Blood Magic

by Matthew Cook

  Tears. I am crying.

  The realization shocks me. My sister falls silent, her surprise mirroring mine.

  Then I am sobbing, bending slowly to fall to my knees. I lean forward and grasp the loose soil of a refugee's grave, clenching it, holding on as if I fear the earth will shake me into the sky.

  Gods, what is wrong with me? Why does the memory of a man I barely knew, a man that doubtless sheltered his own inner darkness, like all other men, fill me with such sorrow?

  The babe cannot miss what it never had. I know this. Nevertheless, the sobs rip through me, turning my legs to water. Ato regards me, a satisfied smile, the first smile I've seen on his face in weeks, turning up the corners of his mouth.

  "Yes, Kirin, that's good,” he says. “Do not try to hide from the Lady's righteous judgment. Embrace the pain, and in doing so, transform your sinner's soul.” I look up as he approaches. He holds his staff before him, not as a weapon, but in benediction.

  Is this the source of the pain? Am I truly damned? When I knew I was alone, when it was just my soul in jeopardy, I scoffed at such notions, but now I have another soul to worry about.

  Do not do this thing. I can read your heart, and I tell you that this is not the answer. Please, as you love me, do not—

  "I do love you. More than anything. But what if he is right?” Ato flinches back as I speak, his eyes darting to and fro, as if expecting to see one of the infernal lords of the abyss materializing in the darkened graveyard.

  I look deep into his eyes, seeing his fear, his indecision. I see no otherworldly energy there; no lightning, no glimmers of power. The might of his goddess is not with him, or if it is, then I cannot see it. Maybe this is what the priests mean by needing to have faith.

  Do not! Do not do this! This is wrong! This is not the answer! Do not! my sister keens, but her voice is already fading, dimming, like a crying child being lowered down a deep well. Soon, it is gone. Again, I am alone. For the first time in years, alone.

  Never breaking my eyes from his, I sigh deeply and say “I desire forgiveness, brother. Tell me what I must do."

  * * * *

  I am happy in the weeks that follow. The meat I bring suffices for the refugees until the crops they have planted sprout and grow tall in the summer sun. As soon as they are harvested, they are planted again.

  The second planting is still in the ground when the days begin to shorten, as the season begins its months-long slide into autumn. There is still time enough for a second harvest, or so the farmers say. I hope there will be; even with the extra food and the rationing, it looks to be a lean winter.

  Soon after, my burgeoning belly persuades me that riding is no longer safe. I spend my days tending to the sick and injured and training those with aptitude in the use of the bow. Even with one harvest gathered and a second on the way, the meat my hunters will gather will be crucial to our survival.

  When I am not on the archery range, I am with Lia, drilling the refugees strong enough to hold a spear or a knife in the rudiments of combat. Gods know that I watched the army train enough times; I may as well at least try to impart some of that same skill.

  Winter will be hard, but at least I will have someone to keep me warm, I think, stroking my belly's growing swell. Livinia tells me that I am heading into my third cycle, and the baby will grow rapidly now. Already, I have felt its first stirrings and kicks, sitting beside the fire and grinning like a fool at Lia's beaming smile, basking in the sensation of her warm, delicate hands on my belly.

  "He will be strong, like his father, I can tell,” she says. “Such kicks!"

  "He, or she,” I correct her gently. “I do not care which. I just want the baby to be healthy."

  Following my conversion and the lengthy confession of all my sins, things improved markedly between Brother Ato and me. His newfound approval seemed to dissolve the last of the refugees’ lingering reservations, and everywhere I went, all I saw were approving glances and warm, open smiles. My eyes remained as black as ever, but it did not seem to matter.

  I know that every welcome has an ulterior motive. I realize that all here have come to rely on my hunting and my healing, on the herbs I still gather and render into vital medicines, but I do not care. It has been so long, so very long, since I saw smiling faces.

  After that night in the graveyard, my sister has remained silent. I do not know if the power of the Lady has driven her away, as Brother Ato claims, but I sense that she is still with me. Still watching over me. I imagine the scowl she would have on her face hearing me repeat my daily prayers, and I laugh.

