I opened my eyes, and shook my head.
“I can’t join you, Indigo. I’ve decided to go south with Trigve, so he can study with the Orate Healers.” I paused. “I will come back one day, though. And I will find you, if I have to search every Endless Forest in Vorseland. And when I do, I will stay with the Quicks for as long as you wish. Forever, if you ask it.”
Afterward, I went back to the hearth and slid into the pile of warm bodies. I wrapped my arms around Ovie and closed my eyes.
Indigo would join the Quicks in Runa’s place.
It was right. It was good.
My mind found peace, and I slept.
* * *
Esca Roth lost almost all his men to the giant Logafell. Only seven remained, out of all his dozens of warriors.
So the women of Blue Vee began to train in earnest. To become masters of the edge dance. The widows and the fatherless daughters came up from the villages of the Destin Lush Valley to fight, to live in the Great Hall, as only the men had done before.
I joined them at sunrise on that final day. I squinted in the cold winter light, watching them move through the steps of the Seventh Degree.
Jarl Roth would have the first female army in Vorseland, something that hadn’t existed in living memory, not since the time of the Witch War Chronicles.
I refused his reward in the end.
Juniper, our thieving little Sea Witch, had snuck off and stolen the giant gold plates from Logafell’s cave before we left, hiding them in her pack until we returned to Blue Vee. Those plates would be enough to see us through to where we needed to go, with some to spare.
I would even be able to pay for Trigve’s education with the Orate Healers in Iber.
Roth could use his gold to rebuild his jarldom. And buy his Iber horses back.
On the last evening before we left, Trigve went down to Siv’s hut to say his farewell, and I met Roth by the giant yew. We sat at its base, on one of its great, twisted roots, and drank from a black horn filled with Vite, as we had on the first night.
“So you’re off to Iber now?” Moonlight filtered down from the hole in the ceiling, and Roth’s eyes shone violet.
“Yes.”
“Won’t you miss the cold and the snow?”
I leaned back against the large trunk of the tree and sipped the Vite. “Not one bit.”
He leaned back as well, his shoulder touching mine. “I’m writing a saga about you and your companions and the fall of Logafell.”
“You’re a poet?” This surprised me, though it shouldn’t have. Roth had the depth of feeling needed to create fine verse, and the heart as well.
He nodded. “As was my father. Storri Sturlson is one of our ancestors—he’s the author of the Blood Frost Saga.”
I turned and wove my eight remaining fingers into Roth’s long blond hair, something I’d been wanting to do since I’d first set eyes on him. I squeezed his locks in my fist until the stumps of my fingers ached.
I kissed him.
When Roth went to his room after the meal that night, I followed. I shed my clothing by the light of the brazier’s fire. He helped me when I needed it—my hand would not be fully healed, not for a long while yet. It would take months to learn how to use the remaining fingers with grace, instead of fumbling. It was a small price to pay, all in all.
When I was naked, Roth reached up and undid my silver hair from its braid. He sighed when it flowed loose and free down my back.
The night was cold, and the wind had teeth, but we were warm as fire.
* * *
Roth slid out of the furs and went to the side table to refill his horn. I watched him as he moved around the room, and smiled.
“Esca?”
“Yes?”
“Do us justice in your saga. It will be the first Vorse tale to mention Mercies.”
He took a long drink of Vite, head tilted back, and then swallowed. “I will. And when I’m done, I’ll lure the famous bard Odenna to Blue Vee and have it put to song.”
“It is right that the Boneless Mercies are finally given a story after so long—that they are given victory and glory after serving Vorseland quietly for years upon years.”
“True.” He nodded, but then narrowed his eyes. “Just remember, Frey. Triumph is a beast of its own. It hungers and craves and yearns, and it is never satisfied. I’ve seen success ruin more people than failure. Be careful. Don’t let glory-seeking get in the way of your happiness.”
I threw back the furs and went to him. He gave me the horn, and I drank deeply.
Roth bent his head and kissed my shoulder.
I slid my right hand up his torso, resting my fingertips on his ribs. “I’ll seek no more fame. Adventure, yes, but not glory. I’ve felt its pulse. It is enough.”
We went back to bed. I crawled under the pile of furs, and he pulled me to him. I pressed my chest into his. We kissed long and slow.
“What is it about the nighttime that makes us dream impossible things?” he asked a while later.
“Why, of what do you dream?”
“Oh, many things. My jarldom is safe, and I have much to be thankful for. Yet…”
Roth’s gaze met mine.
“I hope to return to Blue Vee one day,” I said.
