by S G Dunster
Chapter 20
S
hem spent the next day helping Eseld again.
“Tonight is the time to try,” Eseld said, as she began the day’s tasks in the chill of the morning, on her hands and knees in her garden. Thessaly knelt beside her, rooting out onions and carrots. They had very long, very fat roots; they were the previous years’ carrots. The new ones were not quite big enough for plucking yet.
“Aye,” Thessaly said, and her insides knotted a little. She was feeling the ache in her knees and thighs of the months’ blood, and she had already begun it. The ache matched what she felt inside—a rare stirring of floes, floes bursting to be used, and a buzz of energy. She wanted to burn things, and she wanted to growl at someone, too.
Dark moods, and a desire to burn, Thessaly thought. Women are dangerous creatures at times. She, more dangerous than most. Hywell had sung to her again, threading her through with more of his calm, cool floes when she woke straining to contain herself. She felt caged.
“It will be over then,” Eseld said, busy with the carrots. “And what do you plan next?”
There was something about her tone. Thessaly looked at her. She was worried, Thessaly thought. She could feel an aroma of it—sharp, a little sour—coming off her.
Hywell’s influence, she thought, sighing and sitting upright. “I wish to learn from you,” Thessaly said. “I will go to the abbey and study letters and maths. I can no longer learn from the DuCarnes, and so Papa will likely pull me away from here soon as he learns of what has occurred. I . . . I do not know what he will do, and so I must learn what I can, fast.”
Eseld nodded, turned her face to gaze at her. “You are a rare sort, Thessaly,” she said. “Powerful. You have all.” She wiggled her fingers, showing the dirt there. “Mud and blood, air and water. Not many can work in all of these, nor combine them the way you do. Margh came to me in the town. I looked him over and,” she shook her head, “you took it from him. He’s suffered the dirt-lung, the stones, a good long while. I was beating him limp to come to me, and in a moment you had it gone. Would’ve taken me months of treating, and teas, and prayers,” she shook her head, stared. “I don’t know what ye’ve got in ye, girl, but if you’ve got it still after the purging this night, there’s a dozen or more hurting men could use your help. Aye, and women and children. They come to me for nourishing, but you’re a surgeon in the floes. One quick cut.” She slashed her hand through the air.
“I burn, too,” Thessaly said quietly. “And,” she hesitated a long moment, “I thirst for it. To burn, to hurt. Right here.” She touched her breastbone. “It’s why I can cut. My floes, they cut. They burn. I don’t know if I . . . I chose it. I chose both, with my aunts.” Suddenly, Thessaly was coughing, sobbing, hands planted firm in the dirt, tears dropping to it. They steamed, hissed where they touched soil. Tears hot from her core, hot, fed by terrible floes that liked to hurt. That hurt her, inside, and always would.
She would never quite get away from it, Thessaly knew. She’d learned to contain her pain. These extra pieces she’d picked up from the coven, they were just a magnification of what she was already. They made it worse, but inside, she was that. A monster.
Could a monster heal? Because that, she realized, was what she wanted. She finally knew what sort of wytch she wanted to be. Umbra was power and influence, a broker of popes and dukes. Margarida was holiness and peace, a weaver of gold.
She wanted to delve into people, to make right what wasn’t.
That was why she had chosen as she did. There was no touching without flesh and blood. There was no cutting, no moving, no influencing without breath and fire.
Eseld crawled to her, put a hand on her back. “Tears,” she said. “A purge of sorts. You’ll be well ready, Thessaly. You can let it all go. All. The knights were not your fault. Say it.”
“Not my fault,” Thessaly choked.
“Aye,” Eseld said, putting arms tight around Thessaly’s middle, squeezing her. “Your heart’s a good one. What’s good at the core is good.” She moved away, shrugged. “We’ve got roots to cut. Get up off your hind end and help me.”
Thessaly scraped at her face with her apron. “I don’t want . . . anyone to see I’ve been sniveling,” she said.
Eseld gave her a wry smile. “Hywell’s at the abbey today. But rain bucket’s around back.”
Thessaly shuddered, nodded. This was one thing she wanted to learn—to keep her own feelings her own. She would have to broach that with Eseld. She and Hywell seemed to have some kind of barrier that way—she had no idea what either of them felt, unless they used words to say it.
The day went fast. Eseld let her try her hand at a poultice, and watched as Thessaly carefully wended her way inside with floes of breath and fire, touching blood and flesh to take what didn’t belong and give what did.
At the day’s end, Eseld collapsed, exhausted, onto the floor by the hearth. “It’s fair chilly,” she said. “A fire would be good.” She gave Thessaly a glance.
Thessaly’s insides twisted a little more. She moved to the fire, closed her eyes, and touched the half-charred wood there. She did it that way because a great plume of fire was more than she wanted to show. But she had it in her. She could feel it, edging at her extremities. The desire lingered, tickling, longing.
The log crackled to a roar, and Eseld leaned closer as Thessaly came away, sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around them.
