The Rising Scythe

by S G Dunster

  Rosalie chuckled.

  Guzal clucked her tongue. “You are a cranke,” she said. “When you start arguing with bits of paper, it’s time for rest.” She gave Rosalie the eye, and Rosalie leapt nimbly off the bed. She pointed at Thessaly. “Tomorrow, me,” she said. “You shall read my fortune tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” Thessaly said hollowly. She glanced at Guzal. “Help me undress?” Guzal gave Thessaly a questioning look. Thessaly nodded. Guzal hustled Rosalie out, undid Thessaly’s laces, leaving her in a comfortable chemise, then slipped out the door.

  Alone, Thessaly lay back on the pillow. It had been partly for show, her grumbling. Humor, to lighten the moment. Words for Rosalie’s benefit.

  Rosalie. How did she exist? A girl who did not fright at seeing burning fingers? Her world was an odd one right now, indeed.

  Who was this Rosalie?

  And what was this answer Thessaly had been given? Patience, indeed.

  She was frustrated and puzzled. The world seemed tipped on its end. No, messy and swirled together, droplets bobbing and spreading all through, like oil shaken with water.

  “Nur,” Thessaly called, clicking in the way that meant the bird was to perch. Nur glided across the room, stirring up a wind that blew the young hairs that grew along Thessaly’s hairline against her nose and eyes, tickling her face. Thessaly listened to the comforting rustle of feathers above her as the bird settled herself.

  “Sleep,” Thessaly said sternly.

  Nur balanced obediently on her perch and tucked her head under her wing.

  Thessaly stared at the dark beams of the cabin a long while, studying the knots that were as familiar as old friends’ faces. What was she to do?

  She only hoped her godfather had better answers than the cards had.

  The days flew by more quickly, with Rosalie making fun everywhere. The Santo Miguel, which she toured with her Father and Loredan daily for the week they were sailing down the British coasts. She insisted on a tour of every corner of the storeship as well, peering in casks and touching bales. She charmed the galley chef of the Barbosa, who didn’t often have many to serve unless the boat needed rowing. He gave her two limes and a quantity of pickled chestnuts and raisins.

  They came through the channel again, avoiding the conglomeration of massing ships as best they could. “I don’t much think,” Anrrique said as they passed a fleet of five mid-size carracks with the black eagle raised, “that Henry Tudor’d like knowing the Habsburgs’re spying so close at his coasts.”

  “That great pyre on Dover’s hill’s enough of a bite for the Habsburgs to chew on,” Bellccior rasped in response as he grasped the rudder wheel, the massive, oily muscles of his tanned arms standing out.

  “Aye. Be glad you’re faring this next year off at land’s end and dews-a-vale and not in this bloody corridor.” Anrrique tossed this at Thessaly, and she nodded. She knew. She could feel it, the feeling boiling off the ships like sewer-stink. She felt how brittle and tinder-like it was. Her father had been right, calling the channel a powder-keg.

  She was glad to go to somewhere quiet and contained. And godfather Henri was easier than her father. He did not care how many books she read nor what subjects she studied. Perhaps she’d have means to study.

  Her father would try to infect her with social graces and thrust her into a finishing school, but could one be found in the Kernish Marches?

  And who could force her to sit at embroidery when she could singe the hairs off their face if she wanted?

  Thoughts like this left a flavor of guilt on her tongue, though she also relished them. She must decide before they arrived at Taunton. She needed to make her case before her father slotted her in place and locked the key. If she didn’t have any access to books or learning, she would be truly stuck. There would need to be some negotiations in spite of her strengths.

  She wanted mathematics. She wanted philosophy. She wanted astronomy. She wanted knowledge of herbs and medicines. She wanted knowledge of the physical body. And even more far-fetched—she hoped she could learn the art of rhetoric. Not that it would do good against her father; he debated with cannons and swords. But she desired that sort of stretching that would make her words and thoughts into reasoned argument, to be able to answer cleverly a point she disagreed with.

  These last were not subjects her father would approve. But he didn’t have to were he gone, leaving her to her devices and with access to teaching.

