I would travel to Blue Vee and fight the beast. And I would likely die, like all the rest. But it was a step toward the light. I would not quietly fade, lost to time, as all the Mercies had before me, throughout the countless years since the Witch Wars.
I would be remembered.
SIX
The morning of my seventeenth birthday was clear and cool, the bright sun quickly melting all the snow from the night before.
Trigve was off, looking for the last of the summer blackberries—he wanted to find me a handful for my birthday. I sat on the brown-gray stump of a fallen tree near the fire and watched the sky. I looked for the witch signs Juniper had taught me—warnings of dangers up ahead, of perils on the horizon. But I saw no odd-shaped clouds, no group of crows on the wing, no eerie gusts of wind, no ominous shimmer of mist rising off the trees.
Juniper’s pale sea-green hair shimmered in the sun as she poured steaming roasted chicory tea into the wooden mug we all shared. She handed me the cup, and I took a sip, smiling as the comforting, earthy brew slid down my throat.
Ovie sat down next to me on the log, knee touching mine. I passed her the tea, and she gave me a nod of thanks.
Even Runa seemed at ease, her eyes narrowed under the bright sky. She stretched, her long arms reaching up. “This morning I am happy to be alive. I can’t remember the last time I felt this.”
Ovie glanced at Runa and smiled. She rarely smiled, but when she did, it stirred my heart.
Ovie was a follower of the old Vorse ways. She was stoic, and philosophical, and I admired her for it. Though, in contrast to her silence, or perhaps because of it, she held a deep attachment to the sagas, to all the old stories, told around the fire.
A crow cawed overhead. I shaded my eyes with one hand and squinted against the sunshine. It was sitting on the top branch of a tall pine.
“Crows are lucky,” Juniper said, as if reading my mind. She took the mug from Ovie, held it between her small palms, and looked at me.
“Crows are messengers of the dead,” Runa said, the old snap back in her voice.
Juniper tilted her head to the side, and an expression of yearning passed over her face. “Frey, we will pass the Merrows on our way to Blue Vee. We could visit the Sea Witches and get their blessing.”
I stood and put my arm around Juniper. “Yes, we will stay a night in the Merrows. The witches may be able to help us—they might know more of this beast and how to kill it. It’s worth the delay, though we need to get to Blue Vee before the first winter storm. The Red Willow Marsh will be hard enough to cross without hunting for the path under snow.”
Runa’s eyes met mine. “Either way, we risk stumbling upon the Cut-Queen’s hidden reed-village and ending up tortured until we convert. Or worse.”
I held up a hand. “For all we know, the Cut-Queen’s followers have already mutinied and drowned her in her own marsh. I will not let you quell our nerve, Runa. Not on a morning as beautiful as this.”
I turned to Ovie. She was still sitting on the spruce log, feet in the tall grass, elbows on her knees. “You’ve been quiet. Do you share Runa’s fear of the Cut-Queen?”
Ovie ran her fingers over the hilt of the knife strapped to her ribs. “Yes. But that which doesn’t kill us will make us stronger.” She stood and put her hand on Runa’s shoulder. “If we survive the marsh, then we will have reached the border of Blue Vee, and whatever happens next we will at least be able to feast and sleep in a jarl’s Great Hall as winter sets in. We’ll spend our nights warm, satiated, and in new company. Focus on this when the fear hits you, Runa.”
I caught sight of Trigve over Runa’s shoulder and nodded at him. He nodded back, the sun catching the green in his eyes. He set a handful of ink-colored berries on the log and came to my side. The five of us formed a half circle, there in front of the troll-stone, me at the center.
“Today begins our quest to slay the Blue Vee Beast.” I put my fist to my heart and let my voice ring out strong into the morning air. “Let the gods see what we can do with a real foe—one that isn’t old or heartbroken or diseased. We do this because we can. We do it because it’s never been done before.”
“Leap of faith.” Juniper turned her face to the sky. “The gods will look favorably on this.”
She chanted a prayer, one of the swift ones that praised earth, air, water, and fire. Then she reached into her pocket and took out her short dagger. She held out her left palm and made a shallow cut, echoing what I’d done the night before.
