by Paula Guran
Kill him!
Soon.
They kept out of sight. They didn’t move until the man had carefully wiped his sword on the dead woman’s torn dress and sheathed the blade, then reclaimed his bow and quiver. The Soldier moved quickly and quietly, keeping to the trees at the edge of the woods, Ceren little more than a spectator behind borrowed eyes.
The Soldier caught the scout from behind before he had taken six steps into the trees. The scout managed only a muffled grunt as the Soldier clamped his hand over the man’s mouth and neatly slashed his throat. The raider’s blood flowed over their arms, but the Soldier didn’t release their grip until the man went limp. They took the sword and the bow and quiver, but that was all.
The armor?
No time.
Ceren felt a little foolish for asking the question in the first place, and the reason was part of why she so feared to wear the Soldier’s skin—she was starting to think like the Soldier. Like he had to think to serve his function. She knew why they left the armor, just as she knew why they did not follow the raiders along the same path, even though it was the most direct route. They took their course a little to the right, to place themselves just south of where the raiders would have to pass the barrier. At this point Ceren wasn’t certain if this was the Soldier’s direction or hers, but she knew they did not want to place the farmers directly in front of the raiders, not when arrows were about to fly.
They found a gap in the bramble thicket bordering the field, but the raiders had already emerged and were a good thirty paces into the field, moving directly to where Kinan stood with his father and brothers. Their numbers were matched, but that was all. It was hay fork and club against sword and spear, the difference being that those who held the sword and spear knew how to use them for this particular form of work.
Kinan, his family . . . They’ll be slaughtered!
The first arrow was already nocked, but the Soldier did not draw. Not yet. Ceren again knew why, and she hated it. The raiders were still too close. Fire now and they’d probably get one of them, but then the three left would charge their position. The Soldier was waiting for advantage; a longer shot versus time to aim and fire. Ceren understood the tactical necessity, just as she understood that it might get one or more of Kinan’s family killed. She let the Soldier wait until she could stand it no longer.
Now.
The closest raider went down screaming in pain with an arrow in his thigh. At first Ceren thought it was a bad shot, but then realized the Soldier had hit exactly what he aimed at. He wanted the raider incapacitated but calling attention to himself. The distraction worked. The raiders hesitated and turned toward their fallen companion. The Soldier’s second arrow hit the next-closest raider high in the chest. He went down with barely more than a gasp.
This was the Soldier’s purpose, and he was serving it well. Ceren felt the Soldier’s satisfaction, and she felt sick as she realized that it wasn’t just satisfaction that he felt. The Soldier was enjoying himself, and thus so was she, no matter how much she did not wish to, no matter how much she had wanted to see the raiders die.
Let them charge us now, Ceren thought, but it didn’t work out that way. The raiders charged the farmers. Ceren didn’t know if they meant to cut down Kinan’s family or merely get past them to use them as cover, but now the odds were two to one in the farmers’ favor. One farmer went down; Ceren couldn’t tell who because the Soldier had already tossed the bow aside, and they ran full speed toward the fighting, borrowed sword drawn. The man on the ground made a feeble cut at him as he raced past, and the Soldier split the man’s skull with barely a pause, but by the time they reached the farmers, it was all over. Kinan was down on the ground, a gash in his forehead.
Somehow Ceren knew it would be Kinan. She felt cold, almost numb at the sight of him.
The raiders were dead. The farmers were still furiously clubbing the bodies when Ceren in her Soldier skin reached them. The farmers eyed the Soldier warily.
“Who are you?” Kinan’s father asked without lowering his club.
“The Wise Woman sent me,” the Soldier said, sheathing the sword as he spoke. “She saw the smoke.”
Ceren saw the look in the older man’s eyes. Relief, certainly, but fear as well. One more debt. Ceren shook her head, and of course the Soldier did the same. “She figured they’d be at her steading next. Best to stop them here. What about the boy?”
