The Boneless Mercies

by April Genevieve Tucholke

  I forced myself to stand still and hold the Cut-Queen’s gaze. She gave me another shrewd smile, and then released Juniper’s hair. “There will be no Sea Witch burning tonight. Lower your knife, Tarth.”

  The tall Willow withdrew her knife but stayed where she was, hovering beside me. I nodded at Ovie and Runa, and they put their blades away as well.

  “I welcome all the homeless, the orphaned, the outcast, into my village.” The Cut-Queen lifted her chin, shadows dancing across her face. She glanced out across the clearing, across the reed-girls. “I take you in, whereas the Sea Witch mother would let you die in the thorns.”

  Juniper said nothing. I said nothing. It was true, after all. The Sea Witches had let girls die in the thorns.

  Elan lowered her voice, her eyes back on my green-haired Mercy. “Did you know Mother Hush takes those dead girls and gives them back to the sea as a sacrifice to the goddess Jute? She calls these girls to her. She sends the sea-wind to whisper in their ears. They heed her plea … and end their lives with Thiss Brambles wrapped around their hearts. This is the price Hush pays to keep her sea magic.”

  Juniper had remained quiet and calm when the Willow girls started chanting. She’d held still when Elan grabbed her hair. She understood the part we were playing here and had done well. But I felt her shudder beside me now. Her hand darted into her pocket and clenched her shells.

  She hadn’t known about the Jute sacrifices, then.

  Juniper turned to the Cut-Queen, a twist of her thin shoulders. “You’re telling the truth. I can feel it.”

  “Yes.” Elan closed her eyes and the tight line of her mouth relaxed. She looked young suddenly. Very young. “I was one of those girls. I died in the thorns. But when the witches threw me into the sea, I didn’t sink down into the deep, food for the fishes and an offering to Jute like all those before me.” She paused. “I was resurrected. I washed ashore with the tide, not dead, not drowned, but alive. I ran back into the brambles and found my way here.”

  Elan opened her eyes and swept her hand out before her. “This was nothing but an abandoned marsh hamlet when I arrived. I created this.”

  “You’ve given us Mercy-girls a chance, Elan.” I kept my eyes blank and open. “A choice. We want nothing more than to follow you and pledge ourselves to Fen.”

  Elan Wulf tilted her head to the side and studied me again. This was it. If she was going to call us Mercies out as frauds, she would do it now.

  I noticed she had a handful of freckles across the top of her nose. They seemed out of place, too sweet, too whimsical. The Cut-Queen was a full foot shorter than Runa, and yet she carried herself with the gravity of a king.

  A part of me was in awe of this tiny twelve-year-old girl. I could see why they followed her. I could see why all of Vorseland was afraid.

  She was a force.

  Elan blinked, then reached forward and touched the ax at my waist. “So how did a group of Mercies get Elsh hatchets? I’m curious.”

  “We dug them up from an Elsh graveyard,” Runa snapped, the old bite back in her voice. “Want to try to take them from us?”

  I shot her a warning look, but Elan just laughed, a sweet sound that made her seem, for a moment, like the girl she was.

  “Weapons stolen from a graveyard. I haven’t heard that one before. Come, Frey can tell me about it over supper.”

  So that was it. We’d made it in. It hadn’t been that difficult, in the end. One quick kill and we’d be done and on to Blue Vee.

  “But first,” Elan said, “you need to prove yourself a true Willow. I found a Quick wandering my marsh yesterday. Drown him. Sacrifice him in the name of Fen.”

  Hel.

  * * *

  I’d given up the death trade, but the death trade hadn’t given up me.

  “Death tracks us, unwilling to let us go.”

  Ovie had been right. I couldn’t seem to leave death behind no matter which choice I made or what path I took.

  Tarth pulled the Quick to his feet and shoved him toward me. I could see now that his back was bleeding, his tunic in tatters. He’d been whipped hard and was weak from it.

  I put my arm around his waist and let him lean on me.

  Most of the Willow girls had retreated into the thatched houses, unwilling to watch what was coming next. Proving that despite the Cut-Queen, despite abandoning the Mercy-trade or whatever life they’d had before this, some compassion still endured within them.

