Blood Witch

by Thea Atkinson

  Alaysha didn't have an answer, but Yenic did. He stormed to his feet and squared off against Gael. He looked like a pup indeed, next to a large mastiff.

  "I'm no boy."

  Gael's smile was a crisp and calculated one. "Good. Then I won't have to feel any guilt at harming a child." He stepped forward almost innocently and delivered a crushing blow to the side of Yenic's face that was so quick, neither of them knew he'd lifted his fist. Two moments later he reached down for Alaysha and hefted her into his arms.

  Chapter 8

  "Again?" It seemed this was all the man knew: pick something up and carry it. "What are you doing?"

  He wouldn't look at her, just spoke to the air. "You have work to do, and not this kind of work."

  "Put her down," Yenic demanded and Gael's glare could have set Yenic's blood to ice.

  "Stand down, pup."

  Alaysha squirmed in Gael's arms. "I was getting answers."

  "I see that."

  "You're ridiculous." Even still, her face flamed as Gael swept out of the garden and past Saxa's cottage, leaving Yenic standing with his cheek in his palm.

  When Alaysha noticed they were heading for the Main Keep, she got nervous. "I'm not allowed there," she said simply because she couldn't think of anything else to say. "And I can walk."

  Without ceremony, he dropped her to her feet. A stone bit into her heel and she yelped. "You are pretty much a beast." She sat down to rub the pain away.

  "I thought you could walk."

  She peered up at the handsome face, the eyes that reminded her of the water from the broad river that no one could breech. His face had become a storm of things, all of which Alaysha couldn't read. "I can walk."

  "Then walk."

  He headed again toward the Keep and Alaysha hobbled to her feet to follow. She noticed the increasing stares as she drew closer. Everyone would know by her tattaus that she was Yuri's daughter and his weapon, used to kill and bring victory of every sort to Sarum. They would also know Yuri made her live outside the walls and left her to her own devices when they weren't on campaign. A few women wore veils in a variety of styles depending on their tribal heritage. Some wore hoods. Some went nearly naked from head to toe. Sarum was such a mix of cultures that Alaysha often wondered how Yuri kept them all complacent in their accepted captivity.

  The slaves were easy to spot because they'd been branded on each cheek with their owners' marks; the mere chattels and bonded wore undyed flax tunics shapeless and thick. Alaysha thought of Aedus and her clear cheeks and not for the first time wondered why Drahl had not marked her or Edulph when he'd had the time to do so.

  She caught the eye of one man, whose cheeks were newly flamed from the branding iron, and she knew she could see fear in them, and the hint of hatred.

  "I don't want to go," she told Gael.

  "You don't want to train?" he said over his shoulder.

  "With the witch?" She could swear her heart skipped.

  He didn't respond and she stepped up her pace to walk beside him. She'd tired of the heated looks and she'd tired of walking obligingly behind him as a good slave would do. It was difficult to match his stride but she managed, and wasn't sure if he slowed just a bit to let her keep up.

  "Gael, will I see the witch today?"

  "We will see."

  Being Gael and the tallest man, it seemed, in Yuri's army, being the brother of the favored wife, Gael had no trouble getting let into the gate of the Main Keep. Alaysha, even with her close kinship to Yuri, was different.

  Gael frowned at the man who stepped into her path, barring her entrance. Eventually, wordless, they were both allowed entry and they strode unhindered to the outer audience chamber, where Alaysha knew Yuri dispensed justice when he needed to, planned his campaigns otherwise. What else he did inside, she would never know; in all her years, she'd never seen anything but war and more war.

  Bodiccia stood at the door, a match for Gael in height, her feet planted widely apart and her arms crossed over her chest. She had gained another bracelet of men's teeth, Alaysha noticed. She also seemed to have gained a new protégée.

  Bronwyn stood at her side in an exact imitation of Bodiccia's stance.

  "They say the witch forgets her sisters too easily."

  Alaysha didn't have time to rush forward before her half sister was in her arms, wrapped so tightly against her that she could smell the roasted boar in her hair.

  "Where have you been?"

