by Mike Truk
“If I were Branka, I’d be plotting how to get rid of us,” said Morwyn, taking a bite from the corner of her sausage slice. “Make our lives here sufficiently unpleasant we’d opt to leave? Kill one of us in an accident in the woods? Nothing so overt it would draw more attention… a fine line to balance.”
Elena frowned at Morwyn. “Well, fortunately for us, Branka isn’t you.”
“It makes sense though,” said Anastasia. “Ah… right… there. She must know our presence spells her doom. But I wager she’s planning to flee. I wouldn’t be surprised if she and a dozen other people fade away over the next few days.”
Another beat of silence.
“Hey, Hugh.” Morwyn’s voice. Something subtly different about it. “When are you going to share with us what you really are?”
Everybody froze. Even Elena’s hands.
Hugh reached down carefully and took up his next bottle of wine. He’d lost count of how many he’d had now. “Well, I’m no Exemplar of the Hanged God, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Morwyn flushed. “But you are something. There’s no denying it, not after what I saw on that bridge. Elena might be able to satisfy Branka with that Lost Reaver talk, but I saw you leap over those spearmen. Fucking leap over them. And then…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “You took their shields as if they were children, and…”
Hugh pursed his lips and drew the cork. It came free with a delightful pop, and he raised the bottle to his lips.
Only for Morwyn to snatch it away, wine splashing down his front. She glared at him, having closed without his noticing.
Maybe the wine was getting to him.
“Enough, Hugh. We’ve all got our secrets, but what happened on the bridge… if we’re going to work together, if you expect me to follow your orders - then it’s time you told us what’s going on.”
“I find it hard to disagree,” said Anastasia. “I’ve never even heard of someone doing what you did. And the casual nature of that violence…” She shivered. “I’ve been trying hard to not think about it, but why? Why kill those men like that?”
Hugh slowly exerted his strength and tore the bottle free of Morwyn’s hand. She relinquished her grip, stepped back, and he raised it once more to his lips. The bottle was shaking. Drank, gulp after gulp of fortified wine. Damn this body, this vitality that resisted being numbed. Drank until the bottle was empty, and then, with excruciating care, set it down on the counter.
“What I am is none of your fucking business,” he said, voice raw even to his own ears. “I am Lord Hugh of Stasiek, and you have been ordered by Duke Annaro to obey my commands for the duration of this expedition. You don’t like it? Then break the duke’s command and leave.”
Morwyn’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “What are you scared of, Hugh? Why can’t you tell us?”
He pushed off the sideboard. “Who said I’m scared?”
“Your fucking hand’s shaking.”
“Maybe I’m drunk.”
“You should be. Who by the Fate Maker’s bruised balls drinks as much as you do without vomiting out their lungs? But no. That’s not it. You’re scared of something. Why’d you run after killing Istlav?”
Hugh stepped forward so that he towered over Morwyn. “None of your fucking business.”
“I saw your face. You looked fucking terrified.”
Hugh curled his hands into fists. “Watch yourself, Captain.” His voice was dangerously soft. “You’re pushing it.”
“Or what?” She stared up at him fearlessly. “Enough with the crap, Hugh. This is it. This is your chance to open up and tell us what is going on with you. We’re alone. The three of us are your inner circle here. This is it, right now. Your chance to fucking share before you lose our trust and respect completely.”
She was drunk, he realized. How was that possible? She’d only had four or five ales in the tavern, and a bottle of fortified wine here at the estate - oh. Right. That was enough to make most grown men slur. All it had done to her was bring a feverish gleam to her eyes and a flush to her pallid cheeks. But still.
Hugh glanced sidelong at where Anastasia sat bolt upright, Elena behind her, both wide-eyed and staring. The silence in the small kitchen near ached.
