The Rising Scythe

by S G Dunster

  “Aye,” Guzal said. “You’ve not the stylish gold of a highborn-lady’s locks, but your red coils do look sightly when properly cared for.”

  “That’s why Papa hired you,” Thessaly said, her voice still surly. “You know how to look sightly.”

  Guzal only smiled, pocketing the insult as she did all the others she often received. Insults, Thessaly thought, that she could not bear herself. And if she did, it would not be with such grace.

  Thessaly felt sorry. She closed her eyes as Guzal began to massage Thessaly’s scalp and hairline, using the rose-scented oil. It was not Guzal’s fault, the role she had with her father. Guzal had not chosen.

  Guzal did not have choices.

  But Thessaly did.

  Thessaly closed her eyes. She had to admit it felt, and smelled, like heaven.

  “Now take a rest,” Guzal said, folding a frilled robe around her as she stood. “Your pillows won’t mess your curls; I put slips of silk over them. Your Papa will likely come by, and if you’re sleeping, he’ll have to wait to speak with ye. And it’d do ye both good to get some rest before speaking together.”

  Thessaly couldn’t argue with her reasoning. Obediently she climbed into bed and let Guzal fold the goose-feather-filled comforter over her, muffling and hot. She dozed, images from the night and that morning overwhelming her until she drifted off.

  She woke to a knock on the door. It was Guzal again, with a tray that held dinner—fresh beef for once, pilfered or traded under the table, no doubt.

  Thessaly ate more quickly than was ladylike and leapt out of bed. Guzal slipped an overdress over her clean shift and belted it tightly so her small waist looked smaller. The fabric was sprigged all over with blue fleurs-de-lis.

  “Aye, you’re lovely, miss,” Guzal said. “Don’t forget to bring that bird of yours out for some fresh air.”

  Thessaly wanted to argue just for the sake of argument, but Guzal’s orders always seemed to coincide with what she wanted anyway, so she said nothing. She pulled on her leather glove, untied Nur’s hood, and the bird climbed onto her hand—a weight now, likely two stone. Nur spread her wings, and Guzal stepped back to get out of the way.

  Nur, Thessaly thought. What greater illustration was there of her own situation? Nur was certainly not free. And yet, what freer thing could any creature do than fly?

  Out on deck, the bird took off immediately, dipping and soaring through the clouds.

  Thessaly could see the land still on the horizon—a bluish fur a way off, the suggestion of hills in the distance. Ships were beginning to turn and follow them, churning the bay jade green with wakes. None would catch Antonio’s fleet. None were fast enough except King Joao’s flagship, and the King was not likely to risk his jewel against the banks of cannons of the Santo Miguel fleet.

  Nur could go to land if she wanted. It was easily within her reach, and she would not be even tired. She could fly away from the ship over the white cliffs and be truly free. Why does Nur come back? Thessaly wondered, watching the golden bird wing above her—an arrow of light pointed east, riding ahead of the Espada like some angelic herald of its coming. The boom of cannons sounded behind them, not even close to touching any of Antonio’s ships and growing fainter by the moment, but shaking the very air around them, and there Nur sailed ahead, graceful and unruffled, as if it were the calmest, quietest morning on the open sea.

  Does she return out of love? Thessaly wondered. Out of security? Out of habit?

  The day she’d bought Nur in a bustling shop in Morocco, she’d been only a golden puff of downy feathers, just a few of the white-and-gold striped mature feathers coming out in her wings.

  The blue-turbaned man who sold her talked to Thessaly about how to woo the bird, and Thessaly had dutifully followed with presents of raw game bird, lots of handling, and a slow training to wear the leather hood that kept all prey birds calm, even when confined.

  But Thessaly just couldn’t understand it. Birds were not tame. They simply were not. And yet they lived in servitude to rich men and women, asked to bring back what they rightfully caught themselves as a prize for their masters, and got a portion back only.

  Am I uncommonly selfish? Thessaly wondered. Is it simply that I am the least tame creature I know?

