by Mark Lucek
‘You have hurt your hands,’ Miskyia said, as if noticing for the first time.
‘It’s nothing.’ She didn’t want to waste any more time. Who knows what will happen when Wislaw finds out I’ve run away? But she was hurt, her body aching from a myriad of bruises, and her wrists were rubbed raw.
Iwa was used to a hard life, to forgetting about pain and hunger. This wasn’t the first time her body had ached but, now the warm air encased her, she began to realise the extent of her pain. At least there was nothing too bad, no wounds that wouldn’t heal given time. But that was the one thing she didn’t have. She hadn’t eaten in ages either. She turned her hands, seeing deep cuts where the rope had bitten. They looked bad, the skin broken and puffy.
At least the pain had subsided a little, but that wasn’t always a good sign. Angry red blotches ran along her forearms. No, she couldn’t risk an infection, not now. If only she had some healing herbs to make a poultice. Silently she glanced to the witch.
‘Let me help you,’ Miskyia said. By the side of the pool there was a silver tray, upon which lay a number of glass bottles. Reaching down, she took one and poured an ointment over Iwa’s wounds. All at once, a warm sensation spread across Iwa’s wrists as the stinging pain subsided. ‘This is an ancient healing remedy, known only to the magi of the east. Not even I am sure of the spells woven within the oil.’
Iwa wasn’t listening, her eyes following the bottle as Miskyia put it on the tray. She’d seen glass before, but never like this. Glass was a secret of the Poles. The traders often brought beads or other trinkets with them, but they were simple and dull by comparison. These bottles were fashioned into a myriad of colours and shapes, far smoother and brighter than anything she’d ever seen.
Miskyia took out a glass jar and poured an oily liquid, which dissipated across the waters to fill the room with a thick, heady scent like rose petals.
‘You must bathe,’ she said as, with a single gesture, she silenced Iwa’s protest. ‘You want to help your father and you are eager, worried about what might happen to him. I can help you rid the forest of these woyaks, but you have a part to play in all this as well. Rest, regain your strength, for you will need it.
‘When the time is right I shall come for you, but before then, there is much work to be done. I must make sure that this Wislaw has not the power to find us here. I do not think that I could stay his assault alone, especially should he lead the woyaks here.’
The sorceress stroked Iwa’s forehead. ‘Bathe, be at rest and peace, for there are many trials that are to come.’ Her voice was soft, tinged with sorrow as she gave Iwa a last glance and then turned away, the dress shimmering over her body as she walked through the ornate doorway.
Iwa watched her go and then slipped into the water. She could hear Sturmovit just outside the doorway. More than anything she wanted to free her father, summon this Lord Bethrayal and have done with things, but she doubted that she could even find her way back through the temple. Slowly she closed her eyes and sank back to let the tension ease from her skin. When she opened them she was alone, too tired to be frightened that the roof would fall in. Sturmovit must have gone. Light reflected across the plaster from a candle which Miskyia had left on a silver tray. Though the crystal’s light was more than adequate, Iwa was glad of the candle all the same: it might be a trader’s tool but at least it was something she could understand.
Once more, she closed her eyes. The scent of jasmine and rose wafted around her, mixed in with a trace of magic, so soft that it was hardly noticeable. She had the sense that Lord Bethrayal was out there somewhere. She could almost hear the rush of the void as he fought against the current.
Was this really water, or some other magic that only looked like water? She raised her arm and watched the rivulets drip from her. There was something else as well, spells perhaps woven beneath the liquid. She let them trickle over her, warm and comforting as she drifted off into a deep slumber but, in the dim recesses of her mind she could sense the Lord Bethrayal, feel his anguish to be reborn as, all round him, the spells that kept him from the world howled. A great evil lurks on the edges of your world – she could almost hear his voice – and it has found you out.
