Thrall

by Barbara Ann Wright

  Chapter Twelve

  Maeve stepped carefully among the forest plants. She’d never tiptoed through a forest before, but if she crushed any silver-tipped clover before she found it, Laret might never forgive her.

  Well, Laret would sigh over the plant remains as if a tiny spirit had been killed, but she’d eventually forgive. They hadn’t lived together long, but all their days were spent with each other, running the farm, speaking with neighbors, trading for what they needed. It didn’t take much time to know each other’s moods, especially with most of their time spent talking. A love of conversation wasn’t something Aesa had ever shared, but Laret had many tales of her home and the places she’d traveled.

  Maeve had listened raptly; she’d loved stories since she was a child. Her town had often chosen her for the evening singer, and now Laret smiled at her songs and praised not only the tales but also her voice. Maeve had tried to contain her delight, giving Laret careful room after their teasing had gone so wrong. Laret hadn’t revealed her secret yet, but Maeve could wait, and Laret seemed happy just for the patience.

  One certainty hung over Maeve’s head: Aesa could come back any time and throw them out of balance again.

  And when had she started thinking of herself and Laret in balance and Aesa outside of it? Hadn’t she brought Laret into her home to teach her blood magic, to force her wyrd to come so she and Aesa could be together? And Laret had done nothing but put her off.

  That wasn’t entirely fair, perhaps. Maeve had put off asking about blood magic for the past few days. She’d been so relaxed around Laret, happy, joking, sharing companionable silences, and talking about the wide world. She’d dreaded the farm, but hearing new tales of the world, tales that didn’t involve ships and raiding and thrains, made her feel as if she’d been trapped within a keg before, and now she could stretch.

  Now, that wasn’t fair to Aesa. Maeve had to admit that she still didn’t want to stay home forever and tend the livestock. There had to be some in-between place, somewhere with room enough for everyone’s dreams.

  With a sigh, she told herself to pay attention and look for the distinctive shape of silver-tipped clover. Laret had declared that her garden couldn’t be complete without it, and so have it she must.

  A twig cracked nearby. “Any luck?” Maeve called.

  “In the whole of my life?” a strange voice asked. “Quite a lot.”

  Maeve looked up slowly. A blood witch leaned against a tree, a smile on her curse-marked cheeks. It took strength not to jump, even though Maeve had prepared herself for this meeting. The witch’s skin was so fair Maeve could see the blue veins in her neck as easily as the black lines on her face. Her breeches and long tunic were deep green, the sleeves cut short to bare her arms. Hair nearly as red as her eyes was tied tightly behind her, the lower half shaved all the way to the scalp.

  Maeve swallowed and hoped her voice would sound normal. “Hello.”

  The witch cocked her head. “Not going to jump up the nearest tree?”

  “Why should I?”

  She laughed and strode forward, offering her hand as if they were warriors. “Ari.”

  Maeve grabbed her wrist. “Maeve.”

  “The healer. I’ve heard of you.”

  “And I you. When you didn’t come to visit, we’d thought you’d gone.”

  She shrugged. “Not until I find what I’m looking for.”

  “It’s not silver-tipped clover, is it? Because I’m having a hard time finding one. Two might be impossible.”

  Ari laughed again. “You’re funny. People usually aren’t funny around me.”

  “Would you like them to be?” She remembered Laret’s words, that some sought blood magic to have power over others. This woman could curse her, kill her.

  But so could a lot of people.

  Ari shrugged again. “I heard you live with a blood witch.”

  “She lives with me.”

  “Oh. I’ll keep that in mind. Is she teaching you?” She tried to circle Maeve, looking her up and down, but Maeve turned with her.

  “Some.”

  “You don’t have any fresh cuts that I can see, but I suppose you could heal them, couldn’t you?”

  “She wants to make sure I have all the information—”

  Ari threw her head back and laughed. “Sounds like fear to me.” She drew a knife from her belt.

  Maeve stepped away. “What are you doing?”