  Cerdic met her halfway down the stairs, offering his hand. “You are fresh and lovely,” he said. “Enjoy your swim?” The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened, and Thessaly forgave him before she could even be piqued by his tease.

  “We’re for Milan,” she said, blowing her breath out through her lips so it made a rude noise.

  Cerdic nodded and followed her along the deck, hands tucked behind him in the small of his back. Perfect posture, he had. Not because of his background—he had peasant dirt in his veins. It was the longbow. The longbow was everything Cerdic was. And it made him noble. Everyone shipboard respected him, and those on land didn’t know what to do with him.

  “And your formidable aunt, and your Uncle’s court,” he said.

  “Aye.” Thessaly flipped her hair back over her shoulder. “How sporting it shall be.”

  Cerdic laughed. “Your bird is exercising. Perhaps you need exercise as well?”

  Thessaly nodded. “Guzal thinks Papa and I need some edges ground off before we talk to each other. Sore arms and shoulders should do it.”

  Cerdic grinned as he went to his room to retrieve both of their bows and a quiver full of arrows. Thessaly’s wasn’t a true longbow; not like his, whose tip stretched over his head. It reached to her chin, though, and the string was not an easy pull.

  She’d begun learning five years before. A true longbowman started as a small child. Thessaly would never make that, but she could send arrows a fair distance away. She stood at the prow and did so, aiming for a curl of foam, or a gull, Cerdic handing her arrows silently.

  A breath working, Thessaly thought. Archery. It was all air and sending things through air.

  And earth, a thought tugged at her mind. The arrow is flesh.

  And fire, another thought came. To carry a sting.

  Frustrated, she shoved the thoughts aside and fired half a dozen within a minute. They skewed wildly in the wind and fell into the foam of the waves without striking anything useful.

  Clear your mind, girl, Thessaly thought to herself. If you’re going to claim freedom, you’ll have to direct your efforts keenly and intelligently.

  Being caught between choices. It felt like being drawn-and-quartered.

  “I’ll have to fletch some more,” Cerdic said, watching the shafts fall, one by one, into the peaks of the waves as Thessaly aimed more carefully.

  And there’s the blood, Thessaly thought. Arrows. They are meant to let the blood flow.

  All at once. Why cannot I choose all at once? Why only half the forces? It suddenly made little sense, and she stood back, gripping her bow, tilting it so the top rested under her chin.

  “It won’t do much good,” Thessaly said, answering Cerdic. “There are no gulls to catch.”

  “Your attention’s divided. I can feel and smell wytchery on you,” Cerdic turned to her, his eyes suddenly serious. “You are walking a hard road, Thessaly. You know this?”

  Thessaly hesitated, then nodded.

  “Magicks. My old ma practiced and was burnt.”

  Thessaly didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She burned inside, already. And it was the only happiness she could find. Think of. To have this power, it was what she wanted. Burning would be a small price to pay, if it meant she led a life away from her father, away from some new man who would have the authority to make her into what he wanted her to be.

  She would not.

  Silently, Cerdic handed her a small book from his pocket. “Here,” he said. “It’s in Latin, but it’ll serve you to learn more of the grammars. It’s what I learned on.”

  Thessaly’s emotions rose. She thumbed through it—pages of soft paper, a cover of vellum, silky to the touch.

  It h
ad Cerdic’s smell. Old sweat, dry grasses. Fish. She brought it up to her face and breathed in, gazing at him for a moment. Moisture welled up in those clear blue eyes. He gave her a crooked smile. “Don’t tell your Papa, now.”

  “I’ll be leaving you soon,” Thessaly choked. “No matter what my choice is.”

  “Aye.” They looked at each other for a long moment, and Thessaly thought of the first time she’d met Cerdic. It was the day she’d been brought back aboard the Espada, after her father had discovered Margarida’s forbidden teachings, and Thessaly had been reeling from loss—her aunt had been like a mother to her, during the most tender of years. She had been brought from Manuel’s court as well, father to Joao, and Manuel had been all the grandfather Thessaly had ever known—her true grandfather, the great Dom Vasco who had founded the spice trade, was rarely at home. She’d been nurtured, taught, and cherished in Manuel’s court, and Isabella had been like a sister.

