The Rising Scythe

by S G Dunster

  Thessaly sat, watching. Overwhelmed again by the passions of all those crowded into the room with her, she had to work to keep the dark ropes in place. She counted between her teeth, tightening her jaw. Her father passed her a plate of spiced figs, and she shook her head, gaze focused on the swaying couples. For some reason, it helped to watch them move together—she could sometimes predict the feeling she’d ingest from them and prepare.

  She watched, too, for someone in particular. It did no good to pretend she wasn’t curious. The man at the library. He’d been uncommonly casual with her. And he’d talked to her of philosophy. She knew such things occurred in the lavish Italian courts, but it had been her first experience, and she had enjoyed it. Perhaps a little too much.

  Hadn’t he said, Luz, that he’d introduce himself to her father? And if she found she could manage both at once—magicks and dancing—perhaps she wouldn’t mind a dance herself, if it was with him.

  She would have to manage eventually. She had to learn. This would be her life.

  It wasn’t until near the night’s end that she was rewarded with a sight of him. She thought it was him. Yes, she decided as he approached, certainly him.

  In full court finery, the sight of him brought a strange tightness to her chest. He wore a coat of gold silk, matching his eyes almost exactly, making his tanned face seem to glow. A ruffle of white collar and pleated sleeves lent grace and refinement to his lean-muscled form, and he gave Thessaly a passing, quick smile as he approached Antonio. “I believe we are relations of a sort,” he said, bowing, holding out a hand. “Ludovico Loredan. You are Antonio Vasco?”

  Thessaly’s father stood, bowing back, and took the hand. “Indeed,” he said gravely, though his eyes lit up in interest. “You are of my late wife’s kinfolk?”

  “We are cousins,” Luz confirmed. “Her mother’s mother is my aunt.”

  “Ah.” Antonio’s teeth made an appearance—a fierce, though for him, gracious smile. “Indeed. You’re of the merchant Loredans. It happens I planned to make a stop there before leaving the Middle Sea.” He glanced over at Thessaly, who was striving to keep her expression neutral, willing her face not to flood with color. “My daughter, Thessaly d’Ainestille. She carries her mother’s name because mine is not a title worth bearing yet.”

  “I believe we can both call her a flower on the Loredan vine,” Luz replied smoothly, catching Thessaly with a smile that was slightly conspiratorial. “Is she learned like her mother? I’ve heard tell of the d’Ainestille sisters, always with books in their hands.”

  “And shrews, all of them.” Antonio’s smile spread into something more genuine. “But who wants conversation with a dullard? The trouble of marrying a woman of wit and words follows me.” He gave Thessaly a glance that was both a joke and a dark reality. “Here, take her on the floor,” he said, holding his hand out to Thessaly, bidding her rise from her seat, “and she may prove to be as deft with her feet, though I make no promises.”

  Thessaly rose, heat in her face. It wanted to burst through, the heat, as she gazed at Luz, as her hand was placed in his, as he whirled her onto the floor, graceful as a willow in wind. “You are a woman, then,” he said, taking her hand, pulling her to the head of the line.

  Thessaly glanced behind them, somewhat discomfited. All the women’s eyes were on Luz; at the front here, he was taking what seemed a natural place, but she was better for dark corners. Especially in her current state. “I am a woman. What do you mean? Why do you say it in that way?”

  “In that dark library with your hair wrapped about in that red scarf, in a shift and bodice, you seemed no older than ten. But not many girls of such small years know Greek. His eyes gleamed with admiration as they ran over her figure and settled on her face. “I wonder if perhaps I lead not even so much a woman as an angel, seeing you arranged so in court finery.”

  Thessaly grinned at the compliment. With such silly words said with such irony and, yet, sincerity, she couldn’t keep her face composed and polite. “I’d say the same of you. In a proper shirt and with all that gilding, I’m surprised one of these cloth-wives hasn’t already bundled you away under her skirts.”

  He laughed, loudly and suddenly. “Your father was right. You are a wit. But we knew that already, didn’t we?” His grin retreated to a smile—softer, more serious, and the queer feeling in Thessaly’s chest seemed to spread to the rest of her.

  The music rose, a melody grand and full of passion. It swept them both away.

