The Boneless Mercies

by April Genevieve Tucholke

  She nodded, once.

  “Did you ever see Rafe again?” Trigve handed her another dried fig from our stash.

  Ovie shook her head, then popped the fruit into her mouth.

  “So you were educated with this jarl’s son.” Runa was eyeing Ovie with something between awe and annoyance. “You can read letters like Trigve.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  Juniper reached across me and touched her palm to Ovie’s cheek. “The goddess Howl lost one of her eyes when she dove into the Well of Wisdom.”

  Ovie took another fig and nodded. “I’ve heard the saga.”

  I leaned forward and pulled Ovie to me. Unlike Runa, she didn’t stiffen, but melted into my arms like snow in the sun. “Thank you for telling us your story, Ovie.”

  I felt her nod against my neck, blue-tipped hair sliding across my cheek.

  And with that, Ovie began to teach us the Seventh Degree.

  * * *

  The following days in the marsh blurred together. Black water and cold mud. Bugs and snakes and reeds. Sunrises and sunsets and long, dark nights. We covered ground slowly, reaching ten miles a day at most. The land never varied, mile after mile, just more of the same. I would have feared we were walking in circles except …

  Except I could feel her.

  The Cut-Queen.

  It started with an eerie, oily sensation that came upon me whenever I stared into the dark marsh water too long. Then came a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever a dank wind blew by.

  Every night we were drawing closer to her, and something told me she knew we were coming.

  I began to see her in my dreams. The child-queen was in a hut, whipping the reed into her flesh. At the end, she’d turn over her shoulder and look right at me, cold green eyes, just as she had in the sea vision. I would jerk awake then, startling Ovie and Juniper.

  Trigve would reach out and take my hand, but the dream lingered.

  The Seventh Degree helped. The four of us in a line along the path, following Ovie, moving through the edge dance, as she called it. Trigve joined us as well, though he had no weapon.

  I enjoyed it, the series of poses and steps. We lunged right, then left, spun, jumped, crouched, and swung. Again and again and again, as Ovie called out the positions. It was a dance, but not a dance of fire and freedom, like the wild hilltop revels during the Ostara festivals.

  This was a dance of blades. A dance of battle.

  I woke up sore, and I went to bed sore, and it felt right and good. My shoulders ached, and my thighs burned. My palms grew blisters. But it was easier not to think about the Cut-Queen when I was holding the ax and following the steps. Juniper said she stopped hearing the screaming on the other side of the wind, and Runa stopped complaining about the cold.

  Meanwhile, we were running out of the Sea Witches’ food.

  Runa enjoyed pointing out that we could end up wandering the marsh, lost, until winter settled in and we starved to death in the mist. And even I was starting to believe her.

  But then, on the eighth night, we heard drums.

  THIRTEEN

  We’d practiced the Seventh Degree that night, like every other.

  We were already mastering the basic steps—the beginning movements looked tricky but were actually quick to master. The hardest element was learning to react instantly, and instinctively, while also closing off your mind to all thought. It was a unique balance, one that got easier with practice. It was rather like the Two-Pronged Path, which Trigve had tried to teach me last spring.

  We were hungry when we went to sleep, and cold, but a core of peace thrummed inside us, a glow left over from the edge dance. We huddled under a willow tree, gray leaves dripping down, cloaks pulled in tight. The day had been crisp and bitter, with a bright blue sky. Winter was on the way. A heavy wind blew—it seemed to move up from the marsh, rather than across it.

  I thought I was dreaming at first.

  Drums.

  Deep.

  Hollow.

  Close.

  I felt Ovie go rigid beside me. We both sat up, eyes turned north.

  Clusters of bright orange light, reflecting in the dark water of the marsh …

  Fire.

  Trigve was up now, too. He woke Runa. I woke Juniper. We all sat in the dark, watching, listening.

  “There is a town called Mista,” Trigve said after a few moments of silence. “It lies on the Blue Vee border, at the edge of the marsh. I’ve seen it on a map. I will wait for you there at the inn.”

  I’d known this farewell was coming, and yet the sting of it still took me by surprise.