  A tiny girl of eight, she was pushed roughly into a smelly and close ship’s cabin after so much air and water, and in the company of only seamen after the refinement and delicate manners and indulgence at court, Thessaly had felt lost.

  And then a man with a shock of shaggy, corn-colored hair and a golden dusting of trimmed beard had come to her door. Blue eyes twinkling, he announced he had the pleasure of teaching her in his own language and others, and being her tutor while she was aboard the Espada. Thessaly had not understood much of English at first, and as Cerdic’s Portuguese was heavily accented, a great deal of their communication had been expression and gesture, and him following her gaze to see what interested her, which resulted in her learning bowing, Latin, French, the mending of nets, the forming of letters, though some of these had Antonio pulling at his hair, particularly when Thessaly came to supper with dark smudges all down her arm.

  Thessaly had been many places since, but Cerdic had been a solid thing to return to.

  No more. Raw feelings rose inside her, and her chest seemed to grow suddenly tight. Cerdic’s hand on hers was both reassuring and painful.

  Why did life have to change?

  Why did people have to choose?

  Why did she have to be driven like a flock of birds to places where others thought she belonged?

  The sea swelled suddenly at the port, and Thessaly felt the beginnings of another storm. These great winds of summer blew her father quickly north from the horn, but they were not easy to negotiate when going through the strait. They were making the turn now, men tugging ropes, shifting sails so they gusted full against the wind. In the distance, Thessaly could see the dark line of rock that they’d thread through, the great mound to the south where Moorish country pointed them on.

  She’d been through the strait often enough, but it was a thrill each time. She closed her eyes, felt the floes—breath, blowing droplets, breathing them through.

  Men shouted, barked. She heard her father’s unintelligible roar—the language of seamen, full of curses and words that meant different things on deck. They pulled around, and the ship leaned into the turn.

  Above, Nur wheeled, following. She swooped down and landed on the rail of the aftcastle. She’d been successful where Thessaly wasn’t, not having brought down any gulls close enough to collect and feed the crew. Thessaly could taste the cold, fishy blood in the bird’s beak.

  Changes.

  She shivered.

  It had been coming for a long while. But to be in it, to be there at the door of choices, and to be dealing in blood now, in the fights of great men, where cannons might be fired and blood might be spilt.

  Thessaly felt as if the weight of the ship rested on her. The wind in the sails was hers. Her father’s blustering all moved by her own mean little whims.

  She walked up to the aft-castle and sat, her back to the rail, and breathed. Nur lighted on her head a moment, digging in painfully, misarranging the careful coils Guzal had made. It felt good—the pain, the weight, reflecting all Thessaly felt inside.

  Over the next week they followed the coast past Gascony, and Antonio, bluster notwithstanding, seemed to breathe easier once they’d left Spain behind.

  He avoided her. And yet she could feel his attention, sharp as a falcon’s eye. They did not talk, but a few days after the incidents in Portugal, Antonio demanded that all dinners and suppers be eaten at the captain’s table. He must also have dictated for Guzal never to leave her side, because Thessaly rarely found herself solitary. Guzal came with her to her chambers and even slept next to her in bed, walked with her on deck.

  It amused Thessaly because Guzal did not care what Thessaly did with magicks, or incense, or anything else. Antonio imagined that because he had some power over Guzal, he had all power over her. But Guzal was still herself. She decided a few things. What to wear, how to conduct herself. She may be a ship’s lady, but she had refined manners and regal bearing, and clothing that reflected her very real modesty.

  If society’s general responses to Thessaly were any judge, a lady must smell always sweet, speak always in a musical tone, sneeze cutely into a kerchief, smile always. And Guzal performed these tasks well.

  The day passed with studies at Cerdic’s side, Thessaly cherishing every moment, and measurements and grooming from Guzal in preparation for their coming to the courts at Genoa as they moved in on the sweep of the Italian coast that meant Thessaly’s days aboard were numbered.