  Was this even possible, though? Where, in these remote marches, would there be a university? Perhaps Henri was her best resource. Perhaps he could teach her, or at least, provide her with the readings she needed.

  University could come later, she thought. If Loredan was not opposed to her learning the art of wytchcraft, surely he wouldn’t object to her learning other philosophies. After she married him, her father would have no hold over her at all. She’d be subject to her husband.

  And, she realized once again with a thrill: Antonio? Loredan? They could hardly stop her. Her days of being confined by the wishes of others were over, if only she could control the forces that overwhelmed her. This was her true area of study, she realized, turning the issue over and over. Containing her floes. The questions would all answer themselves once she could rule them.

  They came past the Isle of Wight and were stopped by Henry VIII’s military vessels and searched. They were allowed to pass after her father gave out some tonnes of wool and a few barrels of cinnamon. Then they sailed west, finally, to the green, hilly wilderness coasts Thessaly remembered vaguely. And Taunton.

  The town was a small one by comparison, if one thought of London. Smaller still if Milan were the standard. But, for being stuck in the wilderness, the wild and ragged forests that spread out over Britain’s western tail, it was a great metropolis. There was an enormous Saxon-built cathedral, a town square, and of course her godfather’s own castle and grounds, his forests and tenants.

  Thessaly was breathing easier, starting to warm with anticipation, even, as they sped into the wave-tossed harbor and sank anchor.

  The fact that Guzal was nice company and Rosalie was jolly and imprudent made the prospect of settling on land slightly more pleasant, as well. Rosalie and Thessaly laughed together, read together, and spoke about any subject one could discuss. Thessaly found that while the girl was not especially learned, she was quick and bright enough. Thessaly determined to take Rosalie in hand and make a philosopher of her, too; perhaps even a wytch. She certainly seemed interested in the art.

  Thessaly had read her tarot a few times, but when the subject was Rosalie and Rosalie’s questions, the cards seemed to paint a confusing picture. They seemed to speak of nothing at all. Thessaly could glean no real message from the randomness that had leapt from the deck as she placed the cards. Rosalie was not refining her questions enough, Thessaly guessed. Probably her thoughts leapt too quickly from one thing to the next, and the cards could not keep up. It was hard enough for Thessaly to keep up.

  But seeing Rosalie’s anxious, excited face, she ignored the strangely insipid reading the trionfi gave and made up grand and wicked things for Rosalie to giggle at instead.

  The night before they were to dock at Taunton, Rosalie and Thessaly lay in bed together and talked. “I wish to learn something musical,” Rosalie declared. “I have a sweet singing voice, Thessaly. You’ve never heard it. If I could learn an instrument, I’d be more refined. Perhaps catch the eye of more noble men.”

  “You’ll catch everyone’s eye,” Thessaly reassured her.

  “But as a treat or as a proper meal?” Rosalie asked, her tone ironic.

  Thessaly thought that through for a moment. “We’ll work together on it,” she decided. “You need to develop a more refined way of talking in polite company. Bigger words, and less of a tendency to veer toward smut.”

  Rosalie giggled. “I’ll save the smut for my marriage bed. I’ve a feeling husbands like it behind closed doors.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt it,”
Thessaly agreed, admiring the way the moon’s crescent gleamed off the round, polished wood of the windowsill.

  “Hush, girls,” Guzal said, her voice weary. “I’ve had enough smut for six months.”

  Thessaly quieted immediately and sent a glance Rosalie’s direction, but the girl, too, was staring at the moon.

  Guzal had spent nearly every night away from the cabin. Thessaly knew what she spent it doing and tried not to think about it. Sweet, pleasant, wholesome Guzal. It did not make sense to Thessaly how men she liked and respected, like Bellccior, could see a woman as something to be used when in need. Like Guzal was a keg of water or wine, to be sipped.

  It was how it had been, though, from the time Thessaly’s father brought her aboard. It was why.

  What is it about men, Thessaly wondered, that made them think they could tap women like a ripe keg? She would never be such.

  Not even for Loredan.

  Her thoughts turned slightly bitter, and she shoved them aside so she could sleep. The fetters were in place and solid as iron. It appeared that over time, left in place, they hardened. This was both comforting and painful.