With a start, Iwa opened her eyes. She was back in the room, the air pressing in cold around her as the water, cooler now, dripped from her limbs. Slowly she got up, the oil clinging to her skin. No matter what happened, she had her father to save. By the candle there was a towel and a silken gown trimmed with gold. Getting out, she dried herself before putting on the gown; the silk slipped strange and unfamiliar across her skin. How could Alia wear such a thing? What she wouldn’t have given for the heavy comfort of her old clothes. The gown felt so light that it was almost as if she had nothing on, and even the slightest draught pressed in on it. Despite the candle and the scented oil there was a coldness to the room, a faint musty smell of stale air as if it was a deep cave. How could anybody live in a place of stone?
‘So you have found your gown,’ Miskyia said from the doorway.
‘Where have you taken my clothes?’ Iwa replied uncertainly. More than ever she wanted something familiar around her; anything so long as it belonged to her and not this stone place.
‘Do you not like the gown? It is of the finest silk, and not even the richest of the Arab lands could boast anything so splendid.’
‘Can’t I have my old things back?’
‘All in good time.’ Miskyia beckoned her forward. ‘But first you must follow me.’ She turned to go, but Iwa hung back. Anything was better than this place: even getting lost on the forest track. At least the wind would be fresh. ‘Come,’ Miskyia said as she paused to hold out her hand.
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Somewhere safe where you can eat. You must be so very hungry.’
Iwa had little choice but to follow, hurrying down the corridors as Miskyia’s gown rustled before her. The sorceress was right and, now that she was rested, Iwa had begun to remember how long it’d been since she’d eaten last. Her stomach grumbled as she walked, her feet slippery on the stone.
Still she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that pricked along her skin. This place was all wrong, the stone smooth and unnatural under her tread. Was that why Miskyia wore shoes? But that didn’t seem any more natural, at least barefoot she could feel the ground beneath her properly. Her toes curled slightly as they crossed an ancient hall, the walls patterned with strange symbols, and somewhere in the distance there was an echo, like the rush of the firmament.
At least they were going back into the part of the temple which was relatively well known to her. As they walked Iwa began to pick out familiar landmarks: the broken ruin of a room or the line of a column.
Finally they came to a courtyard on the edge of the lake. In the middle of the yard was the burnt-out husk of a tree, its branches webbed black against the moon. At the foot of the tree lay a drum. It was a battered thing, the sides crawling with strange symbols like those in the cave, and the skin was cracked and worn. But it was not the drum that held her attention. From the lower branches of the tree hung the head of a pig. As she passed, its eyes seemed to follow her, its teeth poking through its lips to shine a savage white as Iwa mouthed a prayer of protection. But something told her that the gods rarely listened in this place.
‘What kind of tree is it?’ she wondered out loud, and tried her best not to look up at the pig’s head.
‘It is a species that has not grown in the outer world for many centuries. Not since the mountains were young has the outer world seen its like.’
‘And your boat, the one that brought me here, is it made from the same wood?’
‘You learn fast, child. That’s good: you will have to learn many things if you are to serve Lord Bethrayal. But now you must regain your strength.’ Miskyia stroked the side of the tree, her fingers lingering longingly on the bark before she pulled herself away and led Iwa into a large room. The roof had long ago caved in and the tile
s cracked beneath their feet. In the centre two rough wooden chairs stood on either side of a long table. Miskyia sat and beckoned to Iwa, who followed clumsily. Such things were for krols and traders and she didn’t much like the thought of using them.
‘How long has it been since you last ate?’ Miskyia pushed a plate of food across the table.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Iwa lied, though the grumbling of her stomach betrayed her. She didn’t like this room much either. Braziers burned on either side of the doorway; the scent of incense choked the air and made her want to sneeze as she shuffled uncertainly on the chair. How did anyone keep from falling off? These krols must be idiots to sit like this, so that their feet can’t touch the ground.
But it wasn’t only that which made her nervous. There was something wrong with the room. It wasn’t just that she hadn’t noticed it before, more the fact that it didn’t fit in with the rest of the temple. Before, when she was planning her escape, she’d built up a mental picture of the rooms. This place shouldn’t be here. There had never been a doorway in the wall and behind there should have been another ruined yard, not this room.