“Give me your hand, Frey.” She recut my wound and pressed her bloody palm to mine. “There. It’s done.”
Runa took the knife and cut her palm. And then Ovie. Each pressed her hand to mine.
“Leap of faith,” Runa said.
“Leap of faith,” Ovie said.
Trigve was the last. I handed him Juniper’s blade. He slashed his skin and pressed his warm palm to mine. “Leap of faith, Frey.”
* * *
We traveled west under a vibrant sky that seemed to stretch all the way to Holhalla. Blue Vee was some hundred miles from Hail, in the Destin Lush Valley, which lay between the Quell Sea and the Skal Mountains. We’d be traveling for a few weeks, maybe more; we would make it to Blue Vee before it snowed, if the weather held.
My heart felt full, wide open, as if it had grown in the night, feasting on the promise of change. As Boneless Mercies, we’d traveled from village to village, always seeking work, no greater hope than quick deaths, a few coins, and a warm meal. Each band of Mercies had its own unofficial territory, one that crisscrossed a handful of jarldoms, and Siggy’s was the mid-Borders. The High Jarl’s realm sat farther east, but we’d never been there. We looped around our own region, hitting every village twice each year, and didn’t stray far from this.
I was impatient to meet the Sea Witches and see where Juniper had come from, to see the Merrow sands, to set my eyes on the famous witch huts built into the branches of the Scorch Trees. Juniper’s witches were Tree Witches as well as Sea Witches.
I was less eager to reach the Red Willow Marsh. We’d all heard the horrifying tales shared late at night in village inns across the Borders.
The Red Willow Marsh had always been a dangerous place. People slipped and disappeared in the mud between one heartbeat and the next. Jade-green marsh vipers slithered between white reeds, their bite bringing pain and possibly death. But within the last few years a hamlet had sprung up in the reeds as well, said to consist of all girls, led by a woman called the Cut-Queen.
The Cut-Queen’s fervent worship of the goddess Fen made people shiver when they spoke of her. Made taverns filled with laughing, chattering people go silent at the sound of her name. The Blue Vee Beast was spoken of in bold, noble tones, like the ones used for the telling of the sagas … But the Cut-Queen was discussed in whispers. I’d seen scarred, battle-hardened warriors go quiet at the mention of the Woman in the Reeds.
We would try to pass through the marsh at night, unnoticed. I hoped to slip through and be long gone by sunrise, if luck was with us.
My boots parted thick, end-of-summer grass as we drifted over hills and past villages and farmsteads, the edges of my cloak soaking up the dew. We walked all day, not meeting a soul outside a young, dark-eyed shepherd who smiled sweetly at me despite my Mercy-cloak.
Juniper found the season’s last lingonberries near a stream, and we ate them for dinner, along with a thick triangle of hard, nutty cheese.
There was a hum in the air that first night of our journey, a buzz of joy that emanated from each of us, even Runa.
I watched the Mercies as they ate, smiling to themselves around the fire. Was this how the Border warriors felt before they marched south to battle the Fremish? Was this what the raiders felt when they went to sea? Or the Quicks before entering one of the Seven Endless Forests?
We camped that night next to a thin, fast-flowing stream. There would be more and more of these little brooks as we went west, heading toward the Merrows and the sea.<
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I washed everyone’s hair after dinner—Juniper, Ovie, Trigve, then Runa. I warmed ice-cold river water over the fire, and then used our wooden cup to pour it over their hair, lathering the soap between my palms and massaging it in until the suds were as thick as cream.
Some Boneless Mercies let themselves grow dirty and ragged, and that was their right. But we all washed with snow, when we had it, and if not, we’d find a stream. Trigve didn’t bring death, like us Mercies, but he knew a bit of medicine, and he said keeping clean could keep us alive. Runa grumbled about it and said washing so often was a waste of time, but Runa grumbled about everything. Her grumbling was almost a comfort, steady and to be relied upon, like the sun coming up in the morning. And for all her talk, she secretly enjoyed it when I washed her hair, my fingers moving through her straight black mane, her pretty, scowling face pointed up at the night sky.
