Will Shetterly - Witch Blood

by Witch Blood (v1. 0)

  “Perhaps. Though he may wonder how you came to play mercenary. You seem too intelligent and too well educated to be a common soldier.”

  “Did I say I was a common soldier?” I scratched my forehead under my helmet. “My thoughts ramble.”

  “No, Rifkin,” she said, speaking in a tone much like the one she employed with Avarineo. “You did not say you were a common soldier.”

  “Good,” I answered. “I’ve been a captain of soldiers, among other things.”

  Annoyed, she said, “You certainly aren’t free with tales of your past.”

  “I’m not proud of my history,” I said truthfully. “But I swear on our bond that to the best of my knowledge, I’ve been nothing and am nothing that threatens anyone who lives in this castle.“

  After a moment, she nodded. “That’s sufficient for me. It may satisfy my brother.”

  “You speak of him as though he rules you.”

  “He’s lord here. He’s older than I am.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I’m quite fond of him!” she snapped.

  “Of course.”

  “Are you trying to set me against him?”

  “Why should I? I don’t even know him.”

  “Perhaps I am too trusting,” she said, then raised one eyebrow. “Why did you choose to take this road in winter?”

  “It’s spring,” I said.

  “Only by the calendar. The locals know another spell of cold weather will follow soon. Why did you decide to cross these hills, by this route?”

  I shrugged, a gesture that usually served me well. “To reach the far side?”

  “That’s all?”

  “It’s purpose enough for me,” I said.

  “Have you ever heard of Duke Komaki?”

  “No.”

  “Did you know my family ruled these woods?”

  “No.”

  “Or even that witchfolk had a keep here?”

  “No.”

  “You asked no one about the route before you?”

  “An innkeeper some two days back told me I’d find no one until I reached the other side of this valley.”

  “He was either unusually ignorant or he thought to have fun with a foreigner.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “My brother may think you’re a spy.”

  “Is this a game? Your brother may think I’m a prince of Undersea. And so long as he doesn’t close me in a well, he’s welcome to do so.”

  She reached out to touch my lips with the ends of her fingers and said, “This is for your sake, Rifkin. If you wish to survive here, you’ll answer my brother to his satisfaction. If he’s not happy to have you as a soldier, he’ll find another use for you.”

  “What use?”

  She shook her head. “We live a harsh life here, my Rifkin. If you can fit in, you’ll do well. But you must fit in.”

  “You continue to speak of my satisfying your brother. I did not swear to him.”

  “It’s in my best interest if you serve him as you would serve me.”

  Two soldiers in bronze breastplates guarded the main gate. An oil lantern at their feet showed that one was a nervous boy. The other, a scarred, broken-nosed woman who wore her grey hair back from her forehead to display a witch’s peak, said, “Greetings, Lady.” She glanced at me and asked Naiji, “Good hunting?”

  Naiji nodded. “I think so. Are the others still out?”

  “No. Your brother returned last, perhaps an hour ago. He’ll be worried about you.”

  “He always is. No matter. Watch well, Captain.”

  “As ever, Lady.”

  The walls of Castle Gromandiel were in poor repair. I noted a few wide cracks, and not far from the guards’ post, weeds so thick someone might climb them, if determined and lucky. But the portcullis rose silently when the second guard let us in. The courtyard was overgrown with grass and a few bushes that threatened to become trees. I asked, “How many soldiers do you keep here?”

  Naiji smiled. “If you’re a spy, my brother will have to admit you’re not a subtle one. We have nine soldiers, and another twelve adults who’ll fight if they must. And we have our animal protectors, of course.”

  I stared at her. “That’s all?”

  “That’s enough. It has to be.”

  Were Naiji and her people no more than a band of robber-witches who lived in this abandoned ruin? Obviously these people had enemies, now my enemies, whom they feared and guarded against. Who were these foes, now my foes, and what were their forces? I ignored these questions and said, “This place must be ancient.”