  But Tarth lingered nearby, as did a dozen or so other girls, each with that raw, hollow look to them. One young, wiry Willow in particular made me uneasy. She had curly brown hair and cold ice-blue eyes—I’d seen half-starved wolves that looked friendlier.

  The girl stared at the Quick, and her hands twitched. She was eager for this. For his death.

  “Back off.” I gave Tarth a hard stare, and then looked at the rest of the Willows, ending with the wiry girl. “Get away, all of you. The queen can watch. No one else.”

  They didn’t move. I didn’t move.

  Elan made a dismissive gesture with her hand, and the girls slunk back into the shadows, all except Tarth, who refused to leave the queen’s side.

  Runa held her dagger in one fist. Juniper fiddled with her shells. Ovie stood, one leg forward, hand on the hilt of her ax, in the third starting position of the Seventh Degree.

  The Quick shifted against my shoulder and sighed. I felt his breath across the side of my neck.

  “What is your name?” I asked.

  “Warrick.”

  I pulled out my water flask and held it to his lips. “Drink, Warrick.”

  He tilted his head back and let the cool spring water drip down his throat.

  A twist of fate and it could have been Trigve drinking from my flask, about to die. Instead of this stranger.

  “I’ll make it quick, lamb.”

  He nodded. His dark eyes were sad, and wistful. I grabbed my dagger from the sheath on my calf and cut the rope around his hands.

  He didn’t try to escape. Where could he go? He was too weak to run. There was only one way this was going to end.

  “The world is cursed,” he whispered. “And yet, I do not want to die.”

  I faced him. I didn’t shy away from his gaze but met it head-on.

  “You will go to Holhalla as a warrior,” I said. “Kiss me, as a hero from the sagas kisses his lover before he leaves for battle.”

  His freed arms slipped around me, and I pressed my chest into his. He put his hands to my cheeks, and I felt the calluses on his palms—the trademark of an archer.

  My lips parted, and he kissed me deeply, and slowly, as if no one were watching, as if we had all the time in the world, as if this were the beginning of something, rather than the end.

  If Elan Wulf was surprised, she didn’t show it.

  The Quick and I waded into the marsh together, the water lapping at my waist, his long arms brushing past the white reeds. He hissed when the brine hit his wounded back.

  I looked over my shoulder at the Cut-Queen. She stood on the wooden dock at the edge of the village clearing, her small body tense and regal.

  Forget the plan, Frey. Grab your ax, give Warrick your dagger, don’t think, just do it, strike, attack, kill her now, kill her NOW.

  I glanced at Runa—she knew what I was thinking. We were Mercies. We were sisters. I looked to Ovie, then Juniper. They were ready. They would take Tarth, leaving the Cut-Queen to me.

  I went for my blade …

  “Don’t,” Warrick said. “It won’t work—”

  “I know everyone who moves through my marsh, Frey.”

  I looked up.

  Elan Wulf eyed me calmly as I stood in the water, ax held high. “I know you have a companion out there. I let him pass through. He’s almost reached the Blue Vee border, but I could have him dragged back here with one nod of my head, with one jerk of my finger.”

  She paused.

  “Kill the Quick, or your friend will die in his place.”
>
  Hel.

  I slid the handle of my ax back into the sheath at my waist.

  I turned and pulled Warrick into my arms, my heart against his. I could feel the warmth of him through his clothes, despite the cold, stagnant water. I felt him sigh again, his ribs moving against mine.

  He smelled of forest, of pine and juniper and dirt, of cold nights and warm days, of wool and leather and wood smoke, of youth, of life.

  He tilted his head down, as if to kiss me again. His lips touched my ear, and he lowered his voice. “She’s holding two other Quicks. They’re locked in the building near the garden. Help them.”

  I stepped back and clasped his forearm, hand near his elbow. “I will. I swear it.”

  “Think of me sometimes,” he said.

  “I will. I swear it.”

  “Kill me quick,” he said. “Kill me merciful.”

  I shook my head. “No. I want you to fight me. Fight me like a warrior so our Vorse ancestors will shout your name when you reach the Great Hall of the Slain.”