‘You should eat,’ Miskyia said as she picked up a strange-looking root. At least it looked like a root; a round, flat thing that tapered at one end like a giant egg. One side was dark and hard with a thick crust along the top. ‘Take this,’ Miskyia said as she tore off a hunk. Inside, the root appeared brown and soft like a fungus.
Cautiously, Iwa sniffed it before she took a bite. The outer husk was hard and jarred against the top of her mouth, but the inside was soft, if a little dry. Then her hunger overtook her and she crammed in as much as her mouth would take. ‘What is it?’ she managed between mouthfuls.
‘Bread; this is what everything is about.’
‘This?’ Iwa turned the thing in her hand and peered at it, before a new hunger pang overtook her and she broke off another piece, stuffing it greedily into her mouth. Often the traders would bring bread with them, tiny flat loaves which they dipped in honey. She’d never liked the texture much. There’d always been something unnatural about it. How could you trust to anything which tasted so odd? It wasn’t a root or a berry, but it wasn’t like meat or fish either. It’d never looked right and she’d never been able to watch the traders make it, regarding their fires with the utmost suspicion.
But this was something altogether different. At least it didn’t look so strange and the hard crust felt right. Somehow she could imagine this as something dug from beneath a tree, but still there was something wrong about it and if she wasn’t so hungry she’d never have touched it.
‘That is what will happen to the crops Krol Gawel plans to harvest.’ Myskia smiled at the look of incredulity on the girl’s face, the crumbs falling from her disbelieving mouth.
‘But all he has are seeds,’ Iwa said and suddenly felt foolish as Miskyia stifled a laugh. Carefully she turned the remnants of the loaf in her hand, her fingers scouring the rough surface.
‘You certainly haven’t been to the kroldoms of the Poles, or else you would know the secret of bread,’ Miskyia said as she broke off a hunk from her own loaf and dipped it into a tiny pot of honey that lay on the table between them. ‘The grain will grow deep in the womb of Matka Ziemia until it is harvested. Then they’ll make it into dough and bake it in clay ovens to make this.’ Miskyia paused – it was obvious that the girl hadn’t understood a word. ‘Though they will probably make flatbread of it. Either that or the woyaks will take the grain to be brewed as vodka.’
‘Can’t the krol hunt?’ Iwa couldn’t believe it: all this raising of crops and baking of dough seemed far more trouble than following the herds. At least that made sense. Truly the ways of the Poles seemed strange and unnatural. People were born to the hunt and to give thanks for the bounty of Matka Ziemia, not rip her open and desecrate her body with iron. Even after the field she’d never imagined that the krol could do something so dark.
Slowly she chewed the bread, her suspicions growing. Already the krol had burned away the trees and enslaved the women, and all for something so slight. The bread didn’t have the texture of meat or a well-boiled root. The crumbs spilled from her mouth. How could anyone exist on such things? The woyaks were huge men and she’d only seen them eat meat before.
‘Kroldoms are not built on hunting,’ Miskyia said, ‘but on bread.’
‘On this?’ Iwa gulped, so startled that she forgot her hunger. She’d never thought about the kroldom. To her it’d been just another of the woyaks’ words, so strange and unfamiliar that she’d hardly begun to guess at its meaning. It was part of the sacrilege against Matka Ziemia, and the reason why the Poles wanted to burn down the trees, but to her it had been nothing more. Now she glimpsed the bitter truth that lay behind the word.
‘Bread and stability. You can’t forge a kroldom from following herds. They do not want to be part of the land, these Poles, they want to own it and to make it their own.’
‘But will Matka Ziemia allow the seeds to grow in her body?’ Iwa took a mouthful of water from the goblet by her side, a deep gulp as if trying to wash the bread away. But even the water was strange, tinged with the taste of the goblet’s metal. She’d seen metal cups before, but had never held one in her hand. The weight was cold and unfamiliar as she tried to pour the water into her mouth so her lips wouldn’t touch the sides.
‘Soon they will begin to plough the land.’ Miskyia stopped – it was obvious that she was only confusing the girl. Carefully she reached for a goblet and took a drink, suddenly aware of the huge gulf that separated them. How could she make the girl understand? Would I, if I had been born to the forest?
