Will Shetterly - Witch Blood

by Witch Blood (v1. 0)

  Feschian followed me. We walked in silence until I said, “How many left?”

  “That can fight?”

  I nodded.

  “Counting the hearth cat?”

  “If it’ll fight.”

  Feschian ticked off names on her fingers. “You. Me. Avarineo. Dovriex. Sivifal. Fat Cat. Kivakali.” She caught my glance and said, “You asked how many could fight, not would. Evrian, Thessaval, and Baldriath. They’re members of the castle guard, and competent.”

  “That’s all?”

  “There are a few others who would die well, but fight badly. And there’re the children.”

  “How many of them?”

  “Seven.”

  “What about Talivane?”

  “You saw his hands. When he comes to, he’ll be next to useless.”

  “Naiji couldn’t heal him?”

  “She uses her magic sparingly. She’s saved several from death today, Rifkin.”

  “Still—”

  “She can’t pick favorites. Could you?”

  “No.” Part of me thought that Naiji had done no kindnesses for those she saved. Another part said that she would have done better to help her brother, so he could help those of us who still lived. And another part said it did not matter. Komaki would try once or twice more to storm Castle Gromandiel. If those attempts failed, he would wait while we starved, and laugh whether Talivane sent ten thousand lightning bolts at his soldiers or not.

  Dinner was a dismal affair. We ate in the kitchen, since the dining hall was taken by the wounded. At times the quiet would be broken by a groan or a request from the other room. In the middle of dessert Avarineo held up a spoonful of rum and raisin pudding and said, “This is good stuff! Dovriex should fix this stuff every day!”

  We all ignored him. Avarineo looked sad, but he still asked for seconds.

  I toured the walls alone. Our guard posts were parodies of defense. The watchers were too tired to watch well and too far apart to watch efficiently. When I returned to my room, Naiji was naked in my sheets. I sat on the edge of the pallet and held her while she cried. “We’re all going to die,” she finally whispered. “Aren’t we? Aren’t we?”

  I undressed slowly, being careful of my bandages. “Turn over,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Turn over.” She obeyed, and I began to massage her shoulders and her arms. Her entire back was tense, so I kneaded it, then pounded it gently with the sides of my hands, then kneaded it more. I worked the pressure points along her spine by pressing when she exhaled, releasing when she breathed in. When I moved to her buttocks, she tensed again, then relaxed. I worked her thighs and her calves.

  When I finished with her feet, I turned her slowly. I put my fingertips against her forehead to soothe her temples, then moved down her cheeks and along her jaw. I did each arm and her pectoral muscles. I rubbed her belly as though she were a cat. I worked the front of her thighs and on down to her feet then up along the inside of her legs. I put her feet against my stomach and pushed her legs against her chest, then let them down. And then I began to retrace the route of my hands with my tongue.

  We both found our release only minutes later. I let myself collapse on Naiji. Perhaps we slept for a bit after that.

  “Rifkin?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Thank you.”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “I just said that.”

  “No, you didn’t. You said, thank you. But I said, thank you.”

  “Oh.”

  And then we may have slept a little longer.

  “Rifkin?”

  “Mmm?”

  “I’m sorry I brought you into this.”

  “Shh.”

  “I don’t know what to do.”

  I kissed her. Her cheeks were damp with tears and her lips and tongue tasted of salt. I had thought it would be a short kiss, until I felt her hand on my buttocks.

  “Rifkin?” She gasped her question as she ground her hips against me.

  “Yes?”

  “I like you, Rifkin. I really do like you.”

  “I like you, Naiji. You might’ve noticed.”

  Her laugh ended with a bark of pleasure as I pressed more tightly. “I love—”

  I covered her mouth with mine. We struggled in the dark like fighters. I cannot say who won. Perhaps we both lost, though there was a moment when our cries would have frightened anyone who passed in the hall.

  “Naiji?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Come with me.”

  “I did.”

  “No. Away.”

  She shook her head where it rested on my arm. “I won’t leave them, Rifkin.”

