The Year's Best Australian Fantasy and Horror 2013

by Angela Slatter

  A wave of relief washed through me. Tonight I would act.

  “What is it?” the Wyrding-woman asked, sharp as always.

  “Nothing,” I lied, replacing the jar of lavender. “I gulped breakfast and now I’m paying for it.”

  “I can give you something for that.” She mixed up some gripe medicine and I dutifully swallowed it, pathetically grateful for her thoughtfulness. I had to go without delay.

  That evening Druaric came to the Wyrding-woman’s chamber for the first time since he had betrayed the existence of my caul. My heart quickened for there was laughter in his eyes, and he could not keep the smile from his lips as he offered me something wrapped in a blanket.

  I folded my arms. “I want nothing from you.”

  “Oh, take it,” the Wyrding-woman muttered. “He’s spent every night since the last raid making it.”

  Curiosity got the better of me. I took the object thinking it was light for its size and unrolled the blanket. My mouth dropped open.

  He had made a zither, every bit as fine as his. The craftsmanship alone was enough to make me weep.

  “Am I forgiven, Sun-fire?” he asked.

  I wanted to refuse him but the words would not come.

  “Here.” He unslung his instrument and sat down, resting it across his lap. “Like this.” And his fingers produced a bird song.

  I did not want to accept his gift for it meant I condoned his betrayal. At that moment, I looked up into Druaric’s eyes and saw his naked soul. My heart turned over. He loved me and I meant to leave tonight.

  “What’s wrong, Sun-fire?” the Wyrding-woman asked.

  “No one has ever given me such a fine gift.” I blinked away tears, letting her think I cried with joy.

  Druaric laughed and hugged me. I did not pull away. Knowing I was about to leave, I revelled in the feel of him. The Wyrding-woman nodded, satisfied.

  He released me, fingers going to his zither. “Watch, Sun-fire.”

  Truth be told, I was eager to learn. I joined him and so began the happiest, yet most painful evening of my life. After a while, the Wyrding-woman retreated to her bed in the alcove. As for us, we sat up so late discovering our shared love of the music that the cock crowed before we put out the candle. When I crawled under the bench to sleep on my pallet, I told myself one more day would not matter.

  * * *

  I slept all that day, missing the fight between Murtahg and Lohnan. The first I knew of it was when I entered the kitchen late in the afternoon in search of food. Instead I found the cook’s assistants madly packing salted meat, skins of wine and rolls of cheese. From their chatter I learned Murtahg could have killed Lohnan but he hadn’t, he had banished him. The eldest brother, along with his family and followers was sailing with the evening tide to set up a stronghold of their own.

  Before he left, Lohnan came to get the Wyrding-woman’s blessing. She gave him some of the sacred-hearth fire to seed his own hearth fire, and a shawl she had wrapped him in when he was a baby; these symbolised the luck of the household. When he complained that he did not have a Wyrding-woman of his own, they both glanced to me and I was glad that he could not take me.

  With Lohnan gone, I thought the rivalry would settle down. Druaric was only seventeen and he didn’t have a loyal core of followers ready to kill at his command. Besides, his place in the stronghold was different from Lohnan’s because of his clubfoot and the power he had with words.

  After the evening meal, Murtahg came to see the Wyrding-woman. She ordered me to prepare wine. Impatient as always, Murtahg chewed on his pipe stem and paced. Even from across the room I smelt the weed on him, coming through his skin as well as his breath.

  Druaric sat in his usual place by the fire, plucking at the strings of his zither. He was composing another verse of their family saga, incorporating the new events. I heard snatches of it as I prepared the mulled wine.

  The Wyrding-woman, worn down by her grandsons’ feuding, had been bothered by the bone-ache so I added a little powdered snakeskin to ease her pain. As I did this, I realised I didn’t want to hit her over the head. She was a hard woman because only a hard woman could control these headstrong men.

  Like Druaric, she had slipped past my guard. I might not agree with her use of death-power but I liked and respected her as a practitioner of the Way. My head spun. The vengeance of the hill-people had motivated me since the day the brothers stole me from my people. Without it, I felt rudderless. I had needed it to make me strong.

