The Rising Scythe

by S G Dunster

  Thessaly shook her head, and her aunt reached up to a stone shelf for a small leather purse gathered with a thin thong. She held up the figure eight, supple and gleaming a sudden dazzle as a ray from the window struck it. “I have never told you the silk’s true name,” she said. “Byssus, it is called.” She stuffed the byssus cord into the pouch. “Tie it to your skin, under your skirts. Quick now.” Her eyes strayed to the door, and she pulled the strings tight on the purse, cinching it, holding it tight in her grasp for a moment as Thessaly reached for it, then releasing the strings so the weight in the pouch dangled from Thessaly’s hands.

  “Careful now,” Margarida said. “A touch is a choice, and I would that you wait. You must, must speak with your other teacher first, before you choose. Please heed me,” she added, interrupting Thessaly’s protest.

  Thessaly hesitated, fingering the gathered opening, and then nodded, though her whole being seemed to sink, to tighten. Why did she have to wait? Didn’t anyone believe she knew her own mind?

  But her aunt’s words had a force to them. A seriousness.

  She could choose whenever she liked, Thessaly thought. If a touch was a choice, it would be simple. She could even choose as soon as she got back to her cabin. It was still her choice. To heed or not.

  Her choice.

  And eventually, everything would be her choice. Her father could not compel her, once magicks claimed her.

  She took a deep breath and blew out all the fear.

  “Si, amor,” Margarida said. “You shall be a sage, whatever it is you choose in the end. Quick, or we shall be interrupted before you like.”

  Thessaly took the tethers and bound them at her waist, under the shift and dress. Sitting against her skin, the pouch felt warm, intimate. A touch.

  Just as her skirts were back in place the door burst open, banging against the wall.

  “Margie,” Antonio growled, eyes blazing, teeth bared.

  “Tony,” Aunt Margarida replied, turning to look at him serenely.

  Antonio’s gaze flicked over the damp, nearly-transparent shift, gleaming with gold embroidery, and he took a step back. Margarida kept a steady gaze on him. “Would you and your men like some tea?”

  Antonio shook his head. “We’ll not disturb you, Sister. And Thessaly, wench of mine, should not’ve, either without notice,” he glared at her, “nor permission, nor an escort.”

  “I have enjoyed her visit,” Margarida replied, pouring several cups full of the herbal tea she’d kept on the stove. It smelled very fragrant as it had steeped all night, and the two men—Jose, clerk on the gunship Virtude, and Rauel, pilot of the same—stared longingly.

  After a moment, Antonio grunted and all three sat, gratefully accepting the warm drink, while Margarida bustled around cleaning and putting away dishes. Thessaly noticed she tucked the knife into her palm and set it discreetly in a shadowy shelf in the corner.

  “How have you been, Sister?” Antonio asked. He looked at Thessaly, then away.

  “Better than you, from what I hear. A scuffle in Joao’s courts?”

  “A matter of honor.”

  “Spilled blood?”

  Antonio set his cup down forcefully, making the table rattle. “Spilled for honor.”

  “And now?”

  Antonio looked directly at Thessaly, then, “I beg pardon, Daughter. It was not your error. I should not have cuffed you so.”

  Margarida’s smile spread over her face, and Thessaly stared at her father. She could not remember the last time she’d heard him apologize to anyone.

  “And now?” Margarida repeated.

  “Milan,” Antonio grunted. Thessaly realized, suddenly, he was very uncomfortable. Wary. And somehow, buttoned. Caged. Very unlike him. And very strange.

  “Come with me, child,” Margarida said to Thessaly. “I have a gift to give you before you leave.”

  “No,” Antonio said, jumping suddenly from the chair, overturning it.

  “A pouch of herbs,” Margarida continued smoothly, “to ease the monthly burden.”

  Antonio sat slowly, his face reddening.

  Thessaly followed her aunt outside to the jutting cliff overlooking the sea where she had pots blooming with plants. She snipped off several leaves, put them in a pouch. “This is sage,” she said quietly. “Burn it to clear all magick workings. This,” she held up another linen sack she was filling, “is Acacia. It will protect you from the workings of others, and help you clearly see what you will. Keep it on your person when you see your Aunt Umbra.”

