Painted Devils, page 34
“You’ve brought me guests, Prophet,” the Scarlet Maiden’s voice shrills. The thorns weave into a giant squirming mockery of a face. “Why don’t you stay awhile?”
Brunne shoves between us and the thorns. “BEGONE, VERMIN.”
She draws an arrow and swings her bow around in one smooth motion, then lets fly. A spear of moonlight pierces straight through the vines. They dissolve into red mist, just like the one that gored Emeric through the throat in Felsengruft.
Brunne takes my reins, looping them over Ragne’s ears. “This way, quickly.” All the cheer is gone from her face.
She leads us away from Broken Peak, following the Ilsza upstream until we reach a smooth grassy section of level bank. Then she dismounts. “We may rest here while we wait for the Hunt.”
I swing down from Ragne’s back as fast as I can. She immediately shrinks down to a cat and flops onto a spongy pad of moss. “Good night.”
Brunne is pacing around her horse, scowling. “This race was not rightly won. It would dishonor me to claim it as a victory. But neither did I lose. But neither did I win! If not for that wretch, you would have won!”
My own legs give out on me, and I sit in the grass, hard. “I made a wager,” I say heavily, because you don’t cheat Low Gods. “I’ll pay what I owe.”
“Perhaps I can reward you nonetheless,” she ponders. “You are clearly my equal. Would you like to be my wife? We will ride through the skies together until the memory of memory fades, a glory and a terror to all who behold us.”
“That’s very flattering,” I say delicately, “but I’m not looking for a relationship right now.”
“Fairly spoken!” She turns to Ragne. “Would you like to be my wife? We will ride through the skies togeth—”
“I have a wife, probably,” Ragne yowls.
“Would you like another?”
I elect to steer things away from matrimony before Brunne proposes again. “I lost, I can deal with the consequences. Just … can I wait to join the Hunt until May? I’m trying to get rid of”—I flap a hand downriver, toward Broken Peak—“that thing by the end of the month, and I need Henrik to do it.”
Brunne spins on a heel, triumph dawning on her face. “Aha! I have solved it. We have both won and both lost. We will both honor our wager. Sometime in the next three months, you must ride with me for a fortnight. And in exchange, I will grant you your three favors—so long as you do not ask to be free of your ride. Is this fair?”
I almost start crying with relief right then and there. I’m sure Emeric won’t love my two-week sabbatical, but he’ll come around. “Yes,” I say, “agreed. Thank you.”
“No, God Daughters, thank you for the best race I have run since Boderad!” Brunne also sits, crossing her legs. Her horse drops next to her with an earthshaking thud and lays its head in her lap like a hound. She starts scratching its ears, grinning. “It was foolish of me to underestimate a half god. I will not make that mistake again.”
Ragne yawns, tail flicking. “I hope you will not.”
Brunne chuckles. “What favors shall I grant you, then?”
“Ragne, do you want anything?” I ask, since she did the bulk of the work.
“Nyaw,” she says, which I take as a no spliced with another yawn. “I have all I want.”
“Then first, Brunne, I would like you to leave Henrik, Ragne, and me, all together, at my inn in Rammelbeck as soon as possible and no later than the next sunrise,” I say, being extremely specific because I was raised by two Low Gods and know better than to leave things open to their interpretation.
“It shall be done.”
I think for a moment. My goal was just to get Henrik. But there’s one thing Brunne can do for us, something better than any history book or bestiary: “Second … can you tell me what you know of the Scarlet Maiden and the Red Maid of the River?”
Brunne’s face darkens. “Of this Scarlet Maiden, I know little. She is not a Low God, only a pretender, and all I see is her cruelty and pollution when the Hunt passes by.” Then a strangely regretful look steals over her. “The Red Maid … She is my fault, somewhat. It is true that my golden bridal crown rests at the bottom of what is now the Kronenkessel. When Boderad fell chasing me, he wounded the ground so deeply, a spring welled up and swallowed him and the crown both.”
“Is he really the hellhound?”
