The Rising Scythe

by S G Dunster

  She gestured to the girls, and took the scythe, which had washed up at her feet.

  While the women shrieked and sobbed and rocked and clutched their naked, burned bodies, Thessaly used the scythe to cut the girls free.

  “Run,” She croaked. “Run to the abbey.”

  “Come,” Guzal said, tugging at her. Her face faded in and out.

  “No,” Thessaly said. “Go.”

  A moment of hesitation.

  “Go!” Thessaly shouted. “Get the others to safety, now!”

  Guzal retreated, and then the girls ran from the wood with her. Skinny, shaky, and still running fast in spite of long-hollow bellies. As they passed from woods to road, a sweetness seemed to leave—like the soft scent of wildflowers.

  She felt it.

  She wanted it. Something dark and grasping in her wanted to drink it down like a drunkard in his mugs.

  “No,” she told herself. “No. V-v-vinculum.”

  The floes that gathered inside seemed massive, knotted, slimy, dirty, mixed up with all sorts of

  useless and dead things, like unsifted barley. Husk, stem, dirt clod and tender seed all poured into Thessaly’s core and left her bloated and aching and sick. She fell into a stupor. The ground spun, the sky spun. The world darkened, lightened.

  In spite of the fetters, waves of fire burned her. Waves of blood chilled her. Fire. Blood. Fire. Blood.

  I want to die, Thessaly thought, taking the scythe in hand. It is too much, now. Too much.

  She did not see the figures that crept through the underbrush, that came to the clearing. One by one, the sisters and mother, lying senseless, were bound.

  She saw, but didn’t register the man who knelt over her. She didn’t have the energy or presence to protest as the handle of the scythe moved from her hand, as he brought it up and looked at it, his strong face going sharp and angry for a moment. The dark hair was like a moving shadow, the deep eyes held magick, she thought blearily. More magick.

  Too much magick.

  “I’ll take her to my house,” The Fydoler told the others—men who stood around him; men with manes of dark hair, piercing light eyes, and faces as fierce as his as they looked at the thing he held, which Thessaly realized now looked wicked, strange. Wrong.

  “Aye,” one of the others said. His features echoed the younger, more slender ones of the Fydoler. His father or uncle, or grandfather—he had a shock of long hair, beard to his collarbone. He gestured to the others. “Ride around. Make sure these are the only ones. Son, take her to the house. Have your mother look after her.”

  “She’s a wytch,” one of the younger men spat. “She’ll go to the gaol with the others, to be tried.”

  “She’s not,” the Fydoler replied, bending, cupping Thessaly’s face, his dark eyes darting over her features, the cold, bare body swathed in thin linen.

  Thessaly shivered. She was numb, and too sore to move, but those eyes were like a warm fire—she loosened slightly inside, and some of the refuse she’d taken in seemed to shift. She felt, suddenly, like she might be sick.

  “She’s been abused. Used, and put under their glamor. She’s a child, in bad need of learning.” He picked her up carefully, mounted his pony, and settled her in the saddle in front of him. He smelled, Thessaly thought blearily as she fell against his chest, like pine, and sheep’s wool. His arms around her were strong, keeping her firm on the horse’s back.

  Thessaly must have passed out on the ride, because she woke suddenly to find herself on a mattress of musty straw, covered in blankets of wool. She sat up, and a small dark-eyed woman came to her side. “Aye, you’re ready for some fowl-broth, I think,” she said, and held a spoon to Thessaly’s lips.

  Thessaly obediently swallowed, then gagged. She stared at the woman. Those dark eyes were familiar—the shape, and the calm, knowing look in them.

  The Fydoler. No. Not the Fydoler, a woman, but—

  “Guzal,” she said, shoving away the blankets.

  The woman smoothed them back firmly. “She’s well,” she said. “And Cerowen and Ellia, too. Sweet girls returned to their grieving parents. Thanks to your help.” She held the spoon up again, her face brooking no objection. “Eat,” she said. “Then it might be you have breath in you to talk.”

  Thessaly hesitated. She closed her eyes and felt for her magicks. They were not fettered, but there was something there, something dark and awful that tasted of rot. She gasped, and retched.

