A Fray of Furies, page 8
part #2 of The Waking Worlds Series
“Are you lost, goodmother?”
It took every grain of her control not to lash out in panic.
“Oh!” she turned, playing the good-hearted granny for all she was worth, “Oh! You startled me, dearie!”
She got her first look at the fledgling. She’d half-expected a runty runaway in roughspuns.
The cloak of leaves boasted every color of Autumn, standing stark against snowy skin. Golden eyes looked down from sockets painted purple. Upon her tall head rested a crown of glass. No, ice. A crown of ice.
It was all artifice off course. Given a moment, she could make herself look as impressive. But she’d had decades of practice. And there was nothing imaginary about the power weighing her down.
She made a show of being overawed.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, great lady,” she bobbed awkwardly. “I be Malaika, lady. A witch, same as you. Well, not same-same, obviously,” she laughed uncertainly, smoothing her threadbare dress. “I been feelin’ your power on the wind, lady. And I has come to warn you.”
“Warn me, goodmother? Whatever of?”
“The black-uns, your ladyship. Them priests what calls themsel’s the ‘Quisitori’. Oh, they be bad business, lady. Bad business for them s’ch as you an’ me. Witch hunters they are. Burns us at the stake, they do. You needs be careful mistress, so as they don’ sniff you out. They’s got them wily ways,” she tapped her nose knowingly.
“We’s been hidin’ from ’em for years-an’-years, lady. Gotten right good at it, we has. Like me, I learnt from Goodmother Unda, who had it from Goodmother Kiki.”
She moaned worriedly, for effect, “Oh, but I’s can tell you hasn’t had anyone to learn you, mistress. They be finding you for sure.”
She brightened as if the idea had just occurred, “Maybe I can shows you, mistress? Learn you the proper ways to hide?”
This was it.
Not how she’d have chosen her first overture. And this subservient role was going to chafe something fierce. But it would be worth it, when her sisters were bowing and scraping before her.
A stunning smile spread across the witchling’s face.
“I thank you, Goodmother Malaika, for the warning. But I do not fear the priests…” the golden gaze tracked west, as if she could see the Lily’s spire. “I am beyond any harm they could bring.”
“Lady–” she made to protest.
“You, on the other hand,” the smile returned. “You mean to use me. You dream of it so strongly I can taste it on you.”
Around them, the nightmare blooms rocked menacingly.
“I will never be used again, goodmother. And dreams? Dreams are my domain…”
Malaika saw her death mirrored in those golden eyes.
Panic lent her power and she threw herself against the witchling’s untrained hold. She shot away across the sky, the ether stealing her sight of the terrible child.
Her forceful return threw her body from its blankets. She scrabbled to rid herself of the upset fire’s embers. When she was merely smoldering, she knocked the kettle off the coals. There was no time to eat or sleep. If the tin had not cooled enough to carry by the time she’d packed her bedroll, she would leave it.
* * *
Her feet were mallets on the drum-skin of the world. They beat in time to the pulse of the stars. She whooped her victory, showering fellow dancers with petals – remnants of her champion’s wreath. The earth danced too, bucking beneath her. Soft shoulders and shoving hands kept her upright. Heat from the bonfire buffeted her as she whirled from the dancers’ circle.
She gasped in the cooler air, falling cross-legged into her seat among the younger champions. Momentarily lightheaded, she almost overbalanced. Helpful hands steadied her and passed her a fresh bowl. She drank deeply. The fermented milk was laced with honey and cloves. It tasted like acclaim.
“You’re good,” someone observed as she drained it.
“Yup,” she agreed, “I am Cussbird Blackwater. The very hills tremble at my passage…” she fought a belch and lost “…of wind.”
“Obviously. But I meant your dancing. You’re very good.”
She accepted this as her due. Today, she could do anything. Including putting five arrows in the bull at three-score paces, spaced so you couldn’t fit a finger between them. In the end, it had been down to her and Jorum Yellowshaft, who’d held the wreath more seasons than she’d been alive. She’d matched him, shot for shot. The judge, a Hillhopper elder, had been forced to call for new targets at four-score paces.
