hut, lucky if you got enough to eat. Which is better?”

  “Freedom!”

  His gaze narrowed and he studied me thoughtfully.

  I realised I’d revealed my true nature and I cursed my impulsive tongue. Like my true-name, a glimpse of my true nature gave him power over me.

  ∞¥∞Ω∞¥∞

  They locked me in the tower again. It was the only building made of stone in the stronghold. Five floors high with narrow windows, it was their last place to make a stand if the palisade’s gate was breached. The door had barely closed on the sons’ backs, when Lohnan’s wife set me to work, mending her clothes. This was a calculated insult, for Wyrding-women do not toil like other women. Even if I had not been one of the Wyrding-mother’s daughters, they should not have made me work; I carried the Warlord-reborn.

  So I refused to do the mending. I refused to eat. For seven days I sat and brooded, growing pale and thin. In truth, I was plagued by constant sickness so going without food was no great hardship.

  The Wyrding-woman was consulted. She had them plough a field that was lying fallow and told them I must walk it barefoot to draw strength from the earth. The brothers debated who should make me walk the field. Lohnan was eager to get his hands on me but his motives were impure. Murtahg wanted nothing to do with me since he’d learned that I followed the Wyrding-way, so it fell to Druaric.

  I resisted every step of the way. Under the Wyrding-woman’s watchful eye we trudged, me lurching and balking, him struggling with me and his clubfoot.

  “Why do you make it hard for yourself?” he muttered, out of breath.

  I refused to speak.

  “You are not as strong as our Wyrding-woman.”

  It was true, but I wouldn’t give up. I couldn’t. We hill-people are a tough breed, we never give up.

  Neither would he. He kept on doggedly, dragging me over the freshly turned soil so that in the end I had to walk or be dragged in the dirt. I chose to walk. But with each step an idea formed in my mind. Since my Wyrding-ways had been revealed I had seen respect in Lohnan’s eyes and fear in Murtahg’s.

  “Each day as the babe grows, I grow in power,” I told Druaric.

  He looked away. Good.

  And it was true, as far as it went. With this babe I was growing in power. A Wyrding apprentice could not learn the deep lore until she had birthed her own daughter. Was my babe a girl? Perhaps this was the Wyrding-mother’s plan.

  ∞¥∞Ω∞¥∞

  Druaric must have spoken with the Wyrding-woman for she came to see me that evening. His uneven steps and her cane echoed on the stairs. By the time the door opened I was ready to face them.

  “You think you are clever, Sun-fire.” Her shrewd old eyes studied me. “But your knowledge of the Wyrding-ways is only a fraction of mine.”

  She produced an amulet from her apron, holding it in front of me. It had been made from familiar material, clothing that belonged to me. The cloth had been woven by my village and now it was stained with the blood of my struggles, which gave it power.

  “This will counteract any spells or curses you might use to stop the Warlord’s soul taking hold in your babe,” she told me as she hung the amulet around her neck, tucking it inside her bodice next to her skin with a satisfied smile. “I have your measure, Sun-fire. You should fear me. In birthing a woman is at her most vulnerable. You’ll need me to see you through it.”

  She was right. Terror cinched my stomach even as I raged at my impotence. How was I to settle my score with their clan? Revenge was the only thing that sustained me.

  “You hate me,” she said.

  I did not deny it.

  “I can live with that.” She stroked the silver head of her cane, staring into its polished surface. “I have seen what the Warlord’s death will do to our clan. By capturing his soul in your babe I have averted a battle for leadership. Without this babe our clan would be divided and tear itself apart. One day my children’s children would have been slaves. Instead, with the Warlord-reborn our clan will become the greatest in the Wild Isles.”
She held my eye with the force of her will. “I will not be thwarted by a half-trained hill-brat!”

  I refused to blink even though my eyes burned. We glared at each other. I fought to hold her gaze. She faltered and blinked before I did. Furious, she flung past me.

  I smiled. It was a small victory, but it was mine.

  She brushed by Druaric, forcing him to move out of the way. He bumped the mending basket.

