The Boneless Mercies

by April Genevieve Tucholke

  I kept my face calm, my eyes serene. Serene as Mother Hush.

  So that’s her plan. She’s going to attack the Merrows.

  “I thought you wanted to live peacefully here in the marsh.” I kept my voice light, almost indifferent.

  “Who told you that?” Elan clenched her fist and raised her arm. “I want vengeance. I plan to bring about a Great War. The Sea Witches have held the Merrows for long enough. It’s time for a change. I’m not content to live among these reeds forever, just as you were not content to stay a Mercy. Let’s make something happen, Frey. Let’s see what we’re made of. Let’s force the world to its knees.”

  My blood began to pulse harder, my heart beat faster. I was on my feet, fist to my chest.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes.”

  The Cut-Queen turned and walked to the shrine. She picked up a three-foot reed leaning against the wall and began to tap it gently against her legs. “Pain is a part of life. Pain is a sign of life. The dead feel nothing. Without pain, people become lazy and selfish and mean. It is a blessing to feel the sting. Fen sends it to me as a gift. It clears the mind and opens the senses. Watch and see.”

  Elan approached her bed. She slipped her tunic over her head and knelt on the red rug, just as I had seen in my vision. I flinched when she turned her back to me and I saw the crisscrossing wounds again, slashes of pink and red against her pale skin.

  She lifted her arm …

  And began to strike.

  At first, her face was hard, lips pulled tight against her teeth, the grim whistle of the reed ripping through the silence of the night, cutting through the gentle sound of the rain.

  The reed hit its mark again and again. And again. And again.

  The blood smelled bitter against the sweet, fresh rain.

  The strikes of the reed, the sound, the rhythm … It was like the beat of the drums, as dependable as waves hitting the shore.

  I began to feel dreamy. My mind began to settle and slow.

  It was just a tickle in my ear at first. A whisper, a murmur.

  The reeds spoke of the stars, of the trees, of the murky water, of the fish, of the wind, of battles and deaths and births, and all things past and present. They spoke of me and the Mercies and of a dark-haired man in fur.

  My mouth filled with the taste of the bog, of peat, of mud, of roots and bark, grass and endless gray sky. I put my palm to my heart and dug my fingers into my flesh.

  Mother Hush said I had no magic in me, but I heard the Cut-Queen’s reeds all the same. I didn’t have sea magic, but marsh magic pulsed in my veins, and it was as real as a slap across the face.

  Elan screamed, and I trembled at the sound.

  It was the glory scream from my vision, the scream of victory, of triumph.

  My eyes drifted to the window, out to the marsh, then back to her, to this marshland girl-queen …

  She was glowing now, soft yellow light beaming through her skin like sunshine.

  I stretched toward it, arm out, hand out, chest out, heart open wide.

  I felt it. I felt the magic. I felt Fen.

  * * *

  I cleaned her afterward, wiping away the blood with a soft, wet cloth. I rubbed her skin with a wound-healing salve from my pack, one Juniper had made from lavender, rosemary, sage, and beeswax. I could feel the heat of the cuts through my palm.

  Elan sighed heavily under my hands. “Thank you, Frey. It doesn’t sting so much now.”

  I looked down at her, stretched out on the simple, straw-filled mattress, her cheek turned toward me. I saw her back, naked and raw, and the delicate blue veins of her eyelids, and the wisps of honey hair on her neck—she was no longer a queen or a leader or a marsh magic witch. She was just a child.

  One summer night, under a shining full moon, Trigve told me about a book written by an Elsh queen, one who had lived so long ago she’d almost dissolved into myth. Her name was Lilt, and she had written of many things: her lovers, the gods, aging, the changing of the seasons, memorable feasts, and long, dark nights spent alone. She’d also talked of ruling and the wisdom she had gleaned through the years.

  Lilt had said the most successful rulers knew that displaying vulnerability, carefully, in the right way, could be as powerful as ruthlessness.

  I’d wanted to kill the Cut-Queen earlier, when she’d ordered me to drown the Quick in the marsh. I’d ached for the feel of her hot blood spilling across my hands.

