The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2013

by Angela Slatter

  “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.

  * * *

  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 Wyrding-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.

  * * *

  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.”

  I didn’t like the note of triumph in her voice. Steeling myself, I approached.

  She showed me a small, translucent sheet of velum. No. A caul.

  My caul!

  The whole world shivered.

  “Catch her!” she warned. Lohnan needed no more urging to lay his hands on me. I tried to shove him away. He pinned me against his body, supporting me as my vision cleared.

  “What is it?” Murtahg asked uneasily.

  “Sun-fire’s Wyrding-sign,” Druaric said.

  I glared at him and he had the grace to blush and look away.

  Even though his betrayal cut me to the quick, I could see why the Wyrding-woman loved him best of all her grandsons. He was clever and loyal, placing his clan’s safety above personal ambition. Reluctant admiration warred with my resentment.

  “Say no more, Druaric. Knowledge is power,” the Wyrding-woman warned.

  Murtahg cursed. “It’s not natural teaching him the Wyrding-ways. And you shouldn’t be teaching this hill-brat. What if she turns on us?”

  “I will teach who I choose, Murtahg. And the hill-brat is no threat. Her knowledge barely scrapes the surface of the Mother’s Ways.”

  “Wyrding-ways!” He spun on his heel and marched out.

  She ignored him, turning to me. “Now watch, Sun-fire.”

  I could not do other, as she removed the amulet and unpicked the stitching. Rolling up my caul, she tucked it safely inside.

  “I may not have your true-name, girl, but I have this.”

  “It’s mine.”

  “Yes. Now you are mine.”

  Despair and rage rolled through me.

  Lohnan chuckled. “Eh, I can feel the fire in her. Let me have her. I don’t mind if she scratches my eyes out.”

  “You’re a fool, Lohnan. She’s too powerful for you.”<
br />
  “She wasn’t too powerful when I planted the babe,” he protested.

  “That was then.” She dismissed him. “Let her go.”

  As Lohnan stormed out I realised that, despite what she’d told Murtahg, she needed my caul to keep me under control. I looked down, pleased with this new knowledge.

  Druaric seemed to hesitate. I refused to meet his eyes, angry with him and with myself for I was doubly trapped by that amulet now.

  “Go,” the Wyrding-woman told him.

  I waited only until the door closed. “I know how you found out about it. But how did you know where to look?”

  She smiled, her last three teeth gleaming. “In a village the size of yours, where else would it be?”

  Stupid of me. I had been a fool to trust Druaric.

  * * *

  Time passed. I enjoyed learning but felt Druaric’s absence. He no longer came to spend the evenings with us. Every dusk I looked for him then had to remind myself of his betrayal.

  I had been a prisoner for nearly four moons when the clan’s metal worker delivered an object he had crafted for the Wyrding-woman. It was a perfect little bell strung on a piece of leather. She listened to the tone, then sent for Murtahg to bring his son.

  When they came I recognised the lad. He was no more than seven and small for his age. But that was not why the others teased him. His words stumbled over themselves, harried by false starts and the more they teased him the worse his speech became.

  “Murtahg and little Ciarnor,” the Wyrding-woman greeted them. “Come, sit by me, Ciarnor.”

  Murtahg hung back, clearly uneasy with Wyrd power.

  The lad approached and sat on a cushion at the Wyrding-woman’s feet. She had earlier directed me in the mixing of a tincture. It was mildly alcoholic, sweetened with honey and contained a little of the powdered weed they smoked. A strange combination. Now she accepted this from me.

  “Watch, Ciarnor.” And she rang the bell.

  His eyes lit up. “C . . . c . . . can I have it?”

  “It is yours, but bells hold great power.” She turned the bell over, poured a sip of the liquid into it and held it out to him. “Drink this.”

  He wrinkled his nose but did not complain about the taste, so the honey must have helped.

  “Now ring the bell,” she told him.

  He turned it right way up and rang it, smiling at the pure tone.

  She nodded. “Now give the bell to Sun-fire.”

  His face fell but he obeyed, watching as I washed the bell and purified it. All the while I felt Murtahg’s stare. By the time I had finished Ciarnor’s blue eyes had grown glazed with the drug. I knew the signs; he was suggestible. If my old teacher had needed to perform a painful healing on him, she would have done it now.

  The Wyrding-woman took the bell from me, strung it on a leather thong then leant close to tie the bell around his neck. “Listen to me, Ciarnor. From this day forward your speech will grow clearer. If you feel your words jamming up, ring the bell. Its pure tone will ease your tongue. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “See, it is working already.” She beamed. Oh, but she was clever. I watched her, torn between admiration and resentment.

  “Off you go, Ciarnor.”

  “Wait, son.” Murtahg put his pipe aside to study the bell. “Very well. Go.”

  The boy ran off, still a little stunned but happy.

  “It is nothing but an ordinary bell. How can it work?” Murtahg demanded.

  “Bells have great power. They banish evil spirits.” The Wyrding-woman held his eyes. “There are many forces at work for good and evil. Perhaps you should look into your soul and ask why your only son’s speech suffers. You say the words of devotion, but is your heart truly open to the Wyrding-mother? Here . . . ” She dug into the deep pockets of her leather apron and pulled out a strip of leather. “I’ll help you find your way back to the Wyrding-mother.” Her gnarled fingers wove the ends together. “As I form this circle, so your life is formed. You spring from the Wyrding-mother and in the end, you return to the mother. Bend down.”

