Will Shetterly - Witch Blood

by Witch Blood (v1. 0)

  “For your son,” Naiji said. “I’m sorry for you.”

  “It doesn’t bother me anymore...”

  “That’s good.”

  “... much.”

  She touched my cheek, then slid beside me. The sides of the shallow basin were curved so one person could lie sprawled, but two had to cuddle. Very aware of her hip against mine, I said, “It was years ago.”

  “You don’t look any older than I.”

  “Appearances are deceiving.”

  She laughed. “You’re talking to a witch.” She placed a hand on my chest. “This isn’t an old man’s body.”

  “Maybe I’m a shape-shifter.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “I see one shape that’s beginning to shift.”

  We kissed then. I can’t say who began it. We explored with touch and scent and taste where sight had already been. Sometime later Naiji moved up by me so her face was inches from mine. “I like you,” she said thoughtfully, perhaps a little amused. “You are... appreciative.”

  “Very,” I agreed. I turned and lifted her from the water to the floor. “And I have a strong sense of fairness.”

  I slid down, kissing her stomach, then licking her navel, which made her laugh. “Stop that!”

  “If you wish.” I sat up and reached for my new clothes.

  She squinted at me, pursed her lips, and said, “I’d be more convinced if I thought you’d be able to button your pants.”

  I dropped the clothes there and rolled onto her. “Comfortable?” I asked.

  “Anyone ever say you talk too much?”

  The floor of a bath is no place for lengthy couplings. Perhaps uncomfortable sites for passion are all the more exciting because they seem so inappropriate. My release came moments before hers. I continued the dance of hips, trusting the little man to stand a short while longer, and that short while was enough for Naiji.

  We lay still in shared silence. I wondered what I should say to her and whether I should say anything at all. She seemed to sleep. When her eyes flicked open, she grinned. “A bed next time.”

  “Now?”

  She laughed. “Old man. Right. You look as if you haven’t seen twenty-five winters, and you act as though the count is more like fifteen.”

  I should have had a retort ready for that, but I didn’t. I said, “About this matter of who I am—”

  She hugged me. “You’re Rifkin. That’s enough.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Isn’t it?”

  Part of my soul craved the safety of secrecy. Another part said Speak. What does it matter? The past is a far land, where none return. Yet I only said “Yes. I suppose so.”

  * * *

  8

  THE WHITE MOUNTAIN

  “THE WITCHES ARE our enemies,” Tchanin Priest would say whenever a new student joined us. A few of those later students came from Loh, but most were sent from neighboring communities to live with relatives in our village or to stay in the students’ hut that we built during Tchanin’s fourth year in Loh. Kiyan of Istviar was the seventeenth student to join us, and she stood at the far end of the students’ line. I watched her from my place as Second Student.

  I had thought the accents of those from Istviar were amusing, until I heard Kiyan speaking. I had thought the shorter sleeves and pants of the Istviarfolk were the sort of things that fools would wear, until I saw them on Kiyan. I had thought that women should be short and pale and long-haired and small breasted and perhaps ten thousand other things, until Kiyan came to our class.

  Kiyan said, “There are many families of witches in Istviar, and—”

  “That,” said Tchanin, “is the shame of Istviar.”

  “They’ve never harmed anyone.”

  “They’ve never had the opportunity. You all wear steel or iron jewelry, don’t you?”

  “Yes, master, but—”

  “But you forget why you wear it.” He sighed. “It is the way of people. It’s why your mother has sent you to study with me, Kiyan. She has not forgotten.”

  “My mother lives in the past.”

  Tchanin nodded. “Because she is wise. Listen, Kiyan. You’ve heard the old songs, yet you haven’t learned from them. Why did the Warrior-Saint discover the Art? Because she and her people were slaves to the witches. They were forbidden to have weapons, so they had to learn to make anything a weapon, to make themselves into weapons.”

  “They forged iron weapons in secret, Master Tchanin.”

  “Of course. But only later, when the secret of iron had been learned. That was long after the Art had been perfected.”