Brunne nods. “Many of the world’s monsters are born from those who die in great wrath, great sorrow, great greed. Boderad jealously guards my fallen bridal crown, as it is the only prize he will ever win from me. Long, long after us, though, there was a princess who lived in a castle near here. She was betrothed to her great love, but he left to fight for glory and honor in her father’s name. Word came that he died in battle, and the king pushed for his daughter to wed despite her sorrows. He filled their great hall with strong and wealthy suitors, but she had no desire to marry another. So she named an impossible quest; she swore she would marry only the one who brought her my bridal crown to wear.”
Something about that strikes a chord in me, like I know that game, that ruse. Still, I can’t place it.
“Of course, none of her suitors were willing to face a hellhound. They lingered only in hopes she would relent. Then her original betrothed, her great love, returned, alive after all. The princess wished to marry him, but the angry suitors demanded she honor her oath and marry the one who brought her the crown. Her betrothed did not wish to cause strife among the kingdom’s great lords, and so he went to the Kronenkessel and met his fate.”
“He couldn’t defeat Boderad?” I ask, trying not to think of what that may mean for Emeric.
Brunne doesn’t help matters, laughing in disbelief. “Ha! Ha ha! No! No, God Daughter, there was so much blood! The water looked like blueberry wine, so much blood! I had forgotten how much blood a tiny human body contains!”
“Oh,” I say, a bit queasy.
She thankfully sobers. “That was how the princess became the Maid Painted Red, for she was watching from the shore, and her dress was stained so. She wept and she wept and she wept, and her tears became a torrent, and that torrent became the river, and that river became the waterfall of the Kronenkessel. One cannot do such things and stay a mere mortal. For a time, she did bring abundance and protection to the people of the gorge and became known as the Red Maid of the River. Still, she desired my crown above all else and knew no peace without it. Once a year, she would allow one person, unwed and unpromised, to try to fetch it from the Kronenkessel. And every single one died.”
So the origins of the claim have nothing to do with—with sex, or virginity, or anything other than making sure the sacrifice didn’t leave a brokenhearted survivor behind. The real Red Maid wasn’t reenacting her tragedy; she was trying to prevent its repeat. “Why did she go dormant?”
Brunne sighs and starts braiding her giant horse’s forelock. “Even gods grow weary. One cannot live the same cycle again and again, failing each time, without longing for escape. Too many died for that crown, and nothing, nothing changed. So she withdrew, inch by inch, root by root, name by name. Something keeps the heart of her here still, lingering in Felsengruft. But all that leaves the tomb is her river of tears.” A brief quiet falls. Then Brunne lifts her hands, wiggling her fingers, and goes “Woo-ooo-oooo.”
I pretend I did not see that. “Thank you for telling me.”
“It is not entirely my fault, of course,” Brunne huffs. “Yes, they all sought my bridal crown, but many choices led to this. Her father could have said the betrothal preceded her oath and let them wed. Or the suitors could have honored the princess’s wishes above their own greed. Or perhaps the princess could have been given time to grieve and, someday, allowed another into her heart … but instead she made an oath as a wall between herself and the world. An impossible standard that none might satisfy. And it has cost many, many lives since.” Brunne stretches out her arms. “There you have it. That is what I know. What is your third favor, God Daughter?”
Ragne rolls over and stands, stretching. “I hear the Hunt.”
“Then think quickly,” Brunne chuckles, shoving her horse’s head off her lap. It whuffs crossly and lumbers to its feet, then grabs Brunne’s bear pelt in its teeth and hauls her up as well.
“Can I save it for now?” I ask, dusting myself off as I also get up. “I, uh, didn’t plan on three.”
Brunne gives me a shrewd look. “I will suggest that you ask to call on me one time for aid, should you have need. I do not know this Scarlet Maiden, but I like not what she has done to my gorge.”
“For my third favor, I would like to be able to call on you once for aid,” I say with a straight face.
“Such wisdom! Such prudence!” Brunne booms loud enough that her horse rolls its eyes, tail swishing. “Death and Fortune are blessed with such a clever daughter. It will be done. You need only say, ‘Brunne, come to my aid,’ and I will race to your side.” Then she beckons to Ragne and me both. “Come, God Daughters, it seems you will need a ride. Let us join the Hunt!”
