The Witch of Torinia

by Clifford Beal

  Valerian chuckled. “Don’t presuppose to know the heart of anyone. And none are more fickle than those who rule.” He set down the calipers and looked intently at his son. “I would have thought you had learned that lesson last summer. The city in mutiny, three valuable ships burnt to cinders and my loyal castellan killed defending this house.”

  Nicolo felt the child within him recoil. He raised his chin. “I didn’t appoint the treacherous sack-of-shit commander who led the rebellion. You did, father.”

  Valerian did not blink. “Six years is a long time. Time for any man’s soul to change and blacken with envy and greed. Giacomo Tetch changed on your watch, not mine.”

  Nicolo could feel his cheeks flush. He leaned over the table and pretended to scan the large map spread out before him. “I reckon his heart was always black, father. Just better concealed when you were last in Palestro.”

  Valerian picked up the calipers and resumed his measurements. “Well, my son, it is past arguing the point now. I merely raise the issue again to impress the lessons upon you. I am more concerned about the mer colony you have seen fit to plant on my doorstep.”

  “A decision we have discussed at length, sir, these past few months.” Nicolo pressed the edge of the blackwood table, his fingernails turning red. “It was the price of regaining Palestro and the fleet. And with the new holy commandments announced by the Temple, the colony is in keeping with the spirit of reconciliation. Saint Elded tells us so. Why shouldn’t they live among us now?”

  “Yet they don’t want to buy myrra anymore.”

  “And you have been told the reason that Citala forbids it here.”

  “Yes, you have told me.” Lord Valerian twiddled his calipers while he moved to pick up his stylus and dip it into an inkpot. “And your dalliance with her is a complicating factor in these affairs.”

  “You have no idea what we have shared together. She saved my life. ”

  “Well, my lad, others appear to be trying to follow your fine example. Some of your men have tried to procure mermaids of their own, luring them out of their camp with promises of love and fortune. We are likely to have a goodly crop of bawling half-breeds come the end of the year.”

  Nicolo had already foreseen this himself. “They are free to choose who they wish to be with are they not?”

  “Not if it leads to vice. You should be more concerned with finding a count’s daughter to marry and start producing some sons. If you take a cannon shot or a Naresis sword in your gut in the next few months, where does that leave our house? And don’t tell me you’re contemplating taking the mermaid to be your wife.”

  Nicolo bit his lip. “Let us speak of other things, father.”

  Valerian grunted as he continued tracing the outline of an island upon the map he was drafting. He tapped at the chart with his forefinger. “If you had only seen this island, my boy! Populated by one race only, the Blemmyae. They have no heads but instead the organs of the senses—eyes, ears, nose, mouth—all lie in their chests.” He shook his head. “To look upon them takes a strong stomach—and they are quick to anger as well. It is a shame the one we captured died on the voyage home and we had to throw him overboard.”

  “It will be a rousing tale in your manuscript I am sure, father. But I would hear news of Palestro and of the war with Torinia.”

  Valerian raised his head, eyes flashing. “Do you think I will let my knowledge be forgotten? This map will be the only one of its kind in Valdur! Piero Polo may be the discoverer of the east but I am the discoverer of the west! And by Elded’s holy beard I swear Palestro will be sending another expedition to the Mare Meridies before another year goes by.”

  Nicolo stood back and folded his arms across his chest. “As you wish, my lord. That is your prerogative. But we have other concerns at the moment that require your attention. How we administer the merfolk outside the gates for one.”

  “Impudent little—” Valerian tossed the calipers onto the map.

  “I can answer that, if I may, Admiral Danamis.”

  Another had entered the chamber. The merman moved towards them, his blue silk-like robe shimmering as it reflected the sunlight.

  Valerian turned. “Ah, Necalli. Yes, you explain things to the lad before he gives me a spasm.”