  Thessaly nodded mutely and took the packages.

  “The thing your father does not want me to give you, that is what you carry at your waist.” Margarida grasped her by the shoulder, brought her closer, looked her in the eye. “It is holy. Not to be trifled with. Touch it only if you are choosing. And realize that, as you choose, you defy your father and put yourself out of the safety he’d give you.”

  “You would that I defy him, then,” Thessaly said. A warmth ran through her. “I am glad to know it.”

  “It is not defiance,” Margarida replied, “He is your father, but all are free. All should choose. Remember that, Thessaly, as you work the magicks. To choose is life. To be coerced, to be forced, that is death. There are many workers who find power through bringing death, but that power burns inside; it devours and twists.” She fixed her with a glare. “You coerced your father last night. You put floes in him without asking, without giving him choice. He felt it, he knew. You frighten him. And it’s right that he is frightened.”

  Thessaly opened her mouth, shut it.

  Margarida shook a finger at her. “You can choose. But remember. Death burns. Death twists. You become something other if you use the magicks to work death. And to take another’s body—that is the working of death magicks. That is the left-hand path. You do not want to follow that hollow way.”

  Thessaly’s tongue felt thick, her throat cold as ice. She couldn’t speak even if she wanted to this time. She nodded.

  “And if you choose,” Margarida patted her own hip where the pouch rested on Thessaly’s, “you must come back a time and see me. I’ll have more to tell you. When you choose, nobody will be able to force you to a life you’d not live. Do not force others, Thessaly. But do not allow others to force you, either.”

  Thessaly watched her for a moment. Her aunt smiled. The lines around her eyes and mouth reminded Thessaly of ripples in water. She glowed in the rising light of the sunrise. Impulsively, Thessaly grabbed her and hugged her tightly. “I’ve missed you, Aunt.” Her mouth seemed to warm, her tongue to loosen as she spoke the words.

  “And I’ve missed you. But now, go. Be a dutiful daughter, until you can’t.” She let out a soft laugh and gently shoved Thessaly away.

  The men were pacing, prowling around the tiny cave-cottage. Thessaly’s father stared down at the knife lying in the corner, and looked up, starting as they entered. “Come Thessaly,” he said grimly, taking her shoulder firmly. “We must be away from these coasts. We’ve been banished, and Joao gave us until sunset to leave his waters.”

  Thessaly didn’t say anything all the way down to the beach. The journey remained quiet across the water to where Espada waited, grand and towering, a castle on the water. The men, usually prone to jokes and loud laughter and grunts as they took the oars, were subdued.

  “Uma bruxa,” Jose said finally, glancing at Antonio.

  “A powerful one. A wearer of white,” Rauel agreed. His tone was reverent, awed. “How come you never told us, Sir? Your own sister, a wearer of white. We should bring an offering when we come next.”

  Antonio’s face hardened. The men saw, took note, and were silent the rest of the way.

  Chapter 4

  O

  n ship, Thessaly retreated immediately to her cabin. She half-expected her father to follow her and give her a good belting. He let her go, but she felt his eyes on her back all the way up the stairs to quarters.

  Guzal waited there. Her fac
e was anxious, and when she saw the disarray of Thessaly’s hair and garments, she clucked disapprovingly. “It’s a sponge bath for you, maid. And a new shift, and . . .” she looked her up and down and sighed.

  Thessaly strained to contain herself, then shook her head. “Guzal, leave me,” she said. “Please.”

  Guzal looked at her, nodded, and left.

  Thessaly dug off the pouch at her waist. She opened it, peeking in. The coil of cord gleamed immediately in the light streaming in from the window. She brought it to the window and it blazed, leaving spots in her vision. She reached out a finger, tingling all over. She could feel the floes in it—a flame of gold in her inner sight near as bright as she saw with her physical eyes. It felt cold, in spite of the warm color. Clean. Free.

  Her aunt’s words pinioned her, though, before she could brush it with a fingertip. Before she could choose.

  See Umbra first. You must acquaint yourself with both sides before you choose. Margarida in that holy white shift, blazoned with the gold of her office. Rising from the well, a tangle of byssus clutched in her hand, knife in the other.