  Bronwyn peeked sideways at Bodiccia. "You see it." She looked back at Alaysha shyly. "I went to see you once, but no one could get near Saxa's cottage. It was barricaded for days. Not even a hound was allowed near."

  Alaysha didn't want to think how Yuri had managed that. "You are taking the warrior's training?" She tried not to think about whether that would include Corrin, but told herself if it was Bodiccia who was her mentor, she might be spared.

  "Father says it's time and Bodiccia is the best."

  Alaysha looked at the woman, wondering if Yuri expected the girl to also learn the culinary parts of war as well as weaponry. "Indeed, she is," she said.

  Gael, impatient, cleared his throat noisily so that Alaysha pulled away from her sister and stood. "I need to see Yuri," she told Bodiccia.

  The woman merely shook her head. Not so much as a glance Alaysha's way.

  Gael pulled a dirk from somewhere, Alaysha didn't have the chance to see, and Bodiccia grinned, rattling her bracelets for effect. "You have nice white teeth, man," she said.

  "Go tell the Emir I am having difficulty training the witch," he said.

  Bodiccia snorted, indicating either that she expected a man to have trouble, or that she didn't think the witch worth training; Alaysha couldn't tell which, but she did nod at Bronwyn to deliver the news, and when the girl ran down the hall instead of inside, Alaysha realized what was missing.

  "Where is the rest of the guard?"

  Bodiccia scowled her thoughts on needing more guard than she.

  "They're not here, are they?"

  The woman's face turned to a façade as stony as the wall she stood next to.

  "Neither is my father here." Alaysha turned to Gael. "You both know he's not here, so why would you waste my time?"

  Gael shuffled toward the woman and spoke to her. "She thinks coupling with a mere boy is proper use of her time."

  Bodiccia looked her over disdainfully. "She's young. The blood boils. Even in a witch, I'm told."

  Gael's back stiffened. "The blood may boil, but my head must not."

  The woman laughed low. "The boy is handsome."

  Gael's voice grew angry. "Still. He is a boy."

  "And you are a man, is that so?" The woman's tone sidled into a mocking one and Alaysha grew tired of the discourse.

  "Can we stop acting as though I were elsewhere?"

  Bodiccia's head snapped in Alaysha's direction. "A witch should be elsewhere, not here this close to the Emir's quarters."

  Alaysha sighed. "You know I'm his daughter. You've seen us together. You know I've never harmed him." Would that she could some days, but Alaysha knew, thanks to Yenic, that blood protected Yuri from her power. She doubted that he'd let that information slip to anyone else, though--even his trusted Bodiccia.

  She turned and headed in Bronwyn's direction, sick of the two and tired of waiting. Whether he followed or not was irrelevant. He'd brought her here, expecting any distraction would be preferable for the witch than an intimate moment in a garden. Why he would care, she didn't know, but perhaps he was right: distraction was a good thing. She'd lost her resolve with Yenic and she had to be careful. She didn't want to be manipulated again and if Yuri was right and three of the four witches could be controlled, who knew what evil a man could do.

  She guessed her father was right that moment with the fire witch, and his guard with him. Well, she was here, and she was ready; she might as well get the lessons underway.

  The corridor was one she'd not been in before and ultimately led to
a stone staircase that felt damp and smelled of dead litter. Narrow and steep, it almost seemed cut into the stone of the mountain's base. Torches blazed every few steps and lit the increasing darkness.

  She heard someone muttering and complaining above her, and then heard Bronwyn's clear, sing-song voice after it.

  The curve in the stair gave way, and there, coming down at her were the shaman, wringing his hands in a bleached linen, a young page carrying bottles and jars, and Bronwyn at his heels carrying a wooden bucket.

  "What have you there, little sister," Alaysha asked her and Bronwyn glanced up sharply, nearly dropping the bucket in surprise.

  The shaman spoke before the girl could answer.

  "The witch speaks as though the Emir's good daughter knows her. Yes. But a good daughter doesn't intimate with the likes of such a filthy being, does she?"