  Murtahg took his wine without a word of thanks, putting the pipe on the mantelpiece. “Now I learn that Lohnan took the metal-worker’s best apprentice. I should—”

  “Let it go. Let him go,” the Wyrding-woman urged. “Your task is to care-take the clan for the Warlord-reborn.”

  Murtahg nodded but, from the look in his eyes, I knew he saw only the near future. It would take twenty years for the Warlord-reborn to grow up, and there wasn’t much chance of Murtahg still being around then. Even if he was, he would be an old man of nearly fifty summers.

  He grimaced and spat into the fire. “They whisper behind my back.”

  “Call the clan together tomorrow,” the Wyrding-woman advised. “Give them stability and you will have their loyalty.”

  He nodded, draining the last of the wine. But, as he left, I noticed him glance at Druaric who was singing under his breath. With a sick lurch I realised Murtahg feared Druaric. I met the Wyrding-woman’s eyes. She had seen it too and now she stared into the fire, troubled.

  Druaric stood up and stretched. “I’m for bed.”

  I wanted to clutch his arm and warn him. But he wasn’t mine to protect. No formal words had passed between us. I could claim him if I wanted to, for Wyrding-women take their lovers where they choose. But I hadn’t lain with him last night because I meant to leave tonight.

  Could I leave, after the way Murtahg had looked at him?

  “Watch your back, Dru,” the Wyrding-woman warned.

  He shrugged this off with a smile. “I’m no threat to Murtahg.”

  She frowned as he limped off to his room above ours. Unlike the other unmarried youths he did not sleep in the great hall. The stronghold was packed tonight. Only the Wyrding-woman and Druaric had private chambers in the tower.

  “Sun-fire, fetch me Murtahg’s pipe,” she ordered and I realised he had forgotten it again. She did not take it from my outstretched hand. Instead, she looked up at me, dread in her eyes. “What does it tell you?”

  I knew what she feared. The same feeling closed in on me. It was an effort to clear my mind and then I wished I hadn’t. Murtahg’s hateful, hard-edged impulses filled me, circling like wolves around a new born lamb. One swift bite, tear out the throat, break the neck. “D . . . death.”

  She blanched.

  I made to hand her the pipe but she shook her head; for all her talk of scrying, she did not have the Way of seeing that I had. “What will you do?”

  She sighed. “I will do nothing until I have slept on it.”

  I cursed silently for I was hoping she would sleep deeply so that I could take the amulet. All the same, I felt sorry for her as she lay down in her alcove, only to toss and turn. I had to go tonight. Druaric’s gift of the zither had convinced me that I could not stay. Not when invisible bonds threatened to make me his willing prisoner. What’s more, with Lohnan gone the stronghold felt wrong, somehow.

  It was lucky that I had dreamed the day away, for I had no trouble staying awake as I lay there on my pallet under the bench, listening to the stronghold wind down. Soon the revellers were in a stupor of wine, weed and exhaustion and the Wyrding-woman was blessedly quiet at last. This was my chance.

  I was about to gather my things when the door creaked open. I recognised Murtahg by the glow of the hearth coals. One hand rested on his sword hilt. It was against clan law to wear a sword inside the stronghold. My mouth went dry with fear, but he crept past my bed where I lay feigning sleep. I wanted to run the moment he entered the W
yrding-woman’s alcove. Another part of me wanted to spring up and warn her. I did neither; instead I listened.

  “I’m not asleep, Murtahg,” she said softly, and I was glad I had not tried to take the amulet. “Why do you come to me wearing your sword?”

  “I come to talk sense.”

  “As you see it.”

  “No more twisting of words to suit your Wyrding-ways, Grandmother. You are not all powerful. I have eyes in my head. Get rid of Sun-fire before Dru can worm his way into her bed. With her at his side and him the stepfather of the Warlord-reborn, they’ll undermine my power. Either you get rid of her or I will get rid of him.”

  I held my breath, waiting for her to defend me, even though I knew her loyalty had to be to her clan.

  At last she let out a long sigh. “Much can go wrong while birthing. Druaric won’t suspect a thing if she bleeds to death after delivering the child.”