  “What’s this?” His tone made her stop and turn on the top step by the door. He picked up a finely embroidered gown and his eyes narrowed as he recognised it. “Sun-fire is a Wyrding-woman, not a slave.” He waved the dress at his grandmother. “You know how to stop this.”

  And he limped off with the basket, presumably to give Lohnan’s wife a piece of his mind.

  As his uneven steps echoed on the stairs, the Wyrding-woman’s shrewd eyes returned to me. After a moment she beckoned. “Come.”

  I hesitated, but I was fed up with being shut away so despite my trepidation, I followed her. She led me down the tower steps, past another chamber and into the one below.

  One look told me this was her Wyrding workroom. Filled with her tools, I felt its power close around me, cloying and oppressive. Much was familiar. Jugs and chests lined the walls, dried herbs hung from the rafters. There was a string of blue beads to protect against the evil eye and a snakeskin, fine as spiderwebs, to cure the bone-ache.

  “Close the door, Sun-fire,” the Wyrding-woman ordered and I did, torn between curiosity and fear. She thrust feathers under my nose. “What’s this?”

  I blinked. I could have pretended ignorance but pride would not let me. “Eagle feathers. To renew youth. You must have used them many a time.”

  She turned away, smiling her secretive smile. Taking a jar from the bench, she opened it to reveal dried foxglove. “And this?”

  “Foxglove, also called dead-men’s-bells, a poison.”

  She showed me another. “And this?”

  “Fleabane, useful for putting in mattresses to kill bed mites.”

  She closed the jar and gnawed on her bottom lip. Then her expression cleared and she shoved something into my hands. “What does this tell you?”

  I turned the child’s leather ball over and over. She had not asked what it was, but what it told me. I cleared my mind and a vision came. “Blue bells.”

  With a hiss, she snatched the ball from me. I thought I saw fear in her eyes but the expression was gone too quickly to be sure.

  She studied her shelves then sent me a sly look before handing me a small drum. “What child did this toy belong to?”

  I held the drum, sensing great power. “This is no toy.”

  “Ha! Only half right. It is my Watcher,” she revealed. “A faithful servant volunteered to die so I could have this drum made from his skin. If anyone tries to steal from me, the drum will sound.”

  I returned it with a shudder, which made her smile. How could the Wyrding-mother countenance power sourced from death?

  “You are impressed with my Watcher,” she said.

  “I am surprised that you do not trust your own people. Our people would never have stolen from their Wyrding-woman.”

  “Slaves steal.”

  “We do not keep slaves.”

  “More fool you.”

  Again she studied the shelves, then shuffled over to get a jar. Without her cane her limp was much more pronounced and I realised she had a clubfoot like Druaric, though not as malformed as his. She unstoppered the jar to show me a fine powder. “What is it and what does it do?”

  I sniffed. No scent. It could be anything.

  “She does not know…” the Wyrding-woman muttered triumphantly. “But she should.”

  “My Wyrding-teacher died suddenly.”

  She resealed the jar and tapped the stopper. “This is powdered human skull, just the thing to quieten fits.”

  After replacing the jar on the shelf, she turned to look at me. “I will not have the mother of the Warlord-reborn belittled by the wives of my grandsons. I will take you for my apprentice.”

  I suspected she would dole out just enough knowledge to keep me docile, but my heart leapt at the thought of what I could learn, though I did not let her see this.

  “You’re as stubborn as the stone of the hills you were born in.” She regarded me thoughtfully and seemed to come to a decision. “When I did the scrying and sent my grandsons out to find you, I did not see that you would be Wyrding-marked. Three girl children of my line were born with the Wyrding-sign but none lived long enough to train at my side. Now I see that the Wyrding-mother meant for me to teach you. What say you, Sun-fire? Will you put away your hatred and serve the Wyrding-mother as you have sworn to do?”

  It was a tempting offer. I would be alert for lies or omissions on her part. She could not watch me every moment of the day. As her student I would find a way to rid my babe of the Warlord’s soul. Serving the Wyrding-woman would give me access to all her herbals, including the poisons. Her grandsons would suffer as they had made me suffer. But to truly escape her, I would have to destroy the amulet.