And yet, as she watched the girl take some fruit, her fingers flinching from the remaining loaf, Miskyia couldn’t help but feel for her. How long had it been since she’d bound herself to these stones? And, as she sat, a great emptiness dawned. If only she could leave, see a city and walk its wooden, mud-caked streets. She missed the markets, the idle gossip of the women and the calls of the traders. Such simple pleasures. Yet now she felt the weight of their loss as the air closed in about her. It had become cold with the scent of the stones. I have been too long alone. In a corner Sturmovit hunched over a bone, his tongue licking out the marrow.
‘Will the krol want to live in a place like this?’ Iwa’s words cut through her thoughts.
‘Eventually.’ Miskyia passed her the water jug and she couldn’t help but touch the girl’s arm comfortingly. Even that’s alien to her, the Molfar witch thought. She holds the cup as if scared of it.
She herself could hardly remember the world outside. ‘It must have been difficult for a child like you, growing up without guide or tutor.’ Or mother, she wanted to add but sensed that this might be too much. How uncomfortable the girl looked as she sat perched on the chair, which appeared so large that it threatened to swallow her up. But suddenly the witch was possessed by a longing for the world outside this place. Too long have I been stuffed away in this desolation.
‘We have our own witches,’ Iwa said as she glanced around the room, desperate for something familiar. She’d never thought that anywhere could be so different, and yet so close to the autumn camp and the hunting grounds. This wasn’t even that deep into the forest.
Maybe she wouldn’t have noticed so much if this had been the clan meet and all her people had been around her, but now the goblet only served to underlie the foreignness of this place. The water was tinged with it and the rim was too cold and too smooth. ‘There are many witches; sometimes they join the clan for a while.’
‘But that can’t be the same thing, you need a guide, someone at your side.’
‘Do you think that the krol will want to have a place like this?’ Iwa asked again.
‘I know the ways of the Poles,’ Miskyia said as she tried to keep the longing from her voice. ‘And this krol will want to feast in a hall.’
‘But he has his ships, aren’t they good enough?’
‘Not for a kro
l. He will have his hall, though not quite like this. Men lost the knowledge to build such places long ago, but he would have a wooden hall, no doubt, so he can pretend to be a proper krol and feast like the Polish lords.’
‘But only if he can raise these crops of his, and make Matka Ziemia give him bread to eat?’
Miskyia didn’t answer, but slid out of the chair and walked over to the braziers. Behind each was a sprig of some herb, the like of which Iwa had never seen before. ‘Do those only grow here?’ she asked, but Miskyia motioned her into silence as she cast the herbs on the brazier and muttered, her hands dancing swiftly through the smoke. With a crackle of flame the fire flared higher and the air ran thick with a heady scent that stuck at the back of Iwa’s mouth.
But the sorceress wasn’t finished. Carefully she threw a handful of seeds into the flames as she muttered an incantation softly to herself. Not that Iwa could hear and, even if she had, it was a language that had been long lost to the world. As the seeds crackled, an eerie light filled the room, thick as mist, and Iwa’s head swirled. Dimly she realised that a spell had taken shape, the magic eddying around her as she tried to focus on the cup. Nothing seemed to make sense – the whole room appeared to be turning as she felt her eyes close and her head thump on the table.
‘Drink this,’ Miskyia pushed a cup to her lips, ‘you’ll feel better.’ Iwa shook her head. She’d had enough of metal, but it was no use – Miskyia pulled back her head and forced the drink between her lips. This time it wasn’t water. Rather it was a thick liquid, dark as blood but sweet to taste, and Iwa felt a warm feeling in her throat, spreading down to her stomach. With a shake of her head she tried to keep the cup from her lips, but Miskyia forced another gulp.
‘What are you doing to me?’ Iwa spluttered. Suddenly she felt her distrust for the witch return. She should have been more cautious of her. But the strangeness of this place had made her want to trust the sorceress. Now her one point of familiarity had gone. She felt alone, lost in all this stone with the weight bearing down on her.