  My heart turned to stone in my chest.

  “Very well. But I will be watching. There are going to be changes, Grandmother.”

  He had called her ‘Grandmother’ again, denying her authority as the voice of the Wyrding-mother. Murtahg strode out of the chamber. I lay utterly still even after the closing door cut off the thud of his boots

  In truth I was so stunned and frightened, I could not move. It was just as well because the Wyrding-woman came out with a candle.

  I felt her observe me closely, but managed to keep my breathing steady. I must have been convincing because she muttered to herself as she opened a familiar jar. Only two days earlier she had had me crush hymlic then strain the pulp through cloth to produce this clear liquid containing concentrated poison.

  Now she wept as she dipped the mouth piece of Murtahg’s pipe in the jar. Tomorrow morning she would send a servant to return it. Soon after Murtahg placed the pipe on his tongue, his heart would falter to a stop. She did this not for me, but for the Wyrding-mother; her Ways had to be respected.

  Replacing the pipe, the Wyrding-woman returned to her chamber. A soft keening arose as she wept her heart out. But I had her measure now. Her tears were for her failed plans. I was only a means to an end.

  Cold within and cold without, I listened for her weeping to cease as she finally fell asleep.

  Now, to take the amulet.

  I crept into her alcove. It smelt of old woman and tired emotion. I knelt by her bed. The amulet had slipped out of her vest to rest on her shoulder. I lifted the leather strip that threaded through the loop and slit it with a soft snick of my knife, setting myself free. It was that easy.

  Why had I waited so long?

  I returned to the outer room and knelt by the glowing coals to take the amulet apart, removing its contents. The caul I tucked inside my bodice next to my skin. So soft and fine. So good to reclaim what was mine.

  The rest of the contents, I studied. Salt, the purifier, was easy to recognise, as was the chip of iron, the protector, from a sky rock. But it was the circle of red thread that made my heart soar in triumph. This was thread from my hill clothes, woven into the circle to mirror the circle the Warlord’s soul would make when it left his body and took root in my babe.

  To be sure of my freedom I burned everything but the circle of red thread. I did not want to extinguish my child’s life.

  When in doubt fire is an excellent cleanser. However, it also concentrates power so I gathered the ashes and the hot sky rock from the little brazier used to prepare ingredients, meaning to throw them in the sea. Since water opposed fire I believed this would be enough to negate the Wyrding-woman’s power.

  Next, to deal with the red thread circle. It had been created to bind a body and soul, so I put the thread between my teeth and gnawed through it, breaking the Warlord’s journey and reclaiming my daughter. Now the growing babe was all mine, for any child produced by a Wyrding-woman belonged to her.

  “What are you doing?” the Wyrding-woman demanded.

  I spun around to find her by the hearth. She lit a candle so she could see me clearly. Too late to dissemble, I displayed the broken thread then swallowed it to protect my child.

  Her hand went to the amulet only to find it gone. Her eyes narrowed and I felt the power of her ancient will.

  I was not ready for this confrontation.

  Murtahg flung the door open and stalked in, eyes glazed with the weed, carrying his naked sword. Clearly, he had thought things over and he did not trust the Wyrding-woman’s word.

  The Wyrding-woman tried to bluster. “What are you doing here, Murtahg?

  He did not answer, striding towards her.

  Wyrding power lay in subtle threats, prepared treatments and manipulation of people, not in force. Still, she drew herself up to her full height. “Murtahg, I helped bring you into this world. Listen to—”

  But he was not going to let her wear his will away with the weave of her words. He drew his sword arm back. She tried to dart past him. He caught her by the hair and ran her through. I saw the disbelief on her face as he let her drop.

  He did not even wait for her to die, but turned on me. I backed up, arms lifting uselessly. Sweet Mother, why hadn’t I run when I had the chance? Why hadn’t I warned Druaric and run away with him?

  “Come here, Sun-fire.”

  I couldn’t move.

  “Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.”

  I shook my head.

  With a curse he caught my arm and jerked me towards him so that when I recovered my balance the bloody sword tip rested under my chin.

