The Boneless Mercies

by April Genevieve Tucholke

  “Of course.” Roth stood. He picked up my cloak from the floor and swung it over my shoulders, his knuckles grazing my neck as he fixed the clasp. “Feel free to take any other furs that you see here as well. And tell the men to make room for you in front of the fire. I don’t want you freezing in the night.”

  I held his gaze for a moment—a long moment—then picked up my ax and adjusted my pack. “Wake me if the beast comes, Esca Roth.”

  “She won’t come. Not tonight. Sleep deep, Frey.”

  And I did.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I counted four of them, four slinking creatures moving through the shadows.

  How they’d gotten in, I didn’t know. They hadn’t entered through the main doors, and Roth barred the other entrances at night.

  Stregas.

  Also known as the Pig People.

  I’d been dreaming, deep Sea Witch dreams, driftwood and salt, smoke and spells, sun-warm trees and waves and sand and thorns … when I felt Ovie shift beside me in my sleep. She whispered my name and gripped my wrist. I opened my eyes and followed her gaze.

  Blue dawn light was filtering down from the yew tree opening in the ceiling, casting shadows upon cloaked shoulders. Juniper lay against my back, sleeping soundly. Everyone in the Hall was still asleep, even the dogs. I touched Trigve, and he opened his eyes. I pointed at the Pigs with my chin, and he nodded. We stayed savalikk, not even reaching for our knives, not wanting them to know we were awake. Not yet.

  We watched the Pig People as they moved silently about, scrutinizing the tapestries and the carvings on the pillars. They wore drab brown hooded cloaks, but their faces shone an eerie, unsettling rose-petal pink.

  The Stregas crushed the dried coral found on their shores and dusted their skin with the powder. Some said they did it to resemble the pigs they hunted and used in their rituals, and some said they merely wished to scare their enemies and appear otherworldly, but no one really knew.

  The Pig People lived on the Boar Islands off the far north coast of Iber. I’d heard the islands were wild and godless. But I’d also heard they did, indeed, have a god, and he was old—older than our Vorse gods, older than the world itself.

  I saw a shadow pass near my feet, then another …

  “Abomination.”

  A hand shot out and seized a chunk of Juniper’s pale sea-green curls.

  “Filthy Sea Witch. Abomination.”

  One of the Stregas started to drag Juniper backward across the Hall by her hair.

  “Drop her,” I screamed, reaching for my ax and scrambling to my feet, Ovie and Trigve right behind me.

  “Abomination. Abomination.” All the Pigs were chanting it now, their hissing whispers crawling out of the shadows.

  Runa and Indigo jumped up, weapons held high. Indigo took one look around her …

  And then ran, full out, and slammed into the Strega. She pushed her into a pillar, squeezing her windpipe between her fingers.

  “Drop the Sea Witch, Pig.”

  The Strega shook her head. Juniper sat crumpled at her feet, the Pig’s hand still in her hair. I lunged forward and hit the Pig in the stomach with the hilt of my ax. “Let her go.”

  Pink fingers released green hair, and Juniper slid to the floor.

  Behind us, Ovie and Runa stood guard, axes raised toward the three hissing shadows near the giant yew.

  I held up my hand, palm out. “Indigo, you can let the Pig go.”

  Indigo glanced at me, grinned, and released the Strega’s throat. The pig-girl began to cough and clutch at her neck.

  The entire Hall was awake now. Roth’s warriors formed a half circle around us, blades facing the shadows.

  “Filthy Sea Witch.”

  The Strega spat at Juniper’s feet, and then coughed again. I helped Juniper up, and then turned and backhanded the Pig across the face. Pink dust burst into the air, particles dancing in the early-morning light like snowflakes.

  “Say that one more time, Strega, and I’ll run my blade across your throat.” I wiped my hand on my tunic, and it left a long pink trail.

  The Strega kept her mouth shut.

  Her hood had fallen back when I struck her cheek, and I could see she was young, fourteen at most. Her head was shaved and dusted as pink as the rest of her face, but there was a delicacy in her features and in the small chest heaving underneath the brown shapeless cloak.

  “I take it the Pig People have arrived.” Roth stepped out from behind the longboat tapestry. “Warriors, lower your blades. Stregas, come forward.”