  The next morning, they rowed into the grey-blue waters of Taunton docks. Ships here had flags only sometimes, and there were other small vessels like the one they came to shore in, rowing along the rocky coast—to tuck into sheltered harbors and offload goods without duties, Thessaly knew. It was part of the Kernish way—smuggling. And wrecks, bringing needed food for hungry mouths. Thessaly’s own Godfather turned a purposefully blind eye. It was not perfect, but it sufficed. The world was not perfect.

  He stood at the end of the dock. Thessaly spotted him immediately—the gleam of silver thread in his vest, the silver in his beard and hair, and when they were close enough to see the broad, triangular smile, the laughing eyes, and the glint of silver in his earlobe. Thessaly couldn’t help the smile that spread over her own face.

  She didn’t wait for mooring; she leapt to the docks as soon as she could span the distance, rocking the boat behind her as she did so.

  “Godfather,” she murmured into his chest, her arms tight around him.

  “Thessaly,” he answered, laughter in his voice. “My dear one. How have you fared since I last saw you?” He pulled her away, glanced over her quickly. “You have grown at least an inch.”

  “At least,” Thessaly agreed. “And in more than that,” she added, sobering.

  His expression grew serious for a moment too, and his glance more penetrating. “Indeed,” he murmured. “Your father wrote, but seeing it for myself, I can understand the predicament better.” He turned her so she walked beside him, and tucked an arm around her shoulders. “We shall manage it. I promise.”

  Henri had no right to make such promises. But the words comforted her. She moved closer to him like he was a fire to nestle up close to. His calm, clean aura, even more apparent now that she couldn’t avoid seeing all the floes she came close to, was a balm after all the turmoil of court and ship. She nearly cried, she felt so glad.

  This was the right place. This was where she needed to be. The comfort of knowing settled over her like cloud cover.

  “Time for some gambling,” Henri said suddenly, “some drinking, and some overall mischief to set you on the right path.” He moved away and took Thessaly’s arm in a businesslike way, walked a few steps, and paused in front of Antonio, who had just disembarked.

  Thessaly grinned at her father as well.

  Antonio’s frown was fierce, but it was only mock-disapproval, a game between the two of them—how Henri was such a terrible influence on Thessaly. “If I may whip the both of you afterward,” Thessaly’s father replied. He nodded to Rosalie and Waintree, who had stepped onto the docks.

  Waintree’s face was a picture of confusion. Thessaly couldn’t help but laugh. She gestured to Rosalie, who smiled and flew across to latch onto Thessaly’s other arm. “This is Rosalie,” Thessaly said to Henri. “She’s also too innocent. She’d like to join in on the drinking and debauchery.”

  “Indeed, I would,” Rosalie replied, face rosy and lips slightly parted.

  “Well, then,” Henri said, gesturing gracefully to one of the waiting carriages, “by all means, enter. This carriage leads straight to the den of iniquity. The other travels to the Cistercian abbey, where they are serving tripe today for both dinner and supper.” He waved condescendingly at Antonio. “We all know what these old men prefer.”

  Antonio rolled his eyes and climbed into the carriage. Waintree followed him, face clearing, then breaking into a smile. He’d gotten it.

  Thessaly and Rosalie, who couldn’t stop giggling, climbed in after Henri, Guzal making a fourth.

  “In truth, I shall be a disappointing host,” Henri confessed once they were settled. “The town’s changed little since last you were here, goddaughter. Woolens, tin. An occasional pirate picking along the coast for wrecks. And of course, all the smugglers from Burgundy that fill well my purse.” He patted it, and there was a suggestive clink.

  Thessaly groaned. “You don’t have to buy us things. We’ve got more than we can load into a dozen carriages already.”

  “Of course I must buy you things,” Henri retorted, giving Rosalie a twinkling smile. “A hairpiece,” he said, considering her with tilted head. “With a rose-silk veil. A pearl-velvet peak in front, to frame that rosebud of a face.”