  “Everyone’s in love with you,” Thessaly grumbled to Guzal one afternoon, sitting in her cabin, fingering the grammar Cerdic had given her. Guzal objected to that, too; Thessaly could see it in her face, but she didn’t dare voice her thoughts aloud. “They’re always looking at you when I walk next to you. I wish they’d tend to the sails.”

  Guzal colored prettily. “Social graces take a woman far,” she said. “You are learning. You will shine in Milan, Thessaly. And It’s not just me they cast their eye on. You’re a lovely lady yourself.”

  “Surely,” Thessaly murmured, an edge of sarcasm in her voice. She closed her eyes to take away the image that swept into her thoughts—a pale, peaky man, his pale hand cupping her breast.

  Blood spilling.

  She was not looking forward to shining in Milan, if this was what it was like to be a spiceman’s daughter at court.

  At supper the night before they were to come to shore, Thessaly’s father prayed over the meal, and then abruptly announced they would make landing the next day in Genoa. “We shall take a carriage to Castillo Sforza,” he said.

  “Are we stopping by my aunt’s—“

  “We shall stay in the ducal apartments,” Antonio interrupted her, glaring. “And do well to remember that in court a woman speaks only to other women, or when a man asks a question.”

  At this, Guzal let out a quiet snort, then covered her mouth, eyes wide. Cerdic chuckled. Bellccior was not so discreet; he let out a bellow of laughter, slapped the table. “Come. Give us another one, Captain,” he called. “I’m in my drink and of a mood for jests.”

  Antonio glared and tore off a crust, swiped it through cheese and fig paste and brought it to his mouth, chewing slowly, meaningfully. The table sobered, even Bellccior, who returned to his cup.

  “He doesn’t mean to let me visit my aunt,” Thessaly said conversationally to Guzal as she was undressed that night. “That is strange. Margarida was sure that was why he meant for me go to Milan. To learn Umbra’s arts.”

  “Who knows what your Papa is thinking,” Guzal said dryly. “I am going to be sitting next to you at table in Milan. I’m in no more hurry than you to return to that court, my lady. Pray we find ourselves in your Aunt Umbra’s protective circle quickly.”

  Surprised, Thessaly started at her. Guzal’s face was sober, and in that moment, it carried lines it didn’t often have.

  Thessaly knew her father had bought Guzal from the Sforzas. She had never considered what her life had been like there. “What are you worried about?”

  Guzal sighed and aimed a serious look at her. “
Just know that as things occurred in the court of King Joao, so much more could they unfold in Castillo Sforza, happen you aren’t careful and maidenly. A noble woman of Milan hides herself. Goes to mass. Is always decorous and accompanied by chaste attendants. If you laugh wrong; if you look wrong; if you speak as a man speaks at table—it will be seen as an invitation. Evidence of a lack of virtue. And men at the Szforza court fondle more than peaches.”

  “Evidence of—“

  But Guzal had shut her mouth tight and went back to her needle flourishes. She was embroidering a pale silk gown with rose-colored flowers; Antonio wanted it done in time for their first appearance at court.

  Thessaly’s mind roiled. She couldn’t read after that. She could only think of swords. And blood.

  If Guzal is right, I must go at once to Umbra, Thessaly thought. Her mind flicked to the bag waiting behind her headboard, then squirmed away from it.

  Why was she having such a difficult time doing what she knew she needed to do?

  She picked restlessly at the small violets embroidered on the gown she wore—pale, translucent silk that allowed the amber-colored underdress to shine through.

  I must choose soon, one way or the other.

  I must become what no man, not even my father, can force. And the only way is to let the floes finally claim me fully. Which means I must choose.

  The thought circled, spiraled, thickened, choked her with anxiety.

  Umbra. There was a quiet power that rested on her in spite of her loud presence and imperious ways. And the way her father spoke to Umbra—with respect. He was as afraid of Umbra as he was Margarida.

  The thought was both reassuring and chilling. What would it be like, to become something feared? And not just by her father. There was the look of respect on the faces of the men as they rowed away from shore that day after she’d come with her aunt from the water. The men had even spoken of offerings.