  “The clan needs its Warlord-reborn and it needs a Wyrding-woman. But there are other Wyrding-women, Sun-fire. Cross me and I’ll tell the clan you threw yourself off the tower. Do you understand?”

  I swallowed and nodded numbly.

  He let the sword tip drop then made to leave.

  “Wait.” I pointed to the mantelpiece. “You left your pipe.”

  He smiled and grabbed the pipe, tucking it in his pocket. “You learn quickly, Sun-fire.”

  Yes, I did.

  The moment he was gone I peeped out the door after him. He headed down towards the wing he shared with his family and supporters. I ran in the other direction, up the steps to Druaric’s room on the floor above.

  I threw open the door to see him kneeling by the fire, singing intently. “Come quick!”

  He put the zither aside slowly, as if dazed, though he never smoked the weed. Stiffly, he came to his feet.

  “Hurry, Murtahg’s after you!”

  Too late. Booted feet ran up the stairs, blocking our escape. Mouth dry, I backed away as Murtahg and four men filled the doorway.

  “So,” Murtahg muttered finding me with Druaric. “This is your idea of loyalty, Sun-fire.”

  “Don’t speak of loyalty,” I countered, pointing to his bloodied sword. “Not when you killed the clan’s Wyrding-woman!”

  “Brother, how could you?” Druaric whispered, shocked.

  Murtahg’s followers shifted uneasily, drawing away from him.

  “Why . . . ?” one of them whispered.

  “She was going to set these two up as clan-leaders,” Murtahg said. Then, certain his own men would never turn on him, he took out his pipe, to chew on its stem.

  How long would the poison take?

  “Why weren’t you born a girl, Dru?” Murtahg taunted. “Then I could have used you.”

  “You will not use either of us,” I told him, stepping in front of Druaric. “The Wyrding-mother will not stand by and let the murderer of one of her servants go unpunished.”

  “The Wyrding-mother did not stop me.” Murtahg grinned. “And I don’t see her saving you.” He nodded to his men. “Kill the hill-brat and the cripple.”

  His followers hesitated.

  I pointed to Murtahg. “Wyrding-mother take this man. Make his heart race. Make his breath tight in his chest.” As I described the symptoms of the poison, I saw evidence of its effect on him. His eyes widened in horror. “Make his fingers grow numb. Make his legs ti
ngle. Make his heart falter.” He dropped to his knees, hands going to his throat. The pipe fell to the floor. It had done its job.

  I heard Druaric gasp behind me.

  Murtahg’s followers stared as he fought for breath; once . . . twice, then he pitched forward, face down on the floor.

  I looked up at the remaining four men. “Put away your swords and the Wyrding-mother will not strike you down.”

  They hurried to obey.

  I nodded to Murtahg. “In life he served the clan well. Let us honour him in death. Prepare him for death’s realm.”

  This was familiar to them and two took his legs, while another took his shoulders. They shuffled towards the door. There they hesitated, looking back at us, unsure of me.

  “Do not fear, the Wyrding-mother will forgive her children,” I told them.

  As soon as the door closed I threw the pipe in the grate and stirred up the fire, then turned to face Druaric. Did he fear me, too?

  Graceful despite his clubfoot, he sat and took up his zither again.

  “There’s no time for this.”

  “Hush, Sun-fire,” he said. “I must sing the way it will be. The greatest danger is panic, clansmen turning on each other to avenge old insults, tearing our clan apart, killing our people.”

  His people were not my people, but I listened as he sang of how we became leaders of the clan. He’d been singing like this when I came in to warn him. My skin went cold.

  Truly, Murtahg had been right to fear him. How much more had he sung into being, here in the privacy of his chamber?

  I heard the name he used for me and his words claimed me. I saw a vision of us leading the clan into a glorious future, safe from raiders and secure from want while I served the Wyrding-mother. Joy filled me, for she had never deserted me. This was meant to be . . .

  Yet, at the same time, I knew my feelings were a product of his cleverly woven words. With great effort I sloughed off the effect of his power.

  He smiled and stood, slinging the zither over his shoulder. “Come, we must reassure the clan, Sun-fire.”

  I was immune to his song. Could he tell?