He nodded, eyes soft in the firelight. “Don’t make me wait too long, Frey.”
We fell asleep in each other’s arms, his face nestled into the hollow of my neck. I slept deep and dreamless until dawn.
* * *
Ovie chose to come with Trigve and me, south to Iber. I could do nothing but stare at her and grin when she told me, I was so pleased. She finally turned and simply stalked off, in a hurry to pack her things and say farewell to Vale.
Indigo would go north to the Quicks and to our friends Leif and Vital.
Juniper would finally head home to the Sea Witches.
We held one another on that last morning before she boarded Roth’s longboat—it would sail down the coast and land on the banks of the Merrows, a much easier journey than our trek through the Red Willow Marsh.
“I will come to you in your dreams,” she said. “This is a parting of body only. Not mind.”
I held her tighter, her curls pressed against my neck, soft rose petals on my skin.
Juniper struggled, and then pulled back so she could look up into my eyes. “There once lived an ancient Sea Witch mystic who used to wander Frem, preaching of the balance, of living in harmony with the earth. At the end of every sermon, she would hold her hands out, palms down, and say: All will be well, all will be well, all manner of things will be well. All will be well, Frey. I will come to you in your dreams.”
I let her go.
She pressed her palms together and blew over her right shoulder, lips pursed, setting a wish out on the air. “We will meet again soon, Frey.”
I’d often thought it would have been easier for me to lose my life, rather than my Mercies.
But in the end, I let her go, as I’d let Runa go.
I endured.
All will be well.
All will be well.
All manner of things will be well.
EPILOGUE
We booked passage on an Iber trading ship in the Blue Vee port and made our way down the coast. Traveling is simple when you have coin.
I thought of many things as we sailed, standing on the wooden deck, sea-wind in my silver hair. I thought of the Cut-Queen and Mother Hush. I thought of all the people who had come into my life since leaving the death trade, however brief … Gunhild and Warrick, Vital and Leif. I thought of my missing fingers. I thought of Roth and the ache he’d left in my heart.
I thought of Runa.
For the final leg of our journey, we hopped a beautiful, red-and-white-striped spice ship from the city of Delphi to Santor.
Santor. The Iber island that held the school for Orate Healers … also known as the Iber Institute of Physick, or, more commonly, the Hall of Potions.
We spent our first night at one of the inn
s near the port. Iber inns weren’t cowering, dark places with low ceilings and dirt floors. They were great stone buildings with pools of cool water, decorated in beautiful tiles, with circular holes in the roof to let in the light.
The people of Santor didn’t sleep in beds, but in hammocks hung on sturdy ropes from the ceiling. I was rocked to sleep in a blue-tiled room like a child in a mother’s arms.
Juniper came to me in my dreams that first night on the island. As if she knew we’d finally reached our destination. She was dressed all in green again, like the Sea Witch she was, and sitting in the black crook of a Scorch Tree.
I smelled salt and wood smoke and pine resin.
She told me many things. She said that Sasha and Aarne were happy and well and that she’d persuaded Mother Hush to teach Aarne some of their sea prayers, despite his being a boy and an outsider.
She told me that she’d appeared to Vital in his dreams as well and that the Quicks were deep in the Green Wild Forest, living in the trees and feasting every night on giant snow hares.
She told me of the rumors spreading across Vorseland about the Cut-Queen. It was said she had reappeared and was raising an army among the Pig People on the Boar Islands.
She told me that Mother Hush, in response, was training the Merrow Sea Witches in the art of battle and war.
I woke in my hammock with a jerk, some hours before dawn.
* * *
It was the heart of February, a Vorse month of endless dark, endless cold, endless snow. But Trigve, Ovie, and I walked together down narrow stone alleys and felt no chill.
The buildings on Santor were squat and heavy—but they had been painted white and cerulean blue, which gave them the light, airy appearance of clouds.
The white and blue houses climbed up the main hill, up and up, alongside rows of olive trees, eventually leading to an open plain that stretched to the other side of the island.
Olive trees grew everywhere, in courtyards and on street corners. I remembered the olive oil I’d tasted during the meal with the Sea Witches, and smiled. I plucked one of the green fruits from a branch as we walked by and took a bite. It was bitter as poison. I spat it out and swore. A nearby Santor grandmother shook her kerchiefed head at me and laughed.
“No, not that way,” she said in stammering Vorse. Santor was a port city, and many languages were spoken, but most of the residents spoke a variation of Iberik. I’d tried to pick up the language on the voyage over and had learned a few basic words, but I had a long way to go before I’d be able to converse freely.