  “It was an outpost of the old Empire. My family held it then, as we hold it now.”

  “I see.” I should, perhaps, have considered that. I knew the legends of the Witches’ Empire as well as I knew the names of every woman of my motherline. But the witches’ power had died thirteen hundred years ago, when iron and steel became common and witches, always hated and feared, were forced in most lands to live apart from humanfolk. The possibility of Naiji’s nobility deriving from that time had not occurred to me. I had believed that all symbols of the witches’ domination were destroyed. Now I, in Castle Gromandiel, was surrounded by them.

  “Do other people know you live here?” I asked.

  “Some. The Queen recognizes our right to these woods, perhaps because no one has contested that right, until now.”

  “Queen?”

  “You’ve been poorly informed, I see.”

  “There’s very little communication over the hills,” I said. “I thought a king still ruled the Kond, in name at least.”

  “Queen Janiavy has held the throne for eight months now.”

  “I see. And who wants to take these woods from you?”

  “Duke Komaki. His hold lies at the far end of the valley.”

  “What claim does he have?”

  Naiji smiled. “You play the lawyer again? Very well. The county of Gromandiel has always lain in the duchy of Komaki, but Komaki has had no power here since the Empire fell. Now he tries to convince Queen Janiavy to build a new empire, and that reasserting control over Gromandiel is the logical beginning.”

  We had entered the main keep by a small side door and then taken a long hall lit by a few smoky torches. Even in what little light the torches cast, I could see dust, cobwebs, fading paint, stained walls, broken wainscoting, and similar signs of neglect. Most of the rooms that we passed were bare of furniture, and what furniture remained seemed to have been cobbled together by poor carpenters. Only a part of my mind noted the vaulted ceilings and marble pillars of what may once have been a richer place than the Sea Queen’s palace. I mulled over Naiji’s history and said, “I think I understand.”

  “No, lawyer. It’s more complex than you suspect. The Duke fears witchfolk. He hopes to begin a new war against us. And if that isn’t cause enough for him to want this castle, he resents my brother as a rival for the position of the Queen’s Consort.”

  “Should he?”

  “Of course. My brother is ambitious too.”

  “I did hear you say nine soldiers?”

  “Yes. Ten, if my brother accepts you.”

  “And what are the Duke’s forces?”

  “Sixty or seventy fighters owe obedience to him. If he succeeds in convincing the Queen of his cause, he may command four hundred or more.”

  “And you hope to win, Lady?”

  “Hope has nothing to do with need, Rifkin. Do you wish I’d left you to die in the woods?”

  “No. I’m an optimist. Perhaps your brother can sway the Queen to his side.”

  Naiji smiled. “Talivane will try, of course.”

  “That’s your brother?”

  “Yes. Count Talivane Gromandiel.”

  “You don’t expect him to succeed?”

  “Not in the way you mean. Komaki’s too powerful. Janiavy will never consider attacking him. But Talivane may convince her to withhold her aid, and maybe even her sanction.”

  “I though
t northern nobles cared little for royal permission.”

  “True, but sometimes the Queen’s word can sway a decision.”

  “In which case, the Duke will attack with only three times as many fighters as we have, rather than thirty?”

  ‘True.“

  I weighed that with what I had heard so far. “In this fortress we might be able to hold them off.”

  “I’m glad to hear you speak of yourself as a part of us.”

  I shrugged.

  “We haven’t the supplies to withstand a long siege,” Naiji said. “And there are too few of us to watch day and night from all parts of the ramparts.”

  “All of your people are witches?”

  “Yes. But none of them can use witchsight for more than a few hours without rest. The use of magic is as tiring as any physical activity, Rifkin. Perhaps more tiring.”

  “Still, it gives us an advantage. I doubt the Duke’s warriors will try to scale the cliffs in full armor.”

  “Probably not.”

  “Then you can hex them.”