“No need, honorable elder,” Yellowshaft had told the crowd. “I am bested. Kassika Blackwater is the better archer.”
And the aging champion had nodded respect to her! Her feet had hardly touched the ground since. As the evening wore on, disbelief waned. Her newfound conviction continued to wax.
“The secret,” she shared, “is knowing how to use a saw.”
This was met with general hilarity. Who’d known she was funny? Bellem hardly ever laughed at anything, the dour lout.
She frowned betrayal at her dry bowl.
“Here…” her admirer rescued, swapping it for one that sloshed.
“Better?” A consoling hand patted at her thigh.
She considered the full bowl, felt a smile break over her strangely numb face, “Much!”
It emptied in a few, long gulps. She sighed contentedly as she handed it back. Fingers brushed hers where they cupped the wood. She looked over. Then up.
Hammerman muscles gleamed in the firelight. His topknot made him Highburrow. His neck tattoos – barely outlined – put him at close to her own age. A faint scar at his eye-corner lent him a mischievous mien. His honest smile was a force in and of itself.
“Huh?” she breathed, aware she’d missed something.
“I said, ‘would you like another?’”
“Um… Yes?”
He produced a full bowl as if my magic. Somehow, this left his hand on her knee. She felt no immediate need to remove it.
“You’re the hammer champion…” she mused, struggling. Her recollection was as opaque as her fermented milk.
“Serus, son of Korus,” he inclined his head formally.
“I’m–”
“Cussbird,” he nodded in mock seriousness. “Yes, we heard.”
She growled at him. Still. He was a fellow champion.
“Call me Kassi,” she compromised. “I saw you compete…”
Everyone had. The hammer always drew the greatest crowds.
“I was lucky,” he admitted modestly. “Erko of Coldhearth injured himself at stone toss. And your own Ordula favored the axe over the hammer this year. Otherwise, I don’t think I’d have won.”
He settled the flowery crown more firmly on his head.
The hammer was unlike the spear, the axe or even the sword. Hammermen could not test their mettle against one another. There simply was no way to make a two-handed sledge any less lethal. Even a partially parried blow could cave in someone’s chest. Their obstacle course tested strength, speed, stamina and skill. After a fair jog and hammering a field of stakes, they traversed a gauntlet of pendulous urns, some to be smashed and some not.
“‘Courage is a liar and Skill is a miser with Luck the decider,’” she quoted her father, slurring a bit. Then she continued to paraphrase: “If you won, you won. Don’t overthink it.”
“Sound advice,” he agreed. His teeth were strong and straight.
Flustered, she eyed him over the rim of her bowl as he traded words with friends in the gloom.
He fascinated her. She hadn’t noticed him at previous Pacts. But then, she hadn’t been looking. And he hadn’t been wearing a wreath. Still, something about his scar tugged at her memory…
She started guiltily under his renewed attention.
“Not to worry,” he forgave her spill. “Here, have mine…”
Callused hands deftly switched their bowls.
She found herself staring at his lips, desperate for something clever to say. Stalling, she hid in her drink, hoping to swallow some witticism. But the wooden grain offered no insights. Was this what being a champion was always like? If so, it was exhausting.
“I’m tired,” she realized, slumping.
“I have a cure for that.”
She sipped from the restorative being pressed to her lips. The goat’s milk steeped her bones, softening some part of her she had no name for. This was not the familiar fatigue of a day spent in the woods. This lethargy was heavy and warm as a heap of furs.
Her vision filled with the night sky. The stars swam peacefully past, like silver salmon in their inky current.
“What are you doing in my river?” she demanded of the moon.
“I could as easily ask what your head is doing in my lap.”
She luxuriated in the feel of moonbeams, combing her hair.
“I got it in the bull’s eye,” she declared muzzily.