  “And they nearly exterminated the witches.”

  I heard a hint of accusation in Kiyan’s voice, but if Priest Tchanin heard it, he ignored it. He said, “It was their only failure, Kiyan. They were tired of killing. And so we exist, to ensure that the witches never rule us again.”

  “How can they?” She touched her metal necklace.

  “They can wait for us to think they are defenseless. So we must be vigilant.”

  Tchanin had never been so patient with the rest of us, and so we knew that Kiyan’s mother was important. But a part of me wondered if it was his way of saying that Kiyan was not wise enough to learn.

  “Why don’t you murder them all?”

  “Because they are not a threat now. We watch them, Kiyan. We will watch them until they threaten humanity. And then, if we act, it will be in humanity’s defense. We are not murderers. We are followers of the Warrior-Saint.”

  His voice said he was done, and Kiyan heard that, for she bowed to him. Svanik, standing beside me in the Third’s place, gave the grimace that meant he was amused: silly foreigner needed to hear what everyone knew. Vayil, in the First’s place, continued to watch Priest Tchanin without letting any of us know what she thought.

  After a session of free sparring, Tchanin had us form two lines. We would practice combinations of moves with a partner, so I watched the lines. When I saw where Kiyan would be, I let a younger student stand on my left rather than my right, so I would be Kiyan’s partner.

  She had studied somewhere, and she would not stay in the least place in our class for long. Between moves I whispered, “Who taught you? Your mother?”

  “No. I stayed a year on the White Mountain.”

  “Oh,” I whispered, as though I did not care, but I was impressed. Tchanin had told us that we would not go to the White Mountain until we were ready to take the Master’s Test. I had not known anyone else could go.

  “They thought I was weak.”

  “Your form’s good.”

  “About witches.”

  “Ah.” I looked for Tchanin and saw that he was still far from us. “There aren’t any around here. My mother pities them. She thinks they took advantage of power because they had the opportunity to do so. She thinks anyone would, and we should forgive them. It’s been centuries, after all.”

  “Your mother sounds wiser than these fools.”

  I nodded and didn’t tell her that Svanik and I had been telling witch jokes just that morning.

  I tested to become a Priest in my seventeenth year, and that meant nine months of training in the Wooden Temple atop White Mountain. Most of us were sad to leave our families in Loh. Vayil almost stayed behind, for her family said she was an adult and must forget the Priesthood to learn the trade of the Searich clan. She came anyway. I said farewell to Bellis, who had become head of our family after Mima drowned, and to the rest of my family in Loh, and the parting was tearless. I saved my tears for my parting with Kiyan.

  We met in a bamboo grove near Tchanin’s home. The day was very warm. Kiyan waited for me, wearing only the loose, ankle-length pants that should have made her seem one of us. They were made of a very fine cotton and let all of us know that her family must be important. When I saw her, I said, “H’lo, rich girl.”

  “You’re such a dope, Rifkin.” I thought I’d angered her, but she threw her arms around me. Our embrace might have become som
ething else if she hadn’t stepped back. “You’re going?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Why?”

  “Stupid Priests.”

  “Yeah.” I shrugged in sympathy. When I was with her, I understood her fear and mistrust of the Priests, or thought I did. I also suspected there was a reason she had not told me.

  “My mother wants me to come back.”

  “You and Vayil. Everyone’s expected to learn the family business.” I laughed. “Envy me, rich girl?”

  “Course not. You’re a dope. You think I should feel sorry for you because you’re a poor dope.”

  “I’m not poor,” I said, repeating Tchanin’s thoughts. “I’m free.”

  “You’re a free dope,” she said, but she smiled, and I might have challenged the Black Shark then, if it had appeared before us.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Marry me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Your mother’s a dope. Everyone’s a dope.”

  “I do love you, Rifkin.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “It’s just—”

  “Yeah.”

  She glared and said, “Would you come to Istviar if I asked? Would you give up the White Mountain and the name of Rifkin Priest?”