And then he became aware of them. Just around the corner of his vision, out of sight. But there, watching, present. The specters of the dead. The men he’d betrayed and doomed. The Lost Reavers. Kevanir, Dragoslav, Chavaun, and those he’d still not allow himself to think about, men more perilous than even Dragoslav, including the captain herself -
His skin prickled with goose pimples as even the thought of her caused fear to curdle his gut. No. He’d never call her, much less even think her name.
“Hugh?” Elena. Voice soft. Cajoling. “You’re safe with us. We’re bound to you, by command and friendship. What could be so bad that you can’t share it with us?”
Anger seared the fear away. Was he doomed to be surrounded by inquisitive fools who didn’t know to leave well enough alone?
But the kitchen was too small. There was nowhere to go, unless he squeezed past Morwyn and along the dining table, to either go outside or into the back rooms.
His whole body felt feverish. He needed another bottle of wine.
Why not tell them?
The thought surprised him with its suddenness.
Why not? Shame?
Yes. Shame. Soul-eating guilt.
Horror.
If he told them, they’d never look at him the same.
And? Was lying to them any better? Enjoying friendships he didn’t deserve? Friendships he was about to lose?
“Whatever it is,” said Elena, moving around to stand before him, reaching out slowly to take his hand in her own, “perhaps we can help you.”
A flash of memory: Dragoslav roaring in defiance as he staggered backward, the strength flowing from him, his bones collapsing within the sack of flesh and blood that his body was becoming -
Hugh grit his teeth and looked away.
Silence.
Elena sighed. “I’ll say this and leave you alone. For three years now you’ve been living with this curse. I thought, when I first met you, that you were trying to destroy yourself. The drinking. The women. The gambling. But then I saw you exercising each day for hours on end. Saw how you treated people. Saw an innate goodness in you that was somehow surviving despite your self-destructive behavior.”
“That’s not -” began Hugh, but she cut him off.
“And then that night on the beach with the Mink. You could have chosen to go with him. But you chose to fight. And again, when you convinced Morwyn to follow you. And again, with Istlav and his men on the bridge.”
“What are you saying, Elena?” demanded Hugh.
“That you’ve already chosen to live. That whatever curse you’re carrying, sure it may cause you untold amounts of agony, but when the moment is dire, you take up your sword and you fight to continue drawing breath. This has become your life, and it’s one you won’t give up.”
She stepped closer, faced raised, completely unabashed about her scars. Zarja riding her Elena-guise as close she could to the surface.
“So, if you’ve already made that decision, there’s nothing to hide. Only dark truths to share. And in that sharing, a chance for reconciliation and healing.”
Hugh stared down at her. Fought to find an argument. A way to refute her logic. The emotional pull of her gaze. Fox fucker, he heard the snarl. Traitor.
And yet.
And yet.
And like a dam bursting, the tension, the anger, the desire to break free all flowed out of him, leaving him exhausted and still.
Hugh sagged back against the counter’s edge.
Elena stepped away, cautiously, as if walking on crackling ice.
“I… when I have need, I can… I can summon…” The words lodged in his throat like shards of broken glass. He tried to keep going, but he couldn’t breathe. Gripped the edge of the counter with both
hands, and head bowed, forced them out. “I can summon the Lost Reavers who died in the Goat’s Wood to lend me their strength.”
There.
It was done.
Hugh raised his face, jaw set, and stared defiantly at the others.
Elena was nodding. Morwyn, eyes wide in shock. Anastasia, frowning.
“A curse then,” said Elena. “In truth.”
“No mere curse,” said Anastasia. “The fae and their óneirothélisi couldn’t cast such a powerful spell. To bind - what - thirty or more souls to your side? To deny them the Ashen Garden? That is magic of a different order altogether.”
Hugh knew what was coming. Looked away.
“What are you saying?” asked Morwyn.
“That such magic is hinted at in our older texts. Was once commonplace, before the creation of Mendev. Was the provenance of the Thavma. Magothélisi, it was called. Hugh, are you saying you and the Lost Reavers fought an actual Thavma in the Goat’s Wood?”