  But now?

  She lay on the bed, bone-weary after the reed-whipping, unprotected, exposed. It was long after midnight, and she yawned and rubbed her eyes like any child who has stayed up too late.

  I couldn’t do it.

  I couldn’t fight a child.

  I’d killed children before, yes, the sick ones, the ones in pain, the ones at death’s door. But to fight one, one as small as this girl? To slay her as I would a beast?

  Was there glory in this?

  “Sleep here with me.” Elan reached out and put her hand on mine. “Be my sister, my marsh-sister, just for the night. Ever since … Ever since I died in the thorns, I don’t like to sleep alone.”

  She sat up when I didn’t answer. She carefully pulled her tunic back over her head, wincing when the wool touched her skin. “Stay here tonight, Frey, if you are brave enough.”

  “What about my companions?”

  She laughed, and it was quiet, sweet, and tired. “They will sleep in one of the dens with the other Willows. They are safe.”

  I had gone with the Cut-Queen to her den. I had swallowed my rage. I’d shared her food and seen her magic and tended her wounds. I had played along, and done well enough.

  But Runa, Ovie, and Juniper were waiting for me out there in the night. There had been no chance to speak after the death of the Quick, but we knew one another’s thoughts, and hearts. They would be waiting for me to come find them, so we could finish this.

  “Do you know the myth of the Red Willow Marsh?” Elan yawned again and lay back down on her side. “There was a legend about this bog from long ago, from the time of the sagas. This marsh was said to be a place of deep magic. People believed that if you rested here for a night, you would wake as either a poet, a mystic, or a god.” She paused. “Which would you choose?”

  “None of them. I would wake as a conqueror.”

  She smiled. “Just as I thought, Frey. I would choose the same.”

  I gently pushed up her tunic and rubbed another round of salve into her skin, from her neck down to the last welt near her waist. She was asleep by the time I finished, soft, even breaths, rib cage rising and falling.

  I climbed into the bed next to her, sliding underneath the sheepskin covers, and she curled into me, instinctively, like Ovie.

  FIFTEEN

  The rain had stopped, and the crescent moon was high in the night sky.

  I’d left Elan sleeping deeply, still curled toward me.

  Runa, Juniper, and Ovie were standing in the shadows near Elan’s den, underneath a great Red Willow Tree.

  “Is she dead?” Runa whispered, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

  I shook my head.

  “Why not?”

  “She … She fell asleep right beside me, unguarded and careless as a child.” I paused. “It all just seems too easy. I tried to play the part of the devoted Fen follower, and I think I succeeded, but something feels off.”

  Juniper glanced over her shoulder toward the Cut-Queen’s den, then back to me. “I befriended one of the Willows—she used to be a Mercy and still has a heart left, unlike some of the other girls here. She told me over dinner that whenever a new group of Mercies arrives, Elan takes one of the girls into her den and bewitches her.”

  My eyes met Juniper’s. “I went into Elan’s den wanting to bleed her slowly until she begged for mercy. But some of the things she said started to make sense. Then she reed-whipped herself in the name of Fen and … and I saw her glow. Glow like sunshine. I heard the reeds whispering to me and felt the marsh magic running throu
gh my veins…”

  I paused. There was a fervent note in my voice that had never been there before. It sounded pious, borderline devout.

  I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. “We need to get out of here, Mercies.”

  “Yes.” Ovie looked troubled and uneasy. Her fingers strayed toward the dagger at her ribs. “This place is corrupt. I can feel it.”

  I glanced at Runa. “How did you get away from the Willows? That Tarth watched us like a hawk.”

  Runa nodded at Juniper. “Our witch did a spell.”

  Juniper waved her hand toward the nearby reeds. “There is seawater in this marsh. I said a salt prayer over the den, a simple one for sleep. They will wake, though, if given reason.”

  I turned to Ovie again. “Did you check to see if any Willows were on night watch?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but there are none, which worries me. Whatever you’re going to do, do it soon, Frey.”

  Runa turned and stared across the dark marsh. “It’s too quiet. Too still. We kill the queen, and then we get out of here. I feel … watched.”