  She was not going to disobey Margarida.

  If Thessaly did not follow any advice at all, she was at sea. She knew it. She’d forsaken what her father would have her do. She thrilled at her aunt’s promise that once she’d chosen, nobody could make her do what she did not want. So she would choose, but she had to follow someone’s advice. She was wise enough to know how little she knew.

  She put the purse away carefully, tucking it in the space between her bedstead and the wall, and grasped a different pouch—larger, full of rustling and pungent things.

  Aloes, she thought. And cloves. And some sage.

  She had sage aplenty—the bunch her aunt had given her would be her special-use sage. For moments when she really needed cleansing. For now, she’d use some from her own cache.

  Carefully, she took the smoke-stained censer from her shelf. She’d bought it in Alexandria, secretly, in the crowded markets. She’d put it behind the few books she owned—books in Latin and Greek, the two languages she was striving to learn; the language of scholars. Her father didn’t disturb them but did not approve.

  She placed the cloves, aloes, and sage into the censer, took her small fire steel-striker, and set a spark in the middle of it. A dainty curl of smoke rose up immediately, sweet and earthy and dark with the scent of herbs.

  She closed her eyes.

  Herbs were not loose magicks. They were flesh and fire. Herbs from the dirt—the earth’s flesh. Burned by fire—the earth’s passion.

  The bound magicks. Salty with promise, stirring in her body, warming her immediately to the people on the ship. She could feel them; feel in them. Nur, perched patiently on the wooden bar above her bed, the bar Cerdic had carved and fixed there. Nur, with her joy in wind and sun, her thirst for the blood of fish and small birds, her furious speed. Thessaly loved living inside Nur. And Nur didn’t seem to mind, in spite of what Margarida had told her about not putting floes into others.

  Without permission. That’s what she’d said, wasn’t it? Was her entry into the small body of her pet wrong?

  But Nur accepted Thessaly readily. Thessaly had permission there.

  She let out a deep breath and inhaled cloves.

  The warmth spread through her blood, tingling to her periphery. She felt it snap her systems into place and bring them to attention. Her mind warmed with thoughts that were well, and kind.

  Her father. She could forgive him. He wanted to protect her.

  But that did not mean she’d do his will: marry a pimple-faced nobleman and live ensconced in velvet curtains and stone walls.

  The aloes soothed her, smoothing the roughness of her feelings. Her anxiety, her guilt.

  Guilt. That’s what she was feeling. Because of Thessaly, blood had spilled.

  The thought weighed on her, heavy and sad. She breathed in, accepting it, and breathed out a cloud of sadness, feeling the flesh-fire warmth take its place. She did not ask for her father to kill anyone. She must forgive herself.

  A boom sounded and the cabin vibrated roughly. Thessaly opened her eyes and ran to the window.

  They were passing Lisbon, and the grey castle walls marched close enough she could see the individual, massive bricks of them, stacked without mortar. The city was filled with King Joao’s court and the harbor with boats busy unloading cargo from other ships; two great hulking carracks like Antonio’s fleet, dozens of roundships and a great, ornately carved caravel that bore the red and white diamonds and the golden compass that was King Joao’s .

  Another great boom sounded. Thessaly grabbed onto the sill to steady herself. A boat a hundred yards away splintered in a crackle of wood, a plume of water.

  Her father was cannoning them, the boats in the docks. A great plume of spray went up, and a scattering of timber burst out, and a great hole opened in one of the carracks.

  Thessaly gripped the round window’s rim. What was Antonio thinking? Would her father dare aim at the king’s flagship?

  Another boom, and a great round crashed—not into the flagship, but into the castle wall beyond it, breaking off a chunk of battlement.

  Thessaly closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. He hadn’t killed the Dom. Otherwise he wouldn’t be cannoning the court’s walls in a mistaken attempt at protecting . . . not Thessaly. Something far more important to him. His honor, whatever that meant.

  She closed her eyes to reach for him with her floes—calming, soothing. She found him there on the forecastle deck, a blaze of fury and . . . what? Hurt?

  Easy. She could take care of that.

  Just before her warm, sage-and-clove-infused floes touched his periphery, though, she remembered, and skipped back, feeling a thrill of guilt and worry. This was what Margarida had said not to do.