  The three Stregas approached silently, slowly, until they stood in a line next to the Strega girl whose pink dust still clung to my tunic.

  Roth turned to the tallest of the Pig People, a young man about his own age.

  “Attack one of my guests again, Een, and I will blood-eagle you in the way of my ancestors.” He paused. “That is not an idle threat.”

  The leader nodded at this, and said nothing.

  “The Sea Witches are filth. They take foul Iber sailors to their beds to beget more sea-haired girls like themselves. They trade their honor for spices and oils and wine. They are imposters, blasphemers—”

  “Enough, Astrid.” This time it was Een who struck the Strega girl across the face. She flew backward, fell to the floor, and then scuttled back into the shadows.

  Roth turned to Juniper. “I called the Stregas here, offering them gold to perform their pig ritual and divination. I see now they have the manners of wild dogs. I am sorry.”

  Juniper gave Roth a small nod, then walked over to the Strega girl, grabbed her wrist, and forced her fingers open. The Sea Witch picked up the green strand she found there and slid it into a side pocket on her tunic. “Stregas like to steal hair—they use it to put curses on their victims. Watch your locks, everyone.”

  I put my hand to my hair and gripped it in my fist.

  So this was why the Stregas shaved their heads.

  Most Vorse were familiar with the Stregas, even if they’d never encountered any. The Pig People were mentioned in the Blood Frost Saga, among others. In one story, a jarl named Vigga called the mystics to him, hoping they could tell him how to defeat the sea monster that had been sinking his longboats as they crossed the Quell. The three Stregas gutted a young pig and read the truth in its entrails—the sea monster, known as Jormund, was the half-serpent, half-human son of a Vorse woman and an Iber snake god. The Stregas told the jarl he should sacrifice his only daughter, Edda, to the sea, so Jormund could take her as his wife and live with her in the deep. Vigga had all three Stregas killed where they stood. But as the seasons passed, and the jarl lost all but three of his ships, and most of his men, he took Edda out in a boat himself and tossed her into the waves.

  “Come,” Roth said. “The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

  Roth walked to the front doors of the Hall, and we followed behind, the Pig People, Trigve, me, the other Mercies, and Roth’s remaining warriors.

  We stood outside, snow around our ankles. I watched the movements of the Hall servants for a moment—women washing clothes in icy water, feeding chickens, shooing children into huts—then turned and looked down into the Destin Lush Valley. It was stark white, sun glinting off frozen snow. I saw the three burned villages, then more hamlets, one after another, spreading from the forest to the barren Sleet Heath, far in the distance.

  Roth motioned me to him with a flick of his chin. I drew near and stood at his shoulder, facing the Stregas.

  “Watch,” he said. “You will need to hear what they say.”

  He called for a servant, and a gangly boy of sixteen appeared, all arms and elbows and legs.

  “Fetch one of the hogs, Olin.”

  The boy ran off. He returned a few moments later, tugging a pink young pig across the yard, rope tied around the animal’s thick neck.

  Een took the pig from the boy and held out a slim hand to Roth.

  Roth reached into his cloak, and then dropped a fistful of gol
d coins into the Strega’s palm. “Don’t ask for more. I have none left.”

  “Except for the reward.”

  “The reward is for the warriors who defeat the beast. Unless you are offering to fight her yourself, Een.”

  Een blinked slowly and said nothing.

  Roth nodded. “Right. Let it begin.”

  The pig wagged its piggy tail and side-eyed the Strega, its gaze lazy and pleasant …

  The Stregas attacked.

  Brown cloaks flying, knees in the snow, knives stabbing into the poor animal’s flesh, screeching, squealing, blood, slaughter.

  It reminded me of ravens on a corpse.

  The pig gave a final squeal, then dropped to the ground and fell over onto its side.

  It was Een who slit the pig from end to end and pulled out its entrails, a bulging mess of gray, red, and purple on the bright white snow.

  It was Astrid who read them.

  She dug her small hands into the steaming, stinking mess. I counted six heartbeats … seven … And then her hazel eyes began to turn pink, corner to corner, pink as the Coral River that ran through the southern Borders.