  Nicolo gave a curt bow to the merman. This mer was not of Valdur, he had come back with a handful of his kind from the distant islands of the far western seas. Valerian had found these merfolk inhabiting a vast kingdom, Atlcali, a place of far greater culture and sophistication than that of the merfolk of Valdur—and perhaps far more ancient. With Valerian’s return, this mer had eased himself into the role of a trusted but informal advisor, a position vacant since the death of Escalus, the castellan of House Danamis, killed during the late mutiny. He had acquired the Valdurian tongue rapidly, aided by the months spent on the voyage, though his men seemed to have had less success in speaking it. He had been the captain of his vessel, a commander in his own right, before it was lost with most hands.

  To Nicolo, Necalli looked the same as the Valdurian mer, perhaps somewhat shorter of stature but with the same hairless head, bluish purple complexion, thin lips, small nose and ears and large eyes. But his cynicism and craftiness rivalled any human’s.

  “They are as children,” continued the merman, “and I fear your experiment will come to naught. They live in poverty, cannot build, and have no skills other than weaving and fishing. What do you expect to come of this? A flourishing trade?”

  “I expect peace and amity to come of it, Necalli. Citala and her people have stood by me when I most needed allies,” Nicolo said. “This was her wish and the wish of those who join her in the village here.”

  Necalli blinked rapidly, a habit most mer had. “In your absence, some of them have found this leaf called myrra. And you know full well the effect that has on them.”

  Valerian pointed his calipers at the merman. “That was their choice. Freely made. We are not to blame.”

  Necalli nodded. “True enough, my lord. But it still presents a problem. They pester your people by offering fish for myrra in trade. They become aggressive if they are refused.”

  Nicolo was dismayed. He had not given myrra out to his men or the merfolk. Strykar had not brought any since the summer. There was but one bundle still in the warehouse in keeping until Strykar decided what to do with it.

  “You talk of allies,” said Valerian to Nicolo. He pointed at Necalli. “These are our new allies, the Xosians. If you could see what they have accomplished on the other side of the world! The cities they have built where the sea flows into their very houses and palaces and where streets are canals. The—”

  “You have told me, father.”

  Valerian nodded slowly. “Aye. But I have not told you all. There are... other things.”

  Necalli’s wide mouth opened in a grin, his purplish tongue briefly touching his lips. “I am happy to speak with Captain Danamis about the matter as it stands. We will calm the waters, and with the admiral’s influence over Citala, I am sure that we will gain her support in convincing them to return to whence they have come.”

  Nicolo wheeled around. “Citala and her people return? You will have to convince me first and that, master Necalli, will be no easy task.” And he knew then and there that this time his return to Palestro was no homecoming.

  THE WOODEN PALINGS of the stockade were finally beginning to darken with age after the winter rains. Nicolo entered the mer village, its palm-frond covered shacks clustered around a tiny central clearing. It lay just outside the eastern gate of the city, beyond the ditch that ran along the walls. His heart was beating faster already in anticipation of seeing her again. Loincloth-clad mer smiled at him as he entered, lifting their sinuous arms in greeting. A group of she-mer were gathered in the central clearing, arranged in a circle as they weaved dried sea grass into baskets. Most of the mermen were not to be seen, either out to sea or, as Necalli had intimated, perhaps hidden away chewing myrra. A few mer childre
n ran about the dwellings, yelling and laughing. All seemed as he had left it a few weeks before. The fishermen he had met with told him they valued mer help in finding shoals of fish, saving them time and even helping in herding pilchards into waiting nets. For their part, these three-hundred brave merfolk who had all decided to leave the shelter of their secret places at Nod’s Rock and Piso, appeared a picture of contentment. It was as Citala told him, of the old stories, man and mer living and working together one with the other. This then was her modest attempt to recapture those times, and he would not see it destroyed by his father or anyone else.

  Citala met him at the entrance to her hut, nearly lifting him off his feet as she pulled him inside and enveloped him in a hug. “Danamis son of Danamis!”

  As he pressed his face to hers he smelled the crisp odour of the sea in her hair, the colour of silver pearls. “I have missed you, my Citala,” he whispered as his hand brushed the pale blue of her cheek.

  Her violet eyes, large but tapering slightly towards her temples, beheld him in excited affection. “I have waited for you to return. Waited what has seemed an age. There have been troubles here.”

  “Necalli has told me some of your mer have found myrra. Is this so?”