  She lost the fetters for just a moment, but when the burning tide closed over her, the pain was almost pleasure. “Sorry,” she gasped, grasping for the fetters again, managing to put them back in place before they engulfed her entirely.

  He gave her a puzzled look. “For what?”

  Thessaly wriggled her burning-hot fingers, clasped tightly in his, for a moment. Had he truly not felt it?

  Apparently he didn’t feel the touch of floes the way Guzal did. Or maybe, spun through all this warmth and joy, he also interpreted it as pleasure.

  Thessaly breathed deeply and kept better hold of herself for the rest of the dance. It ended too soon. She sat reluctantly, and then warmed as Loredan sat down next to her father, in the place Bellccior had left empty. He was out on the floor of course, courting energetically a woman with scarlet silk banding a long, pale plait down her back. The style reminded Thessaly of a horse’s tail held at a jaunty angle, as she paraded for the huge, handsome swain of fleet Santo Miguel.

  The food on the table looked suddenly appetizing. Thessaly took meats both sweet and hearty and drowned her plate in gravies, sauces. She nibbled cheeses, fruits, and drank a glass and a half of wine. Her silver senses tingled and warmed and grew to a fire, but she did not mind. She savored it. She felt it purposefully.

  And kept it bound with the fetters.

  A place in her, a hollow that she hadn’t noticed, seemed to fill slowly with reflected warmth. She was back to counting breaths, because something inside had come loose. Cereus? Yes, it was. The flesh and spirit.

  But in that moment, it wasn’t so bad. Pleasure shimmered over it like a veil.

  A hand thrust into her vision. “May I have the pleasure?”

  The face was vaguely familiar. Thessaly squinted at him, trying to remember where she’d seen him.

  “Pietro,” he said, a hint of hurt in his voice. “Your cousin. I heard you have been unwell. It is a pleasure to see you again at the assemblies here in court.”

  Ah. Thessaly remembered now—her cousin, who had reintroduced himself that first day they had come to Milan.

  The day she’d chosen.

  She internally shrunk from the prospect of dancing with him. That swarthy face, the ridiculous curled beard—she didn’t really want to. But it would be inexcusable to refuse, as they had been introduced already.

  She bowed slightly and rose. “Of course.”

  As he led her out, the sense of repugnance edged into her gut, replacing the previous warmth with a sort of queasiness she didn’t much like.

  Behave yourself, she told her floes, tightening the fetter in her sight. One dance. That is all. A duty.

  As she went out, Thessaly caught an exchange of glances between Pietro and Loredan, and not a friendly one. It made her a little more uneasy, but she shifted her shoulders, took in a breath, and counted, keeping the threatening silver waves that carried her feelings at bay. As they lined up, she put an ornamental smile on her face. When the music started, she took his hand. It was large, square, with a crawl of black hair on the back. She felt as if she were holding a paw.

  “A lovely gown tonight,” Pietro commented as they took the first graceful steps.

  Thessaly glanced down at her floating mass of yellow skirts. “Many thanks,” she replied casually. “You look fine yourself.”

  He smiled—smirked, maybe. His hand curled, bringing her in closer. “How come you to know Loredan?”

  “He is my cousin,” Thessaly replied. “Like you. On my m
other’s side.”

  A brow lifted, and Thessaly’s feeling of dis-ease thickened still more. Why would he disbelieve such an innocent statement? “He’s my mother’s uncle,” Thessaly continued as they spun in the steps of the dance and colors whirled around them. “My mother’s mother was a Loredan before she married into the d’Ainestille family.”

  “Venetians,” Pietro said, clipping off the word like it tasted bad. “And bastards with it.”

  “Aye,” Thessaly said, maybe a little more sharply than she ought. “But still loved by your duke and duchess.”

  “Loved by many, I’m sure.”

  Thessaly was not enjoying the dance in the least. She was tempted to break away and sit, but that would be an unforgivable breach of etiquette.

  You can manage, she told herself. You are not to be made to feel small, but you can manage the social graces. You shall have to, she continued chiding, as they moved to the front of the line, if you plan to stay in this place. Umbra managed somehow and certainly had displeasure at times. And now, she does not have to endure anything she does not wish to endure.