  The woman patted her, then held her, stroking her hair. “Eat,” she said again quietly. “There’s work to be done, wench. But not in a body starved.”

  Thessaly didn’t want to eat, but she felt how her limbs shook, and her head still spun. She swallowed down near a cup’s worth before the woman backed away, setting it on the hearth to warm again. “Now then,” she said, pulling a spindle-backed chair to the bedside. “Tell me.”

  Thessaly stared for a moment. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a proper wytch,” she replied gently. “A cunningwoman, they call me here. I know what’s in you. What you’ve done. I know what you fight.” She leaned closer. “I can help.”

  Thessaly shook her head. Images from the night before were coming: the scythe, the dancing. Something about the brew she’d taken was clearing it all, bringing things back into focus quickly, and . . .

  The shame was overwhelming. Thessaly wept now, tears rolling down her face.

  The woman brushed a knuckle across her cheek. “Eseld,” she said to Thessaly. “That’s my name. And you aren’t the first to be caught up in a nest of pain and pleasure, girl. The magicks are a tricky bedfellow.”

  “I’d’ve done it,” Thessaly rasped, “had I not bound myself in that last moment, had I not used the dirty curse my aunt gave me. I’m not fit for holy water. Not fit to be in the presence of even a prayer.”

  “Tell me.” This time the word came with an edge of command.

  Thessaly told, in a flood of words that tumbled and ran into each other. She told everything, running back and forward in time like a deer running from a bowman. Her Aunt Umbra, the curse. Her greed, and the choosing that had burst her apart. Her aunt and the calm beauty under the water.

  Her lessons as a child.

  Her mother.

  Guzal, lost, and the Fydoler. The woman shifted slightly as Thessaly told how she’d discovered it was the Fydoler who’d taken the girls, with his aura of magicks, how he’d tried to take Thessaly.

  When she came to the part about the wytches in the wood, her skin warmed, and she faltered in words.

  “It was pleasure,” the woman prodded. “And power, and comfort.”

  “It kept the floes at bay,” Thessaly said. “After the first time I joined to them, I could have it run through me. I didn’t have to bind it. It seemed like a miracle, an answer. Before that I was either bound up, or had to fight the waves, burning, then freezing always.”

  The woman was silent, gazing down at her. It was like she was waiting for something.

  Thessaly realized, suddenly. “They’re . . . calm now,” she said. She looked inside. As she looked again, she wanted to draw back. There was a stink there, a terrible feeling. Something was wrong. But she saw, also, that her magicks—bound, loose—rested inside her, glowing orbs that rayed out, mingling in an intricate network that both warmed and cooled, that lay inside her in a nest of comfort. She looked at the woman. “Did . . . you—”

  “Old spells,” she said. “There’s always ways, on both sides of the magick.” She stood. “Your aunts, as you describe them, seemed to me hemmed in by rules, though they are indeed powerful. However, you’ve broken beyond their rules. They knew not how to help you.”

  Thessaly gazed up at her. She had a delicate face, dark, curling hair, and there was sweetness in the lines around her eyes and mouth. “Do you?” She asked.

  She shook her head. “You’re beyond what I know, what I’ve seen. I could not have wandered into a wytch’s nest and taken them with fire and sea.”
She sat by the fire, and a gleam of amusement lit her eyes. “You’re a fair bite to chew, Thessaly of the Abbey.”

  “Thessaly,” Thessaly said, “d’Ainestille.”

  “Aye,” the woman laughed. “Ye are. And you can call me Eseld.”

  They sat for a while, talking of other, more idle things, such as forests and weather, magicks bound, mostly. Thessaly realized that this Eseld worked there, in those bound magicks, and touched very little of loose. They went out into her kitchen garden to weed, and Thessaly felt the force of power thrumming through the dirt. She was a wytch of some power, though it was gentler than her Aunt Umbra’s. More practical, from what Thessaly was learning. Plants, animals, people. Healing.

  “I see in wells, at times,” Eseld said to Thessaly, “and I can brew a potion to join people.”