  I wondered if them meant the witches or only Talivane. Whatever the shortcomings I saw in Count Gromandiel, he inspired loyalty in his followers. Perhaps I should have said something more to Naiji, but I could think of nothing that might convince her, just as I could think of nothing earlier to convince Feschian. They were all bound to him by love or loyalty. I, bound to Naiji, seemed to be the only free person in the entire hold. I only nodded to Naiji and kissed her forehead.

  “G’night, Rifkin.”

  “Good night, Lady,” I said, and finding a pressure point, I made sure she would not wake for several hours.

  I dressed and hurried into the cold, dark hall. I worried that I would meet Feschian, but I met no one. Thinking of Feschian made me remember the midnight screams. It was too early for them, if Talivane was awake and had fetched Chifeo or the remaining Spirit to his chambers.

  I had noticed a rope in the stables, which meant crossing the courtyard. The moon was almost full, though storm clouds marched across his face. Gromandiel’s guards would be watching for movement beyond the castle walls, not within. Nonetheless, I crept through shadows by the main keep and crossed to the empty stable while the moon was obscured for a moment.

  An owl fluttered away as I entered, making me wonder if it was one of the witchfolk’s friends. I found the rope, a serviceable one of thick hemp, on a nail by an abandoned stall. I threw it over my shoulder and headed for the walls.

  I took the stairs as though this was only another inspection by that nosy little southerner. When one guard called “Who’s there?” I said “Rifkin,” and that comforted her. I walked on until I came to the middle of the southeast wall. Thirty feet below me was the ledge where I had climbed with Naiji to Castle Gromandiel. I immediately looked for Avarineo, but the lower post had been abandoned when we all retreated into the castle and sealed its gates.

  I uncoiled most of my rope, found its center, and encircled a jutting block of the wall by bringing either end of the line through two crenellations. Then, holding both halves of the rope, I lowered myself over the castle wall. At the bottom I released one end, pulled on the other, and it fell beside me.

  The stable rope was not as long as the line Avarineo had lowered when Naiji and I came up the face of the cliff. I knew the southwest slope would be watched by nervous soldiers of both sides, but I also knew I was too poor a mountaineer to take the southeast face in the dark. I stooped to gather dirt and rocks. I smeared the dirt on my hands and face and clothes, dropped dirt and rocks into my jacket pocket, and headed toward the slope to Komaki’s camp.

  The Duke kept a ring of campfires around Castle Gromandiel, each within hailing distance of another. If his guards were good, there would be several warriors at each fire, one watching forward and one watching the other fires to see that no shadows passed between them. As I came closer, I saw that my expectations were correct. There were three guards at each post. All had bows or muskets.

  I picked a point halfway between two fires and crawled, expecting an arrow or a musket ball in my back at any moment. When I was close to the guards’ line of sight, I took a rock from my pocket and hurled it at a bush far to one side. The technique is a dangerous one; it distracts watchers, but it also makes them alert and suspicious. As soon as I threw, I scuttl
ed forward. Someone shouted “What’s that?” Someone else walked forward with a torch and a bow, then said, “Probably a rabbit.” I began to breathe again.

  I stood when I felt safe enough, which was perhaps fifteen feet farther than I needed to crawl. The next part was easier.

  The camp was a ring of fires about a ring of tents, and the tents circled a central pavilion that was larger and grander than any of the others. A number of warriors slept in their cloaks near each bonfire. I padded about, careful not to come too close to any light, until I found a thin fellow who had needed to relieve himself in the middle of the night. I relieved him of his cloak, his helmet, and his life.

  I sat by the thin man’s body for almost half an hour. If I tried to glorify myself in the telling, I would say that I watched to see if he had been missed, to learn the pattern of the sentries’ tours, to discover whether Komaki was truly in that central tent. Perhaps I did these things, but mostly I hugged myself and wished I did not stink so badly of fear and self-disgust. Who would mourn the thin man’s death?