  “We can try, Rifkin. Magic isn’t as easy or as sure as you seem to think. And even the presence of a little iron can deflect a spell.”

  “Oh. I assume you have no cannon, then?”

  “No.”

  “Nor muskets either?”

  “One. No one’s tried it to learn whether it still fires.”

  “I will.” It was easy to consider this while I withheld judgment on the truth of Naiji’s tale. I’d only seen a witch in expensive clothes, a simple giant, a woman and a boy in ancient armor, and an abandoned castle. Whoever Naiji might be, my word bound me to her, but I was prepared, though not happy, to be bound to a mad witch.

  We had climbed several stairs and stalked several halls, and finally came to a door that appeared to be made of cast or plated brass. It shone like a mirror, saying that not all in this castle had been left to the uncaring hands of time. Naiji gestured for silence, then opened the door.

  In that instant I believed all she had told me. The room was a library, filled with tomes bound in stamped leather, cloth scrolls tied with ribbons of varying colors, maps heaped atop each other with their calligraphed borders visible, and, lining the walls and leaning against shelves, paintings of rich folk and strange lands. The floor was covered with rugs of intricate weave imported from the south, each worth a fortune there and of incalculable value here. A globe of sorcerous light hung overhead, illuminating everything as clearly as though this were day. There were a thousand items that told me no robber band could have won and kept such treasures. And all were diminished by the man who sat in a plush green chair by the far wall.

  He was Naiji’s twin, or perhaps a year older than she. He wore a crimson robe embroidered with gold and black thread and trimmed in ermine. On his fingers, rings of silver and gold with inlaid stones of garnet and sapphire and peridot and topaz vied with each other for attention. His hair was longer than Naiji’s, and he wore pale moustaches and a goatee; yet, if he shaved, he might double for his sister. When he stood, I saw that he was taller than she, but only by a bit. He eyed us both with more curiosity than surprise, then held out his arms for Naiji.

  She ran to embrace him, and they kissed quickly. “You’re well?” he asked. His voice was also like hers, seductive and tinged with amusement or mockery.

  Naiji laughed. “Of course!” Then, smiling, she glanced at me. “That’s Rifkin. I found him in the woods. Will you let him live?”

  * * *

  4

  MY DAUGHTER’S VILLA

  FESCHIANI JOINED ME at breakfast. “Morning, Pipa.” She gave me a quick kiss, then sat across the table from me to stare at me. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Right now?” I asked, setting down a cup of tea. “I’m setting down a cup of tea.”

  “No, Pipa. Your story.”

  “Ah. I’m writing it.”

  “Oh.” She carefully separated a biscuit and applied apple butter with generous strokes. “An almost-abandoned castle in the woods. You, wandering, with only a few hints of any reason why. How do you expect—”

  “You’ve been reading my pages?”

  “Don’t sound so shocked, Pipa. Odd that those pages should be left in the library. On the edge of the desk by the north window. Where I usually sit when I’m in the library.”

  “I forgot them there.”

  “Right, Pipa.”

  There is no greater solace in old age than a considerate child. “I’m telling the story you asked me to tell.”

  “I asked you to tell your story. What’s there begins in the middle of—”

  “That’s the way of the Loh hero-songs.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it and frowned. I smiled. She is quick, but I am still Rifkin.

  “The Loh hero-songs.”

  “Correct, daughter. Have I never had the feast-singers sing of Difrek dueling the Black Shark, or of Kinti racing Death to win back her love, or of Sentif uniting the island people to rescue his mother from the Witch Lord?”

  “Yes, Pipa. And I’ve always fallen asleep.”

  I heard enough irritation in her voice that I said, “And I usually fall asleep shortly after you do. Still, all the hero-songs share one trait.”

  “Yes. They’re incredibly boring.”

  “Daughter!”

  “Forgive me, Father. I stated the obvious before seeing the underlying truth.”

  I nodded. “Good.”

  “They’re all completely incomprehensible to sane beings.”