“It looks like I will, too.”
It took her a moment to realize it was not the bowl being pressed to her lips. She returned the kiss. The velvety, warm mouth on hers was a novel experience. One she was not eager to give up. But her bladder would brook no more delay.
“I’ve got to go,” she griped.
“I’ll come too,” the moon promised.
“Of course you will,” she scoffed. Everyone knew the moon followed you wherever you went. It was curious like that.
She levered herself up, aware of hands aiding the effort. They steered her toward the trees, away from the fire light.
A bony elbow punctured his vigil.
Starting, he nearly let spill a nervous curse.
“Apologies, honored elder,” he amended. The old woman hardly fit the honorific. She lounged like a deflated bladder, her furs and scalp both balding. Not the dinner companion he’d have chosen. But this seat offered the best lookout.
“I said,” she smacked toothlessly, “you should go talk to her.”
“Who?”
A wet cackle sounded, “The girl you’ve been eyeing all night!”
He sought out Kassika, carousing with the other champions.
“You misunderstand, elder,” he explained. “She’s my cousin.”
The old woman guffawed lewdly, “Better yet! You’ve not tasted rut ‘till you’ve rolled a cousin!”
He drew back in embarrassment, “I–!”
It was the epitome of rudeness to gainsay your elders. Even if they were senile. Or incestuous. He kept his peace and his vigil.
Kassika had always been proud, prickly and compassionate to a fault. But common sense was not her strong suit. Even as a child, she’d rushed in blindly when honor demanded – and often when it didn’t. She needed looking after. Especially here and now.
The Pacts presented a unique opportunity for all manner of misbehavior. Casual conflict was common and more easily forgiven. Much of what the young people got up to was completely ignored. If only because it was oft discovered long after the tents had been struck. Unless it ended in maiming, parents and elders could be trusted to turn a deaf ear.
This had given rise to an unspoken oath among the youth: leave the elders out of it.
Though it was not a blood oath, breaking its silence still brought banishment. At least, by one’s contemporaries. It was a stain often carried into adulthood and a stricture easily exploited.
He’d seen ten summers when he’d run afoul of a roving band of bullies. The kind that ran rampant through the Pacts. The three had been a handful of seasons older than he and envious of his name-day gift. His father had traded with Deepmeadow for that skinning knife and his mother had beaded the sheath with her own hands. They’d had to beat him near to blackout before he’d let go of it.
He still remembered the sound of their laughter.
They were all at that awkward age where the girls’ growth spurts had left them behind. Kassi’s sudden arrival had been an ungentle reminder.
The first two had gone over easily, too surprised to mount more than a token defense. Not so their leader.
They’d grappled with each other for a throwing hold. Until the older boy (a vicious thing) had head butted Kassika on the chin. As they’d stumbled apart, sliding steel had lent a cutting edge to the silence. The boy had stood, skinning knife bright in his hand.
The forest had held its breath as they’d closed.
His nightmares often revisited that furious flow of feints and thrusts on him. The certain knowledge that Kassi was about to die by his knife. The piercing fear that pinned him to the forest floor.
The sick snikt! of parted flesh. A startled gasp as the two broke.
Kassi, holding the knife. The bully, cupping his eye.
Blood.
She’d taken a threatening step. Their attackers had fled.
The beating he’d taken was as nothing to the fight that had followed. Three blustering bullies would never admit to being bested by a girl. But Kassi had been reluctant to give up her vengeful crusade. Even at ten, he’d known better. Fisticuffs among unblooded boys was one thing. A chief’s daughter, drawing steel – and blood – from another tribe… that was something else entirely. She’d have seen herself shunned, a violator of the unspoken oath.
She’d not have cared. But he did.
He’d managed it. By wheedling, lying and outright bribery–
“You’d better hurry,” the elder drew him back to the present.
“I’m sorry?”
She pointed.