They were all still breathing hard; Ceren wasn’t even sure they’d noticed that Kinan was down, but then they were all clustering about him. Ceren shoved her way down to Kinan’s side in her borrowed skin.
It was a glancing blow, and that was probably the only reason Kinan was still breathing. Even so, it was a nasty gash, Kinan was unconscious, and they could not rouse him.
“We should take him to the Wise Woman,” one of the brothers said, but Ceren had the Soldier shake his head for her.
“No. Until we know how bad his hurt is you shouldn’t move him any farther than needs must. Lift him gently and put him in his bed. Clean and bandage the cut, and I’ll fetch the Wise Woman to you.”
The father looked toward the barrier. “What if there are more of them?”
The Soldier shook his head without any help from Ceren. “Keep watch, but I doubt there will be. It was a foraging party. There’s an army on a quick march south, and the king will have to deal with that if he can, but auxiliaries? It’s likely no one will even miss these bastards.”
The farmers looked doubtful, but they did as the Soldier directed. Ceren watched them carry Kinan off, then quickly turned back toward her own home.
She shed the Soldier’s skin with relief, but she was nearly stumbling with exhaustion. Even so, she managed to carry her box of medicines up the road to Kinan’s farm. It was his mother that greeted her this time.
Ceren had never met the woman before, but she could see Kinan in the older woman’s eyes. Most of the rest of his looks he got from his father. She frowned when Ceren appeared, but she seemed to be puzzled, not disapproving.
“Kinan said you were young. I didn’t realize how young.”
“My Gran trained me well,” Ceren said, a little defensively. “I can help him.”
The woman shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. You already have helped him, so I hope you can again. He hasn’t moved since they brought him in. My name is Liea, by the way. Thank you for coming,” she said, and sounded as if she meant it.
Ceren found herself blushing a little. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said thank-you to her and seemed sincere rather than grudging. Except Kinan.
“I’m Ceren. I don’t know if your son told you or not. . . . I trust no more raiders have been seen?”
The woman shook her head. “Not here, though we’ve heard rumors of attacks further south. The men are out burying the carcasses in a deep hole.”
“Then maybe we won’t see more of them again.”
Liea shrugged. “Even if the army is beaten, likely some like them will come this way again, and likely be even more hungry and desperate in the bargain. We heard what they did to the steading west of us.”
Ceren only hoped that they hadn’t seen it as well, as she had. Liea took her to where Kinan had been put to bed. It wasn’t a large room, and clearly he shared it with his brothers. Ceren found him lying pale and still under a quilt. His breathing was regular and strong; the head wound had stopped bleeding and she removed the bandage, noting with approval that it had been cleaned out properly, doubtless Liea’s doing. Now it was easy to see that the cut had not gone clear through to the skull, though it hadn’t missed by much. Still, Kinan’s continued unconsciousness was not a good sign, and the longer it lasted, the worse the portents.
Liea stood nearby watching. Her eyes were moist and her lower lip trembled. Ceren believed she knew how the woman felt, at least a little. She took a needle and thread from her box and calmly proceeded to sew up the gash. She noted with approval that Liea turned a
way only once, on the first pass of the needle.
“These stitches will need to come out, but probably not before a fortnight. Just cut one side under the knot and pull. It’ll sting him, but no more than that.”
Liea looked as if she was ready to collapse where she stood. She put her hand against the lintel for support. “You . . . you think he will live?”
“The next few minutes should tell. Would you like to help me?”
Ceren mixed a pungent blend of herbs with a few drops of apple cider supplied by Liea. She then had the older woman hold Kinan’s head while she soaked a bit of linen in the mixture and held it under Kinan’s nose. “I’d try not to breathe for a few moments, if I were you.”
While Ceren and Liea both held their breath, Kinan inhaled the scent at full strength. In a moment his eyelids fluttered and then his eyes opened wide and tears started to flow. He sat upright in the bed despite Liea’s best efforts. “What is that damn stench?”
