The Boneless Mercies

by April Genevieve Tucholke

  Runa crossed her arms. “What, did you have grand dreams of pushing open the doors to this Hall and declaring us the Saviors of the Red Willow Marsh to a hundred men-at-arms?”

  I shrugged. “As much as I allowed myself to think about it … yes, I did.”

  We strode forward, keeping our footsteps soft, until we reached the base of the yew. We stood underneath its branches, and waited for a servant to drift in and tell us how to find Jarl Roth.

  “It’s said only a few of the giant yews are still alive in Vorseland.” Trigve put his hand on the bark and looked up toward the sky. “They were brought to our land by Tor the Wise, a warrior and naturalist who traveled far into Iber in the time of the sagas. I never imagined I would get to see one of his trees.”

  Juniper reached up and ran her fingertips down the soft needles. “Yew trees are filled with magic. According to a Sea Witch myth, there’s a type of yew that grows only in Elsh graveyards. Its roots sprout through the mouths of the recently buried, inching down their throats until they encircle the heart. It’s said that the graveyard yews whisper the secrets of the dead into the Elsh wind.”

  Snow drifted down from the opening in the ceiling, falling in gentle white clumps onto the tree’s twisted branches. Runa brushed away a handful of delicate flakes and plucked one of the plump red berries. It was halfway between her teeth when Trigve grabbed her wrist.

  “Yew berries are poisonous, Runa.”

  Juniper nodded. “It’s true. The whole yew is deadly, needles and all.”

  Runa spat out the berry, and then crushed it under her foot with a scowl, as if it were an insect.

  Trigve brushed snowflakes from his hair and smiled. “I read a tale of a Fremish wood-carver once—he carved spoons from yew wood and sold them in the nearby village. A dozen people died before they discovered the cause. The spoons brought poison to the tongue with each mouthful.”

  Runa stood on tiptoe and yanked on a slender young branch, bending it into an arch. “They may be poisonous, but I’ve heard yew wood makes a grand bow.”

  “Hmm.” Juniper moved closer to the trunk, so close her freckled cheek almost touched the bark.

  “What is it?” I didn’t like the look in her eyes—curious, but worried.

  Juniper backed away from the yew again and began to rub her upper arms with her hands. “There is a great deal of magic in this tree. My skin is tingling, and I taste dirt on the back of my tongue.”

  “Is it dangerous?” I looked up at the tree with new respect and wariness.

  “No. It’s the same with all ancient trees. They soak up magic from the earth, year after year. If anything, it’s protecting this Hall. I think it’s why the giant wasn’t able to break in.”

  Ovie, who had yet to speak since we entered, stepped closer to the tree now and leaned against the trunk, hand on her dagger. “We are no longer alone. Someone approaches. Be on guard, Mercies.”

  As one, the Mercies and I grabbed our blades and shifted into the first fighting stance of the Seventh Degree, quiet as the moon.

  “They sought the kiss of battle, and blood.”

  The voice came from the gloom near the back of the Hall. I could see nothing, not even a shadow. I heard only his footsteps, slow and irregular.

  “Their hands were made for war, not for weaving. Their hearts were made to conquer, not submit.”

  It was a line from the Witch War Chronicles, about two witches and the Battle of Beggars and Thieves. I knew it well.

  The stranger spoke with the same accent as the guards, though his words had a more refined lilt, a gentler touch. I could see his form now as he edged out of the dark, closer to the fire. He moved gracefully but slowly—his right leg was stiff, and he did not put his full weight on it.

  He reached the yew tree and stepped into the light. He was tall, tall as Trigve, but broader, with bright blond hair flowing past his shoulders. An old scar under his right eye stretched three inches to his jaw. It added to his beauty, rather than took from it. He wore a thick wool cloak dyed a rare azure blue, the same color as his eyes, and there was a subtle gauntness to him—his jawline a shade too sharp, dark circles under wide-set eyes, waist too thin for wide shoulders.

