by Marjorie Liu
“I’ll make things very interesting for you, should you come back Monday evening.”
The Lord Marshal patted her waist. “I will count the minutes.”
Carmela smiled and made her way through the crowd, so graceful she might as well have been dancing. She curtsied and murmured her good-byes, encouraging guests to dance into the morning, taking a glass of wine from one of her admirers to draw her tongue over the rim (out of sight from the Lord Marshal, of course), and laughing merrily at some dirty joke that the Duelist felt certain was anatomically impossible.
Only when they were outside the ballroom, deep in the shadows, did Carmela’s smile slip, and that sharp charm dissolve. She passed the Duelist, hissing something completely unintelligible beneath her breath, and made her way through the library. The Duelist always posted guards in that room to keep out roaming guests; these men straightened as they walked past, gazes firmly on the floor and not on Carmela’s breasts, now spilling free of the bodice she was loosening from around her waist with frustrated, angry movements.
The Steward appeared at the foot of the stairs, accompanied by a young maid.
“Get this thing off me,” Carmela snapped, but the ruddy-faced teen was already plucking at the stays. She pulled the dress down her mistress’s body, which was naked underneath.
The Steward had his eyes closed, the cup of tea held out in both hands. Carmela grabbed it from him, drank the brew in one long, grimacing gulp, and tossed the cup to the floor, where it shattered against the stone.
“My lady,” he murmured. Carmela ignored him and proceeded up the tower stairs with only the Duelist behind her.
The tower was high and narrow, a place for prisoners or the doomed. One cell at the top of an endless spiral of stone steps, its dense wall broken only by slits too narrow for a woman to slip through and jump. Murder holes, the Duelist called them. No furniture, save a thick mattress upon the floor. Not even a bed frame. Too much a risk. Sheets, but nothing to tie them to. No bucket for relief, but a small closet with only a hole in the stone floor to squat over. The massive oak door took all the Duelist’s strength to open, and only two people had the key: she and her mistress.
Such were the rituals for falling asleep on a Saturday night.
“Go on, go,” her mistress commanded, already collapsed on the mattress and tugging on the linen nightgown that had been left folded on her pillow. The Duelist obeyed, closing the door and turning the lock. She thought she heard her mistress say something but knew better than to go back inside.
She waited until she was certain Carmela was unconscious to reopen the door and step into the darkness of the tower cell. She sat upon the floor and listened to the other woman breathe.
The Duelist always knew when her mistress was truly asleep. Not just asleep in body, but in soul—when her hold finally relaxed, and she slipped away for good. Her breathing would change in that moment, become something else. Lighter, sweeter. The breathing of another woman entirely.
Another woman, the right woman: the woman whose body her mistress had stolen.
It was in these silent moments of watching, waiting, that the Duelist had first begun falling in love.
The Duelist had bought a book the previous morning while on another errand. Something old and worn, so that the ink from newly printed pages would not rub off on the skin. Nothing that could leave a trace, not even a little, not in the slightest. She often bought books, and chose the subjects just as carefully; last week, a romantic adventure involving pirates and island temples filled with gold; today, a treatise from an ancient philosopher on the affliction of malevolence, which some believed was spread upon the breath of men. The Duelist had learned, long ago, that oppression could be defeated only through study; like a sword, the mind must always be tended to if it was to aim true.
Because it was Sunday, the town house was entirely empty when the Duelist came home from her morning walk to the port. Not one maid, not one footman, not even the Steward or the Cook. Orders from Carmela herself.
“No one else in this whole quarter has a Sunday off,” the Steward boasted. “Ours is a magnanimous mistress.”
Of course, the same quarter also wondered why the entire staff was turned out on Sunday—something that was just not done. The gossips couldn’t decide whether Carmela used Sundays to bathe in the blood of orphans or to offer up unholy sacrifices to the Fallen Gods. After all, beauty such as hers could not come naturally.
It didn’t. And yet it did.
On those secret Sundays when the entire household was dismissed, only the Duelist was allowed to attend Carmela—or even set foot under her roof. Her guard camped outside the front gate, with orders to never allow anyone else to enter the premises, not for any reason, under pain of death.
And no one ever, on any day, was allowed in the tower.
The Duelist, of course, had made herself the exception.
Light seeped through the murder holes, but the young woman was still asleep. Fallen limp among the tangled covers, a thin sheen of sweat on her brow. Long black hair clung to her skin, gleaming beneath shafts of morning light: golden and piercing. Dust motes floated.
The Duelist watched her breathe. It was one of her few joys. It was easy not to confuse the young woman for Carmela, even though they shared the same body. No acidic scowl, no cruel tension in her jaw. Even in sleep, that face was gentler, and more beautiful for it.
The Duelist sat on the floor, close to the mattress. The tower cell had not been built for a woman her size—standing felt claustrophobic, her head nearly touching the ceiling. She always feared, too, that it might be too intimidating for the young woman. The Duelist had never, until three years ago, wished she could make herself smaller.