  Thessaly drew her attention inward, ignoring any looks from Pietro, and looked straight ahead herself, concentrating on delivering steps and keeping a fair space between them.

  As the dance ended, they came even with her father and his men at the table. They were deep in conversation, and Loredan was bent close to Antonio, his eyes serious as he spoke quietly to Thessaly’s father.

  Thessaly’s feelings stirred back into a little warmth. What were they discussing? She liked Loredan. Perhaps this meant they would have some continued association.

  “Well,” Pietro’s voice interrupted her thoughts, “that was a treat.”

  The sarcastic edge had her looking directly at him again. “I hope so, sir.” She moved to step away and give the graceful bow politeness required, but he held tight to her hand.

  “Your association with Loredan shouldn’t come as such a surprise, I suppose. A maid low-born, such as yourself, must give freely, to receive so freely in return,” Pietro said.

  He grabbed Thessaly, bent her over his knee, and kissed her.

  “But if there’s a honeywell to be dipped, I’m determined to have some too,” he continued, releasing her so she stumbled back on her heels. Pietro strode so he stood directly behind the men seated across from Loredan and Antonio.

  No, Thessaly thought, grabbing onto a chair back. It was occupied by a man who wore a feathered hat, which she knocked off accidentally. “Sorry,” she murmured to him, her gaze riveted to her father’s face.

  No. Please.

  But Antonio rose, his dark eyes narrowed to slits and evil with intent. Slowly, he bared his teeth and reached for his sword.

  No, father, Thessaly thought desperately. I can’t save you this time. Not after what Margarida said. Not after . . . .

  Loredan slapped a hand on Antonio’s, restraining it at the hilt.

  “It is not your honor he challenges,” Loredan said, “but mine.”

  “How so?” Antonio thundered, his face growing red as henna dye.

  Loredan stood slowly, eyes locked with Pietro’s, and unsheathed his own sword.

  “An old battle,” murmured the man retrieving his hat from the ground, giving Thessaly a pitying glance. “And this poor wench caught in the middle.

  “No.” The word came out this time, audible enough for the suddenly silent room to hear. “No, Loredan. You do not need—“

  “But I do,” Loredan cut her off. He bowed in Thessaly’s direction, then bent toward Thessaly’s father, sitting with his hand still on his hilt. “I apologize for the insult you’ve incurred on my behalf. This is a fight long overdue.” With that, his sword flashed out, silver, glittering, and he was suddenly over the table, upsetting a platter of roast capon, though he landed gracefully enough on the floor.

  Pietro barely had time to draw his own sword when the two metal blades clashed, the echo of steel ringing through the hall. As the blades clanged and twisted and bowed away, then clashed together again, Pietro pulled a small knife from his belt as well, holding both, sweating, eyes wary, but Loredan kept his other hand free, gracefully raised to counterbalance.

  A ring of people was beginning to gather—a gaping, sweating aureole of horror and interest with only just enough room for the men in the middle feinting and darting back, legs standing out in muscle, torsos arching, then bowing.

  The music had stopped, but it was music and a dance—a fast, furious, deadly galliard of velvet, silk, and steel. There was no mistaking the intent in the faces of the two men. No guessing what the end would be.

  “They fight not just for blood,” a lady sitting close said, grasping at her escort ’s sleeve.

  Thessaly stood up, shivering. She suddenly felt cold, icy. She looked inside. The silver, the cereus—her core of bound magicks. She couldn’t feel them anymore. She’d fettered it so tightly it was only a dab, a knotted line, glowing next to the orb of gold. When had she done that? It was fettered as if with steel stays.

  Antonio’s hand landed on her shoulder. “You cannot leave,” he growled. “You must stay and see it out. Leaving now would give an appearance of guilt. Loredan fights for your honor.”

  “What if he dies for it?” Thessaly shook her head violently. “I do not wish to see it.”

  “Nor I, for then we leave Milan in disgrace, and your reputation will be in the cesspit.” He pushed hard on her shoulder.

  Thessaly could have shocked him with floes. Burned him, frozen him. She didn’t have to bow to his will.

  But she sat, paralyzed with guilt, stinging with the ice of byssus and loose floes creating a halo inside her, unchecked by the cereus in its tight little coma.