  Jarl Roth looked us over. His eyes went to our cloaks, then our weapons. “I have a dying jarldom that won’t last the winter, and the gods send me a pack of ax-wielding Boneless Mercies.” He smiled then, to take the edge off his words. “Life is … strange. So what have you Mercies to recommend yourselves over all the great warriors this beast has already slain?”

  “Warriors are loud, and Mercies are quiet,” I answered. “There is strength in silence.”

  This was something Siggy used to say if I ever griped about feeling invisible as we moved from town to town, never staying in one place, never lingering long enough to make friends or acquire neighbors or matter to anyone but one another.

  Silence I could understand and accept, but not solitude. Siggy would have said they were one and the same.

  Roth reached out and pressed his hand to the trunk of the great tree. “They built this Hall around the yew—it’s said this tree is so old the god Obin played under its branches as a child. Some believe it hears us and understands what we say.”

  He paused, and his eyes met mine. “Mother Hush told me of your coming. She said you’d sworn to kill the Cut-Queen of the Red Willow Marsh on your journey here. Did you accomplish this feat with your Mercy-silence?”

  I relaxed my posture and slid my ax back into its sheath. “Yes, we did. Elan Wulf is dead … for now.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’ll need to hear more of that story later.”

  Curiosity flickered across his expression, and I liked him the better for it.

  “I am Frey.” I reached out, and Roth and I gripped each other’s forearms in greeting. He was thickly muscled—he’d spent many days training with heavy weapons under hard teachers.

  I turned and nodded at the others. “This is Runa, Ovie, Trigve, and Juniper. We cleared the Red Willow Marsh on our way here and made it safe again. We have come to kill the creature Logafell. Do you accept our offer?”

  Jarl Roth released my arm and put his fist on his heart. “Yes, I accept your offer. You are most welcome.”

  TWENTY

  We feasted that night in the Great Hall of Blue Vee.

  The air smelled of beeswax candles and roast pork. I sat by Roth’s side at the high table, facing the front doors on the far end. Roth’s younger sister sat to my left—a sweet girl named Vale, who shared her brother’s blond hair and gentle, commanding air.

  Of the hundreds of warriors who used to live here, there were now just sixteen. Sixteen still alive out of Roth’s former army. These last men sat by themselves at a table near the giant yew and showed little interest in me or the other Mercies. No doubt they assumed we would die like all the rest who’d come to their aid, and even quicker, being women.

  Trigve and the others sat together at a table nearby, amid a handful of hollow-eyed servants and unnaturally quiet children. The Mercies initially kept their eyes on me, shifting uncomfortably on the wooden benches, but they began to relax after the food was served—the delicious pork, along with honeyed apples, loaves of sourdough bread, and a salty cabbage stew.

  Roth displayed none of the wariness of his warriors. Some people talk at length upon a first meeting and try to sway the listener’s opinion of them, but this jarl said little, and when he did speak, his voice was low and easy. He asked me only basic questions as we ate—what path we’d taken to Blue Vee, and how long I’d been traveling the Borders as a death-trader.

  The meal gave me an opportunity to study him in return, this isolated jarl whose name and troubles were now known across Vorseland.

  Roth carried himself with the gravity of someone in his middle years, but I didn’t think he was much older than me. The candles on the table were tall and bright, and I could see that his skin was smooth and unlined, except for the pink scar. He had a bro
ad forehead and no beard, and his hair hung loose down his back, with one thick braid near each cheek.

  His sister wore her hair in the same style, loose, with two braids. Vale looked to be about Juniper’s age, and she had pale, arched eyebrows and a wide mouth. She picked up a nearby loaf of bread, tore off a piece, and drizzled it with honey from a bowl that sat between us.

  “Blue Vee has the best honey in all of Vorseland,” she said, handing me the bread.

  I took a large bite. Syrupy sweetness spread across my tongue. “My mentor, Siggy, used to say that honey was too sweet for a Boneless Mercy and that death-traders should eat bitter foods.”

  Roth tilted his head to the side. “I disagree with your mentor. I think we should seek what simple pleasures we can, while we live, regardless of circumstance.”

