Bloodwitch

by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

The four guards all tensed, spinning toward me. One asked, “Is everything all right, sir?”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and asked, “Am I allowed to leave?”

  They exchanged meaningful glances. One said, “We’ve been ordered to protect this door, sir, not to keep anyone from leaving.”

  The darkness seemed to press in around me. One of the guards held a lamp, but it did little to illuminate more than a hint of the path near us.

  “Which way would I go?” I asked.

  “The path divides,” one of the guards answered. “To the north it goes toward the di’Birgetta estate. To the west it goes toward the market, and Midnight proper.”

  The di’Birgetta estate had to be where Lady Brina and Lord Daryl lived. I didn’t know what the other two places were.

  One of the guards added, “You wouldn’t want to go as you are now, sir. You would freeze to death.”

  He was right. The guards were all wearing heavy clothes: cloaks, boots, gloves, and hats. I was shivering against the wind, even though I could still feel the magically warm air of the greenhouse at my back.

  “Is it always like this out here?” I asked. I had thought the storm was over, but there was still snow falling.

  “Not always,” the guards answered, “but it is winter.”

  I was just about to turn around and go back inside, thanking the fates that I didn’t need to go out in that disgusting weather, when I saw lights approaching from the direction the guard had called north. As they drew closer, I saw Lady Brina’s studio slaves.

  “Is Lady Brina coming back tonight?” I asked the guards.

  “Yes, she is,” one answered me. “We’ve been ordered to tidy the studio and start the lamps so she can reveal her completed masterpiece to Lord Daryl.”

  He had barely finished speaking when Lady Brina herself appeared in the doorway, inches away from me. I jumped back. Since she appeared under the awning and hadn’t needed to hike through the woods, she was perfectly dry—a sharp contrast to my own damp and shivering state.

  “Boy, you’re a mess,” she chastised me. “Soaking wet. Go pretty yourself up before you embarrass me.”

  The words brought a bright flush to my face, and I hurried back to my cabin to dry off and put on fresh clothes. I was pulling on a shirt when Lady Brina screamed. The noise made the glass around us ring in response and shocked the last of the chill from my blood. I raced toward her, vaulting the stream when I came to it and ignoring the branches that whipped my face when I failed to duck in time.

  The smell hit me first as I reached the alcove where Brina did her work. The noxious odor coming from the dimly lit clearing assaulted my nose and made me stagger backward. I couldn’t identify it; it was like nothing I had ever smelled before. I had to force myself forward, but every instinct made me want to recoil and vomit.

  Brina was holding a lamp up in front of her canvas, trembling.

  “It’s … it’s …”

  “My lady, what’s wrong?” I asked. I couldn’t see the canvas itself, and I was afraid to walk around to get a better look.

  “Ruined,” she said. “It’s ruined.”

  A fly rose up and settled on her cheek, making her shriek again and fall back. I caught her arm, trying to stabilize her, but she shoved me away, sending me sprawling backward, too. I landed hard on my left hand, twisting my wrist, and yelped in pain.

  “How dare she?” Brina whispered, spinning away. She walked toward her easel again, running her fingers through her black hair, pulling out the combs and sticks that had held it up.

  I stood cradling my hurt hand, then approached. I tried not to smell … whatever it was.

  My first thought was that Calysta had spilled paint all over many of Lady Brina’s brushes and splashed it on her masterpiece. No wonder she was furious.

  I moved closer, wondering if I could clean anything up. If the paint was still wet, I might be able to …

  To …

  Might be able …

  My mind took it all in very slowly, protective instincts trying to shield me as the rest of my brain attempted to make sense of what I was seeing.

  Calysta was lying, very still and very pale, on the ground.

  In one of her hands was one of Lady Brina’s palette knives, made sharp by many years of use on rough pigments.

  In her opposite wrist was another palette knife. In her wrist. Stuck there.

  And all around her was blood. Not paint. Blood.

  I staggered backward as the word came to me: dead.

  Calysta was dead. Probably had been since I had left her alone that morning. She stank. There were flies on her.