  “The question is, what do you want? Everyone who learns blood magic has a reason. She must have told you this with all the other information.” Ari pricked her own finger, and blood dribbled out. Her eyes widened, pupils blooming. Instead of dripping, the blood wove up her arm, making spirals and patterns that danced and pulsed. “So, what is it you’re after?”

  Maeve thought of what Laret had said about flinging the blood, using it to bleed others. She brought her spirit close to the surface, ready to fight back. “Do you propose to be my teacher?”

  Ari cocked her head. “I could.” She stared at the blood patterns in wonder before the blood rolled back where it came from, leaving her arm clean. She held up her wounded finger. “Do you mind?”

  Maeve healed the cut with half a thought.

  Ari shivered. “Marvelous. What’s your wyrd?”

  Ah, the question she’d have to answer for the rest of her life. She’d nearly forgotten it. “Why?”

  Ari chuckled. “You’re not on a ship, so either your wyrd isn’t anything useful, or…”

  Maeve fought the urge to cross her arms. “Or I don’t want to be on a ship?”

  Ari barked a laugh. “I like you! I expect we have a lot in common.”

  “Like what?”

  She leaned close. “I too sought blood magic in order to force my wyrd to come.”

  Maeve’s heart froze in her chest. “How did you…”

  “Know about you? Not hard with the gossip around here. Or did you mean, how did I force my wyrd?” She held the knife out, grip first. “Here.”

  Maeve took it with numb hands if only to get it away from her.

  “Try it. I’ll show you what to do.”

  Maeve tried to think past her pulse pounding in her ears. Laret had told her about curses. The blood witch needed some of her own blood to mingle with her target’s.

  Ari rolled her eyes. “Use your own knife if you must. I’m not here to hurt you.”

  “Why did you come?” Maeve asked, half expecting Ari to claim this was all the will of fate.

  “It’s nothing to do with you, I’m afraid. But since I know your pain, if your blood witch won’t teach you, I will. Call it payment for the laughs.”

  Maeve let her fingers play over her own belt knife. What if only one experience was enough to bring her wyrd? “How did you force it?”

  Ari gestured toward the knife. “Like a bolt of lightning. The more I used it, the easier it came.”

  Like everything Aishlaugh’s tale said. Maeve drew her belt knife slowly. Ari’s soft smile didn’t change, didn’t turn mocking or sinister. Maeve tucked Ari’s knife in her belt.

  “We usually nick the fingers,” Ari said. “Lots of blood for little damage. Just don’t cut your palm.” She grinned. “But I suppose you can, as a healer.”

  She hesitated, shaking. “And then what?”

  “You’ll bleed. Surely your witch managed to tell you that much.” When Maeve gave her a look, she chuckled. “Push your spirit through the blood, guide it, and regulate its flow. That’s the first step.”

  “The first step,” Maeve whispered. And if she cut too deeply, she could heal herself. Why then were all of Laret’s warnings dancing in her head? Being a blood witch had been so easy to think about when she’d never actually done it. Aishlaugh hadn’t been afraid. Knives hadn’t trembled in her fingers. She’d known what she’d wanted, and she’d taken it. Laret would have reminded her that Aishlaugh also met a horrid end because she couldn’t control herself. And neither could Ari, as the curse lines in her che
eks attested. No matter what else Ari had used blood magic for, she’d hurt people, too.

  “Are you waiting for something special?” Ari asked.

  “The more you use it,” Maeve muttered, “the easier it becomes.” But there was another version of that saying, Laret’s: “The more you do, the more you want to do.” She’d shuddered when she cut herself, too, and there was the way Ari’s pupils had bloomed. This was a step with a steep drop on the other side.

  And what would Laret say? How much would this hurt her? Maeve remembered the line of her back as she’d turned away, and then their easy days since then. This would turn her away for good, a dear friend in exchange for a wyrd.

  “Well?” Ari asked.

  With a sigh, Maeve pulled Ari’s knife out and handed it back, sheathing her own.

  “I thought you wanted to learn,” Ari said.

  “I can’t go behind my friend’s back.”

  Ari sputtered a laugh. “I’m offering to teach you, not be your lover.”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  Ari squinted at her but shrugged. “As you wish.” She sheathed her knife. “Whether I find what I’m looking for or not, I must stop by your house and meet this extraordinary friend of yours.”