  “Aye,” Rosalie said immediately. “It sounds grand. I shall have to show you my wig I bought in London. I thought to try masquerading as a brunette for a while once Thessaly and I arrive at . . . wherever we be off to.” She faltered there a moment, blinked. “Do you know anything of the arrangements that will be made?”

  “I’ve a few ideas,” Henri replied, glancing at Thessaly.

  Something came loose inside her, a knot she didn’t know she’d been holding deep down. Henri had plans. This was further comfort and reassurance.

  “I don’t see how tresses of any but gold would frame well that sweet face of yours,” Henri continued, cocking his head as he studied Rosalie. “But funning is always an activity worth pursuing. I lend my full support.”

  “About . . . where we’re going,” Thessaly said, changing the tack of the conversation. “Papa Henri, I have wishes. I need you to influence Papa.”

  Henri nodded. “Knowing you as a child, having seen something of your growing up, and knowing your mother well, Thessaly, I have seen this clash between you and Antonio coming like a summer storm. I’ve had time to think and ponder. And I believe I have the answer we all desire. Patience.”

  Thessaly nodded, and breathed deeply and easily for the first time in a long time. “You know my desires—for learning. For knowledge, and the ability to—”

  “To learn the magicks,” Henri finished for her. “To continue what your aunts began. It’s in your blood, Thessaly. Both sides of your family have been cursed with magicks.”

  “Is it a curse?”

  He studied her carefully. “I know little of it, though my own family practiced, generations back, as you know. I have stepped away from it. But I do know that it can be blessing or curse. I have seen the effects of both, and this house is scarred with the manifestations of choice. There is always choice, Thessaly, no matter how strong the forces that compel you.”

  Thessaly took a deep breath, and let these words settle over her. She had chosen. And nearly been eaten alive by the choice she’d made. “Papa wishes for me to learn the ladies’ arts, and I will . . . I’ve got . . . .” Here, she faltered a bit.

  “Loredan,” Rosalie said, lifting her pale brows and grinning.

  “I’m all but engaged,” Thessaly admitted, as her godfather’s brows raised as well.

  “And you like the fellow?”

  Thessaly nodded, flushing a bit.

  “That is a cause for celebration,” Henri said.

  “And, Henri,” she took a deep breath, met his gaze. “I have troubles. I . . . chose.”

  He was quiet for a while
, watching her. He nodded. “So you have chosen already. Which is your art, then? Flesh and Fire, or Breath and Blood?

  “I . . . there was an accident, and I was chosen by—”

  “Nay,” he said, his eyes suddenly queer and serious. “Do not tell me, Thessaly. You have chosen both bound and loose magicks?”

  Thessaly blinked, and she knotted up again, all at once, at his uncharacteristically grim expression. “Indeed,” she said, quietly.

  “Remarkable,” he muttered, looking away from her, out through the window. “Remarkable. Just as your mother . . . .” He hesitated.

  “My mother was also chosen by both,” Thessaly said. “I know. And I know she did not end well because of it.”

  He turned, a slight wariness to the movement.

  “Papa told me,” Thessaly said. “Henri . . . I . . . I need help.” Her voice choked with emotion. “I’ve hoped, I do hope, you have tomes. You have insight. You knew my mother, and it was over your cliff she—”

  “Do not speak of it,” Henri rasped.

  Thessaly bit her lip. She felt cold. She’d hoped for reassurance, but such a reaction from Henri made her worry a hundred times greater. “I am sorry,” she said.

  Henri nodded, sat still as stone for a few moments, and then placed a hand on her head. It was odd. It almost felt holy, like an anointing by a holy father. There was a strange ceremonial feel to it, and Thessaly thought, for a moment, that something passed into her—a soft light, a subtle warmth.

  Whether he knew or not, Henri had something of his ancestor’s power in him, Thessaly thought.

  This was where she would have been, if she had never chosen. She would have a subtle aura of floes and be an accidental carrier of an unknown power, always searching, but not finding. Not controlling how it came and went, and never with the force it could have.

  She couldn’t stand the thought of that, either. How could Henri stand it? To be so close to the floes, and yet keep his distance? To keep from choosing, how could that be happiness?