  I grabbed Trigve and held him. “We will be gone a day. Two at most. When it’s done, and the Cut-Queen is dead, we will find you at the inn.”

  “See that you do, Frey. I’ll give you two days. After that, I’ll come looking for you.”

  The drums began again. I pulled Trigve tighter to me, until I could feel his bones. I whispered in his ear like a Sea Witch. Then I let him go.

  He turned off the path and headed into the bog, toward the bright Elver star that would lead him out of the Red Willow Marsh.

  I watched him wade through the murky water, growing smaller and smaller.

  I leaned my head back and sent a prayer up to the Gothi god Obin. Trigve had turned from the Gothi path, but I figured Obin wouldn’t care. If he did, then I didn’t want his help anyway.

  I straightened and felt the hilt of my ax against my hip bone. “Are you ready, Mercies?”

  “Yes,” they said as one.

  And Hel, but my heart beat faster when they said it.

  We crept forward slowly, heading toward the sound of the drums. I glanced over my shoulder again, but Trigve had turned into shadow, blending into the vast, marsh-mist dark.

  The drums grew louder.

  Our footpath widened, and we soon reached a wooden walkway. The walkway led into a dark grove of willows—we slipped between the trees and stepped right into the outskirts of the village.

  The four of us hovered there, unsure of what to do next. No fence surrounded the hamlet, no guards, no defenses of any kind.

  Ovie caught my eye and frowned. It worried her, too. Why wouldn’t they need to defend themselves?

  The reed-village consisted of a few dozen round huts, like the Sea Witches’ homes, but with thatched roofs instead of shingled cones. I squinted. I could see gardens, abandoned wheelbarrows, clothing drying on lines. If not for the white reeds waving nearby, we could have been anywhere in Vorseland.

  Except …

  Except in a regular village, even in the middle of the night, dogs would bark, pigs would grunt, an infant would cry …

  But there was nothing, nothing but the rustling of the reeds, and the thump, thump, thump of the drums.

  Juniper began to fiddle with the seashells in her pocket.

  My mind drifted back to the comment Mother Hush had made about the Cut-Queen spreading evil with her marsh magic. I’d thought this reed queen was just another Vorse cult leader, performing esoteric rituals, torturing outsiders, and leading Mercies into darkness. But if there was magic here …

  True magic …

  Witch magic …

  Hel.

  Runa turned to me, eyebrows raised. What now?

  “Come.” I gestured for them to follow.

  There was a clearing in the center of the circle of homes. Several fires burned in tall iron braziers—this was the orange glow we’d seen earlier. A crowd of girls milled around, long hair tied in thick braids that swung over slight shoulders, dark tunics worn tight to the skin, quiet feet on shadowed ground. None looked younger than twelve, or older than twenty.

  A handful of girls knelt in the center, beating on five large wooden drums, thump, thump, thump.

  We walked toward the clearing, hugging the shadows, timing our footsteps to the beat. The nights we’d spent learning the Seventh Degree on the boggy marsh had improved our stealth. We were lighter on our feet, more graceful
, more silent.

  A lone girl stood outside the fire circle, a tiny thing with black curly hair. I crept toward her … slowly … slowly … until I was close enough to kiss the back of her neck.

  I covered her mouth with one hand and yanked her backward into the dark.

  “Where is the Cut-Queen?” I whispered, lips by her ear. “Take us to her.”

  I moved my hand away from her lips. The girl shook her head and said nothing.

  Runa leapt forward and put her dagger to the girl’s slender throat. “Tell us where she is, marsh rat, or—”

  The drums stopped midbeat.

  My heart stopped with them.

  The air felt heavy. Thick. Choking. The sudden quiet was worse than the drums.

  The throng of girls in the clearing shifted, separated …

  The Cut-Queen.

  She was small, like Juniper. Smaller, even. She wore a snow-white tunic over brown leather leggings. Her honey-gold hair was loose, hanging in soft waves to her waist, and her bright green eyes were sharp and shrewd and lovely.

  I heard a noise, and my gaze moved past her, down to a young man at her side. He was on his knees, head bowed, his hands tied behind him. His dark hair fell across his forehead, hiding his face …

  Trigve.