  She said it was death.

  A left-hand path. What did that mean?

  One thing she knew for certain: her aunt said that unless Thessaly had permission, she must not enter another being with her own floes.

  But why? Why couldn’t she, if it would do some good? She’d kept her father alive in King Joao’s court. Where would she have been if he’d died at the hands of that hook-nosed rabbo de burro.

  But here Antonio was, alive. Taking Thessaly to where she needed to go.

  Shooting cannons at the castle of King Joao.

  Milan, Thessaly thought, sighing.

  These questions needed answering. And the only person Thessaly knew to ask in Milan was Aunt Umbra. Who worked in bound magicks. Who would brook no nonsense from Thessaly, and immediately demand she choose them—Flesh and Fire, over Breath and Blood. She was not like Margarida; she had no desire to allow Thessaly choice. She never had.

  Thessaly could anticipate her; choose in advance.

  All it would take was one touch.

  Thessaly reached again for the hidden place behind her bedstead. For the pouch.

  She had to choose now, if she were to be left with a choice. In spite of what Margarida said, she could not allow Umbra to get an edge in.

  She must cut herself off from the bound magicks now. She must choose the loose.

  But she stopped before touching the leather strings puddled over the drawstring top.

  The herbs and smoke. The sweet smell, and her connection—her ability to feel all that the crew was feeling.

  There was Bellccior. He was feeling lusty satisfaction after a pint of port. Jacome at his compass, hanging the pendant and watching the horizon carefully, taking note of the degrees of swing—she could see it blearily through his eyes without even touching on his periphery. And there was Anrrique, tabulating the number of spice barrels they had in the Barbosa. They would have more to trade than they expected along the coasts of France and Italy.

  And there was her father, watching the scrambling of the men on shore with a raw, angry satisfaction.

  She felt them all; all that she knew. Could she give that up completely,
slice herself from that intimacy? From knowing, and connecting?

  Flesh and fire.

  Now, for the first time, she had the clear ability to make a choice.

  And she’d thought, for ever so long, that she knew which choice she desired to make.

  But she was struggling to make it. She couldn’t quite bring herself to draw the pouch up, to open it and slide her fingers along the glimmering cord.

  Do it, she told herself fiercely. Just a moment. A short moment of pain and loss. You can.

  A rap sounded on her door.

  Quickly, Thessaly doused the charred remnants of the herbs in her censer, dumped the ashes into her palm, and put away the censer behind her Plato and Malory. She slowed when the door opened and she realized it was Guzal. Light, wholesome Guzal, with an edge of bossy.

  Thessaly opened her hand, dropping the ashes to the floor of the cabin. Guzal wrinkled her nose, then sighed, smiling. “You’ve been burning incense,” she said. “Prayers, my lady?”

  “I’m not a lady,” Thessaly replied. “Sort of, yes.”

  Guzal examined her closely for a moment, then held her hand out.

  Thessaly obligingly shimmied out of her underdress.

  “Shift too,” Guzal said, and Thessaly pulled off the crumpled cotton, handing it over.

  Guzal sighed. “I’ll be using fresh water for this. Captain won’t like it, but you don’t bathe cloth such as this in brine. Here.” She held out a fresh shift, not as soft, but still finely-woven. Linen. Thessaly pulled it over her bare body.

  “Here,” Guzal said again, setting a pitcher and sea-sponge on the table. “Clean all your corners out, and I’ll get to work on the dress. The men picked up your gown on the beach.” She gave Thessaly a look. “Someone lead you down there to look at the moon?”

  “No. Pa threw me in as we were rowing out. And I didn’t feel like swimming to the ships. I came back ashore.” Guzal’s mouth twitched. “The pair of ye,” she said. “Swimming in velvet and firing at the cargos. My land.”

  Thessaly bathed herself in the water—fresh, not brine. The crust of salt that had dried hard on her skin softened. She worked hard at her neck and ears. Guzal came to pour a fresh pitcher over her head, agitating her red-brown waves in a larger basin. Then she combed out Thessaly’s hair, oiling it carefully so the curls began to dry in loose ringlets down her back.