  I still cannot work in the mercy tent. I do not know how Ato stands it. So much blood has stained those simple walls. So many screams have echoed inside; the fabric seems impregnated with them. No, I prefer to do as I have always done, and visit those who need my help directly.

  The refugees are too numerous for the manor, even as large as it is, to contain them all. Attempts have been made to make the manor's out-buildings—the stables; the forester's cottage; some simple structures that may have been used for storage—into habitable homes. Others pitch tents, or build round-houses of wattle and daub. Soon the people have scattered, searching out every scrap of shelter.

  My duties take me all along the length of the valley. Livinia tells me that walking will help ease my labor when it arrives, and I plan to stay on my feet until the very last moment.

  I am outside the manor walls, headed for one of the storage buildings, when I hear the commotion. Someone is yelling. A woman invokes Loran Lightbringer, raw panic in her voice. Curious, I approach, wincing as my steps wake fresh pain in my lower back.

  Whoever was yelling has gone by the time I arrive, riding off in a cloud of dust. One of our sentries. A chill runs down my spine, a premonition of ruin. “What is it?” I ask a scared goodwife.

  "Gods above save us!” she says, tears in her eyes. “Oh, gods, no! We must flee!"

  I stare for a moment, already knowing what the sentry said. Only one thing could frighten these people so. Why now, with the babe's arrival so close? Surely the gods do not hate me so much?

  I shake my head, walking off as fast as I can. The people here will only know what they've been told. Panic begins to sweep through the household as the news spreads from person to person. I hear screams and sobs.

  I must get to the castle. Ben Childers will know what's happening. The walls and gate have been repaired. There will be safety there.

  Unbidden, I recall Fort Azure. I see in my mind's eye the Mor, burning their way through the fort's defenders, implacable and unstoppable. Remember the sight of hard, chitinous limbs grasping glowing blades, rising and falling like threshing tools, harvesting human lives. Remember their opaline eyes, shining behind expressionless bone armor, so very lovely yet so very inhuman. So filled with hate.

  "Oh, gods, do not do this thing,” I pray, turning my eyes up to the sky. “Surely you do not so desire the sight of blood, Lady Shanira, that you would let the Mor slaughter these people? High Lord Loran, please, if you are indeed merciful, as Brother Ato claims, please do not do this thing."

  The sky does not answer. The vault overhead is the perfect cerulean of early autumn, studded with storybook clouds, which shine pale orange in the afternoon light. It is incongruously lovely for such grim news, as if the gods are smiling down at the sight of this, their latest jest.

  When I reach the manor, all is chaos. People run hither and yon, gathering supplies. Already scuffles are breaking out in the courtyard, as frightened people turn on one another over food, or a place on a wagon.

  I push through the swirl, one arm cradling my belly protectively, the other outstretched. Soon I reach the keep's main gate. A guard stands there, Bey Rathcliffe, a dairy farmer before the coming of the Mor. He wears a sword, one of the three the refugees brought with them, on his hip. A helmet sits atop his peasant's head. The sight chills me.

  "Let me in,” I demand. “I need to speak to Ben Childers."

 
"M'sorry, mum, but I have my orders. None are to—"

  "Stand aside,” I say. Something hot shifts inside of me.

  My eyes bore into his, as something almost palpable reaches between us. Rathcliffe stares, his mouth hanging open, his eyes glassy. Then, a moment later, he steps aside, woodenly.

  I sweep through the gate and up the stone steps, headed for the empty library that Childers and the other leaders have adopted as their meeting hall. I hear voices, raised in heated argument, from the top of the steps. As I approach, words resolve themselves.

  "We must flee, Ben! You know it is the only way!” a woman's voice says. Other voices join it, clamoring for attention, agreeing or disagreeing, it is impossible to say.

  "No, no, no!” Childers thunders over the babble. The voices fall silent. I mount the steps, hissing as the motion stabs painful daggers into my back. I haul my ungainly body up, huffing with effort.