  “That’s magicks loose,” Thessaly told her. “Seeing. Blood—I mean, not the blood of people or beasts; waters. Waters are the earth’s blood. You’re a wytch too, then,” she said, sitting on her heels.

  “I’m a spinner of spells,” Eseld admitted. “Any Dda woman’s something of a cunning, but I learned the trade on purpose. My son, too. Your Fydoler.”

  “Fydoler. Your . . . son,” Thessaly repeated.

  She laughed. “His proper name is Hywell. He’s my oldest. I’ve two daughters as well. They’re out at the market now.”

  “Hywell,” Thessaly said, moving to the edge of the bed. “He took the . . . he took them—”

  “No,” Eseld said softly. “Who took the girls?”

  “The wytches,” Thessaly replied, clutching her head. “But he tried to take me.”

  “He was bringing you to me,” Eseld said, “because you were in a glamor. A stupor concocted by those women. They had you drugged in the mind. I’ll venture you don’t remember much of the last few days.”

  Thessaly shook her head slowly, trying to get her head around it, trying to manage the facts she was working through. “Hywell,” she repeated. “The Fydoler.” She looked up. “Your son,” she said. “Both of you work in magicks, then. But his magicks are gold—magicks loose. Music. Not bound. They are strong in him, Eseld.”

  Eseld smiled and her eyes softened. “He’s a wonder, that boy.”

  “Aye,” Thessaly muttered. Her face warmed, and she returned her attention to the soft, dark dirt under her hands. It soothed, softened the pains that still throbbed in the cuts that scabbed her palm. They felt like more than mere scabs, like something dirty embedded in her skin.

  “Here,” Eseld said, suddenly close and kneeling beside her. She took out a small sharp knife. “Bite your lip,” she said. Then Eseld cut the scars open again. Thessaly grunted, but it felt good. The blood that trickled out smelled like them—hot silver, burning moon.

  Eseld brought Thessaly’s hand down to the dirt and pressed it there so her blood ran into the ground. When she finally lifted it, Thessaly saw it was scabbed over again. This time the wound was ragged, messy, clotted with the clean mud.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “It’ll heal right now, provided you care proper for it.”

  “I’ve garlic in my room. And turmeric spice.”

  “Aye, of course you do,” Eseld said. “Still, use some of my herbs. The earth here is good. I’ll send ‘em back home with ye. We’d best get back; I’m like to have a few visitors.” She eyed Thessaly. “I think you’re going to stay on your feet now. You can go back, but I’ve no doubt the men of the abbey, and of the tribe, will have some questions for you, so brace yourself. If you’d like to stay a while longer, I don’t mind your help. Many women around here’re in need of spells and cures. They come to me, but some are beyond what I can help. You’ve got more in you.”

  Thessaly shook her head. “I learned only a few things before I . . . chose. I don’t know how—“

  “Then watch,” Eseld said with a smile, “And I can show ye.”

  Thessaly stared at her. “You’ll teach me.”

  She gave a little nod. “What I have to teach, I will.”

  Thessaly let out a long breath. Her heart lightened, and her stomach relaxed. “You’ll teach me,” she repeated. “I can’t thank you enough. I’ve needed—“

  “Aye, there’s a lot you need,” Eseld said, cuffing her on the back of her head. “Listen, and curb that prattling cheat of yours, and might be you’ll get it.”

  They went back inside and sat in front of the fire. Eseld had a censer; Thessaly chose the herbs, and they burned them.

  “I...” Thessaly hesitated. “May I touch on your... magicks, your powers... may I see into you?”

  Eseld’s brow wrinkled. “You’re a seer and a hedgewitch? Both?”

  Thessaly nodded, then shook her head. “Neither, yet. But I’ve got both in me.”

  Eseld blinked. “That’s a burden to carry. See what you will.” She turned back to the censer.

  Thessaly was shy at first. She touched along her periphery, and then sank in deeper, touching through her veins, her bones.

  “You’re well,” she said. “And... you’ve got a secret place inside, where all the magicks you carry are stored. But there’s no binding I can see.”