  “Would you ask me to?”

  “Maybe. That’s what you’re asking me. To give up Istviar and live with a bunch of Priests. I couldn’t live on poor people’s handouts, Rifkin.”

  “We could have a garden. We could fish. We could—”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  I put my hands on her bare shoulders. “The Priests aren’t bad, Kiyan.”

  “They’re capricious. They talk of mastering ways of fighting in order to be confident enough to never have to fight. It’s insane, Rifkin. I watch Tchanin, sometimes. He’s proud, you know. Proud of what he can do. And he likes to watch us fight.”

  “You can’t judge the philosophy by its followers, Kiyan. Tchanin said that. He knows he’s not perfect.”

  “If you can’t judge a philosophy by its followers, how can you judge it?”

  We’d had this discussion before. I tried to turn it aside by saying, “What do you think we are, Moon Isle Spirits? They’re insane. They pervert the Warrior-Saint’s teachings; we don’t. The White Mountain disapproves of them. We want to be the best we can be. We want to help the poor, the defenseless—”

  “You want to be the hero of a feast-singer’s song, Rifkin.”

  I almost hit her. I said “Sure.”

  She took my hand and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean we should part like this. Rifkin, if you ever come to Istviar, find me.”

  “Find you? Just ask the first person I meet where Kiyan lives?”

  She laughed and nodded.

  I realized then that I would never see her again, that our lives had taken very different paths. I laughed with her. “When I come to Istviar, I’ll ask for Kiyan.”

  My nine months on the White Mountain were much like the previous years in Loh, except that our classes lasted all day. We studied in good weather and bad, from early morning to late evening. And one morning I awoke to see Tchanin kneeling beside my sleeping mat with an uncharacteristic smile upon his face.

  “Good morning, Rifkin Student. Today, if your spirit proves itself, you will become Rifkin Priest.”

  I nodded carefully. I had wondered when the time would come and what the test would be. Once, a few years after Tchanin came, I had asked when I would become a Priest of the Warrior-Saint. Tchanin had answered, “When you no longer ask.”

  I knew nothing of what to expect. Tchanin gave me no clues, so I stood and dressed in my student’s pants and shirt, then followed Tchanin into the hall. He paused by the toilet, so I made use of it. He led me to the dining room, where rice and vegetables were being served. I ate sparingly. When I was done, he took me back through the hall to the practice room—a large white-walled room with smooth, teak floors—where we studied and sparred when the weather was very bad and our teachers thought to spare us or themselves from wind or rain or snow.

  The six Master Priests sat cross-legged in a black line at the far end of the room. A woman in a student’s tan uniform stood facing them, and even from behind I recognized Vayil by her curly hair and her perfect posture. Tchanin gestured for me to stand beside her. He sat with his fellow Master Priests. Priest Binnuth nodded to each of us. “Greetings, students of the Art. A place awaits you among the Priests.” My heart leaped with pride. I suspect that Vayil’s did too. Binnuth added, “Which of you will take it, and which of you will leave us?”

  I swallowed. Vayil had always been First Student. Though I had defeated her in a few practice bouts, my victories had been rare. Binnuth smiled as if she had made a joke and said, “That is what we are here to learn. Sit, now.”

  We meditated for some time, but my mind would not calm. I thought about becoming a Priest and I wondered what I must do to succeed. Vayil could return to Loh and take her place in the Searich clan. They would be proud to have her back. I would be laughed at for my failure. If I was lucky, one of the fishing families would give me the least place on a boat. And I would take home the least share of the catch. And perhaps I would soon give half of my share for happiness milk, and when I had drunk enough, I would go for a swim like Mima did, late one evening when the sea was still.

  When Binnuth clapped her hands, Vayil and I rose. Something in Vayil’s face said that she had not quite calmed herself either. I think it was then that I understood how very much she wanted to earn a place of her own, a place that no one could say she had been given because of her family.