  "We have worked hard to repair the castle's defenses,” he continues. “Trust them, and the training that Kirin and Lia have labored so hard to give us. We all know what to do. If we try to flee, the Mor will pursue and eventually catch us."

  The cacophony resumes, the words indistinguishable. I reach the top of the stairs and hurry towards the door. Ben tries again to speak above the clamor, but they are no longer people to be reasoned with. They have become a mob.

  I reach the threshold and look inside. It is as I imagined: a knot of frightened humanity, circling their leader, arms outstretched and beseeching, fingers equally ready to grasp at hope or curl into a fist. Childers tries again to speak to them; I see his mouth open as he tries to be heard, but they are not listening.

  "Enough!” I shout, the heat in my belly filling the word with the essence of command, slicing through the din like a sharp knife. They turn, as one, their individuality erased by the power of the mob. Their eyes roll, wide and filled with panic.

  "Ben is right!” I say. I know I have but moments to make myself heard. “Make no mistake; any who leave will be slaughtered. Your only chance is to stay here, behind high walls, and fight!"

  "But ... the Mor will—” a goodwife begins. I cut her off with a sneer.

  "The Mor will chase you like hounds after a lame fox. When that happens, when they run you to ground, they will burn you alive, from the inside out. Your children's eyes will smoke and steam, and fly from their skulls. Their tongues will blacken and their hair will crisp as they scream for you to save them. Is that what you want?"

  The goodwife's mouth flops open, shocked and speechless. Better. Inside, the hot thing unfolds vermilion petals, like an enormous flower. I bite back a laugh of pure exultation.

  "Lia and I have done what we can to prepare you for this. Now they have found us. If they are but few, we still might live to see a new day. We have weapons and a strong wall. And, we have Lia's power; the power of the storm. It is a fearsome thing.

  "But all of us, if we want to live, must fight. None can flee, for that path leads only to death."

  The mob dissolves, I see it go, turning back into a collection of frightened people. Its shadow still lingers over the room; it can return at any moment, but for now, they are focused, are in control of the crippling, fatal fear.

  "The people look to you to lead them,” I say to them, gently now. “So lead."

  As one, they shuffle out, their eyes glazed, shocked. I know that they will do as I bid them, at least until the first sight of the Mor. Then, who knows?

  Ben Childers approaches, and waits until we are alone. He, too, looks at me with painful hope, an unspoken plea graven in his face. “We're not going to win, are we?” he asks, his eyes begging me to tell him that he is wrong. “They're going to kill us all."

  I take his hand and grasp it tight, then shake my head. “Not this time, they aren't. Before today, I had nothing to live for. But now—” I stroke my belly “now, I cannot, I must not, believe that. Now I have a responsibility greater than myself."

  The memory of Lia fills me, the simple recollection of her, looking down at me as I lay in her lap, singing. The sun making a corona of her hair.

  For months I have run. Months of blood and pain and tears. Months of fear and desperation. But I am done with running. It ends here, for good or ill.

  It ends here.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  "Quiet now, lads,” I whispered, checking the fit of the arrow on the string. “Don't move from this spot."

  Behind me, Jazen Tor breathed something to the rest of the hunting party. The men remained motionless and silent. I stalked forward, eyes scanning the ground for dry leaves, or sticks, or anything else that could make noise.

  Across the glen, a group of deer grazed at the edge of the trees. Their hides blended almost perfectly with the lush browns and greens around me. They were cautious, as deer always were, never bending all at once to eat, their graceful heads constantly swiveling to scent the air.

  The breeze blew into my face, carrying my scent away from my prey. The long grass sheltered me. I was close, almost close enough to take my shot.

  Behind me, one of the men made a sound, a tiny thing, but the deer heard it. Every head came up, then turned as one to face the place where I had left Jazen and the rest.

  The deer gathered themselves to spring away, and I rose and drew the feathers back to my ear. My mind was calm, quiet.

  My shot caught a doe in the throat as it bounded forward, bringing it down in a tangle of spindly limbs. The men rose, baying like hounds, and pelted through the clearing, headed for the place where the doe had fallen.