“No,” said Hugh, voice harsh and raw. “We never fought it. I… I argued for a moment to parlay.” Sweat broke out across his brow. He’d spent three years doing his damnedest to not think about that moment. To do anything but relive it. Yet now he found he couldn’t stop his tongue. “Our…. Our leader wanted to attack. We were poised to sweep down upon it. But it lowered its defenses, reached out in a way that I took as a desire for communication. And I used what little influence I had to convince our leader to wait, to hold back, to listen.”
His whole body was shaking. He never wanted a dozen bottles of wine so badly. He couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Stared instead at the old, warped wooden floor. “And… our leader hesitated, and in that moment the… the Thavma… it cried something out, something I didn’t understand, and the Lost Reavers around me began to…”
Their screams arose about him. He saw again the great regiment as it wilted, bodies collapsing upon themselves, gouts of blood -
“Fuck,” he hissed.
Nobody spoke.
Morwyn, in a gesture that meant more to Hugh than he could convey, reached down, took up a bottle of wine, uncorked it and handed it over.
Hugh raised it high, drained it in a series of long swallows, then set it roughly aside.
Morwyn’s voice was tentative. “You can summon the dead?”
“Only the Lost Reavers. And I’ve tried not to ever since. And after I do, they… they linger. And speak to me. They are not… pleased.”
“I’d imagine not,” said Morwyn. “Can you not free them from their bondage?”
“No,” hissed Hugh. “You think I wouldn’t have done so already if I could?”
“There has to be a way to undo this curse,” said Anastasia. “Though… if it truly is magothélisi, then it will be a laborious task indeed. If you come with me to the academy, my peers and teachers could study you, learn -”
“No,” said Hugh. “I will not subject myself to their studies. I’d rather die than go to the academy.”
Anastasia blinked. “Why so vehement?”
“To… to subject myself to their endless questions again, to have them poke and prod, cast their weak magics, to spend months if not years being examined and discussed as if I weren’t there…” Hugh shook his head. “I had enough of that after emerging from the Goat’s Wood. I won’t do it again.”
“Will you consent to let me study you?” asked Anastasia. “Perhaps I could at least determine… something?”
Hugh sighed. “Sure. But the three or four disciplus that my brother summoned were baffled. They tried to encourage me to undergo a process akin to trepanning, where they’d drill into my head. I said no.”
“Well,” said Anastasia, drawing herself up. “I won’t suggest such a course of action. But if you are bound by magothélisi, then perhaps I can begin to determine the contours of the magical knot that binds you and the Lost Reavers together.”
“Are they here, now?” asked Morwyn.
“The Reavers?” Hugh smiled darkly. “No. Though I’m not sure how much they can perceive when they’re not summoned. They’re aware, to a degree, of what I do.”
“And you can speak with them?” asked Morwyn. “After you use their power?”
Hugh nodded.
“Have you asked them for help in releasing them?”
“They’ve demanded that I do so, in a way that makes it sound like they don’t know any more than I do.”
“Where do they reside when they’re not with you?” asked Elena.
“I don’t know.”
“Have you asked them?”
“No,” said Hugh. “Our exchanges aren’t… pleasant.”
Elena frowned. “Can you summon just one and speak with him? The most civil one? Have a conversation with them about what has happened?”
“I… yes.” Hugh thought of Chavaun. “I could perhaps… though… yes. I could do that.”
“I would like to be present,” said Anastasia. “To monitor the magics. See what I can learn. I might also have questions for this shade.”
Hugh nodded mutely.
Morwyn remained self-contained, arms crossed as she leaned against the far counter. Staring at him with piercing eyes. “You blame yourself for this. All this.”
“Of course,” he said bitterly.
“Because you sought to parlay.”
“I delayed my leader’s command to attack. If I’d not, the Thavma might not have had the chance to curse us.”
Morwyn nodded but made no comment, which only deepened Hugh’s unease.
“Such matters are rarely simple,” said Elena. “You cannot guess at what the Thavma was thinking. I imagine there were more factors at play than you know.”