  Cold. She felt . . . numb. Serene. It was almost nice, only it felt wrong because she was watching two men kill each other over her.

  A feint, a thrust, and Loredan’s chin was bloodied. A return, and a lock of Pietro’s hair fell to the floor, a dark rivulet seeping down his cheek.

  “They are well matched,” Antonio said. His voice was quiet, a note of worry, but there was also a note of fascination, admiration.

  Thessaly was ice.

  Loredan stumbled back suddenly and Pietro rose up over him, face split in a triumphant

  smile. And then she wasn’t ice anymore. The binding fetter bands burst, and fire overwhelmed her.

  Fire and passion. She stood, leapt onto the table, and thrust her hands toward the pair. Fire billowed out, singeing Loredan and catching Pietro by the hair.

  The crowd backed up suddenly, tripping over each other, moaning, shrieking.

  “Strega,” a voice hissed, and there was a finger, an arm, a terrified face, all pointed at Thessaly.

  Shouts rippled through the crowd, along with the cold bite of fear.

  Strega, Strega.

  Thessaly stared at her hands. Unsinged. She blinked, looking at the two men sprawled on the floor—Loredan, back on his elbows, staring at Thessaly with a look of surprise, and Pietro, a blur of flame.

  Shrieking.

  Shrieking.

  The room rushed back around her, the noise. A firm arm grabbed her around the waist and brought her to the floor. “We go now, Thessaly,” her father said, his voice fierce.

  “Antonio,” a voice cracked through the hall.

  Everyone stopped still again and quieted because it was Francesco, the duke, who had spoken. Only Pietro made any noise; his groans echoed, underlining the horror of what had happened.

  What Thessaly had done.

  “We go.” Antonio repeated, his voice shaking, and his grip grew so tight Thessaly couldn’t draw in breath. Her fetters were loose. The waves were overtaking her as her father dragged her through the crowd.

  “Enough!” A rich, commanding word boomed through the hall. A woman’s voice.

  It was Umbra. She walked into the hall trailing velvet spangled with gold beads, on her head a peaked velvet frame rising up over her coal-black
hair like a crown. “Enough of this.” She crossed to the scene of carnage—body and blood on the floor, Loredan gasping, leaning forward against his knees—and reached down to whip off Pietro’s cloak. She knelt and rolled it around his head. “He is still alive. Cretinos, put out the fire!” she shouted, gesturing to the burning tablecloth, which was becoming a pyre of spices and rich foods, candles, metal utensils, and china plates.

  Some men began to use their cloaks to beat out the fire. Pietro lay on the floor moaning, clutching his face. Umbra knelt, removed a hand, and clucked. “It will take plenty of salve to keep your skin on. And you’ll not have half-sightly looks,” she quirked her lips and gave Duke Francesco, now close behind her, a glance.

  His face relaxed. “Umbra, is this your doing?” He gestured to Thessaly and Antonio, trembling at the doorway. “You must bring your students to better heel. Perhaps teach her less . . .” he paused, glancing around the room at his subjects, “less colorful tricks. This sort of wytchery is not tolerated in my court.”

  “I’m aware,” Umbra said stiffly, giving Thessaly a cold glare. “I have given her tools, and she is learning proper use of them. Like any new student, she wavers and . . . loses grip.”

  The room was thick with tension, discomfort. Francesco relaxed in the presence of Umbra, but not many others did. Men and women aimed dark, condemning looks at her and muttered to each other.

  “Come.” This time it was Loredan who spoke, whose hand took Thessaly’s. “It is not her fault,” he called out. “It was that bastardo.” He pointed his sword in Pietro’s direction. “He’s been looking to stir me up since court resumed. He lost rather badly to me at the Tarot and does not want to pay me.” He smiled around, sheathed his sword, and sighed. “I did not know I had an acolyte of the great Umbra’s in you as well as a wit and beauty,” he added, loud enough for some in the room to hear.

  He’s playing them. The thought flitted oddly through Thessaly’s mind, then disappeared in a wave of gratitude. Thessaly nodded. “I am sorry I reacted so—”

  “Ferociously?” Loredan said. “You were worried for me.” He knelt and kissed her hand. Thessaly heard a lady close by sigh.