The return ride is a blur, and not just because I witness it from the back of a giant horse, clutching a frost-bear pelt; Ragne’s fully passed out, and the night is catching up to me as well. Brunne mercifully drops us off well before dawn, though the hour is still wee enough that few are around to marvel at her.
“Do not forget your favor, God Daughter,” she reminds me as I help an unsteady Henrik off his elk, then lift a sleeping cat-Ragne off Brunne’s saddle. “Once, and only once, will I come to your aid. And when it is time to fulfill your end of the bargain, go to the road in the dark of night, call me by name, and say you are ready to pay your debt, and I shall collect.”
Windows rattle with her laughter all up and down the street, and then she’s gone. The Wild Hunt is a giant misty curl spooling away, far, far into the night.
“What bargain?” Henrik asks, voice rising as he steadies himself against a stucco wall. We didn’t exactly have time to talk while cantering to Rammelbeck.
“The race was a draw,” I say, “so we both agreed to honor the terms of the other’s prize. She granted me three favors, and sometime in the next three months, I’ll ride with her for a fortnight.”
Henrik’s shoulders slump. “I’m sorry you have to do that for me.”
I shrug. “I lived with Death and Fortune for two years, I can handle two weeks with the Wild Hunt. Besides, I couldn’t just let her keep my—my brother.” My awkward laugh comes out in a puff of fog. “Sorry, it’s still a little strange.”
Henrik bites his lip. “It’s not your fault—you were so young, I’m sure you only remember me as…” He slows, an odd look crossing his face. “Did they tell you about me?”
I cock my head as Ragne yawns. “That you’re a poet and a brother at the abbey?”
“You—” he starts haltingly, “you may not remember me … like this. I, er.” He runs a hand through his wavy ginger hair. “I never really felt like I fit at the farm in Kerzenthal. I always thought it was because I liked sonnets and reading and philosophy instead of, you know, farm things. Ozkar was like that, and he left, and I didn’t want to be a burden, so a few years ago I decided to run off to the Imperial Abbey. But it wasn’t safe traveling alone as—as I was … so…” He takes a deep breath. “I cut my hair like a boy’s, wrapped my chest, and put on some of Sånnik’s old clothes, and when I looked in the mirror … I saw me for the first time. Does that make sense?”
Suddenly it does: I remember red-gold braids and hand-me-down dresses, the sibling closest to me in age, who always wove grand stories around our toys as we played together. “It does,” I say. “How did the others react?”
Henrik grimaces with chagrin. “So … I may have panicked and run out of Kerzenthal on the spot. I mean, I was already packed to go, and I thought maybe I was just overwhelmed, but I figured if I got to Welkenrode and didn’t want to change anything … I’d know for sure. And after a few days, I knew: This is who I am. I just had to send everyone letters after, once I got to the abbey, saying, Sorry about that, I’m a friar now, also I’m actually a boy and my name is Henrik. And that was that. I mean, Katrin Little and Helga came to the abbey in person to yell and make sure I was fine, but everyone got used to it by Winterfast.”
“Well,” I say with a tired smile, “when I said it was strange, I meant having brothers, period. And so far I like you a lot better than Ozkar.”
“Whew.” Henrik presses a hand to his heart. “It’s a low bar to clear, but I’m glad I do. Um … do you know where I can get a ride to the abbey?”
I shift Ragne in my arms. “At this hour? I’m getting you a room here, and if you try to argue, I’ll tell Brunne you want to rejoin the Hunt.”
He laughs and scratches the back of his neck. “That would be amazing. I haven’t changed my chest binding in two days, so … I can repay you?”
I wink at him and head into the courtyard. “What’s a little money between family?”
There’s an exhausted clerk at the front desk, and after I shove a respectable stack of white pennies his way, he shuffles off to show Henrik to a room. I, too, feel the drag of the long night as I trudge up the stairs to the honeymoon suite. I can sneak in a few hours of sleep, but then I’ll have to wake up to close the jaws of the trap I set for Madame.