  Citala showed her fine white teeth and gave a short hiss of frustration. “Necalli! Even though he be mer he is no friend of ours. He and his folk think themselves better than we. He looks like mer but he does not act like one.”

  “I don’t trust him either. But my father does. And there could have been a lot more of them had their own ship not foundered on the voyage here. But, is there truth to what he tells?”

  “Somehow, some of the seamen from the ships found some myrra. They have traded it for coin delved in the harbour by a few mer boys. Some of your seamen would trade it for our she-mer too.”

  “I will not permit that. And I will seek out who is supplying the leaf.”

  She shook her head. “Elded be thanked there is not much thus far and only a few mermen have sought it. But I fear more could fall back into the myrra if the men persist. And... I am beginning to worry that perhaps too much time has passed since we last lived upon these shores.”

  Nicolo leaned back. “What do you mean?”

  Her long webbed fingers gently closed about his arm. “Our peoples have grown apart over the centuries. The gap is so large I fear my people will never understand your world now.”

  “Citala, it is early days yet. Give it time. This is what you wanted—the agreement that was made.”

  “There is more. A mer chariot arrived a week gone by—from Nod’s Rock. The messenger told me my father is asking for another shipment of myrra from you. We did both agree... to gain your freedom... but it will kill me, Danamis, to fulfil that promise.”

  Nicolo touched his forehead to hers. “Perhaps... perhaps we could give him a small amount. Like weaning an infant. I have Strykar’s last bundle stored away. After that I’m not even sure I can obtain more. At least not quickly—not with the border war.”

  “He will be expecting more. Much more.” She released him and moved outside, her silken kirtle dragging along the rush-strewn floor. Nicolo frowned and followed.

  “I know my father well,” she said. “If he does not get what he wants he is likely to come here to demand it—in force.”

  Nicolo spoke quietly. “That, Citala, he must not do.”

  “I know. That is why I must again convince him to forego the leaf. It is slowly killing us.” She turned away and looked down to the beach where the stockade palings were pulled away so that the mer could enter the sea. “I have been filled with disquiet these past weeks. I keep sensing something—something out there in the sea. Something watching—a presence. Neither good nor ill, just there.”

  Nicolo put a hand on her arm. “It is worry, that’s all. It will pass.” Citala looked at him and returned a weak smile. “Perhaps that is so.”

  Nicolo looked about the settlement. A group of children fought over a broken human doll one of them had found. Two mermaids, clothed against their nature in muslin, dragged the broken remnants of a blood-stained fishmonger’s table into the village to make some poor use of it. Where before he had seen simple tranquillity, he now saw the beginnings of discontentment and squalor. A people cut off from their roots, eking out an existence on the edge of a great and unruly city filled with seamen, thieves, and merchants, good and bad. He remembered Necalli’s words. They are as children. And he began to see what the real danger to the merfolk was. Not myrra. Palestro.

  Four

  SHE THREADED HER way down the narrow passageways of the lower city, her plain woollen cloak and hood, obscuring her identity. She carried a canvas-wrapped bundle clasped to her bosom. Lucinda della Rovera, of late a lay canoness of the Abbey of Saint Dionei and now a guest of Duke Ursino, knew well the alleys and streets of Torinia. Although she came from the far reaches of the duchy, daughter of a northern baron, in her youth she had made several trips with her father to the great city. She and her sister had explored the various markets each specializing in a single commodity whether meat, fish, spice, cloth or ironmongery. Their favourite had always been the little street market that sold books and manuscripts, its wooden stalls crammed closely together in the shadow of the modest red brick temple dedicated to Saint Giacomo. Now, after many years, it was there that she was headed again.

  It was only just past the hour of prime, the sun still low in the sky. Booksellers were busy laying out their wares or tying their awnings securely against the breeze that blew down the cobbled street. Lucinda pushed past the merchants, hand-cart men and street sweepers and entered the little square that fronted the temple. She cast a quick look behind her and walked past the colonnaded marble portico and down an alleyway leading towards the south doorway. Standing there was a black-robed priest, his arms wrapped around himself. He fidgeted and rocked slightly, clearly uncomfortable. He saw the woman nearing him and he straightened up, arms dropping in anticipation. Lucinda stepped up into the doorway and he folded his long wide sleeve about her shoulders and ushered her inside.