  Murtahg leant forward and she slipped the leather circle around his head. It was a tight fit and when he turned away from her to leave he did not look happy.

  I noticed the pipe on the mantelpiece. “He forgot his pipe again.”

  “Leave it for now.” She sighed and made her way to the work bench. “Do you think Ciarnor will be cured?”

  I nodded.

  “Because of the bell?”

  “That,” I said, “And because he believes he will.”

  My answer seemed to please her for she smiled and pointed to a small chest. “Fetch me that.”

  When I returned with it, she opened the lid and took out a fine cloth, unrolling it to reveal a perfect little silver bell, a pure white candle and many fine vellum sheets, sewn together down one side. I recognised the symbols on the front—Male opposed Female, Death opposed Life. I longed to turn over the pages to see how many more I knew.

  Reverently, she showed me. “These are the symbols of the Wyrding-ways, my symbols. My candle to bring the light, my bell to banish the dark.” Her finger, twisted by the bone-ache, tapped the vellum. “And the knowledge I have gained through my long life.” She held my eyes. “All this can be yours, Sun-fire, if you will swear fealty to my clan. I will not live forever and we need a strong Wyrding-woman.”

  She meant it. I had won her over, but now that it had happened I realised she had won me, too. I wanted this so badly . . .

  All I had to do was swear loyalty to the clan that had ravaged my valley, torn me from my home and used me as a vessel for their Warlord-reborn. We hill-people never surrendered.

  Yet, I wavered.

  One part of me argued that I could stay with her long enough to serve out the remaining years of my apprenticeship. Once I knew the Wyrding-ways I could go home to my valley. I imagined their joy when I returned as a fully fledged Wyrding-woman, versed in the deep, secret Lore.

  But that was to forget the babe. It did not seem real yet. It had not shrivelled and died as many babes do in the first three moons, so the Wyrding-mother meant me to carry it to term. I was convinced that my child would be the daughter I longed for. But I did not want the Warlord’s cruel soul twisting her nature. Before the birth I had to find out how to banish the Warlord’s soul to save my little girl, and I had to reclaim my Wyrding-sign.

  But for now . . .

  I fell to my knees and spoke the words before they could choke me. Revenge was more important than being forsworn. “I swear clan fealty, Wyrding-mother.”

  She gave me frankly sceptical look.

  “I do,” I insisted. “For as long as it takes to learn the Wyrding-ways. Then I want to go home.”

  This must have satisfied her for that evening she left me alone in her private chamber for the first time. Feverish with haste I removed the foxglove jar from its shelf and took just enough to kill three men. Then I froze, waiting for the Watcher to sound. Nothing. That was odd. I realised her Watcher had a flaw; I had not removed the poison from the Wyrding-woman’s chamber.

  And now I had the means to exact my revenge. When I was ready, I would slip the foxglove into the brothers’ stew. They would die and I would run away. It meant giving up the training the Wyrding-woman had promised me. Could I give it up for revenge? I examined this and decided I could. There were other Wyrding-women, ones who did not use death-power.

  Besides, Murtahg and Lohnan deserved to die. I enjoyed imagining their death throes. As for Druaric . . .

  Pain curled its hand around my heart with surprising intensity. Even though he had betrayed my trust, I could not bear to kill him. And I could not kill two, without killing the third and running away. Their deaths would be suspicious. Their wives would point to me.

  Stunned, I put the foxglove back. How the Wyrding-woman would laugh if only she knew.

  I had trapped myself.

  * * *

  The fou
rth moon of my captivity passed and the grain hung heavy in the fields. With the harvest came the farmers from the rich pasturelands, bringing a portion of their crops to their clan-leader as tribute. For several days there were reunions. And in the evening there was dancing, smoking of weed, singing and noisy couplings. But the revelry held a frantic tone for, come the feast, the clan’s new leader would be elected.

  Murtahg talked forcefully and loudly of what he would do if he led the clan. His men wove through the groups, urging his case. Lohnan’s men spoke up, just as eager for him to take the lead. The supporters of the two eldest sons were itching for a fight. The Wyrding-woman had been right to try to forestall this.

  I caught only glimpses of Druaric going about his business. And I refused to ask after him. First he had betrayed me then, as soon as he had what he wanted, he ignored me. I hated him, yet I could not bring myself to kill him. It was strange.

  As the days counted down to the harvest feast, I watched the stronghold fill with clansmen and women. There was still time for me to slip away, time to retreat to the highlands and reach my village before the snows cut off the passes. But I knew, even though these festivities would have made it easier to escape, I wasn’t going. I was weak. I had been seduced by the Wyrding-woman’s promise of knowledge and by a sweet-voiced cripple who had betrayed my trust.

  As yet there was no sign of the babe. My body was slim, though my breasts felt swollen and tender. This pleased the Wyrding-woman; it meant the babe flourished.

  Then one day, as I labelled jars with Wyrding symbols, I felt a flutter in my belly. Like the wings of a humming bird, something barely brushed my senses. My babe had quickened. In that moment the child became real to me and my life narrowed down to a tunnel. At the tunnel’s end was the agony of childbirth. Either I would die, or I would produce the Warlord-reborn in my daughter’s body.

  In that heartbeat I knew I could not be the clan’s tool.

  Tonight I would hit the old woman over the head, take the amulet and run. As for my revenge . . . It was clear now that I did not need to kill the three brothers. By leaving I would bring down the clan down. Without the Warlord-reborn, Lohnan and Murtahg’s followers would tear it apart. This was a much better revenge. And it meant I did not have to raise my hand against Druaric.