“Not for eating. Oil only.” The woman fetched a pitcher from inside her blue-roofed home and poured the green-gold liquid into a tiny cup before giving it to me to sip.
“See?” she said after I’d tasted the oil.
I wiped my lips with the back of my hand and smiled at her, nodding my thanks.
The people of Santor were friendly and welcoming—how could they not be, living under that warm, ever-present sun? I tilted my face to the sky as we walked, basking in the glow.
Eventually we found our way into the bustling market, and I bought figs, a salty white cheese, and a delicious flatbread dripping with herbs and olive oil. The farmers gazed at my three-fingered hand when I reached for my coins, but they asked me no questions.
Trigve and Ovie and I stood shoulder to shoulder by the sea and ate the food standing up, glancing peacefully at the water while we chewed. The ocean in Santor was not like our sea back home, gray and moody and passionate. It was calm and blue. Blue as the sky.
We found a tailor and changed out of our wool tunics and into the flowing silk garments everyone wore on the island. The fabric was soft and cool.
Trigve also had a handful of red linen robes made—the traditional attire of students on Santor. He would attend school for a year, or perhaps two if he excelled and wanted to specialize. Perhaps we could rent one of the cool, tiled houses on the hill. Ovie and I could earn money picking olives and doing a bit of fishing. There would be no freezing winter months to worry about and no shortage of food, either. Bright, plump fruits grew easily here, all year long. It would be a pleasant life, as long as it lasted.
I thought of the woman in black silk and her dark features and delicate dress. How homesick she must have been, alone in that shadowed house in the forest.
I took her lock of hair from my pack and clutched it in my palm as I strolled.
“We will have to go back to Vorseland, someday,” I said after a while. “And take part in the upcoming Witch War.”
“Yes.” Ovie wove her arm through mine. “But not yet.”
Trigve just glanced at me and smiled. “It’s an offense to the gods to think such melancholy thoughts in such a beautiful place on such a beautiful day. Let yourself be happy, Frey.”
My eyes met his. “I will. I promise.”
We passed through the main market and watched young girls selling fruit, and dark-haired fishermen haggling prices with busy mothers. I saw a stall with archery bows for sale, beautiful ones made from the wood of olive trees. I thought of Runa.
We walked on and soon came upon a crowd gathered near a fountain in the main square. Two bards sat together on the white stone. A sister and brother, based on their similar appearance—dark hair, freckles, lively eyes.
They were singing softly in the lazy afternoon heat, a bowl out for coins, a stringed instrument on the sister’s knee. Children sat at their feet.
The pair finished their song and began another. The melody was beautiful, bittersweet, with long, soaring notes. They had strong, pure voices.
It dawned on me after a moment that I could understand the words of the ballad, for they were in Vorse.
The song told the story of four Boneless Mercies who faced a terrible beast in a deep, dark cave. They defeated the monster and took its head back to the people, who sang their praise and feasted in their honor. Their brave act soon sparked a change in the world, that led the land into a golden age.
I put my fist to my heart, and smiled.
* * *
I am Frey, former Boneless Mercy, ally of the Sea Witches, failed slayer of the Cut-Queen, mourner of Runa the Archer, companion to Trigve, friend to Jarl Roth. I defeated the giant Logafell. I am woman, wanderer, warrior.
This is not the end of my story.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
April Genevieve Tucholke is the author of Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, Between the Spark and the Burn, and Wink Poppy Midnight. She currently lives in Oregon with her husband. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraphs
The Witches
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
The Beast
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Epilogue
About the Author
Copyright
Farrar Straus Giroux Books for Young Readers
An imprint of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010
Cop
yright © 2018 by April Genevieve Tucholke
All rights reserved
First hardcover edition, 2018
eBook edition, October 2018
fiercereads.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Tucholke, April Genevieve, author.
Title: The Boneless Mercies / April Genevieve Tucholke.
Description: First edition. | New York: Farrar Straus Giroux, 2018. | Summary: Four female mercenaries known as Boneless Mercies, weary of roaming Vorseland, ignored and forgotten until they are needed for mercy killings, decide to seek glory by going after a legendary monster in this reimagining of Beowulf.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018003350 | ISBN 9780374307066 (hardcover)
Subjects: | CYAC: Fantasy. | Mercenary troops—Fiction. | Euthanasia—Fiction. | Monsters—Fiction. | Mythology, Norse—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.T7979 Bon 2018 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018003350
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eISBN 9780374307080
The Boneless Mercies Page 24