  My left leg began to go to sleep. I waited until no guards were walking near me, then strolled in the stolen helmet and cloak to the back of the largest pavilion. I heard no sound from inside it and saw no light. I glanced around. Almost all of the soldiers by the campfires were asleep. No one watched me. There were no guards at any particular tent, but this one’s size and location suggested it was the one I sought. I stayed in the tent’s shadow for another moment, letting my eyes adjust as best they could. Then I bent down, lifted the side wall, and rolled under.

  My first thought was that I had guessed right. I lay on a thick carpet, such as would be found in a duke’s quarters and never in a storage tent. Then light from a suddenly opened lantern almost blinded me. By the tent’s entrance, a tall dark man dressed in black held the lantern high in one hand and laughed. A shorter, blond-bearded man sat on a cot close to him.

  I brought my left hand up to shield my eyes from the glare while my right flicked a throwing dart from my belt. The laughing man stepped aside, still laughing, and I saw him then. Though he was as tall as any Kond, his skin and his eyes were as dark as mine. His hair was tied back, and I saw that it receded slightly from his temples. There were age lines on his brow and about his eyes, and his strong jaw seemed to carry a hint of extra flesh, though maybe that was only my imagination. He said, “Hello, Izla. Fancy meeting you here.”

  I nodded and answered as calmly as I could, “A surprise for us both, Rifkin.”

  * * *

  19

  GROMANDIEL VALLEY

  THE BLOND MAN appeared to have been awakened by the lantern. He wore an expensive mail vest over an equally expensive purple shirt. His nose was a cruel beak, and though I tried, I saw no resemblance to Kivakali. “That’s Komaki?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t let him give the alarm.”

  Komaki glared. “I’ll do as I—”

  “Patience,” I said. “This is more complicated than you imagine.” I knew that was true, for it was more complicated than I understood.

  Komaki said, “Rifkin, I’m paying you—”

  I laughed.

  As Komaki looked at me, my other self said, “For my services. I agreed to protect you, and to help you against the witches. That’s what I’m doing. Now, be quiet.”

  Komaki nodded, and without warning, came up from the bed with a dagger in his fist. I watched from my place on the floor as a hand I knew very well slapped the Duke’s dagger aside. The other hand closed around Komaki’s throat. “My masters would be amused to hear that I had to destroy you in order to save you, Komaki. Be quiet, and be still. If you speak without my permission, I will tear out your tongue. If any of your limbs moves more than an inch, I will crush every bone in it. If you stand, I will snap your spine. If you think of anything to do that I have not mentioned, I will simply kill you if I have no time to be creative. I will kill you very painfully if I do have time. You may nod once, slowly, if you understand me.”

  Komaki’s lips began to curl in rage. “If I think you’re being stupid, I will kill you now. The Lords of Moon Isle do not ally themselves with fools.”

  Komaki nodded once, slowly.

  I said, “A stay in my body has not made you kinder, Izla.”

  He glanced at me. “I’m used to being Rifkin now.”

  “I’m still used to it. The transfer of minds was more permanent than you thought.”

  He shrugged. “I should never have rushed the ritual, I suppose, but the rebels hardly left us time. You don’t sound like old, stupid Rifkin, though. You sound like me.”

  I squinted and stood up cautiously. He let me. I said, “Southerners. You can’t tell them apart.”

  He laughed. “You see? Old Rifkin was a loyal fellow, but he had no wit.”

  Our memories did not match. I stood there, trying to sort the possibilities of what had happened that last day in Istviar when Izla Seaprince, Lord of the Ladizhar Sea, asked his most trusted guard as a final act of duty to exchange bodies for the few days it would take to flee to the country’s border.

  “You haven’t understood yet, have you?” my other self said. “I knew the truth when you saw me and immediately called me by name. Old Rifkin would have stared for half an hour while he puzzled that out.”

  “I’m Rifkin,” I said.

  “Names,” said my other, tossing one hand in the air to dismiss the matter. “They mean nothing. What basis do you have for identity?”