“Your salvation,” Ceren said calmly. She took the rag and stuffed it in an earthenware bottle with a tight cork to seal it. After she closed the lid of the box the scent began to fade immediately. Liea already had her arms around her son, who didn’t seem to understand what all the fuss was about.
“I’m fine, Ma. My head hurts, but that’s all . . . Wait, what happened to—”
“Your father and your brothers are all fine, as are you. Mostly thanks to this young woman here,” Liea said. “Ceren, I don’t know where you found that man you sent to help us, but we are in your debt for that as well. I don’t know how we can repay you.”
Debt. Well, yes. That was how it worked. Gran had always said as much. You use your skills and make other people pay for them. It was no different from being a cobbler and a blacksmith. Except that it was different. A cobbler could make a gift of shoes or a blacksmith an ironwork, to a friend. What witch—yes, that was the word; Gran spoke it if no one else would—gave her skills away? Who would trust such a gift? Ceren’s weariness caught up with her all at once. She rose with difficulty.
“Can we discuss that later? I think I need to go home . . . ”
Liea looked her up and down. “I think we both need to sit for a moment and have a taste of that hard cider first—without the herbs. Then I’ll have Kyne or Beras make sure you get home safe.”
“She was worried about me. She was nice to me.”
As Ceren lay in her Gran’s bed trying to sleep, she examined the thought and wondered if what she thought was concern in Liea’s eyes was something else.
Child, everyone acts nice and respectful when they want something or when they owe you, Gran said. You think we wear a false skin? Feh. Everyone drops the mask as soon as they get what they want. You don’t owe them courtesy or aught else. Ceren remembered. She was still remembering when she finally fell asleep, and heard the voice again.
“Your Gran knew better.”
“Go away,” Ceren said.
“I can’t. Neither can you. We’re stuck here, each in our own way. Or do you still think Kinan or his family will welcome you with open arms? Fool, if you want Kinan, you’ll have to take him. Your Gran knew. Your Gran always got what she wanted. Or who she wanted.”
That was a subject Ceren definitely did not want to hear about, but the message had already come through. “I collect what I need, but I take what I want, and that’s what makes me a true witch. Is that it?”
“It’s what your Gran taught you, and she taught you well. Don’t deny what you are.”
“What if I don’t want to be like that?” Ceren heard faint laughter. “Then you ‘be’ alone and you ‘be’ nothing. Stop talking rubbish and use the right tool for the purpose. It’ll get easier as time passes. You’ll see. Your Gran did. Use me, as she did.”
“If I’m a witch, then don’t tell me what I must do!”
More laughter. Ceren remembered the sound of it in her head when she finally awoke, even more so than the sound arrows made when they struck human flesh and the image of what a man looked like split from crown to chin by a broadsword. The sun was streaming in from a dusty window. Ceren blinked. How long had she slept? The sun was already high and the morning half gone, at least, and she was famished. Ceren didn’t bother to dress properly. First she visited the privy, then washed her face and hands in cold water from the stream. After that she stumbled to the larder and found some hard bread and cheese.
“What do you plan, then? A courtesy call on the boy’s family?”
Ceren pinched herself just the once to verify that she wasn’t dreaming, but she hadn’t really thought so in the first place. Ceren addressed the person who was not there. “Haunting my dreams was bad enough. Are you going to talk to me while I’m awake too?”
“Someone needs to, but no. Your Gran said you would know when the time came, and this is how you know. It is time, Ceren. Put me on.”
“Why?”
“So that you may achieve your heart’s desire, of course.”
Ceren closed her eyes briefly and then spoke to nothing again. “Very well.”
The shelf was high. She needed a stool to stand on when she pulled down the long wrapped bundle that rested there. She barely glanced at it, but what she did see confirmed what she had long believed. In a moment the new skin was settling around her. She felt her legs lengthen, her small breasts swell and reshape as she surged up to fit the appearance she now wore.