  “I can’t say she’d like that, but you’re welcome.”

  Ari nodded, still sporting a confused look before she moved off through the trees.

  “Maeve,” Laret said. When Maeve turned, she was standing quite close, half behind a tree, her eyes red-rimmed. “Why didn’t you take her help?”

  “Why didn’t you stop me?”

  Laret stepped closer, and she breathed hard as if running, her mouth set, gaze hard. “Answer me, please.”

  Maeve cocked her head. “You’re my teacher.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Do you mean, have I given up?” She thought about it and shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t thought about a wyrd in days. I’ve just been…happy.”

  Laret took a deep breath and seemed to hold it. “And when Aesa comes back? When the garden is done, and there’s less to do?”

  “I can’t see the future.” She glanced the way Ari had gone. “But right now, all I could think of was you.” It was maybe the wrong thing to say. She’d been trying to keep from making Laret uncomfortable, but she couldn’t lie.

  Laret stepped even closer, and Maeve didn’t move. “And what did you think of me?”

  Maeve tried to breathe lightly, Laret’s face only inches from her own. “Your warnings, mostly. And I thought it might hurt you.”

  Laret’s eyes slipped shut, and Maeve thought she might lean in for a kiss, but she stayed still. Maeve matched her, wanting her to lead the way. “Let’s go home.”

  *

  Laret’s heart beat so hard she wondered if Maeve could hear it. When she’d seen the other blood witch, she’d drawn her knife, ready for a fight, but then Maeve had disarmed the blood witch with humor, and Laret had paused, waiting.

  And then they’d laughed, and the witch offered her knife, offered a wyrd, and clever Maeve drew her own knife instead.

  Laret had wept then, crying silently as Maeve nearly slipped away from her forever. She couldn’t interfere, she told herself, clutching her fists until they’d cramped. This had to be Maeve’s decision. And then Maeve had sent the blood witch away, and Laret had wanted to run to her, to kiss her madly and deeply and passionately.

  But she couldn’t, not yet, not without the conversation. It weighed on her stomach as heavily as the concoction. If Maeve wondered why Laret sneaked away some mornings, she never asked. And she hadn’t pressed to know Laret’s secret, hadn’t teased or flirted, though her kindness hadn’t abated, letting Laret know that such actions were out of respect rather than disinterest.

  And now here they were again, with Maeve turning her back on something she dearly wanted because Laret would be hurt by it. Now the conversation had to happen before Laret loved her any more.

  Still, she hesitated, and Maeve didn’t push. She also didn’t say anything else, and Laret waited the few hours until sundown before she tried again, leading Maeve to the log in front of the unlit fire pit, thinking that what she had to say would be easier in the dark.

  When they sat in silence for a few moments, Maeve sighed. “I think…”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you want me to lead the way? If your secret is that you’ve never had a lover, that’s all right. If there’s some kind of ritual for your people—”

  Laret laughed breathlessly, her stomach unknotting a little. “There’s not.”

  “Here, we start like this.” Maeve leaned in for a kiss, a gentle pressure that Laret wanted nothing more than to lean into, but she drew away.

  “You turned away from blood magic today. Now I have to be brave.” Laret tried to speak, failed, and tried again. She resisted the urge to get up and pace, enjoying Maeve’s hands in her own. “I’m…that is…the person that you see isn’t…what I am. I mean, it is inside, but it isn’t on the outside.”

  By the True God, she’d practiced this in her head a thousand times. Why wouldn’t the words just come? She’d felt this way when she’d had to explain herself to her parents, but she’d eventually managed it. Now it was caught like a seed in her throat.

  Maeve cradled her face. “I don’t understand, but tell me more, and I’ll try.”

  Laret knew that was true, and it made desire rush through her, heating her insides and tightening her body. “I am, I mean, I have…” She leaned forward, close to Maeve’s ear. “My spirit is that of a woman, but my body is a man’s.”