  “Aye,” Eseld replied. “And you’re certain no prugger. Well,” she stood. “Back to the abbey with ye.”

  Thessaly stood as well. “That’s all?”

  “I don’t have time to do more. I’ve a kitchen garden to plant, eggs to find, animals to feed and settle.” She wrapped a length of linen around her hair, bunching it and tying it securely underneath. “He’ll take you.”

  Thessaly turned, and there he was, riding in on one of those agile ponies, his hair stirred by wind, his face drawn and tired. “She’s well,” he said, before Thessaly had to ask the question. “Your girl, Guzal. Resting. And the two others’re returned to their families.”

  Thessaly nodded.

  They stood there, silent, watching each other. Hywell’s face was a study of questions, which moved to concern, then the usual merry amusement.

  “Well, climb on up and get gone,” Eseld said decisively. “Before the abbey sends out riders looking for her.”

  She paused, taking the hand Hywell held out. It was warm, firm. Her floes thrilled and spread. Rays, calm. “I don’t have to fetter them,” she said, looking at Eseld.

  “You’ve accepted the burden you carry,” she replied. “The pain’s only a surface, like wind to water. You’ve broken it.”

  Thessaly nodded, and climbed on behind Hywell. He grasped her forearm to help her, and the touch was startling, disturbing.

  Hywell, his strong, muscled back before her. She was shy as she settled in behind him, and almost trembled as she hooked her hands around his waist. Hywell either didn’t notice or pretended not to; he clicked and the animal took off through the woods.

  Thessaly felt a tinge of guilt. She’d had some dire suspicions about him. Had thought him capable of evil things.

  But that was part of it, Thessaly thought. And something about the wytches . . . they deceived me.

  The pleasure deceived you, a nagging voice edged at Thessaly’s conscience. You succumbed and were blinded. How did you not know Lady DuCarne the minute you saw her swollen belly?

  Something about that thought made her sick again, and she clung suddenly, tightly, her fingertips digging into Hywell’s chest.

  His gold flowed into her. She felt it creep through her periphery. It was cool and sparkling, fuzzy. A tingle. She forced herself to keep holding on because the other choice would have her falling off a horse. Did he know what he carried with him? His mother spoke of magicks, worked in magicks. Did she know how forceful indeed the magicks were about her son?

  Hywell. A man who breathed gold. Whose breath was magicks, somehow. Thessaly wanted to ask. Wanted to hear that fydol. Wanted to study him with her Sight fully open. That was all she wanted, she told herself firmly. He was a curiosity. And she had him to thank for Guzal’s life. And likely, her own. She took a deep breath and allowed h
erself to rest into his back.

  “You are a cunning one,” Hywell said after a few more moments of silence. It wasn’t a tense silence. It was more a feeling of containment, restraint.

  “Aye, and with a temper that’ll burn clothes,” Thessaly replied wryly.

  Hywell flicked a glance over his shoulder. “I meant . . . a wytch. You are a wytch. We call it cunning, in the vale.”

  “Ah.”

  “Though it’s good to know about your temper.” His eyes turned up at the corners. “I’ll steer far clear of it.”

  “I doubt that,” Thessaly said dryly.

  That made him laugh—a shout that echoed off the trees and warmed Thessaly clear to her toes. She bit her lip and slid her hands from where she held to him at the waist, to grabbing him by bunches of his shirt.

  “It’s far more decent to wrap your arms around me than to try and rip off my shirt.” He took her hand and moved it back to his waist.

  Thessaly closed her eyes.

  No, it was more than curiosity. Beatrice had been right. Rosalie had been right.

  She was in trouble because she was besotted.

  Maybe it’s just the magicks, she thought. And all girls have fancies. What harm is it? If I step so careful around it, it will be a thing. Loredan has had fancies too, surely. And a Dumenon man’s not going to be a likely suitor to challenge him.

  I can’t help but feel. And I’m done fettering.

  So finally, she gave in, and it was as if a dam burst. Wave after warm wave stole over her. It shook her. Frightened her. The tingling awareness of the smooth muscles of his lower torso moved through her, settling in various corners and vales of her, and she was feeling too much.

  Too much. Too much.