Juniper talked quietly of easy, pleasant things when I washed her hair. Trigve told me tales from the Anglon Mystic books. Ovie said nothing at all.
Afterward, Trigve offered to do my hair, and I let him. I sighed as he rubbed his fingers into my scalp. My shoulders melted. My heart slowed.
Juniper joined me later as I sat by the fire, waiting for my hair to dry before I went to sleep.
“Hold out your hand, Frey.”
I did, and she slipped something into my palm. I glanced down at the small green vial that sat nestled in the hollow of my hand, then popped the cork and sniffed.
“Jasmine.” I inhaled again, deeply. “Where did you get this?”
Juniper smiled her witch-smile, and her gray eyes danced. “I stole it from the perfumery in Hail. Happy birthday, Frey.”
I heard Trigve laugh behind me. Juniper’s light fingers and shameless thieving amused him.
“I hope you were careful.” I dabbed the exotic, floral scent up my forearms. “I worry about you, Juniper. As far as I know, Keld is still the jarl of Hail and all else near here. He worships Forset, and you will lose a finger if you’re caught.”
“I won’t be caught.” Juniper ran her palms down her curls, which had grown bigger and thicker as they dried. “I don’t steal anything that will be missed.”
Runa knelt beside me and Juniper, her eyes on mine. “I have a gift for you, as well. Take it, or don’t, makes no difference to me.”
I took the gift. It was a finely braided leather strap to tie back my hair. I leaned forward and grabbed both girls in my arms. Juniper sank into my side, and Runa stiffened, but then relaxed a moment later.
“I also got you a present.” Ovie crept out of the darkness, back from checking her traps. She was carrying a dead rabbit in one hand, fist clenched around his fuzzy gray ears.
I smiled. “Food for tomorrow’s stew?”
“No. Something far better.”
Ovie reached into her pocket and pulled out five small, pretty mushrooms with spotted red-and-white tops. She smiled, and her blue eye twinkled. “Sly Barbaric Mushrooms. I found them in a small patch of woods near here. How about we celebrate your birthday and the end of the death trade in the way of the witches?”
The Sly Barbaric Mushroom was rare in Vorseland, but well-known because it appeared in many of our stories, usually the ones about magic.
In a high enough concentration, the mushroom worked as a poison, much like Blue Seed. In the poem “The Fevered Mother,” a wicked woman named Else killed her twelve children by feeding them a Sly Barbaric Mushroom soup.
But the mushrooms were also used as a drug. The hero of Blood Song took a mushroom before battle and defeated his enemies in a dream. And the young seer in Twilight Comes the End ate a Sly Barbaric and gave his people a prophecy that led to war.
Yet the mushroom was most famous for an old song about the Sea Witches, called “Witch on the Fly.” The song said the mushroom gave the witches wings.
Juniper began to whisper the lyrics as I reached forward and took the largest mushroom from Ovie.
“The witches dined on the red-and-white Sly,
Grew black wings and soared up high,
Sailed through the clouds, and scraped the sky,
Witch on the fly, witch on the fly…”
We all said the last line together, in unison.
I ran my thumb over the top of the mushroom, tracing a path around the white spots. “Shall we eat these mushrooms and dance for luck tonight under the autumn moon?”
Ovie popped one in her mouth. Then Runa. Trigve and I ate ours together. He chose the smallest, giving me a wink as he plucked it from Ovie’s palm. He chewed. I chewed. The mushroom tasted nutty, with a bittersweet aftertaste that hinted at the night to come.
Juniper went last. She laughed, and took the last mushroom from Ovie. “Let’s fly, Mercies.”
* * *
Nothing happened at first. Time passed slowly, like clouds gliding across the moon.
We were all piled together in front of the fire, even Runa. I felt languid … smooth and slow and tired, but not sleepy. I could smell the nearby stream, the clean, earth-and-stone scent of the water misting into the air. I turned my head and buried my face in Juniper’s curls. Ovie’s head was in my lap, and Runa’s head was in hers, and Trigve was sprawled on his side in the middle of us all. I touched the strap of Ovie’s leather eye patch. I undid her braids, one by one, and let her blue-tipped hair spill across my legs.