  “Feschiani...” I said slowly.

  She laughed. “I’m sorry, Pipa. What trait do your beloved Loh hero-songs share?”

  “They begin in the middle of the story, when exciting events occur. The earlier parts are revealed in the telling.”

  “Father...” she said, in tones much like mine a moment before.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not writing a song.”

  “Well, my sense of scansion isn’t very good.”

  “And you’re not writing in Loh.”

  “Um, I can’t. We don’t have an alphabet, only symbols. And I’ve forgotten most of the few I ever learned.”

  “And it’s rather presumptuous to think of yourself as a hero.”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “Not always.”

  She laughed and came around the table to kiss me. “I think you’re a hero, Pipa.”

  “And I think you want something from me.”

  “I do. I want to know what happened before you came to Castle Gromandiel.”

  “I’ve told you.”

  “It’s not written down.”

  “Because it’s not important. The entire story is in the tale I’m writing.”

  “Pipa, brace up. It’s not.”

  “You can’t know until it’s done.”

  “True. But I want to know about you, Pipa. Your childhood and—”

  “Learning about love and sex and death? Those things?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s boring. Every ambitious young twit who claims the name of poet will—”

  “It’s not boring, Pipa. Please. The stories are connected, you know.”

  “I’ll tell as much as I damn well—”

  I saw the next part coming as she smiled gently and I almost said it with her. “Please, Pipa? For me?”

  So I will write two stories, I see. I will tell of the Gromandiels, and I will tell of my past. The story of my past is for Feschiani, but the story of the Gromandiels is for me. And if I am lucky, late at night when the sea has been generous and people sit to be entertained by ancient doings, when children listen at the feast fire with their eyes and their mouths open wide to better hear the song, a singer will begin by saying, “This is the story of Rifkin Outcast and the last master of Castle Gromandiel, as Rifkin wrote it many years later in his daughter’s villa by the sea.”

  But perhaps if I am even luckier, a chil
d or two will sit up in bed someday and my daughter will say, “This is a story of your Great-pipa, when he was no older than you, and much sillier.”

  * * *

  5

  LOH

  I DO NOT know what story Farek sang that night. I remember that something wondrous happened, but whether she made me see a single paddler in a small boat riding a God-wave or a swimmer who plucked pearls from the mistresses of Undersea or something far stranger or far subtler than those things, I cannot remember. Farek stopped in the middle of a sentence. She looked around the feast fire at us all with an expression of surprise, and then she fell forward onto the sands.

  One of my sisters glanced at me to see if I understood. My brother only continued to dig in the damp beach sand. I stared, for this had never happened. Stories came to an end; it was one of the few rules that I had grasped then, when I was in my third or fourth summer. I did not understand that Farek was very old. The story she was telling would never be finished, for her own story, the story of Farek, ended then. For a feast-singer, it was a good end.

  An old man began to wail, even before someone turned Farek onto her back. Someone else said, “She walks with the White Lady,” and I turned and ran into the night. Others of the village cried now, children as well. I raced down the beach to escape them. Mima had told me of the White Lady and how She waited for careless children who played with the cooking fire or drank from Mima’s jar of happiness milk when no one was about. I had not done either, but neither had Farek.

  Something caught me on the beach and swung me into the air. I hit at it, but it held me firmly beneath my arms. I kicked, and I thought I screamed, but later I was told I had been perfectly silent. At least I realized this was not the White Lady come for me, too. This was a person, and this person laughed. That made me angry, and I struggled harder. I cursed like my mother did when she had drunk several jars of the happiness milk. “Fool sailor! Stupid sea-lover! Let me go, you damned tide-given witch thing!”

  “Shush, little one,” the other said in a foreign accent.

  “Not little! Not shush! Let me go!” My arms and legs flurried even more furiously, and then I stopped, suddenly crying with all my heart. Farek had told stories to me, and sometimes given me bits of coconut.