  She had done it herself. There was no other explanation.

  Why?

  I staggered away and sought Lady Brina. She was a worldly woman. She had to have some kind of explanation.

  “Why would she kill herself?” I asked. Lady Brina was looking at me with wide, shocked eyes. My impulse was to hold and comfort her, but at the same time I wanted to be comforted. “How could I not have known? Why—”

  I reached for Brina, and she responded so fast I had no idea her hand was coming until it struck me. I fell to the ground again, my jaw throbbing as I stared up at her in confusion.

  “How dare you try to claim sympathy for yourself? Do you have any idea how valuable those brushes were? Or—” She wailed, “My painting. My beautiful Tamoanchan.”

  “My lady,” I said softly, “I’m sorry that I—”

  She cut off my apologetic words with a sharp kick to my ribs. “You should be sorry!” she shouted. “I didn’t want you here in the first place, cluttering my greenhouse, but one doesn’t refuse a request from Mistress Jeshickah. Now you’ve brought this mess. Fix it.”

  She stormed out, leaving me curled on the ground, trying to breathe past the agony in my chest. What had I done?

  It took me three tries to get to my feet, and then I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was confused, hurt, and in pain, and I didn’t know what to do about any of that. I felt tears filling my eyes, and I blinked rapidly to keep them dry. Crying was unacceptable. Taro had taught me that long ago.

  I stared at the painting. Brina had said to fix it, but how? It wasn’t just the blood. Calysta had sliced all the way through the canvas itself, savagely destroying the beautiful work.

  Calysta was staring at me, her wide, sapphire-blue eyes filmed over by death. I tried to shut them, but they flew back open. I couldn’t even get the knife out of her wrist. She had driven it in too deep, and pulling at it made my stomach roll. I fetched a blanket from my cabin and wrapped her in it, then turned to the painting, wondering if there was anything I could do. I dabbed at the congealed blood with a cloth.

  I saw nothing, heard nothing, before strong hands picked me up and flung me backward with a force so powerful my body and head hit the wall. I saw stars as I fell. The magic made the glass shimmer and wail as it absorbed the impact—better than my body did.

  I looked up to find Lord Daryl standing above me, fuming. He demanded, “What did you do to Brina?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I protested.

  His knee striking my jaw bowled me over. My teeth cut the inside of my cheek, filling my mouth with the coppery taste of blood.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I said again. It hurt to talk, but I needed to convince him. “I’m sorry. I would never want to make her unhappy. Calysta killed herself. I don’t know why. She tore up the painting. I didn’t do anything.”

  Except upset her by asking about Malachi, and her past. If I had been left alone with the painting, what would I have done? More than throw a rock.

  My tormentor turned when I mentioned the painting, seeing it in full for the first time. The instant his attention was off me, I changed into quetzal shape. Panicked, I darted past him.

  I heard him curse, and he reached for me, but all he caught was one tail feather, which ripped off in his hand. I struggled for a moment, off balance, but managed to get e
nough air under my wings to lift me higher than he could reach.

  I fled to a perch as close to the ceiling of my world as I could get, though it made me achingly aware of the wood and glass panels that limited my upward flight.

  Below, I saw Lord Daryl looking up at me, furious. Eventually he dropped the feather and went back to the painting, calling slaves toward him as he went and giving them instructions.

  He raised his gaze to me one more time and said clearly, “We will finish this conversation,” before he disappeared.

  I had absolutely no desire ever to finish this particular conversation.

  The stench of Calysta’s corpse still enveloped me, and the taste of blood lingered in my mouth. My tiny bird’s body still hurt.

  I dropped to the ground and changed into human form. It hurt to walk, and I was shaking so badly I was afraid I would fall down, but I forced myself to keep moving. The two guards normally positioned by the door were lying very still, their eyes open and staring. They must have tried to stop Lord Daryl from entering in a rage.

  That meant they had died protecting me.

  Whispering an apology and a plea for forgiveness, I tugged a cloak away from one of the guards and wrapped it around my own shoulders. I couldn’t stand to try to pull the gloves off his dead fingers, though I knew I would probably regret my squeamishness. I did take the still-burning whale-oil lantern.