  “I will,” he said. “I swear it.”

  It took a long time for him to die. He gave me all he had left, and it was enough. It was a hero’s death. We wrestled in the water until his strength gave out, and then I pushed my knee into the small of his back to keep him down until the end.

  A group of Willow girls waded out to us when it was done. They pulled him from the water, onto dry land. They doused his wet clothes in a strange-smelling nut oil and lit him on fire. The oil sped the burning, and the flames danced.

  The Quick would be nothing but ash by morning.

  FOURTEEN

  “Come into my den,” she said.

  That’s what the Willow girls called their huts … dens. As if they were foxes.

  “Come, Frey. Warm yourself by my fire. You are now a true Willow. You have sacrificed to Fen and are protected by her power. You are entitled.”

  The Cut-Queen had sent Runa, Ovie, and Juniper to eat with the other Willows in the long communal building on the other side of the clearing. I hated being separated, but I was soaked with dank marsh water and melancholy beyond caring. I followed the marsh witch into her home meek as a child.

  The Cut-Queen’s den was plain and simple. One large round room, a few square windows, a plank table with a homespun linen cloth. A shrine to the goddess Fen stood off to the side, complete with small wooden carvings and figurines made from woven reeds and marsh grass.

  I flinched when I saw the straw bed beside the plain red rug. This was it. The place from my sea vision.

  I dropped my pack and my ax and sat down by the hearth. I took off my leather boots and warmed my toes, letting the fire steam my tunic and leggings dry.

  Eventually a graceful black-haired Willow brought us food, and it was simple, like the hut—a bowl of cabbage stew boiled with garlic and onions. I had no appetite and wanted to refuse it, but I hadn’t eaten something warm in days.

  Besides, I was used to eating after bringing death.

  I sipped the salty broth, and then felt guilty at the pleasure it brought when it slipped down my throat and warmed me from within.

  I should have given the Quick my dagger and let him make a run for it. He would have preferred to die fighting the Willows in the marsh.

  But even as these thoughts crossed my mind, I knew it wouldn’t have worked. Elan had me kill Warrick not because she couldn’t do it herself, but as a way to show my loyalty.

  I glanced at the Cut-Queen over my soup bowl. Elan sat beside me near the fire, eating her dinner cross-legged, head bowed, honey hair slipping over her shoulders.

  I never could have gotten this close to the queen if I hadn’t killed Warrick.

  I could still feel the Quick’s calloused palms on my cheeks. How could someone be so alive one moment, so warm and vital and real, and then so cold and still the next?

  If anyone would know, it should be me.

  I watched Elan from the corners of my eyes as I sipped the rest of my soup. I imagined reaching over, shoving her narrow, childish chin to the side, and slitting her throat right there before the fire.

  And then I thought of Runa, Juniper, and Ovie eating in the longhouse, surrounded by the Cut-Queen’s followers. Some of the Willows were former Mercies—they would know how to use knives and bring death.

  I would wait for them to fall asleep. We would win this battle by stealth, not numbers.

  Meanwhile, I had a part to play, and I would play it well. I owed Warrick this, at the very least.

  I finished my soup and set the bowl down in front of me. Elan glanced at my bare feet, and then began to take off her boots as well, her short, slender fingers pulling at the leather laces. She wriggled plump, bare toes in front of the fire and sighed softly.

  It was such a natural gesture, easy and relaxed.

  She began to massage her feet between small, pale hands. “How did your parents die, Frey?”

  “Snow sickness, when I was twelve.”

  Elan nodded. “I lost mine at nine. I was ten when I was snatched while I slept in a corner of the village inn and sold into a Bliss House. I killed the woman who ran it.” She paused. “Eventually I went west, planning to join the Sea Witches, like many other lost girls. I hoped to find a family again. To find a home.” She paused again. “All I found was thorns.”

  Her green eyes met mine. They didn’t look so cold, in the firelight. They were kinder. Softer.

  “Your story is similar to my own,” I said. “I’ve often wondered what would have happened to me if my Mercy mentor, Siggy, hadn’t come along. I suspect I would have ended up like the girl we found hanging at the crossroads outside Levin.”