  Vale nodded, braids brushing her pink-tinged cheeks. “You are right, brother. Simple pleasures—like roaring fires during cold snowstorms. Soft, well-made clothing. Lazy, gentle dogs that sleep all day. Loyal family and old friends … What is better than this?”

  “Nothing,” Roth answered, “except honor. And glory.”

  He turned to me again and gave me a long look. Then he shoved his chair back from the table and began to pat his knee with one hand. “Vika, come here.”

  A gray skinny-legged dog near the fire shook herself and ambled over. She licked Roth’s outstretched hand, black nose inching across his palm, and then sat very politely, as if expecting something. Roth gave her the uneaten food on his plate and a piece of honeyed bread besides. The dog took each morsel gently between her lips, and then swallowed it whole. Afterward, she settled down under the table near our feet and heaved a great moan of contentment.

  “Dogs eat and sleep and chase rabbits,” I said. “They have contentment and ease and the thrill of the glorious hunt. They live like the Quicks.”

  “What do you know of the Quicks?” Roth asked, the curious note back in his voice.

  “We rescued two in the marsh. And we almost joined them, before deciding to come here.”

  Vale twisted toward me, eyes wide. “You rescued two Quicks? I’ve often dreamed of running off to the Endless Forests. Though I’m no good with a bow.”

  “I hear it’s a marvelous life,” I said, smiling. “You should hone your archery skills and join them. You seem merry enough to suit their liking.”

  “Frey, are you encouraging my sister to take up with a bunch of woodland rovers?”

  I just laughed. “Yes.”

  Roth laughed then, too, though a dark look crossed his face soon after, as if he didn’t think it was right to laugh when so many were dead.

  All through dinner, I’d expected Roth to tell me of her. Of Logafell. He did not. Finally, I pushed back my plate. “Will the beast come tonight, Jarl Roth? I’ll need to prepare with my companions.”

  “Please just call me Roth. And no, not tonight. The snow has stopped, and the moon is full and bright. Our beast likes to hunt in the dark.” He paused. “What is your plan, Frey? How do you expect to kill this giant when it’s taken the lives of so many others? You must have some plan if you came all this way to offer your services.”

  “How could I form a final plan until we arrived and learned what we were up against?”

  He nodded. “Good point. The previous warriors waited for Logafell to attack, then raced out into the night, blades raised. Is that what you will do?”

  “No. Being a Mercy has taught me how to be patient. How to be quiet. I do not plan to attack this giant on open ground, but to track her back to her den. That is how you hunt a wolf.”

  “You will not find her easy to follow. She leaves no footprints, despite her size. Not in mud or snow.” He paused. “But I have called in mystics from the outer islands, and they will arrive soon.”

  I shrugged. “Yes, perhaps they can help us. Though I’m sick to the bone of mystics and magic after the Red Willow Marsh.”

  Roth leaned forward, elbows on the table. His cheeks looked gaunt in the candlelight. “You keep taunting me with that story, Frey. I would like to hear you tell it. Soon.”

  I nodded. “Supply me a few rounds of Vite, and I’ll play storyteller.”

  I heard someone laugh and looked down the Hall to find Trigve deep in conversation with a petite girl who sat across from him at the table. She had dark hair and wore the yellow tunic of a Royal Healer.

  Juniper had found someone to talk to as well, a young man in a heavy Arctic Bearskin cloak. He had sad eyes, but his smile was sweet and honest. He wasn’t one of Roth’s warriors—he must be the soothsayer.

  Jarls have always employed seers and fortune-tellers to advise them when to plant or war or raid. These mystics often lived in solitary huts outside the Great Hall, spending their time communicating with the gods and seeking visions. I remembered seeing such a hut near the stone pit where the women were roasting the pig.

  I searched the young man’s face, trying to decide if his expressions seemed especially cryptic or prophetic. If he was a soothsayer, he wasn’t very good. He certainly hadn’t helped Roth defeat Logafell.

  I scanned the crowd again. I found Ovie near Juniper, keeping her own counsel, as usual. I expected the same from Runa but was surprised to see her conversing with a girl her own age—one with a swirling blue tattoo on the left side of her face.