  “Yes. It’s as if the reeds have ears and the trees have eyes. And they are all whispering to one another.” Juniper pulled the seashells from her pocket—orange, white, and pink spirals, fragile and pretty as blown glass. She began to pass them from one palm to the other.

  I knelt and dug my fingers into the dirt at the base of the willow tree. This was a trick Trigve had taught me—a way to get grounded if my mind ever felt as if it were drifting and lost.

  But the soil smelled of marsh, of wet and bog and mud. I breathed in deep, and then stood and brushed the dirt from my hand.

  “The Cut-Queen wants to start a Witch War with Mother Hush,” I whispered.

  Juniper and Runa jerked their heads toward me, eyes wide.

  Ovie simply nodded. “I guessed as much. We must kill her, Frey.”

  I didn’t answer.

  The reeds had started whispering again, a soft rustle against the wind. I strained forward, toward the marsh—I could almost make out words …

  “You are wavering.” Juniper made a harsh gesture with her hand, one to ward off evil. “Nante, nante. Ovie is right. She has to die.”

  I still said nothing. The voice of the marsh was breathing in my ear now, the whispers going through my skin, wrapping around my heart, whispers of Fen, of magic, of battles and glory, of blood and death …

  Runa grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “She’s bewitched you. Get that girl-queen out of your head, and do what you came here to do. Frey, are you listening?”

  Runa shook me again, harder, and the sounds of the reeds began to fade.

  My eyes drifted over to the smoldering remains of Warrick in the clearing.

  “Yes,” I said. “I will kill her. I swear it.”

  I looked out across the hamlet and found the building near the garden. “The Quick I drowned had two companions. I swore I’d help them. We’ll need to free them first.”

  I motioned for the Mercies to follow me. The prison was a square building with a turf roof and thick log walls—it had probably been used for food storage when this place was a regular Vorseland village.

  The iron lock on the door was the size of my hand. Runa grabbed it and gave it a hard yank. It would not break easily. Or quietly.

  “Here.” Juniper reached into her leather pack, pulled out a large iron key, and tossed it to Runa. “I took this off Tarth while she slept.”

  I knelt and slid the dagger from the sheath on my calf. “Runa, Juniper—get the Quicks free while I deal with Elan. Ovie, stand guard. Be ready to run when you see me.”

  I kept my mind on Warrick as I crept back to the Cut-Queen’s den. I thought of the final moments, when he fought me in the water, of how hard he had clung to a life that I helped the Cut-Queen take from him.

  I wondered if his summers had been happy, filled with cloudberry wine and wild hunts and sunlit forest naps. I wondered if his winter nights had been long, the dark hours spent telling sagas by the fire in one of the Endless Forests.

  The Cut-Queen was waiting for me.

  She stood beside her bed, hair tangled, cheeks pink with sleep. She didn’t look regal or ruthless. She just looked like a twelve-year-old girl.

  “Come back to kill me, then, Frey?”

  I went savalikk, still as death, one foot forward, blade in hand.

  “Yes,” I said, simply.

  She knelt at my feet and lifted her chin until I could see the veins in her slim neck.

  “You’re a glory-seeker.” Elan looked up at me, green eyes wide. “You want to matter. You want more. You shouldn’t be ashamed of this feeling. These thoughts drift through all women’s hearts.”

  “Do they?”

  “Yes.” Elan lifted a finger and ran it across her neck. “Cut my throat, then. I won’t stop you. Reality isn’t fixed, like hills and mountains, but shifts like the wind. Life is just a cloud passing by the sun. It is nothing. It is everything. Take it away from me, if you wish.”

  I looked away from her, from the soft skin of her throat, from the vulnerable tilt of her head, and toward the window, to the reeds, to the marsh.

  I shut out the whispers this time. I heard nothing at all, only silence.

  I turned, drew my ax, and held it out to the Cut-Queen. “Come. Let’s fight like warriors, girl to girl, knife to knife. Don’t make me kill you while you kneel at my feet.”

  “No.” Elan pressed her hands flat against her thighs and leaned her head back another inch. “Run your knife across my neck. Watch and see and learn.”