  “My memories are Rifkin’s.”

  “So are mine, old friend. And Izla’s, as well. Aren’t yours?”

  They were not, but I tried to keep my face impassive.

  “You don’t trust me.” He smiled, as if speaking to a child, then laughed. “Of course not. I wouldn’t trust me. So I don’t.”

  “I’m Rifkin,” I repeated.

  “You’re neither,” he said. “Not Rifkin. Not Izla. In a sense, there are four people taking part in our conversation. There’s you, who think yourself Rifkin. There’s me, Izla. But there still lurks in this—” he tapped his chest—“Rifkin’s body, the mind of the true Rifkin, and I imagine Izla lies in that body, eh?” He smiled when I shook my head. “But that’s a simplification. You’re the synthesis of both Rifkin and Izla, as am I.”

  I watched him smile, and it was like watching myself in a distorted mirror, though I hadn’t seen that face in a mirror for several years. “I’ve had to be, to survive since I... since we were dethroned. Old Rifkin was always a simple fellow. It was easy to get him to give in to my will, so often that he hardly exists in this body. But in surrendering, he became part of me. His memories are mine, just as his body is mine. His reflexes are mine. Sometimes when I wake in the middle of the night, his fears are mine. I’m not Izla anymore, not the Izla you knew. And I’m certainly not Rifkin, though I keep his name.”

  I wanted to kill him for saying these things, perhaps because I suspected, no, knew they were true. The original Rifkin was a memory in Rifkin Spirit’s mind. How much longer would I survive in lzla’s body, if the First Rifkin could not survive in his own?

  I tensed like a novice. Rifkin saw it and smiled. “This body has been a killing implement for thirty-five years, Rifkin-myself. You may have trained my body every day you’ve worn it, but it still will not equal this one.”

  “I’m younger than you are now,” I said.

  “And I envy you that,” he said. “Almost as much as I envy your witch blood.”

  “Why did you become a Spirit?”

  “I had to sell my skills somewhere. Why do you serve the witches?”

  “One saved my life.”

  “So?”

  “It means something to me.”

  He grinned. “And to me, as well. It means, my more than brother, that we will rule this world soon.”

  “Oh?”

  “I rise quickly through the Spirits’ ranks. Rifkin’s skill and Izla’s wits are an almost unbeatable combination. Now, with
you adding Izla’s power and doubling his wit—”

  “No,” I said.

  “You need more time to think about this. I understand. Perhaps there’s still a bit of Rifkin in you.” He studied me. “These names are too confusing. Shall I be Izlarifkin and you, Rifkinizla?”

  I wanted to cry “Never!” and throw something in his face. I had listened to too many tales of heroes when I was young. I nodded at him. “Sounds better than Big Rif and Little Rif. You proably wouldn’t want to be Little Rif, anyway.”

  He glanced at me, then grinned. “No, Rifkinizla. I wouldn’t.”

  “You speak freely in front of Komaki.”

  “He doesn’t understand Ladizhan.”

  “I see,” I said. “And what of the witches in the castle?”

  “What about them?”

  “Would you save them?”

  “You’re the only witch I want, Rifkinizla.”

  “They could be useful.”

  “Or a hindrance. It would attract too much attention to us, if we tried to turn Komaki from his purpose.”

  “But—”

  “Forget your pets. The Spirits are more powerful than any band of witches. I’ll serve Moon Isle until I rule it.” He smiled fondly at me. “But I’ll protect you.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “It’s interesting, watching you. It’s almost like seeing a favorite suit of clothing altered to fit another. I’m almost jealous.”

  “Izlarifkin,” I said, nearly choking on my part of the name, “I intend to protect the people in Castle Gromandiel.”

  “You needn’t, now.”

  “I especially need to, now.”

  “Why?”

  “A vow.”

  “Odd.” He stroked his chin. I tried to decide if that reminded me of Izla or myself, then realized it was characteristic of Talivane.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Old Rifkin was a loyal sort, and very stupid, but he wasn’t a fool.”