  Alaysha wasn't sure if the man was talking to her, Bronwyn, or himself, but she did remember his odd pattern of speech. She decided to say nothing to him.

  "Did you tell Yuri I was coming, Bronwyn?"

  The girl shook her head. "He's not up here."

  Alaysha looked again at the shaman and realized something was going on. "Who is up there?"

  "We do not answer to vermin, and yet she asks us as though she has a right, doesn't she? Foolish witch. Wait until we tell the Emir of her impudence." He bustled forward, taking the bucket from the girl. "I am done with you. Return to your post."

  He twisted round to nod at the young page who hurried down the stairs, pushing against Alaysha in his rush to get by her.

  Bronwyn looked to Alaysha for confirmation and when Alaysha nodded, the girl rushed down the stairs to disappear into the dark. Alaysha stood in the man's way.

  "You have my father up there, don't you?" Saxa had said he was growing ill and that the shaman was working to keep him healthy.

  "We will not deign to answer. Don't you answer. Oh no." He slung the cloth over his shoulder and tried to push past her.

  "You don't have to tell me. I can easily climb the rest of the steps and see for myself." She was passing him by when Gael came up behind her. He reached for the shaman's bucket and peered inside.

  "It's just water." Alaysha said. She thought it might be something worse and had checked it for herself.

  Gael grunted and reached for the cloth, inspecting it. This close, she could see it was wet and brownish, as thought it had been used to mop up something foul.

  "Come," Gael said. "You aren't supposed to be here."

  "You brought me."

  "And if you go up there, I will no doubt lose my head."

  Theron watched the exchange with interest and when Gael noticed, he sent him scurrying down the stairs with a nasty glare. He gripped Alaysha's elbow; she pulled it back.

  "Someone is up there. It could be Yuri. He might be sick."

  Gael's gaze narrowed. "Why do you say that?"

  Alaysha turned away. She didn't want to admit Saxa's confession. He huffed and reached for her again when she wouldn't answer, but she wrenched away.

  "I'm going up there. I suggest if you want to keep your head, you pretend you don't see me."

  Gael appeared unimpressed. His lips twitched and he swallowed. He seemed to be considering her words. She waited, confident by his demeanour that he'd let her go.

  He sighed finally, and Alaysha felt a smile trying to take over her face until he scooped her from her feet.

  She groaned and beat on his back as he loped down the stairs. She wanted to complain that her belly hurt where the wound was still healing, but she didn't want to give him the satisfaction. Instead, she sucked in large gulps of air and focused on easing it out, concentrating on breaths rather than the pain. By the time he'd made it to the bottom of the stairs and levelled out his stride she didn't realize he'd stopped until she heard voices.

  His grip tightened on her thighs.

  She heard a woman's voice, as gravely as rocks on heels, but definitely a woman's.

  "This is one of your finest, I presume."

  Speaking to someone, a third party, Alaysha realized, and that someone must have nodded in response. Gael sidled next to the wall so that Alaysha's head butted up against the stone. She growled and he slapped her legs in warning.

  That was when she realized the silent someone was her father and Gael was trying desperately to keep his head. Awkward and undignified as she felt, she wasn't inclined to help him with the task.

  "Put me down," she ordered only to be rewarded with a quick shot against the stone. She cursed and heard her father chuckle at the sound of it.

  "Another one, Gael; do they never tire of being handled so?"

  Alaysha tried to squirm off Gael's shoulder, but felt his hands pinning her tight. She opted to protest verbally, but he leaned against the wall so that her face got pressed into his legs. The squirming became more about getting air than about anything else.

  The woman's voice came again. "I wouldn't think you'd have to woo your quarry that way, big man." She chuckled.

  Several seconds passed before Gael eased away from the wall and Alaysha was able to breathe again. She gulped in a half a dozen drafts before she let loose a yell.

  Gael ignored her and kept walking. She tried to knee him in the stomach, but found the muscles she needed to do so were still too sore.

  She opted for quiet acceptance instead, considering what had just happened. Her father was with a woman going somewhere Gael was loathe to take her. He'd purposely pressed her against the wall so she couldn't see, but surely he'd realize she'd knew her own father's voice. Surely her father would know hers.