“There are women of our tribe who’ve had the fire-touch,” she said.
It made Thessaly feel a little better, knowing. But inside she was stirring more and more. She stood, pacing. Her body ached. She was warm.
“Time to start it brewing,” Eseld said, standing. “The dibritae.” She went to her hanging sheaf of spices and took down burdock, cat’s claw, and a pot of clear oil. “Flax,” Eseld explained, pouring a cupful into her bowl, and blending the herbs on a stone with her pestle. The scent hit Thessaly, sharp and dizzying. Eseld closed her eyes, and Thessaly felt the floes touch the herbs, warming them slightly, taking them apart, allowing their flesh-magicks to ooze out.
She poured them into the oil and put it over the fire. It heated and the smell strengthened to a funk. Thessaly’s stomach was uneasy, and the usual monthly pains tightened. She moved to a chair, leaned back in it.
Eseld reached for a handful of white powder and cast it into the oil. It instantly foamed, and the scent grew nasty, poisonous. She took a handful of crumbled soil, and put a touch of it in. “More from the knights’ graves, in case,” Eseld explained. She touched the pot she’d taken the white powder from. “Lime. It won’t be pleasant.”
“Isn’t already,” Thessaly said.
It was growing dark. Brian would not be home for a while, but Thessaly was aware of Hywell’s likely approach, quiet through the woods on his pony, his two sisters following.
By the time they finally entered, she was kneeling by the fire, holding herself tight. It wasn’t the same inner pain of floes, it was a pain of muscle and vitals. Containing both at once took sweat and a closing out of the world. She did not even notice when they entered. And they were quiet as they did, because Eseld gestured to them, hushing them.
Hywell came to sit by her. She did feel that—the coolness, the touch of his hand as he held it on her head. It helped, soothed, took some of the pain away.
Another hand, larger, heavier, joined his, and the soothing spread through her body, taking a great deal of the pain with her.
Brian’s strong, quiet presence on one side, Hywell’s lovely darkness on the other. She sat and wished never to move, to stay frozen in that moment, forever, their hands joined on her crown, sending joy and calm through her.
“It’s time,” Eseld said, and the hands moved off her. The men stepped away.
The pain tore through her. She didn’t cry out, but she couldn’t walk straight. She hunched, bent by spasms, and Eseld held the tea out to her, nasty, foamed with the lime, making her
eyes water. She put the edge to Thessaly’s lip, and Thessaly tipped her head and drank.
Eseld took her hand and led her out to the garden. The moon shone full down on them, lovely, sharp, terrible, and Thessaly’s body became a roar of pain, wave after wave of burning muscles at her core.
The world around her rocked and melted.
“Aye,” Eseld said quietly, and it was her hand on Thessaly’s hair now. There wasn’t the magick in it, the soothing that took away pain. Instead, the pain grew sharper, redder, more tearing. “Birth it out. Give the fire back to earth.”
Thessaly spilled to the ground, her body shaking. Wetness seeped from between her legs, then poured. She retched, over and over. The pains became mountainous waves, like the storm she’d turned, rising, then falling. She poured over them, limp.
The floes began to spill out of her too. With each wave of pain, each spasm, they were forced out—red, raw, terrible.
Thessaly labored and cried. She shouted. Eseld kept her hand hard on Thessaly’s head, keeping her pressed to the dirt. Thessaly wished to wrench it away, to tear across the garden running, so hard was the pain.
Floes were seeping through her pores now. The dirt seemed to suck them up, greedy. Something silver in it, with the moon’s light. It made the earth thirsty. Thirsty, like the thirst she felt to burn, only different. Thirsty to push up seeds. To tear leaves up out of stems. To birth buds.
Time slowed, then quickened, then slowed.
Thessaly felt as if she were an hourglass losing sand through a narrow space now. The floes spilled out simply because she lay there; she did not have to push them. They spilled, they sank, they became one with earth. Fire warmed the ground and made it ripe.
The pain receded like the wakes of a great crasher—smaller curls on a shore, then smaller, then a thin sheen of water, glistening on sand.
“It’s done now,” Eseld said quietly.
Thessaly couldn’t move. Every single piece of her, every muscle in her body, was spent. She lay there like soil herself, ready for sprouting.
Eseld pulled at her, and she slumped back against her. “I’m . . . sorry,” she said, her lips trembling to form the words.
Eseld lay her back down, turning her so she was curled on her side. She went to the house.
The two men came back with her. Hywell wrapped her in a thick blanket of wool, and Brian gathered her up against his shoulder. They lay her on the bed and left while Eseld cleaned her face and body. Carefully, gently, she wiped away the dirt, vomit, blood, and then pulled the covers up over her.
Thessaly sank into warm darkness. There was pain—twin rents in her, furred with gold and silver. But she slept.
Chapter 21
She woke to Guzal bent over her, wiping her face with a warm wet cloth. As her eyes opened, Guzal stepped away.
Thessaly sat up.