Morwyn arched a dark brow. “And since when are you such an expert on the Thavma, Elena? I thought you were a bucket girl at the Rusałka.”
Elena smiled. “I was a bucket girl. But like the rest of you, I have my secrets.” She dragged a finger across the countertop and inspected it, as if checking for dust. “Though the guise of servant girl is starting to wear thin.”
Anastasia stood up. “I knew there was something strange going on. The way you showed up at the lodge. Hugh?”
“What?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know her secret. And… if she wants to tell you, that’s her business.”
Morwyn drew herself up. “What is it, then?”
Elena winked at Morwyn. “I’ll share my secrets if you share yours.”
“What secrets?” Morwyn’s face darkened, and Hugh recalled just how much wine she’d had. Due to her incredible self-control, he kept forgetting. “I’m loyal to Stasiek and that’s it.”
“Uh huh.” Elena crossed her arms. “You swear that by the Fate Maker?”
Morwyn’s face darkened further and she looked down and away.
“What of you, Anastasia?” Elena looked her way. “Anything you want to share?”
The disciplus drew herself up, expression turning severe. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No? So quick to go after other people’s secrets, yet you play your own so close to the chest. Safe in the knowledge that nobody else will recognize which of your books are illegal for you to possess. Which theories have been banned by the academy. What does it say about you that -”
Anastasia flushed. “Who are you? How do you know this?”
Elena shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll share my secrets if you swear to share yours. No? Morwyn?”
Morwyn’s lips pursed. Anastasia’s eyes narrowed.
“My my,” said Elena. “Such effusiveness. And after Hugh set such a good example, too. Perhaps a gesture of trust is needed after all. I’ll set the example and leave it for you to follow. Ready?”
Morwyn’s hand dropped to her hilt. Anastasia’s to the slender scabbard wherein her wand was kept.
Hugh bestirred himself. “Elena.”
She looked over to him. “Hmm?”
“I…” He trailed off. His own revelations had
drained him of propriety, concern, a willingness to maintain the walls of decorum. He’d exposed his greatest secret; why not force the others to do the same? “Nothing.”
Elena held his gaze for a second, and then her eyes flashed a luminous honeyed yellow. “Then let’s see how far we can push this evening’s revelations. Ladies? Let me introduce myself to you once more.”
And she bowed, foxtail springing into existence behind her, blonde hair turning into a luxurious mane, her figure filling out, turning voluptuous, her balance and grace turning supernatural. She lost an inch in height even as her chest filled out, and when she looked up with a smile, her fox ears pushed through her hair.
“Zarja at your service.”
Chapter Eight
Anastasia gasped, stumbling back against the table, wand in hand, while Morwyn drew her blade, smooth as silk, and lowered herself into her combat crouch.
“Fae,” hissed Anastasia, eyes wide. “A lisica? All this time?”
Hugh pushed off the counter and stepped before the fox girl, arms raised. “Easy. She’s still just as much Elena as before. Put the blade and wand away.”
“Hardly,” said Morwyn, a slight smile tugging at her lips. “The empire of Mendev has sworn eternal war on all fae and Thavma. Looks like I’ll get my chance at bloodshed after all.”
“As if we haven’t seen enough?” asked Hugh. “No. As your commanding office, I order you to stand down.”
“And you were once a Lost Reaver?” asked Morwyn, not moving. “The world has gone mad.”
“Yes, I suppose it has. But you heard me.” Hugh put iron into his voice. “Stand down, Captain.”
Morwyn grimaced and then straightened. Spun her blade around and slid it into her scabbard. “This betrayal transcends my loyalty to you. I’m going to report this to Duke Annaro.”
“Agreed,” said Anastasia, still shocked. “And she was rubbing my feet -”
“Come,” said Zarja, moving up alongside Hugh and pressing her cheek to his shoulder. “Grow up, ladies. Yes, I’m a lisica, but for either of you to take the high ground with me is sweet hypocrisy.”