  All this went through my head in a blink. For now it suited me to train under this wise old Wyrding-woman so I inclined my head. “I will give the oath.”

  “Wise choice. We will prepare for the ritual.”

  I nodded. It would feel good to be walking the Wyrding-way again. Like coming home. This surprised me. Was she right? Was this what the Wyrding-mother had intended all along?

  She tilted her head, sharp eyes on me. “You bear no signs, Sun-fire. How is it that you are Wyrding-marked?”

  I smiled inside. Like my true-name, she would never know.

  ∞¥∞Ω∞¥∞

  So I became the Wyrding-woman’s apprentice; part slave, part daughter. Two moons passed in her service. Sometimes I pretended ignorance to test her and the few times her explanations varied from my teacher’s it was only by a matter of degrees.

  In all things I aimed to please her, to make myself indispensable and gain her trust. It was a game I played to win but one I could easily lose. For, in opening my mind, I opened myself. When I strove to please her, her approving words and smiles became my rewards.

  I realised what was happening the first time she surprised a laugh from me. Sometimes, for a whole day I forgot that I was her captive.

  But she never forgot. She always slept with the amulet around her neck.

  Once a moon the sons would eat with the Wyrding-woman and make plans for the clan. They talked of uniting all the fierce people of the Wild Isles under one warlord and when they talked, it seemed possible.

  More often, the sons came alone for there was no love lost between them, particularly the eldest two. Lohnan would sit and watch while I worked. He still hungered for me but he hungered for every woman, all the more if he could not have them. He talked of how, when their people gathered for the harvest feast, they would choose a leader to caretake the clan until the Warlord-reborn was old enough to lead them. He thought it should be him.

  Murtahg did not sit. When he visited, he paced, chewing on his pipe stem, reeking of the weed that in other men induced good-natured laughter. In him, it seemed only to deepen his restless hunger. He claimed Lohnan was so fond of wine and women that his mind had gone soft like his body. And he was right.

  The Wyrding-mother would say nothing, but the more she nodded and listened, the more they said, revealing the way their minds worked.

  As for Druaric, I don’t know what he thought. He never spoke of clan power. I guess he had power of his own. My favourite time was the evenings, when he came to play for us, singing their family’s history while the Wyrding-woman dozed.

  Soon I knew all the stories. I learned of the granddaughter, Druaric’s older sister, who had been born with a Wyrding-sign that no one was aware of until it was too late. One day while playing with her ball, she was stung by a bee and fell to the ground screaming. In a panic, Druaric had run back to the stronghold to fetch the Wyr
ding-mother, but by the time they returned, his sister was dead amongst the blue bells. When I heard this, my heart contracted with sympathy and I looked down to hide my feelings.

  Saddened by the memory, Druaric put his zither aside. It was so close I could have reached out to touch it. We had nothing like the zither in my village. Drums and pipes were our way of making music. I longed to see if I could coax the Wyrding-mother’s sweet voice from it. “Keep playing, please.”

  “No more tonight.” His voice caught.

  Tears stung my eyes. I touched his arm. “I’m sorry. You could not know. Sometimes the Wyrding-sign is hidden.”

  “Like yours?” His hand covered mine, hot, dry and heavy with import. “I have seen all of your milk-smooth skin, Sun-fire, and I cannot forget it, but I did not see a single imperfection.”

  A wave of molten heat rolled through my traitorous body. “I was born with a caul.”

  “A useful thing.” He nodded wisely. “Where is it?”

  Sanity returned to me. “Hidden.” And I pulled away.

  ∞¥∞Ω∞¥∞

  Not long after that the brothers went off on another raid. They hadn’t taken their ships reaving to the mainland this summer and it was too late to do so now, so they went raiding rival clans on their island. They came back laden with tribute, freely given, or so they claimed.

  Later that day, I was grinding herbs when the three brothers came to see to the Wyrding-woman. Knowing Lohnan would try to catch my eye, I ignored them.

  “So? Is the whole island ours?” she asked.

  “Just as you said it would be,” Murtahg said. “And—”

  “The treasure was where you said it would be.” Lohnan handed her a pouch.

  She gloated as she undid the leather satchel. “Come see this, Sun-fire.”