  "You'll scare away all the game for miles, fools!” I hissed as they ran past. They either did not hear or did not care. Moments later, they reached the place where the animal still thrashed and struggled. I saw a knife flash, and its struggles fell still.

  "Well shot,” Jazen Tor said, stepping behind me.

  I turned, a smile playing across my lips. “Thank you, sir. I'm just happy to be of assistance."

  Jazen grinned and sketched a brief bow, then moved past, headed to where the men were gathering up the kill. I watched him as he walked away, my eyes lingering across his wide shoulders and narrow hips. His hair, worn long in the style of the northern hinterlands, was pulled back into a horse's tail tied with a blood red cord.

  I had guided this, the third ranger company of the Imperial army, for almost a month, blazing trails and bringing down game. Rory's name had earned me an interview with the leader of the Empire's scouts, and my skill with my bow had earned me my position. The commander had been disturbed at first by my black eyes—most people were—but the five arrows I grouped in the center of the range's furthest target seemed to dissolve his concerns swiftly enough.

  Even after five weeks in the field, Jazen, their sergeant, was still a mystery to me. At first blush, with his coarse demeanor and wild hair, he seemed like many other inhabitants of the untamed borderlands. But, on the occasions where we had spoken, around the fire after a meal, it swiftly became apparent he was better educated than the usual settler's son. We talked of art and religion, and of the fickle nature of the gods, and for the first time in years I was thankful for the education Mother had forced us to endure.

  Their Captain, Hollern, however, was an open book, one that I had been forced to read countless times. Pious. Mistrustful. Tentative. A man ruled and defined by his fears: fear of dying, fear of the afterlife, fear of judgment and of being found lacking. A man whose understanding of the world was limited to what he could see and touch, and whose comprehension of the deeper mysteries went no further than the closest priest.

  Watching Jazen supervise the men, expecting respect rather than loudly demanding it as Hollern often did, only served to make him that much more attractive. Unbidden, I thought of the way his hair, unbound in the evenings around the camp fire, would catch the firelight, throwing it back in shades of chestnut and ruddy bronze, the dark spill framing his angular face and curling beside his muscled neck. Even then, I wanted to bury m
y face in that hair, to see if the reality of its scent matched my imagination. Wanted to knot my fingers in it and pull back his head; to watch his eyes close in ecstasy as I devoured his throat with kisses.

  I cannot, I told myself. I will not. Jazen, for all of his fair looks and commanding presence, was just a man, with a man's weaknesses. True, he did not look at me like a hungry wolf eyeing a haunch of meat like many of the men, even as they sketched the sign of Loran or Shanira behind my back—Hypocrites! Cowards! my sister hissed at this thought—but he would doubtless show his true face soon enough.

  The men returned, grinning and laughing, with the deer slung across a pole. The animal would make an excellent meal. Jazen nodded and smiled as he passed, brushing against me as he did. My skin tingled at the contact, as if his touch were charged with gentle fire.

  I shook my head and moved to follow them. The camp was not far, just over the next ridge. Our sentries had reported nothing of note in days, so I allowed my mind to wander as I walked, constructing pleasant fantasies even as I derided myself as a weak fool for doing so.

  Gods, look at you, mooning over him like some witless pig farmer's daughter, my sister said with a snort. If you want him that much, please, by all means, take him and be done with it.

  "Hollern hates me enough as it is,” I whispered back. “Fraternizing would only make things worse. Jazen says that

  Hollern has been looking for a way to have me reassigned since the first day I joined them. I tell you, when he looks at me, I could swear that he knows."

  Hollern may be a captain in the Imperial army, but despite his rank he is still just a jumped-up peasant's son. He is not educated; he is ignorant and superstitious.

  "Exactly. He takes every opportunity to speak with the priests, and to unburden his soul of his sins. When he speaks of me to them, who knows what they tell him?"

  She remained silent for several minutes, then said, What does it matter if they tell Hollern that you can speak to the dead? Will they command him to abandon you out here? No. He has his orders, and they say that, like it or not, you are his scout. His kind never have the courage to think for themselves, or to disobey.