  We did all of the thirteen traditional patterns together. First Pattern was difficult, even though Tchanin had taught it to me during my first week of instruction in the Art. It consisted of a few of the most basic techniques, but because they were so basic, they should be done perfectly. Because I was not calm, I was too aware of every mistake I made. The Master Priests watched without commenting, without smiling or coughing, and only rarely moving a finger or a chin to indicate to a fellow Priest a move done poorly or well. I could not decipher their gestures, so I ignored them.

  “Good,” Binnuth said when we finished the Thirteen Patterns together. “Very good. I think that only a bout between you two will decide who succeeds. The usual rule of halting your blows at the point of contact will not apply in this test.”

  I glanced at Binnuth, not sure that I had heard correctly. She still smiled. Embarrassed at my lack of control, I faced Vayil and bowed. The floor was cold and slick beneath my feet. Vayil’s face was as unreadable as mine. We circled each other, each in sparring stance, and I wondered how I could defeat her when she knew every trick I had learned and knew every one better.

  She probed my defense with a front kick, which I deflected easily. She skipped in, snapping her closer fist at my chin. As I blocked that, she came in with a blow to my side. I spun, but the blow connected, and hurt. I wondered for an instant if the Priests would stop us. I did not slow myself in the hope that they would.

  I continued my spin and came about with a sweeping back kick. Vayil caught my leg and pushed me forward to the floor, pinning me to the ground. She expected the Priests to stop us then, I think, so she didn’t follow up with a blow to my kidneys. I rolled free of her. I kicked at her, only thinking to keep her away. The kick caught her chin, and she fell backward.

  I glanced again at the Priests, hoping that one of them would speak. They watched. Tchanin was no different, and I wondered what he wanted of me. I glanced back at Vayil in time to see her come for me with a side kick, and I skipped several steps backward to avoid it.

  I realized then that I liked Vayil. I had always thought I hated her for being attractive and diligent and wealthy, for being older, for being better at the Art than I. For the year before Kiyan came to Loh, I had desired Vayil, and she had never treated me as anything more or less than a fellow student. Svanik and I had joked about her, but as
I saw her standing before me, I knew that I loved her, perhaps more than I loved Kiyan. I also knew that only one of us would leave this room a Priest.

  I came in with a flurry of punches to her face, and several connected. She kicked at me, but I dodged and hit her again, knocking her down. Still the Priests said nothing. Vayil stood, her face bloody and ugly, and came forward. I kicked her in the stomach. She doubled up, spat blood, then stood, raising her fists. I kicked again, a forward sweeping kick, and she dropped to the floor.

  “I’ve won,” I said quietly.

  “Have you?” said Binnuth, turning to Vayil. “Has he?”

  “No,” Vayil said, struggling to stand.

  I whispered to Vayil, “Don’t.” She shook her head, and her hair flew about her battered face. I caught her arm as she punched and twisted it behind her back. “Quit!” I whispered.

  She stomped my foot as she brought her free elbow back into my chest. Avoiding those blows, I let her loose. She shook her head again and kicked at me. I shoved her hard, knocking her down again.

  I don’t know how many times we played that scenario. I kept trying to think of techniques to incapacitate her without killing her or breaking bones, but I could not. I wondered if that was what the Priests wanted, for the weaker of us to die. Time after time Vayil stood, Vayil threatened me, and I hit her. It seemed to me that this might be the crudest fate I could imagine, to be winning forever and never to have won.

  When she finally fell and did not rise, I hardly believed it. When I saw that she would not get up, I knelt beside her to be sure that she was breathing freely. I carefully turned her, suspecting this might be a trick on her part, but she was unconscious. I pitied her as she lay there, for I knew that waking to failure would not be easy. I hated myself for having to win. I hated the Priests for making me win. Yet a part of me was very proud; Tchanin’s promise that learning would be painful had been too horribly true, yet I had learned and I had won. I stood to face the Priests.

  Tchanin was weeping. All of the Priests seemed to be sad or embarrassed or feeling something I could not recognize. I said hesitantly, “I’ve won.”