  His voice was almost scolding. “I thought you would not come. Or that you had run into trouble.”

  Lucinda threw back her hood and smiled at the priest. “How could you doubt me, signor? My faith is strong.” Her long hair was dressed high and covered by a cream linen kerchief. Her simple dress gave her the look of a maidservant but her voice said otherwise. The priest had no idea who she was, highborn or low, but he knew the fire of the new revelations burned fiercely in her and his eyes fell expectantly to the bundle she held.

  “You have them! Elded be praised you have been safely delivered. May I take them?”

  They were standing in a small entryway of carved stone, the studded wooden door still ajar slightly to help let in the light. Lucinda watched his eyes and hands move to take the bundle, an excited child about to receive a present. She moistened her lips and held out the string-wrapped parcel.

  “I have obtained ten copies, newly printed at Livorna, signor. As I promised.”

  The priest, middle-aged and balding, grinned in appreciation as his hand pulled out a palm-sized brown leather-bound volume. “Brave child. You serve the One Faith well.”

  Lucinda smiled and the priest found it difficult to take his gaze from the deep blue vibrancy of her eyes. “They are slim works,” she said quietly, “but they contain the Ten Laws and some of Elded’s epistles to man and mer, as were so long suppressed. Give them one each to the congregations where they meet.”

  “Oh my child, have no fear on that account. You have taken great risks here in Torinia since the revelations were declared heretical by the Duke. He has already imprisoned many who will not recant. I will see that all of the congregations receive them.”

  She reached out and grasped his arm tightly. “The Word must be spread further—and the Truth of Elded’s teaching with it. Far and wide across Torinia.”

  He nodded. “I will give my life for the One
Faith if need be.”

  Lucinda released her hold and smiled. “I know you will, signor.” She pulled up her hood again and turned away.

  “Be safe!” called the priest after her. “The Duke’s reach is long and he has many ears.”

  Lucinda’s long, fine fingers pulled aside her hood as she replied. “I know exactly how long his reach is, signor. Have no fear.” And then she was gone.

  LUCINDA RETURNED TO the palace by way of the servants’ arch on the west side of the sprawling crenelated pile of ugly red stone. The brainless but well-meaning handmaidens given to her by Duke Ursino were still abed when she had reached her apartments, no doubt aided by the draught she had administered the previous evening. And after tongue-lashing them for oversleeping, she set them to work upon the clothes she was to wear that evening in the Great Hall, making sure that the golden lace and pearls on the gown were just as she wished. Lucinda herself kept to her bedchamber, running through her mind the myriad of stratagems that jostled for priority. To see a full invasion of Maresto was her goal, but Duke Ursino was a cautious prince and would not be goaded into an unwise campaign. She had seeded his duchy with the heresy but still the Duke procrastinated in crushing it fully by striking at Kodoris and invading the Ara. The fracturing of the One Faith did not dismay her in the least; she hated all of it. The sooner it shattered into competing sects the sooner the old religion could rise anew. Her honeyed entreaties to the Duke had continued, yet as far as she could tell, Ursino had only partially unleashed his mercenaries in the north, subject to tight rein.

  There were other pressing worries that ran through her mind as she sat embroidering a Valdurian griffon, warm sunlight streaming through the tracery of an arched window. Her visitations by the spirit of the Redeemer, Berithas, had become fewer, his whispers softer, half-imagined. It was as if the spirit had abandoned her and she prayed to the trinity of the old ones—Andras, Belial and Beleth—that their favour would not be withdrawn. He who had guided her, who had helped her renew the Tree of Life, who had given her the power to bend the minds of men; he had become a wisp of the night. So too, she sensed, the second sight taken from her dying sister did not shine so brightly in her as it once had. But Berithas had told her to take it—to kill to take it—and she had done so. Now, as she sat alone, pulling needle and thread, she was confused. The more she dwelt upon these thoughts the more it became clear that she would have to become bolder in her deeds. Bold enough to convince Ursino to make war. Bold enough to make him love her. Bold enough to bring Berithas back to her.