  Astrid began to rock back and forth on the snow, red droplets of blood on her pink-dusted cheeks.

  Een made a quick upward gesture with one finger. “It’s starting.”

  Roth and I took a step closer. We dropped to our knees and leaned toward the petite, hairless girl.

  “Winter missssst. Sssssmoke on sssssnow.”

  The girl’s voice was throaty and deep, despite her age, with a strange hiss to it that made my blood run cold.

  It reminded me of the reeds, whispering, whispering, in the Red Willow Marsh.

  I shuddered.

  “An arrow in an apple leaksss bloodred. Follow the crimsssson tearssss to her den. Mind the teeth.”

  The sun disappeared behind the clouds, and we all fell into shadow.

  I sniffed the air. Snow.

  Storms came on fast this far west.

  Astrid began to shake, small shivers that shook her slim shoulders. She dug her fingers deeper into the innards, clouds of steam rising as the heat hit the cold morning air.

  “The end comessss with a kisssss. Beware her bite. Death huntsssss you.”

  The Strega blinked, and the pink color began to fade from her eyes.

  Snow began to fall.

  * * *

  The Stregas left not long after Astrid’s reading, back down the hill, back to their ship, back to whatever dark hovel they lived in on their pig island.

  Roth and I watched them go, brown cloaks fluttering behind them.

  Een glanced over his shoulder at us, eerie pink cheeks catching the dim winter sun.

  With the Sea Witches I’d felt peace, and with the Cut-Queen I’d felt strength and awe and fear. But the Pig People filled me with something just as primal—a deep, disquieting unease, like setting up camp on an ancient battlefield and sleeping in the dirt of the long dead.

  Trigve and Juniper appeared at my elbow, their eyes on the mystics below. At the foot of the hill the two guards lifted the bolt, and the Stregas passed through the gates.

  I let out a sigh of relief when the doors shut behind them.

  “I have a feeling our paths will cross again,” Trigve said, still staring into the distance. “I don’t think we’ve seen the last of these Stregas.”

  Juniper nodded, then made a circular gesture with her hand. “Nante, nante.”

  I shivered as fresh snowflakes hit my cheeks. “I wish I’d cut Astrid’s throat when I had the chance.”

  Roth pulled his blue cloak tighter about his shoulders and looked at me with tired eyes. “Then we wouldn’t have gotten our prophecy.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Two nights passed, and we saw no mist and no beast.

  The snow fell and fell.

  At night, I slept by the hearth with Trigve and the Mercies, Ovie on one side, Juniper on the other, Trigve nearby, just like always, except now the sweet dog Vika lay at my feet as well.

  We were warm beside the fire, and we slept deeply, despite everything.

  Trigve spent most of his time with Siv, the healer in yellow. She had her own hut near the Hall, and she and Trigve passed the afternoons mixing potions together, looking through ancient medicinal scrolls, and tending to the sick.

  Runa and Indigo spent the daylight hours making arrows and shooting targets in the Great Hall as Roth’s men looked on. Runa was also learning how to make a yew bow, under Indigo’s instruction. She cut a branch from the ancient giant yew tree for the purpose, which required a ritual of forgiveness. Juniper and Flinn, the soothsayer, led the ritual at dawn, and it was filled with mysterious gestures and quiet chanting.

  Juniper was often with the soothsayer, which surprised me little—he was gentle and handsome. They walked down to the valley each day and visited the Star River—Juniper said fast-moving water helped visions come easier. I often caught sight of them from the top of the hill, her green hair and black Mercy-cloak melding with his dark hair and white bearskin.

  And Ovie. Ovie disappeared with Vale during the day, making rounds through the Hall, checking on the preparation of food in the kitchens, and the brewing of mead in the cellars, and the goats, pigs, and sheep in the outbuildings. She seemed to have designated herself the girl’s comrade and protector and seemed content in the role.

  I spent my evenings drinking Vite with Roth.

  I soon learned that the jarl followed the ways of Obin. He did not sacrifice animals on the summer solstice, but instead set out offerings of bread and honey on the ancient stones near important rivers and streams. He believed in the power of nature—the magic of trees and earth and wind and sea. Obin was a poet’s god, and the only one, it was said, who understood that life was an endless series of crossroads that led to both deep joy and great sorrow.