When I push the door open, to my surprise, candles are still burning inside the suite. Emeric is huddled over the room’s meager desk, snoring outrageously in a partial fortress of bookstacks. “At this rate, he’s going to empty out the Imperial Abbey’s library,” I mumble under my breath.
“That’s what I told him,” creaks Lady Ambroszia’s voice from behind a pile of books.
I set Ragne (also snoring outrageously and somehow in harmony with Emeric) on the bed, then walk quietly to the desk. Ambroszia’s sitting with a book across her lap. “He didn’t have to try to wait up for me,” I sigh.
“Oh, he paced around for the first hour solid,” Ambroszia says. “Then he sat down here and started reading like Death herself would give him an exam in the morning … until he keeled right over. Was your gambit successful? Did you reclaim your brother?”
“I did,” I say with a half smile, and set about liberating Emeric’s arms from a small mountain of notes. “Hey, Junior.”
“Hmphrgh,” he retorts, blowing a few pages of notes off the desk.
“Come on, you can’t sleep here.” I decide to borrow one of his own tactics and pepper obnoxious smooches on the side of his face until he sits up with the groan of a martyr.
“You’re back,” he wheezes. “Did you win?”
I decide now isn’t the time for the winning’s not everything, it’s how you play the game speech. “We got Henrik.”
“Knew you could do it,” he says with a bleary grin, rubbing his eyes. “While you were out…” His face ignites with some urgent recollection. He twists in his seat to look at me. “I found it” is all he says before he whirls to face the desk, scrambling through the papers and emerging with a weathered and positively macabre-looking grimoire splayed open.
“Found what?” I ask cautiously.
He jabs a finger into the page. There’s an illustration of a ring of crude figures with their hands outstretched. Each one is tethered to a rusty red line, the lines converging on a single writhing silhouette in the middle of the circle.
No, not converging.
Binding.
“I know,” Emeric says raggedly, “how to stop the Scarlet Maiden.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ENTRAPMENT
I squint at the page, then at Emeric, and say finally, “I’m going to need you to explain this in the smallest words possible. Five syllables maximum, go.”
“Lucky for you, I’m too tired for big words,” he says in an impressive display of brevity that I don’t believe for a second. He fumbles around in the papers and extracts his notebook. It falls open to a page with a narrow column of text.
“‘You are,’” I read aloud over his shoulder, “‘my fire, the one desire—’”
“IGNORE THAT.” Emeric hastily flips to a blank page, then launches another fishing expedition into the cluttered desk.
“Was that one of your poems?” I demand, delighted. “Can I read it? Can I read all of them? Can we send them to a printer and make pamphlets?”
He emerges with a charcoal stick, and I think even his knuckles are blushing. “Absolutely not to all of the above. Now, let’s go over the basic theory. And I do mean theory; the field of magic is all but defined by its inability to be tangibly quantified—”
“Small words.”
Emeric rolls his eyes. “I know you know all those words, but fine. This is our best guess at how magic works, but it’s not true all the time. So. You can divide our reality into two worlds, as it were. There’s the mortal world, populated by humans, plants, mundane animals, and so on. It has limits and rules that seem relatively consistent.” He draws a lopsided circle on the page, then, inside it, adds a stick figure, a tree, and a somewhat-challenging scribble I take to represent animals. “Concurrent but separate from that is the world transcendent.” He adds sloppy whorls around the edge of the circle. “The world of High Gods and Low, demons, grimlingen, spirits, and so on, which is where magic is drawn from. It exists in the same space as the mortal world and is shaped and empowered by the beliefs of mortals. In turn, they can influence and interact with our world in limited ways. So, for example, Fortune exists because mortals believe in an entity that controls luck. That belief gives her power over luck in the mortal world—but only over luck. Any questions so far?”
I frown, thinking. “That makes sense for all the gods and spirits … but what about creatures like the nachtmären? They exist in the mortal world.”
“That,” he says excitedly, “is exactly what you should ask. If our worlds were allowed to fully intersect, it would be disastrous. Any human could harness godlike power and then probably die from the strain, grimlingen could devour entire towns and then probably die because they killed the source of their power…”