  I had to talk to Taro and could only hope that the west path the guards had mentioned would take me to him, or someone who could get word to him.

  Lady Brina doesn’t want me here. The knowledge brought a lump to my throat. I couldn’t imagine leaving the beautiful greenhouse in favor of the outside world, where it was cold and miserable, but I couldn’t stay if she didn’t want me to.

  Maybe later I could find her and explain, and ask forgiveness. She had been upset and had lashed out.…

  No. She wouldn’t have hurt me that way if she cared about me the way I cared about her. I was a nuisance. Clutter. Only there because Mistress Jeshickah wanted me there.

  Once again I choked back the lump in my throat. It was too cold to cry anyway.

  THE INSTANT I stepped beyond the sphere of the greenhouse’s magic, the wind sucked the breath from my lungs and replaced it with ice.

  I slogged ahead, lifting my lantern to try to illuminate the fork in the path in front of me. I turned resolutely in the direction I hoped would take me to Taro, only to start second-guessing myself within moments. I had no idea how far away the market or Midnight proper, the two places the guards had mentioned, could be.

  It was so dark.

  I hadn’t gone far before the darkness overwhelmed the light. The trees above were ominous, reaching creatures, blocking the moonlight.

  Maybe I could see more if I took to the air. I could probably also travel faster by wing. I could be there before I knew it. I set the lantern down, changed shape, and beat my wings frantically as I sought the open sky.

  Icy wind whipped me around, buffeting my unpracticed wings around like leaves. I tumbled through the air, struggling to regain control, and eventually landed back on the ground with a thud. A bank of snow broke my fall, but that was the only comfort I had. I changed back into human form, miserably aware that I was no longer on the path. I didn’t even know where my lantern was.

  I hugged my cloak more tightly around myself and limped onward, feeling every bruise keenly.

  As soon as Taro realized I was missing, he would come looking for me. Right? In the meantime, though, I couldn’t stop moving. It was too cold.

  I grabbed a fallen stick and used it to drag a trail in the dirt and snow around me as I walked. Occasionally I made arrow marks to indicate my direction. I thought about adding my name—Calysta had shown me how to write it once—but couldn’t remember all the marks required. Instead, I took my quetzal form just long enough to reach back with my beak and pluck a tail feather. After I returned to human form, I stuck the long feather in the snow so that it poked up where it seemed most visible.

  There. If anyone saw it, they would follow the trail to find me.

  Feeling better about my chances, if not any warmer, I started out.

  At first I sang as I walked, but then singing reminded me of Calysta, which made my throat tight and made me feel even colder, so I stopped. When I was silent, though, every noise around me made me jump. Distant crashing sounded like a monster. And was that a roar? What lived in this forest?

  That roar could have belonged to a lion or a jaguar. My neck ached from trying to look all ways at once, including up, since jaguars could attack from the trees. What about wolves or bears?

  Lady Brina loved to talk about savage beasts, which she found beautiful and exotic. I had never asked where they existed, because all that mattered to me was that they didn’t exist in my world.

  I yelped as a figure emerged from the forest’s shadows, like a ghost stepping into my path. I raised my stick, then set it back down as I realized he was a man, not a monster, holding a small lamp that illuminated little beyond our feet.

  “I thought I heard someone stumbling around.” He raised the lamp. “Aren’t you Brina’s boy?”

  The light was in my eyes, but I finally recognized Malachi Obsidian, the trader who had come by the greenhouse the day before.

  “My name is Vance,” I said. “You’re Malachi, right?”

  “This isn’t the safest area to wander, Vance,” he replied.

  “If it’s not safe, what are you doing here?” I asked defensively, one breath before I realized his words could have been a threat instead of a warning. Though his hands were empty at the moment, he had a slender sword—really more of a long dagger—at his left hip, and a bow and quiver on his back.

  The retort apparently took him aback. He frowned and said, “You’re not broken.”