Juniper whispered something into the empty night air, and Runa stared at the stars.
The tingling started in my fingertips, ran up my hands and arms, down my torso, down my legs. It felt good, instinctual, like getting warm after being cold, like eating after going hungry.
I lazily untangled myself from the girls, limbs falling away, strands of hair sliding past my skin. I rose to my feet, and one by one they followed. I felt fingers press into mine, and a gentle tugging on my arms. We all held hands in a circle around the fire.
I looked up, and the night sky melted, fell down on my face like a soft black cloak, a Mercy-cloak, the edges fluttering around me like the Iber woman’s silk dress.
We started moving around the flames, long hair rippling down our backs. Juniper chanted and Runa whispered and Trigve sang one of the old songs, throaty and low. I could feel Ovie’s breath on my cheek, though her lips were closed.
When our feet left the ground, it felt as familiar and safe as falling asleep. I arched upward, chest out, head tilted back. Up and up.
My heart hit the moon.
Trigve squeezed my hand. I felt his leg against mine, my elbow at his hip, his long hair whipping in the wind, mingling with mine. We rose higher and higher and higher.
I closed my eyes, raised my arms, and screamed.
It wasn’t a scream of fear.
It was a scream of blood. Of slicing. Of skin and meat and bone. I felt the heft of a blade in my palm, slick with sweat. I smelled salt and pine resin and death. I looked down and saw a field of blood-soaked grass, a battlefield, corpses at my feet …
I screamed again and felt the blackness of the sky cut me open like a knife.
Juniper was screaming now, too, “Nante, nante,” a Sea Witch word to cast off the dark, “nante, nante, nante—”
The stars screamed back at us, a thousand whispery wails.
Then … silence.
We began to sink, sliding down the night sky like silvery moons. The stars watched us as we slid, hundreds of twinkling little eyes.
Down, down, down.
We fell back into a pile by the fire, limbs and hair and skin and bones, all woven together, a tapestry of Mercies.
“Nante,” Juniper whispered again as we drifted into sleep. “Nante.”
SEVEN
“How long do you think she’s been hanging there?” I shielded my eyes from the sun and stared up at the thick, dead tree.
“Two days, maybe three.” Trigve stood at my right shoulder, back straight, expression grim.
I slid my dagger from its sheath on my calf. “We’re cutting her down.”
Ovie yanked her own knife from the leather straps around her ribs. “I’ll do it. I’m the best climber.”
We were at the Levin crossroads, a mile from town. Many crossroads in Vorseland had a hangman’s tree, and this one was no different. The younger jarls now preferred skin-fights and trial by combat, but a few of the older leaders still used the trees.
The hanged girl had straight blond hair and wore a simple blue tunic. Her dangling bare feet betrayed her youth. Smooth skin, no calluses.
Juniper reached into one of her many pockets and pulled out a small piece of wood. “I’ll pray.”
The wood was Heart Ash—a mystical tree that grew in Iber. The Sea Witches believed it chased demons away from the dead. Runa threw Juniper the flint box, and the Sea Witch lit the incense until it smoked, wisps drifting up the poor girl’s legs.
Ovie faced me and put her hands on my shoulders. I cupped her right foot in my palms and hoisted her into the air. Her arms wrapped around the gray trunk, and she shimmied up the tree, stretching out on the thick branch, crawling toward the noose, dagger ready.
Runa and I caught the hanged girl as she fell. We laid her gently on the ground. Juniper fell to her knees at the girl’s side and waved the incense over her body.
“Frey.” Trigve’s voice was low with warning. “Someone is bound to wander by soon. What do you plan to do now that you’ve cut this girl down? She was left here for a reason.”
“I know.” I straightened and stared down each of the roads, squinting in the light. “We can’t burn her. The fire will be seen.”
Ovie pulled the cloth away from the girl’s neck and showed us the skin underneath. The dead girl had been branded, a small circle with two lines slashed through it. This was a mark given to someone who had disobeyed a jarl’s laws—oath-breaking, theft, arson, or murder.
Juniper looked up from the white-gray curls of incense smoke. “I suppose that’s why they killed her.”
The Boneless Mercies Page 5