  I tensed, muscles snapping to bone. I readied myself to scream, to charge, to attack, to kill …

  Ovie grabbed my arm and shook me, hard. “It’s not him. Look.”

  She was right. He was too thin. Too young.

  I put my hand to my heart, as Juniper would have done, and gave thanks to any god listening that it was not Trigve at the Cut-Queen’s feet.

  The child-queen didn’t convert men. This tied-up stranger wouldn’t live through the night.

  The drums began again. Five beats from five girls kneeling next to five drums, mallets in hand, arms raised, their eyes on the queen.

  We stepped forward, toward the firelight, out of the shadows.

  The Cut-Queen didn’t smile at us or nod in a false, welcoming way. Her cheeks were flushed, and her plump child-lips were pressed together sweetly. She could have been any young Vorse girl, off to milk a cow or fetch water from the stream … Except the expression on her face was not one of childlike wonder and energy and spirit, as in Aarne’s. It was aloof. Distant.

  And dangerously righteous.

  “You’re here,” she said, simply. She nodded at me, a small flick of her delicate chin. “The reeds told me you’d entered my marsh. You’re late. I expected you sooner.”

  “Did you, then?” I replied, calm and easy, as if the thought hadn’t made me go cold.

  “Yes. You took your time.”

  The Cut-Queen’s voice was firm and husky, more like that of a grown woman’s than a girl’s.

  I took a step toward her, my hand on the hilt of my ax. I felt Ovie press herself to my right side, and Runa to the left. Juniper stood slightly behind, whispering a prayer of protection.

  Whatever I did next, the Mercies had my back. To the end.

  Loyalty like this was a rare thing, beautiful and pure.

  If the Cut-Queen took my life when I tried to take hers, would it matter? I’d earned the trust of the three women beside me, and their love as well. I’d tasted freedom, however short-lived. What else was there in life?

  I took another step forward, and the Cut-Queen gave me a quick, shrewd smile. “They call me the Cut-Queen out there in the world beyond the willows and reeds, do they not?”

  I nodded. “They do.”

  “Here they call me Elan Wulf.”

  The queen moved toward me now, slowly, one small, boot-clad foot in front of the other.

  My eyes scanned the marsh-girls who had gathered in a pack behind her.

  Some of them looked like girls anywhere, sweet, shy, bold, indifferent, sad, eager, nervous. But others had a raw look in their eyes, a look that made me want to creep backward into the dark and run.

  The Cut-Queen reached me. I stood my ground, Mercies beside me.

  She put her hands on my shoulders, then stood on tiptoe to reach my ear. “I felt your coming,” she whispered. “I felt it in the way the reeds moved in the breeze. I felt it in the way the water lapped against the edges of my village. I felt it in the curve of the moon and the shimmering line of the horizon.”

  I wanted to feel disgust at the closeness. Even fear. But when the Cut-Queen breathed into my ear, I felt … strength.

  This marsh-queen was alive. More than most.

  Elan Wulf pulled away from me and took a step back. “What is your name?”

  “Frey.”

  “Frey, are you here to join us? To become a Willow, like these other girls? Are you ready to leave your old life behind, to obey my command, to follow your reed-sisters wherever our path of vengeance may lead?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “Willingly. With my whole heart.”

  “Do you believe in the goddess Fen?” Her voice was louder now, echoing across the hamlet.

  Out of the corners of my eyes I saw the brazier flames rise higher, as if in answer to her question. “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you believe that marsh magic is the only good and pure magic and that all other magic is shadowed and evil?”

  The reed-girls tensed behind her, awaiting my answer.

  I hesitated.

  Elan’s question was eerily similar to the one Mother Hush had asked when we’d first met in her Scorch Tree hut.

  I’d missed something. Something important.

  This was not about simply killing the Cut-Queen, of ridding the marsh of danger, of marching into Blue Vee a proven warrior.

  Sea magic.

  Marsh magic.

  It became clear, a burst of sun through a dark cloud.

  This was a battle between witches.