  “Not what?” I hoped he could help me find my way home, but the intensity of his stare was making me uncomfortable.

  “Are you a slave?” he asked.

  “No!” I said vehemently, before I remembered what Lady Brina had said about Calysta: on loan from Taro. Had she been a slave? “And I’m allowed to be out here. I’m just lost.”

  “Are you happy?” he asked. Seeing my look, he added, “Not right now, obviously. I mean when you’re at the greenhouse. Are you happy there?”

  “Yes,” I answered, grateful for an easier question. I almost added more, about the things that had just happened—the painting, Calysta, Lady Brina, and Lord Daryl’s rage—but I bit my lip. I had lived there for fourteen years, and nothing like this had ever happened before.

  “Then I’ll help you find your way back. In the morning,” he added firmly. “It’s pitch-black out here. You can come to my camp for the night. I have enough dinner to share.”

  My stomach chose that moment to growl, reminding me that it had been a long time since I had eaten more than a few bites of bread. It had been easy to ignore while I wandered lost and frightened, but I wasn’t going to turn down food.

  “Thank you,” I said, trying to recall all of Taro’s lessons on proper manners. “I appreciate the help.”

  He snickered at my attempt to be polite and turned to lead the way. One step later he paused to look back and say, “No, leave the stick. We don’t want to encourage anyone else to find us.”

  I gripped my stick more tightly despite my cold fingers. “But I want to be found!” I argued.

  “In this forest all sorts of things could come looking for you. I’m not going to force you to follow me,” he said, “but I’m not going to let you leave a path to my camp, either. Make up your mind.”

  He turned and started to walk away without giving me a chance to decide. What if Malachi Obsidian was one of those people Taro had talked about who could be a danger to me? I had no way of knowing. What I did know for certain was that starving and freezing were bad, which meant I didn’t have a choice. I dropped the stick and followed my new guide through the trees.

  Rustling nea
rby caused him to halt, his hand moving slowly toward his bow.

  I came up beside him and saw what had made the noise: a sleek-coated stag, standing like a statue, staring at our light with its black-tipped tail raised in alarm. He could have stepped directly out of Lady Brina’s painting of Artemis, the goddess of the hunt. She had worked on that series, which she called Proud Ladies, as long as she had worked on Tamoanchan.

  My guts twisted at the reminder. The painting. Calysta. The guards.

  A small sound escaped my throat, and the stag bolted.

  “We couldn’t hunt it anyway,” my guide said with a sigh. He continued walking, speaking without looking at me. “Jeshickah has some very old-world laws regarding deer on her land.”

  I stumbled, so shocked by his words that I lost my footing and fell, letting out a yelp as my bare hands landed in the snow.

  Malachi paused and grasped my arm to help me up. “You all right?” he asked.

  Never, never in my life had I heard Mistress Jeshickah referred to without a title. If I had done so, or even spoken of Lady Brina that way, Taro would have slapped me. I would have deserved it. How dare he?

  I opened my mouth to challenge him—and then shut it fast, dropping my gaze. I was at his mercy for the moment. “I’m fine,” I answered. “I tripped on … on a rock.”

  He hadn’t apologized for the slip or questioned my lie about why I fell, which meant … he didn’t expect me to care. My mind turned that thought over like a pebble, because it wasn’t quite right.

  Malachi knew where I came from. He had thought I was a slave, but now he knew that I was happy with Lady Brina. He should expect me to care.

  Was he testing me?

  “We’re here,” Malachi announced, interrupting my train of thought.

  “Where?” I asked. I saw nothing but more trees and brush, covered in the seemingly endless snow.

  “Here,” he said, putting an arm across my shoulders to usher me forward.

  The camp, invisible just a moment before, was suddenly clear as daylight. A grove of birch trees ringed the small clearing, at the center of which a covered cooking pot sat on merrily glowing coals. Most of the snow within the grove had been packed down or brushed away, leaving a smooth-topped log near the fire for a seat. The tent emerged from the space beyond like something organic, half buried in the snow, with a small gap open to the warmth of the fire.