The book was beside her, along with a basket of food: a soft, bitter cheese, a tender roast dove, loaves of crusted sourdough, and more. She unbelted her sword and laid it on the rough stone. Removed her silk jacket and unbuttoned the collar of her blouse. Unwrapped the wide black scarf that held down the graying curls of her hair, which spilled outward, against her cheek.
“Rose,” she said quietly.
The young woman stirred, slow and drugged, and it was another long moment before she opened her eyes.
“Briar,” whispered the girl, and even her voice was different: her accent, the way she curled the final note of that name.
Her mistress was asleep and Rose was awake.
“I’m here,” the Duelist said. “It’s safe. Take your time.”
Rose’s eyes stayed open, staring at the ceiling. “You shouldn’t say that to me, Briar. There’s no time at all.”
“Not if you waste it,” replied the Duelist, rising from the floor. “Sunday is long. And I have your favorite stinking cheese, and that nectar from the ridiculous fruit you so like. Some formerly fresh bread, too. I thought to tempt you.”
A weak cough broke from between those round lips, those perfect lips. “Oh, Briar. You never change.”
The Duelist frowned. “Forgive me if I offend.”
Rose tilted her head to look at her, mouth tugging into a weak smile. “No. I celebrate you. I am blessed with you. As long as you’re here, I am not alone.”
The Duelist sat very carefully on the edge of the mattress. Rose visibly swallowed. “Anyway, I am starving. The last meal I remember was here, a week ago, with you. That’s the only good in my life. You and this room, just the two of us. I’d lose my mind, otherwise. All that emptiness. All that lost time when I’m asleep and she—she has my body—”
Her voice stopped. After a moment, she held out her hand.
The Duelist almost took it, but caught herself. No contact, not even the slightest. It might wake Carmela early, which had happened once before, long ago, the same day the Duelist realized there was another woman living in that perfect skin. Just one touch, a brush of her fingers against Rose’s hand, and that
was enough to make those eyes change, that mouth tighten into a hard line—a shadow rising to press against the insides of that face like a demon wearing a mask made of human flesh.
“How dare you touch me,” whispered Carmela.
“You were crying for help,” stammered the Duelist, unable to think of a better lie in that moment. “You reached for me yourself.”
“Get out,” said Carmela, swaying and falling to her knees on the mattress. “I sleepwalk, you idiot. Ignore everything you hear inside this room and never disturb me again.”
The Duelist had not survived so long by always taking orders—or curbing her curiosity. The next Sunday, she returned to the room. Found Rose.
They never touched again.
But the Duelist could not help making at least the gesture of a touch: she extended her hand, and their palms hovered close, heat gathering in the air between them. They stayed like that, almost touching. Until it was more than the Duelist could stand.
She placed the book onto the young woman’s open palm. “She has your body, but you are still Rose. You still live.”
“Stop it,” replied Rose, clutching the book to her chest; and then: “I hate this sleeping draught she uses. I can barely move.”
“Here.” The Duelist held out the bottle of juice, but the young woman shook her head, eyes going dark in that way she knew too well, and dreaded.
“How many men this week?” asked Rose, in a quiet voice.
“This accounting does not serve you—”
“How many?”
The Duelist did not want to tell her, but long ago Rose had refused to speak to her until she revealed the truth. The silence had lasted weeks, and left the Duelist forlorn, confused. In that first year of becoming familiar with Rose, understanding what had been done to Rose, she had not often allowed herself to think of what it would mean to be possessed—did not reflect on how it would feel to have some other person inside her own body, controlling, distorting, plundering. The violation, the horror.
These days the Duelist thought of it often and the knowing, while hard, took less work than the not knowing.
That was wisdom, a storyteller had once told her.
It hurts, she had responded, almost casually.
The storyteller had nodded: Wisdom always does.
The Duelist said, “Three different men, but she was with the Lord Marshal every night, as well.”
Rose managed to find her feet and was once again trying to jam her fingers through the murder holes. Just to feel the sun.
“Rose,” whispered the Duelist.
“I’m fine,” said the young woman in a soft voice. “I don’t remember a thing.”
There was a time, in the beginning, when the Duelist considered killing Rose.
It was not her idea, of course. That first year the young woman made the request often—quietly, desperately, angrily—even silently—and those appeals chased the Duelist from the tower at sunset and followed her during those long days escorting Carmela from one appointment to another, watching as lard-heavy men, pale and sweating, drooled over her mistress’s figure. Sometimes they glanced at the Duelist, but only because she was a brown woman with a sword.
The Duelist was not beautiful. She had been blessed with a man’s square jaw and strong nose, and though she was elegant, there was nothing fine, nothing compelling to stare at but the long scar that traveled from her temple to her throat, a duel gone wrong in her youth, a duel with a man who had fast feet. The Duelist was not sorry for that scar. Beauty had a price that she was content never to pay.
“If you wish to be more than a common street fighter, if you want to be a hero, then you must kill me,” said Rose, early on, in a perfectly reasonable voice. “To stop her from doing this to another innocent girl—that would be your prize. I’m dead anyway, you know that. When she’s done with my body, she won’t keep me alive.”