  As a former Boneless Mercy, I still prayed to Valkree, when I prayed. But Obin started visiting me in my dreams—short flashes of a broad-shouldered man standing at a crossroads, leaning against a hangman’s tree, his clear blue eyes narrowed against the setting sun.

  And in my dreams, Obin looked like Roth.

  Roth and I spoke a great deal and drank a great deal. He seemed to value my companionship, and I was happy enough to give it to him. He was a natural storyteller, with a deep, expressive voice. Late at night, after the Vite took hold, his mood would lighten, and he’d tell me exciting tales from his childhood.

  “When I was ten, I went troll-hunting and treasure-seeking in the Skals,” he told me on the second night. “I ran off without my father’s permission, determined to find monsters and glory in the deep, dark Sleet Heath Caves that stretch for miles under the mountain.”

  “You went alone? That was brave.”

  Roth shook his head. “No, I went with five close boyhood companions, all sons of my father’s best men-at-arms. And all dead now.”

  “Killed by Logafell?” I reached out, and Roth refilled my horn with Vite.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you find one?” My voice was starting to slur. I’d lost count of how many times I’d filled my drinking horn. Four? Eight?

  “Find a troll, you mean? No. And we found no treasure, either. Just endless dark caverns, some empty, some filled with bones, animal and human.”

  Roth’s talk of the caves gave me a sudden craving for fresh air. I rose and lifted the flap across the window. I breathed in the snow-scented night, and then sat down and was quiet for a long while, thoughtful from the drink and from watching the orange flames dance in the brazier.

  “What are you thinking of, Frey?” Roth asked a few moments later.

  Most Vorse would have considered this a rude question—our thoughts were our own business. But I didn’t mind.

  I looked over at him. Roth’s eyes shone purple-blue in the moonlight streaming in the open window. I wondered if his mother really had been a Sea Witch, as Mother Hush had claimed. Some of the Sea Witches had eyes that turned a lilac
shade under the moon. I hadn’t seen it when I was in the Merrows, but then, I hadn’t been searching for it, either.

  “I was thinking about my friend Sasha and her son, Aarne,” I said. “I hope they are doing well with the Sea Witches and passing a warm winter among the Scorch Trees. I think of them often.” I paused. “There is something in me that makes it hard to forget people, no matter how short their presence is in my life. I always wonder about them afterward, who they were before we met, and what paths they take after we part. Siggy used to say this was a lousy trait for a Mercy, that it only made the job all the harder. She was right.”

  Roth nodded. “If remembrance is a curse, then I suffer from it, too. I often see the faces of my dead companions in my dreams.”

  “That is not a curse. You are keeping your friends alive. As long as you remember them, they still live.”

  Roth tilted his head and then smiled. “I will try to see it this way from now on.”

  I reached out my arm, and Roth refilled my horn.

  “I heard your mother was a Sea Witch,” I said, slurring the last two words. “Is it true?”

  “Aye, it is.”

  “How did she end up here in Blue Vee, married to your father?”

  Roth paused. “That is a long story, one that’s best told under the midnight sun, on a warm summer night.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “I can wait.”

  We sat in silence then, watching the fire.

  I took the last sip of my Vite and drifted into sleep, chin on my chest.

  I woke up sometime later, Roth asleep in his chair next to me, head tilted back, face serene.

  * * *

  On the third morning, I gathered the Mercies to me after our simple breakfast of oats with honey and milk. We walked down to the empty training yard and began to practice the Seventh Degree under a blue sky that stretched all the way across the valley to the mountains.

  Indigo joined us after an hour or two, and Ovie began to show her the steps. The Glee Starr girl was a quick learner, and soon we were all flowing through each phase with ease, white snowflakes flying around us.

  On the fourth morning, we gathered all the women in the Great Hall and asked them join us, including the healer, Siv. The training yard, once devoted to male warriors, was now the domain of four former Boneless Mercies, one former theater troupe performer, and two dozen women and girls ranging in age from ten to seventy. The servants from the kitchens held knives, but the rest grabbed sticks from the ground. It didn’t matter—they still learned.