  The tattoo marked her as a Glee Starr from the southern Skyye Islands, and she did look somewhat like my tall Mercy, with her dark hair. She was outgoing and cheerful, though, talking and jesting with all around her, whereas Runa was reserved and guarded.

  I lost track of time after this. A servant brought out several kegs of mead, and I started to drink. And drink. And drink. As did all around me.

  When Roth stood and sang the first bars of “Hook, Fire, and Snow,” I joined him along with everyone else, my voice melding into the throng until it became one glorious tone, rising up to the roof.

  We sang “Into the Dark” next, then “Follow the Wolves.” Drink after drink, song after song. And as my lips mouthed the familiar words, something began to ripple through my heart—a feeling I’d experienced in the Merrows but hadn’t recognized until now.

  Belonging.

  This Great Hall, for all its grand tree and soaring ceiling and intricately carved pillars … It was a home. A community.

  The burden of being lone Mercies, of being wanderers and outsiders … I hadn’t realized the toll it had taken, until now. We’d been greeted as warriors here, in the truest sense. Roth’s household had put its fear and sadness on hold for the night and stripped its cellars bare to welcome us with food and song in the way of the sagas. Despite the lean year, despite the sorrow.

  A bold, glorious welcome …

  Before we fought the beast and died like all the others.

  It was the least they could do.

  It was everything.

  * * *

  By midnight I was very drunk and feeling rather sleepy. I was about to climb under the table and curl up next to Roth’s dog … when Runa began to shout.

  The beast. It’s come, after all. Hel.

  My cloak and ax lay in a pile behind my chair where I’d thrown them halfway through the feast. I fumbled for my dagger, knocking plates and goblets to the floor …

  And felt a hand on my arm.

  “It’s just a skin-fight.” Roth nodded down the Hall at the Glee Starr girl. She was facing Runa near the yew. Both had drawn their weapons.

  “Indigo is feisty and shameless,” he said, “but all here love her. She came in last year with a traveling theater troupe and never left. I think she was tired of the road.”

  “I know the feeling,” I said.

  Roth’s eyes met mine. “Indigo trained as an archer before she became an entertainer. She swore her fealty to me with her bow in hand. She has begged me to allow her to leave, to hunt the beast, but I’ve denied her request. She keeps my warriors in good spirits. I’d hate to lose her.” He paused, and his mouth curved into a faint
smile. “I wondered how long it would take her to pick a fight with one of you. She likes to show off to strangers, and there haven’t been many of late.”

  Indigo. All the Glee Starr people were given blue names, like “Cobalt” and “Sky.” It was a charming trait. One I’d forgotten.

  Runa swore again, loudly, then threw off her cloak and boots. She stripped down to her thin under-shift, and the Glee Starr girl did the same. It was a gesture of good faith—no daggers could be pulled from hidden pockets. They would fight skin to skin, bone to bone.

  Roth’s warriors rose as one and pushed back their table to clear a space on the floor in front of the giant yew. Runa moved to one end of the clearing, opposite the blue-tattooed girl. They began to circle each other.

  I caught a glimpse of green hair moving across the Hall, and then Juniper was at my shoulder.

  The girls continued to circle each other, both sizing up the other before making the first move. This was clearly not the first fight for either, though I’d never actually seen Runa skin-fight in all the time I’d been with her.

  Roth and I rose to our feet and drew closer to the crowd that was forming around the two girls, Vale and Juniper following close behind. I could see that Runa was furious, lips tight. And her eyes looked glassy as well—a surefire sign she was drunk.

  Indigo, by contrast, seemed invigorated by the prospect of a battle and was alternatively laughing and yelling harmless taunts.

  Runa made the first move. She threw herself at Indigo, shoving her into a nearby table, and then jumping lightly out of the way when the girl snapped forward, right fist swinging.

  Both girls were thickly muscled and strong as wolves. Roth’s warriors began to cheer, for it was already proving to be a good fight. Runa took an elbow to the ribs, then slammed her fist into the other girl’s lower back. Indigo coughed, turned, and kicked Runa in the face.

  On and on it went. One would fall, then the other, neither staying in one place long enough to be pinned to the ground.