He started. Kassi lay supine, head cradled in some hulking champion’s lap. His thick fingers combed through her hair, the two of them exchanging conspiratorial words. And then he was helping her to her feet. Other champions voiced suggestive inquiries. The hulk threw back his head and laughed in response.
Across the space of a half-dozen summers, that laugh pinned him back to the forest floor. A lamed eyelid found him. Winked.
“No!”
Serus of Highburrow lead Kassika away, his arm like a declaration of intent around her hips.
“Too bad,” the old woman next to him opined.
She was drowned out by a choir of imprecations. He forged his way directly through the diners and in among the dancers. Whirling elbows clipped him and he stumbled perilously close to the bonfire but eventually he won free.
He accelerated as he plunged in among the nearest tents. If he hurried, he could cut them off where–
–the ground smacked him in the back of the head.
Wait… the ground?
Above him, the night sky screeched. He fumbled for whatever was crushing his chest. (A moccasined foot?)
The stars vanished. The new darkness birthed two heads.
“Remember us?” one of them said.
With the tents left behind, snow overtook the ground once more. Though the ankle deep crust crunched and her breath fled in puffs, the cold was a distant thought.
Judging herself hidden by the trees, she fumbled at her leggings. Not wanting to show the world her bare ass, she turned – and stilled in shock at seeing she was not alone.
He eclipsed her view of the tents.
“You need to turn around,” she sputtered.
His smile stood bright against the snow-lit dark.
“No need to come over all shy,” he breathed, stepping toe to toe with her. He loomed. Large hands against her neck.
And then his mouth was on hers.
For a moment shock held her still. His warm tongue slipped between her lips, bulled its way into her mouth, rolled playfully with her own. It did not fully comprehend this new game but was willing to play.
For a moment – just a moment – it was wonderful.
Then the reality of what she was doing jerked awake, a sleepy sentry to the rasp of steel.
She flung out her hands, pushing against solid muscle. It freed her tongue but her head stayed caught in his vice.
“Besides,” he whispered moistly, “I’d rather you turn around.”
He spun her effortlessly. She thought to step away but he drew her into him by the throat. In horror, she felt his free hand dip beneath the hem of her jerkin. It slithered up her bare stomach to cup one of her breasts. Disbelieving, she felt rough calluses play over sensitive flesh. His teeth closed on her shoulder.
“Wait–” she tried to say.
Quick as a snake, his grip on her neck changed. She found herself plastered up against a tree, spitting bark.
In a moment of terrible realization, she guessed what was burning a hole through his hides and hers in the small of her back. She arched away, clawing over her shoulder toward his face. The trunks of his arms were too thick to reach around. Somehow she managed a hold of his topknot. She pulled savagely but only succeeded in loosened his teeth from her shoulder. His tongue flicked into her ear, riding a grunt of pleasure.
Abandoning her breast, his hand sought the ties to her leggings.
Cold terror sobered her.
She flung back her head, feeling the bite of teeth in her scalp.
“Aaargh!”
She spun into the slack, fist swinging blindly. His hand shot up, enveloping her entire face to propel her off her feet. The tree cracked the back of the head.
Dazed, she felt herself sinking into the snow.
“It didn’t have to be like this, you know,” his voice rang from somewhere above her. “It could have been real nice. Romantic, even. Up to a point, at least. ‘Blood for blood’, as they say.”
He scoffed, “I’d have been content to screw you while you snored and mumbled into the snow. The thought of you, waking up tomorrow: bare-assed, with a frost-bitten twat, wondering what happened. That would have been enough for me.”
He seized the waist of her leggings. A foot in her stomach anchored her. She struggled for breath as he strained upward. Corded leather bit into her buttocks. The world dimmed before leather snapped with a dull retort.
Relief mixed with cold. An uncaring hand gathered her ruined leggings in a noose around her knees, pinning them to one side. One arm was trapped beneath her, the other in his grip. Shoulders and hips strained, at odds. A new, warm weight bore down on her.
His face swam into her view.