  “Fight me,” I said again. “Please.”

  Her thin ribs rose and fell. “Don’t worry, Frey. We will meet again.”

  I watched the blood pulse in her neck, beat, beat, beat.

  Elan Wulf was going to slip into Holhalla as quietly as any of my other Mercy-kills, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  I offered her a drink of water from my flask, and she took it, one long last swallow. Then I reached down and gripped her honey-colored hair in my left fist. I pulled her head back until she was looking at the ceiling.

  I closed my eyes and slit her throat.

  I cradled Elan as the life flowed out of her, blood warm, like summer sunshine.

  I watched as she grew paler and paler, fading into death.

  When it was done, I gently laid her on the floor and smoothed the hair away from her forehead. She looked peaceful. Somehow, under all the blood, she seemed at peace.

  She had told me she was going to bring about a Great War. Instead, she had knelt at my feet and let me run my knife across her neck.

  I understood nothing.

  I wished I knew one of Juniper’s farewell prayers.

  It’s over. Time to leave.

  I stood and took one last look at the infamous Cut-Queen of the Red Willow Marsh …

  A glow.

  She was glowing.

  It started near her heart, a faint yellow pulse under her skin. It grew brighter and brighter. It ran down her torso, down her legs, up her arms, and out the top of her head.

  Her skin was shining suddenly, bright, blinding sunlight, yellow rays beaming outward.

  The Cut-Queen blazed. She was nothing but glow, nothing but light.

  I felt Fen.

  I felt her tingling down my spine and shooting through my fingertips. I felt her beating in my heart and rippling through my blood.

  I looked down …

  Elan exploded into a thousand brilliant drops of sizzling sun.

  I was blinded. Stunned. I pressed my palms to my eyes until the light-burn faded.

  I blinked, and moved my hands. I was alone in the room, blood on my knife, blood on the floor, and no queen.

  She was gone.

  I hadn’t believed Elan when she’d spoken of her resurrection after dying in the Thiss Brambles. I thought she’d been weak when the Sea Witches found her, but still alive. They tossed her into the Quell Sea, and the salt
water healed her wounds—she’d woken up from a spell, of sorts. After all, she was young and strong and a fighter.

  But now …

  The Witch Wars raged for decades during the Lost Years. A witch-queen would die, and everyone would believe the battle was over and peace had returned. But then she would turn up again a few years later in a different place, leading another group of women, preparing to start another war.

  It had all happened before, and now it was happening again.

  I found the Mercies where I’d left them, near the prison. The two Quicks beside them—one dark, one blond—looked young and strong. Good.

  “Is it done?” Runa whispered.

  “Yes. It’s done.” I glanced at the Willow dens. Could I hear girls moving inside? Or was that just the whisper of the reeds?

  “How?” Runa hissed. “How did she die?”

  “Later, later. Fetch your Mercy-cloaks from the pile. I think I hear the Willows waking up. We need to move.”

  I grabbed my cloak, swinging it around my shoulders with a practiced sweep of my arm, then turned to the Quicks. “Ready?”

  They both nodded, expressions weary, but steady. They would not slow us down.

  “Let’s get the Hel out of this marsh, then.” I pointed toward the path leading east, on the other side of the garden. “It will be hard to see the trail in the dark, but we can follow the Elver star—”

  “Traitors.”

  Tarth. She stood in the doorway of Elan’s house, blade in hand, her gaze shifting from me in my blood-covered tunic to the freed Quicks and back again.

  “I will cut you for this. I will cut you all to pieces for this. I will drown your parts in the marsh. You will never reach Holhalla. You will spend eternity wandering the reeds, I—”

  Juniper, our tiny, gentle Sea Witch, ran forward, green curls flying, and planted her knife between Tarth’s ribs before the Willow could take her next breath.

  “Run.” She yanked her dagger from the tall girl’s chest. “Run, Mercies.”

  Tarth fell to her knees, clutching her side.

  “Juniper,” Runa shouted, pointing to the left. “They’re coming.”

  Willows began to pour out of the dens, knives flashing in the dying firelight.