  She couldn’t look up, couldn’t see whatever Maeve might be feeling. Maeve’s touch brushed her leg. She had to be straining to see in the dim light coming from the house. Maybe Maeve thought about touching her, seeking out the truth, and Laret’s breath caught as she realized just how much she wanted that to happen.

  “Your body is…”

  When she didn’t finish, Laret had to look. Maeve was staring, her mouth slightly open. Laret had never seen her eyes so wide. The way Laret was sitting—turned half toward the light—and the way she felt, something must have shown. Maeve met her stare, and the look of shock didn’t dissipate.

  Laret jerked to her feet, unable to stand it, remembering the same look on her parents’ faces before the disappointment, the disgust. She couldn’t stand to see it on Maeve’s face, too.

  Her feet moved almost on their own, stumbling and then running. Soon she was under the trees, tears leaving cold tracks down her hot cheeks. She’d began to chant without realizing it, and when she tripped over a rock, a low branch caught her before she fell, cracking as it lifted her up to cradle her in the tree. She ceased her chant, curling around the trunk and trying to weep silently. She was back in Panar, burying herself under the bushes in her father’s garden and crying herself to sleep.

  “Laret!” Maeve called, twigs snapping and bushes rustling as she crashed through the underbrush. “Where are you?”

  She couldn’t answer, couldn’t hear the questions or accusations or demands that she explain how she’d lived falsely under Maeve’s roof. “I liked you when I thought you were a woman,” Maeve would say, “but now…”

  “Laret! Where are you? Are you hurt? I can’t see anything in this—” Her words cut off with a yelp, the sounds of movement falling silent.

  Laret waited a few moments but heard only the wind through the trees. She swallowed and choked out, “Maeve?”

  No one answered. Laret slid to the ground. “Maeve?” She walked toward where she’d last heard the voice. Oh, now she had done it. Maeve had fallen in the dark, hurt, with no friendly trees to help her. In the gloom, Laret spotted a shadow among the ferns. “Maeve?”

  She knelt next to Maeve’s side, nearly jumping out of her skin when Maeve’s arms locked around her waist. “Got you!”

  Laret tried to twist away, but Maeve wouldn’t let go.

  “You had your turn to speak,” Maeve
said, “now I’ll have mine.”

  “Let me go.” Laret started to weep again, unable to help it.

  “You can’t just tell someone a secret like that and then run away.”

  “Go on, then,” Laret said, swiping at her cheeks. “Whatever you’re going to say, I’ve heard it before.”

  “Laret, shut up,” Maeve said with a sigh. She struggled upright and kept her hands at Laret’s waist. “Is this why you left home? Because people didn’t accept you?”

  Laret squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the pain of it stab her again though it was years in the past. “Yes.”

  Maeve’s fingers crept upward until she wiped Laret’s tears away. “I’ve heard of people like you before. I’ve just never met one.”

  “People like me?” Laret said bitterly. “People who are—”

  “If you say something nasty, I’m going to pinch you. Yes, people like you: one sex on the outside and another within.”

  Laret blinked at her. “So, you don’t think…” Her father’s words rang through her head as he accused her of pretending, of just trying to be different, of craving her mother’s attention because her mother had always wanted a daughter.

  But she had one. He just couldn’t accept that.

  “Laret,” Maeve said, “you have a wyrd.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Maeve kissed the end of her nose. “Only women have wyrds, a connection to living things. Men have wylds, connecting them to the elements. It’s an undeniable fact. Trust me. Wyrds are something I’ve thought a lot about, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  The air seemed to clear. “I didn’t think of it that way.”

  “So, no matter what else your gods did, they made your spirit a woman.”

  Laret crushed her in a hug. “I had to tell you before we…did anything. I didn’t know how you’d feel about…”

  Maeve brought her closer. “I care about you, Laret, your intelligence, your wit. I love your compassion, though you try to hide it. I like you more because you hide it.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, breath tickling Laret’s ear. “You’re a traveler, and I’m endlessly curious. Let’s explore each other. If you want?” Maeve kissed her softly then deepened the contact, nibbling Laret’s lips until she moaned. “Is that a yes?”