  It struck her it wasn't Yuri Gael feared she'd see or herself Yuri would see. Those two things were second to the one other, critical issue. Neither of them wanted her to see the woman.

  So who else would that woman be other than the fire witch?

  Chapter 9

  The seeds were nestled in a leather pouch she'd stolen from Nohma's larder. She thought the hide had once been rabbit, but there was no way to tell now. She only knew it contained kasha grain, a fast-breaking meal, and since she wasn't fond of kasha even with generous dollops of young honey, the six seasons old Alaysha doubted her nohma would care if the pouch went missing.

  She poked a finger in and rummaged through the tiny, desecrated pearls that had once been four men's eyes. She remembered the looks on their faces when they died. She remembered the way their saliva tasted – of smoke and garlic and something unnameable that she would recognize later as ale. But on that day, two seasons earlier as a toddler of four, she'd not known and it was the most lingering taste of all.

  She'd ridden out on her father's mount, hanging from a basket on its side, legs dangling from two special woven holes, her fat legs kicking at the air. It hadn't been her first foray into war, but it was the first where she'd be allowed to roam the field afterwards and see the power her father owned let loose.

  The four men stood side by side, swords in hand, shields still on their backs. They had nothing to fear from a small child toddling toward them, naked and mewling of hunger. Nothing to fear. Nothing to protect their lord from. He would be settled into his tent just beyond, or so her father had said. He has something for you – a sweet bit of milk like no other, and when you are done you shall have fresh honeycomb from my own hand, he'd told her. Her father's own hands. And he would smile at her.

  She'd reached the men, could see the tent beyond, the tents all around, horses, hounds. Even washer women boiling leathers in large cauldrons and taking down tunics hung in trees to dry. It looked so much like any other home, any other encampment she'd seen. Nothing special, really. No real reason for them to live and for her father's village to die, not when the village was growing and the buildings were being filled each and every day with new people her father cared for. No reason for these to live in the face of that. And die they would, he'd told her, if these men, this lord, and these washer women lived.

  "Drink," her father had comma
nded.

  She'd let her thirst go before the men could even kneel to help her. She tasted the mould from the earth beneath her, then the sweet tang of freshly drawn water: cold and crisp. The men in front of her had no idea what was happening. Why their mouths went suddenly dry, why their leathers and tunics grew so loose as their skin shrivelled beneath it.

  Alaysha stood beneath the gathering cloud until the men, the hounds, the birds and leaves and mould and earth were dry, and she waited until the cloud let go its water before she ran forward to see she had truly done her father's bidding.

  The four men were so psyched they crackled beneath her hand, and one, the youngest, who had come to battle hungry and sick – she knew this as she knew each waterway of his body – was so dry he'd broken into pieces.

  That's when she'd seen the seeds. Two each lying a palm's width apart. Her Nohma had ever told her a person's eyes were the seeds of their soul, looking out at you, drinking in your spirit. And now they were mere seeds, like the kasha grain she'd so hated to eat. What if these men laid down roots in all this rain? What if their spirits took to the ground and grew again? Father would not be safe. The village would not be safe. She scrabbled to collect them before her father could come and see she'd not done her full duty. She didn't want him to be ashamed of her. He'd boasted so often of her gift, what would he think if he knew she wasn't perfect?

  She had nothing to hide them in but her fist and she clenched her fingers over them until her father came, as he always did, on foot. He didn't touch her or speak to her. He merely scanned the area, nodded, and walked away, and she followed him, holding tightly to the seeds.

  And so the pouch. Inside, they would gather no water. Take to no earth. Grow no roots. And buried beneath the ground in hard clay, no one could find it but her.

  Four sets. Eight seeds that she could still, two seasons later, build into men holding swords and stand side by side if she wanted. A witch has a long memory, her nohma always told her, all the better to find water or know where it needs to return. The memory is the greatest gift, she'd said. Without the memory, a witch was worse than powerless because she had no control.