  Mother Hush had said this task was about darkness and light, and maybe it was.

  But it was also the beginning of a Witch War, and I had just walked right into the middle of it.

  There were ancient songs and sagas that told of the great Witch Wars during the Lost Years, of the tragedy of the Maidens in the Tower, and the Battle of the Red and White, and the Moss Witch Massacre of the Western Hills. The wars raged season after season, until one witch finally bested the other. People slain, villages burned, ceaseless storms, thundering seas, bloodred skies, resurrections … It made for beautiful, terrible stories.

  There hadn’t been a battle between witches in centuries, not since the Sun Age, when Vorseland was ruled by a series of fierce female jarls.

  Was this how a Witch War began? One witch trying to quietly kill the other, back and forth, back and forth, until it dissolved into an endless battle, with all of Vorseland on its knees?

  “I know nothing of marsh magic,” I answered the Cut-Queen finally, ignoring the rush of blood to my heart. “But we came here to learn.”

  Elan Wulf gave a curt nod and shifted her gaze to our black Mercy-cloaks. “We have many of your kind here. They grew tired of wandering, of being treated like vermin. Here, they are treated like Vorse. Here, they matter.”

  The Cut-Queen raised a hand and gestured toward the fires. “Follow me into the light, Mercies.”

  What else could we do?

  We followed Elan farther into the clearing, into the ring of fire. The dark-haired prisoner looked up at me as I walked past. His eyes were dark brown, and afraid. A girl stood to each side of him, daggers drawn.

  “Please,” he whispered. “Please.”

  This was all he said, and it was enough.

  I would have risked it all right then to free him. I would have taken on the queen and all her reed-girls.

  I closed my eyes …

  I could do it. I could rush the Cut-Queen, knife forward, slice open her neck ear to ear before she took her next breath. I could do it, and to Hel with marsh magic and Witch Wars.

  I opened my eyes again. We were outnumbered ten to one. It would be a death sentence, for all of us.

  I reached down
and touched the prisoner lightly with my fingers as I passed, tips grazing his shoulder. He didn’t look up again.

  Elan Wulf halted by the last fire. She lifted a slender arm and pointed toward a dark lump in a corner of the clearing, near what looked to be a large vegetable garden.

  “Throw your cloaks onto the pile, girls. You are done with that life. Embrace the goddess Fen, and leave the death trade behind.”

  I walked to the pile. The air smelled of fresh-turned dirt from the garden, and I breathed deeply. It was a nice change from the heavy air of the dank marsh. I unclasped my familiar, hateful black Mercy-cloak and tossed it on top of the others.

  Runa went next, then Ovie, and Juniper last of all. She dropped the cloak from her shoulders …

  And her pale-green curls spilled down her back.

  A Willow girl hissed. Then another. And another.

  The girls began to chant. Sea Witch, Sea Witch, catch her, snatch her, cut her, drown her, burn her …

  I stepped in front of Juniper, followed by Ovie, then Runa. We drew our knives and moved into the first fighting stance of the Seventh Degree.

  “Try to take her,” I screamed. “I dare you.”

  “Quiet.” The Cut-Queen’s voice cut through the din. Her girls hushed. She stepped lightly around me and pushed her fingers into the Sea Witch’s hair, squeezing the curls into a fist. “You have very green hair for a simple Mercy-girl. Explain yourself.”

  I snapped my hand around Elan’s wrist and squeezed until I felt her delicate bones move underneath my palm. “Let her go.”

  A flash of silver.

  And a knife was pointed at my heart.

  “Get your hand off our queen.” The girl had dark brown hair and blue eyes. She was tall, almost six feet, and carried herself with the upstart arrogance of a new devotee. She pressed the tip of her blade into my tunic, scraping it lightly across my chest.

  Hel.

  The plan had been to lay low, take stock, and display our loyalty and commitment to Fen. I needed to end this. Now.

  I dropped Elan’s wrist and raised both hands, palms out. “Juniper was raised in the Merrows, it’s true, but she left that life behind. She’s with me now, heart, mind, soul. She longs to learn the magic of the marsh and to follow Fen, just as I do. As we all do.”