She was in the room at the abbey. It smelled entirely different from the Dda’s house; the spices of her censer, rose-oil, scented soap replaced the onions, straw, and musk of animals across the wall. She felt a keen loss.
“You’re well,” Guzal said quietly. “Aye, and I’m glad.” She came and sat next to Thessaly. “You were long at the vale with those folk. We all thought you’d turned Dumenon. Then that great hairy man brought ye back. We all got out of his way in a hurry, let him lay you on the bed. He just left you there, not a word of what happened, and you limp as a new cat.”
“I’m well,” Thessaly said grumpily. She rubbed at her hair and took a quick look inside.
Twin orbs—bound, loose, shining at her core. The fire burned bright as she touched it. She took a floe and tested it, bringing it to her fingertip. Her flesh grew warm, and she thought of fierce cuts, of hot scalds, of burning away foulness, and desire rose in her throat.
But she did not think of sizzling flesh, of boiling blood, and the sweetness of smoke.
It was gone, and she was glad.
“Can you stand dinner in the refectory, do you think?” Guzal asked, sitting back. “You slept two days here, too. I’ve fed ye broth, but your ribs are showing.”
“Bring it up here,” Thessaly said. “Just for today perhaps the Abbess will allow it.”
“I think she would.”
After Guzal left, Thessaly looked up at the perch where Nur rested. She closed her eyes and put herself there for a moment.
Nur was so simple, so comfortable, but antsy with desire for flight, for fresh sparrow’s blood. No burning or freezing masses inside, though. Thessaly breathed in the comfort of a body that was simple, untouched by magicks for just a moment, and then reached up to remove her hood.
“I’ll set her out on the dovecote,” Thessaly said to Guzal, when the girl entered carrying a tray.
“I’ll put an overdress on you first.”
“Aye,” Thessaly replied, putting the bird back, sliding her chemise sleeves through the thick embroidered cotton, raising her arms for Guzal to belt it tight. “I’m glad to have you here to remind me.”
She walked out the front door, avoiding the refectory. Nur took off at once, winging madly, rising high into the sky until she was a golden speck. She had no interest in the dovecote; instead she glided out over the water, crossing back and forth, dipping, rising.
Thessaly took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and touched her with a gust of wind’s breath, entering for just a moment, feeling the thrill, the joy, the powerful muscling of wings.
She was free, too, as Nur was free. For how long, she did not know. But until her father returned with the next load of spices, she would cram herself full of Latin, of Greek. Of mathematics and rhetoric. Plato, Aristotle.
And magicks.
She closed her eyes again and brought a wave up. There were fish in it; tender, full of cool blood and pink flesh. Nur’s eyes sharpened and she dove down sharply. Thessaly swelled the water to meet her. Beak, Claw. Blood, slime. Breath, water.
And back inside her own body, the slow burn of fire, the sear of ice. They brought pain, and were good, sharp tools.
She was rare, Eseld had said.
She would use them. She would cut away what was bad in everyone who would allow it. She would burn it away and make things new and good, as a fire in a forest took dead trees and turned them into new soil. She would freeze away where impurity touched innocence.
I chose right, Thessaly thought. She took a deep breath and let the exultation take her over. She opened her eyes, lifted her chin, and let the sharp power pour through every corner, every line of her. She shone, she could feel it.
I chose right.
Afterword
Did you love The Rising Scythe? Please do not forget to leave a review! Reviews are an independent author’s bread and butter.
Excited for the next in the Series? The Icy Cord, Dumenon Chronicles Book 2, will release in November of 2019. In the meantime, keep up with the series by heading over to my official site, SGDunster.com, and subscribing to my Dumenon Chronicles mailing list for free Dumenon Chronicles short stories, sneak peeks, and other Historical Fantasy giveaways to tide you over.
Also by S.G. Dunster
Fire in the Wall
Logan sees things that aren’t real. Sexy things. Disturbing things. Dangerous things. His offbeat, artistic roommate Lil claims his visions are real. And one dark and thunderous night, she proves it by walking through a huge, fiery crack in the basement wall. Not only do people think he’s crazy now, they blame him for her disappearance. Logan has two choices: accept that he is a danger to those around him and that his best friend is gone forever
… or he can follow Lil into his nightmares.
Check out Fire in the Wall, free on Kindle Unlimited.
About the Author
Sarah Dunster is the mother of nine children, an outdoors enthusiast, a voracious reader, a rabid gardener, and an award-winning poet and a novelist. Her debut novel Lightning Tree was released by Cedar fort in April of 2012 and won the 2011 Segullah short fiction prize. Her 2nd, Mile 21, w
as released in 2014, and won the prestigious Whitney Award in the category of General Fiction. Currently, Sarah is publishing two series independently. The Caldera Series; Urban Fantasy/Psych Thriller, and the Dumnonia series; Dark Renaissance Fantasy. For more information, visit SGDunster.com or follow on Instagram @thedunsters or on Facebook /SGDunster.