The Duelist didn’t mind those conversations, much. Others were harder.
Sometimes Rose would cry, “What is wrong with you? How can you stand it? How can you watch those men, that witch—all of them using me? Raping me?”
And the Duelist would say nothing.
But sometimes when she stood guard behind her mistress, stood still and silent as Carmela sat naked in her dressing room smoothing oil over those breasts the Duelist knew so well, she thought of what it would feel like to push her sword through the delicate muscles of Carmela’s back, what it would sound like to hear that gasp, smell her blood. The Duelist thought of it often, in the beginning.
She thought of killing them both, some Sunday: the young woman and herself, by sword and rope, or poison. Quick. Holding each other. Touching at last, as she desired, more than anything.
Giving in, giving up. Almost.
Then, one afternoon, Carmela remarked, “Did you see the Lord Marshal’s wife in the garden when we left? The old dodder? Would you believe she was lovely once?” Quiet laughter, slow and mocking. “Beauty is always the first to die, my Duelist. It is the most fleeting of all our mortal gifts, and there is no power in this world that can save it. All we can do is steal time, when we can. Steal moments.” Her mistress gave the Duelist a coquettish look that did not belong on that face, those eyes, that mouth, and gently tapped her nearly exposed bosom, which glimmered with gold dust. “This is a moment.”
“You wear it well,” said the Duelist in a quiet voice.
She decided, right then, that she and Rose would live.
She had not crossed thorny mountains and lifeless seas to die so stupidly. She had not humbled herself, hidden herself, forgotten herself—nor left the desert and her home—to surrender. Not once had she ever surrendered. Not in the war, not when the Torn Men had surrounded her in the Balelands and broken her sword and made her wear chains for a year until she escaped. Not then. She had not wavered. Not once.
She was the Duelist, after all.
“How do you fare?” she asked the young woman, the next Sunday they were together.
“Terribly,” Rose said. “I want to die.”
“You must have hope,” said the Duelist.
“Hope.” The girl barked a laugh. “What is that?”
“To never surrender.”
There were different tellings of the tale, and all were a little true. In each there was a witch, an ancient crone. In every version a comely girl, cursed to sleep. The Duelist had heard them all as a child and scoffed at such nonsense.
Now she was older, wiser. Now she scoured books for such tales, and on those afternoons when her mistress set her free to deliver messages or buy her perfumes, or lurk menacingly upon the stoops of admirers who were a little too demanding, the Duelist always made extra time for herself: to search the city for storytellers, the ones who were blind and toothless, confined to their stools in the shade; the ones who were not fools, who knew there was truth in what they told.
In the desert, storytellers were the keepers of ancient things and could be trusted with secrets. Here, too, in this city across the sea.
There was a girl, the Duelist told them after months of tea, months of listening at their knees. The only child of a desert king. Most beloved, and graced with many blessings. Perhaps too many. Beauty has a price, after all.
Beauty draws many eyes, agreed the storytellers. Some of them unkind.
Yes, said the Duelist, and told them of a witch, a witch in the body of an aging beautiful woman, who had come to the king to seduce him—but only for the purpose of becoming close to his daughter.
A witch who craved power, yes—but who craved beauty even more. Power could be lost and regained—power was fleeting, power was part of a game she loved to play—but beauty was far more precious, far more rare. Beauty could feed a hunger inside the witch that no crown or treasure on earth could ever satiate: a hunger to be seen and adored, and desired.
Except the king was no fool, and neither was his child. Both saw the witch for what she was. Both denied her, drove her away. But not before she promised to take the girl. A curse upon her, a prophetic oath.
Time passed.
The girl became a young woman, still most beloved. But the witch had not forgotten—no predator would give up so perfect a prey. And so she hunted, and she connived, and she made her way back to the young woman, found a way into the desert fortress.
The king was away, gone into the mountains to harry his enemies. And the witch had taken a new body: a sun-wrinkled arthritic old crone who spun fine cloth, and who begged an audience with the young woman. A brief encounter, involving thorns hidden in a bolt of linen, thorns that pricked that perfect skin and drew beads of blood, blood that invoked magic, blood that sent the young woman into a slumber from which she could not wake: a slumber no one noticed because the witch had stepped so neatly into her body.
The witch fled, in that body. Fled across the desert and the sea. And in this new city, she built a home.
And in this home, she hired a guard.
The guard was another foreigner, from another desert. A woman who had lost her family in a hideous war—a war she fought for endless, dire years.
Deadened her heart, said the Duelist to the storytellers. Stripped away joy, all ability to feel the simplest of pleasures. Even love was nothing but a rumor she’d once heard, so long ago she’d forgotten what it was, and who had started it.
The guard believed the witch was nothing but a frivolous courtesan, and felt little for her, barely even loyalty. Until one day she entered the tower where the witch slept, there to perform a duty—and the princess opened her eyes instead.
Their gazes met. And in that moment—
—she remembered love, said the storytellers.
Love, echoed the Duelist. Love did not make the guard clever. She could not find a way to free the princess.