As always, there was more to it than appearance. As with the Oaf, and the Soldier, and the Tinker, now she wore another person’s memories. Only this time Ceren did not keep her own thoughts and memories tight and protected. She did not fight the new memories, as she tried to do with the Soldier. She took them as far as they would go, all the while she looked in the mirror.
She wasn’t merely pretty. She had a face and form that would stop any man dead in his tracks. Ceren was now the reflection of the girl in the pond.
Didn’t I tell you? The Girl sounded a bit smug. You know what life was like for me. What it can be for you. All you need do is take what you want.
Ceren nodded. “You’re beyond beautiful. Was that why that man drowned you in the pond?”
She felt the laughter. She wondered if she was the one laughing, but the reflection looking back at her was sad and solemn. Her own reflection, somewhere hidden beneath a borrowed skin. So you’ve seen that as well. Some men will destroy what they cannot possess, and I chose poorly. What of it? Neither Kinan nor his brothers are like that.
“I know.”
All you need do is show yourself to him as you are now, and he is yours.
Ceren shook her head. “No. I show your face to him and he is yours.”
A frown now showing in the mirror that was none of Ceren. It is the same thing, and he is your heart’s desire!
“No. I merely want him. I even think I like him. If there’s more to the matter, then time alone will tell. You never understood my heart’s desire. Maybe because it took me so long to understand it myself.” She tapped the back of her neck three times. “Off with ye, done with ye!”
The skin split as it must, but it did not release her quickly or easily. The Girl was fighting her. Ceren thought she understood why. She pulled off one arm like a too-tight glove and then another, but the torso refused to budge.
“Does the servant question the mistress? Let me go.”
You can’t do it without me, without us! You’re ugly, you’re worthless . . .
“Let me go,” Ceren said calmly. “Or I’ll cut you off.” And just to show that she was serious, Ceren went to her herb box and took out the bronze razor. She had already started a new cut down the side when the skin finally relented. In a thrice Ceren had the Girl wrapped carefully back on her shelf.
The voice was still there, taunting her. You’ll be back. You need me to gain your heart’s desire. If it’s not Kinan, then another! You’re plain at best, hideous at worst. You’ll never achieve it on your own.
Ceren almost giggled. “I didn’t unde
rstand. All this time I thought the skins were tools and we the purpose. Now I know it’s the other way around. I am the instrument, just as Gran was before me. You, the Oaf, the Tinker, the Soldier . . . You who died ages ago, and yet still live through us. You are the purpose. We serve you.”
You still do. And will.
“Why?”
Because only we can give you what you want.
Ceren shook her head. “You still don’t understand. You already have, at least in part.”
What are you talking about?
“I’ve always felt like one living in a borrowed house, with borrowed strengths, borrowed skills, but I thought it was because of Gran. It wasn’t. It was because of you.”
Fool! The raiders will return or bandits or village boys too drunk to know who they’re forcing! You will fall in love. A heavy tree will fall. You can’t do this on your own. You need us.
“No,” Ceren said. “I need to find out what belongs to me and what does not. You gave me that last part, but now I have to find the rest. That is my true heart’s desire.”
Ceren left the storeroom and latched it behind her. Then, upon consideration, she slowly and painfully pushed her Gran’s heavy worktable to block the door.
Setting fire to her Gran’s cottage was the easy part. Watching it burn was harder. Listening to the four voices screaming in her head was hardest of all, but she bore it. She heard the pounding from inside as the flames rose, tried not to think of what supposedly had no volition, no independent action, and yet still pounded against a blocked door. Ceren led her sheep and her goat to a grassy spot a safe distance away, where they grazed in apparent indifference as the cottage and pen alike burned.
Her Gran had never taught Ceren any prayers. She tried to imagine what a prayer must be like, and she said that one as the voices in her head rose into a combined scream of anguish that she could not shut out.
“Go to your rest, and take your memories with you.”
She didn’t think the prayer would work. Some of the memories were hers now, and she knew that was never going to change. She wasn’t sure she wanted it to.