  “It is a story shared by many of us.” Elan nodded toward the shrine in the corner. “It was Fen who brought me back to life after the Sea Witches dropped me into the deep and left me for dead. Fen drew me here, to this place. I was called to build this haven for all the lost, abandoned girls of Vorseland.”

  I undid my thick braid and spread my hair over my shoulders so it could dry. “Some people don’t believe in divine crusades.”

  Elan tucked her knees under her chin and wrapped her arms around her thin legs. “Are you one of those people?”

  “No. I have faith.”

  She nodded.

  “And yet, you didn’t want to kill the Quick.”

  “No.”

  “Because you don’t truly yearn to follow Fen, to learn the magic of the marsh?”

  “I didn’t want to kill him because I’m tired of death. That’s why I quit the Mercy-trade. That’s why I came here.”

  “Death is part of life. There’s no point in running from it.” Elan rubbed the end of her pink-tipped nose with the palm of her hand. “Killing these men in my marsh ensures that rumors of my ruthlessness will spread across Vorseland.”

  She paused. “Did you see any fences around this village? Any guards?”

  I shook my head.

  “No magic is as strong, or as powerful, as fear.”

  I watched the Cut-Queen as she stared into the fire. I was once again filled with an unsettling sense of awe.

  I was beginning to see why the Willows followed her.

  “You killed for Fen.” Elan turned her head and gazed up at me. “And you will need her help, I think, for you are answering a call of your own.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re after the Blue Vee Beast. The reeds whisper to me of all the doings in my marsh, and they told me this.” She paused. “You did right to come here. You will want Fen behind you if you’re going to try to kill this creature. You will succeed with her on your side.”

  A marsh breeze blew in and made the candle on the table flicker. The wind didn’t smell as foul as it had when I first entered the Red Willow Marsh. The earthy, salty smell had become familiar. Almost … pleasant.

  “You wouldn’t have died in the thorns, Frey. You would have fought the sea when the witches threw you in, just as I
did. I can see the anger in you. And the fire.” The Cut-Queen stretched out her arm and put her hand on my heart, pressing in with her palm. “It radiates from your core, a warm, bright glow, the color of sunset and blood.”

  I squirmed under her touch, and she dropped her hand.

  “Do you want the rest of my soup?” She held out her wooden bowl. “They always give me too much.”

  I took it and drank the rest of the broth in one long swallow. “Thank you for the food,” I said quietly.

  She nodded, and then tilted her head and rested her cheek in her palm. I saw pale blue veins running down her forearms.

  Elan Wulf seemed fragile suddenly, soft skin, soft veins, one simple knife slice separating her from death.

  “You’re meant for greater things than dying in this marsh, Frey. Or in the Sea Witches’ thorns.”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  “Many heroes of the Vorse sagas started off as mercenary wanderers, seeking food, shelter, coin, and a quest. But they were all men. There are no sagas about Boneless Mercies. Nor songs, either.”

  It began to rain outside, a gentle tap on the thatched roof.

  I turned my eyes back to the fire. I wouldn’t be tempted into a confession of my glory hunger. Elan Wulf could guess all she liked, but I wouldn’t confirm it.

  “It is not possible to avoid death, Frey, but you can rise to meet it. I learned this the day I rose from the Merrows.”

  She yawned then, and stretched, smiling as she reached her thin arms toward the ceiling, just like any other girl.

  But when she rose to her feet, arms at her sides, she was the Cut-Queen again, back straight, eyes cold. “I’ve seen her.”

  “Who?”

  “Fen. I’ve seen her roaming the marsh, floating on the water, glowing with magic, righteous and powerful. I saw her the first night I came to this village. I knew then what I was supposed to do.” Elan cast another glance toward the shrine in the corner. “When the Willow girls are ready, we will raid the Sea Witches and take the Merrows for ourselves. We will move into their Scorch Trees and trade with ships. The Sea Witches who convert will be allowed to live. The rest will drown. We will take what they have, but we will not keep it selfishly to ourselves, as they do. We will share.”