Mother, Maiden, Crone

by Gwen Benaway

  I had thought they would want to help me, but now I sense the depths of their anger. The tightness in my chest redoubles. A fox would be clever, I think, would adapt.

  “I need an herb,” I say. “Purple, shot through with veins of yellow. They say it cures blood-lung.” If it still exists. “Once I have it, I will go, and the pestimancer will follow me and leave you in peace.”

  Silence. I keep going, desperate to find the words to win them.

  “The Clenched Fist unleashed this plague. They’re destroying everyone who opposes them. Once they have total control of the city, how safe do you think you’ll be?” I’m gambling that they didn’t leave the city because they were happy about its banners, mailed hands grasping at tightly-bound sticks, nor the men who carried them. “You must remember what the Clenched Fist can do, even though you’re trees now.”

  We are tree now.

  I blink. “What?”

  We are tree now. One life, one shared experience, one organism. Unity. The trees, rooted together, each only one outgrowth of the same being. Each “tree” is just one limb of a single organism. The mages studied trees so fully, and with such unified purpose, that they became a tree. I’m amazed and baffled by their focus.

  “I’m not leaving without the cure,” I say, and plant my feet as firmly as I’m able. Can they feel that, through their roots beneath the soil?

  Foxes have their uses, they say.

  I don’t know how they know my art. Maybe trees can smell animals, after a fashion?

  But they are quick, brief-lived, heedless of the damage they cause. We are no friends of theirs.

  Do I imagine it, or do I hear an estrangement in those last words, as though there is still some lingering disagreement between them, between it? Can an organism be at odds with itself? I think of the contentious rebel meetings, the coalition Ravenna was barely holding together even before the pestimancer’s attack.

  “Please,” I say, “The one I love is dying.”

  A hesitation. Some part of this entity wants to help me. I can feel it.

  You bring harm for your own selfish ends, like all animals, the tree says at last. You lack perspective. You lack roots. Look: the plague-bringer comes. Leave this forest, or we will show him where you are.

  Terror like a spike shoots through me, and I see that they are right—from the hills below me, his miasma rises.

  My fingers tighten to fists, and I feel my ears pulling back, though on my human features it no doubt looks ridiculous. I push back the urge to run, and fight instead.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I say. I think of Ravenna and know there is no tree in the world I would not raze to see her safe. “I wonder how much harm he’ll do to you in destroying me?” I struggle to keep the tremors out of my voice. “Are you vulnerable to his magic, I wonder? One tree, one illness—”

  ENOUGH. The branches whip around me, snap and clatter angrily, though I feel no wind. Agitation? Debate? There is silence again, and I wonder if they have some means to attack me. I force myself not to look back, not to imagine how near my foe is. We will tell you the way. But you are banished forever from this forest, vulpemancer. When your petty wars destroy the city, do not come fleeing to us. We will make you pay.

  I can feel the hatred in their words, like the fury of dogs who have lost a trail. It means nothing to me. I’ve seen what true hatred is, the void in the shape of a man.

  The tree tells me what I need to know, and I run, still fighting the urge to look back.

  The spot they’ve directed me toward is far up into the foothills, and as I go the undergrowth thins and the ground becomes steeper, dirt and rocks shifting under my feet. Up this high, most of the trees are evergreens.

  There must be humans who explore this forest, hunters and foragers, probably even hermits living solitary lives among the trees. But I neither see nor smell signs of other humans as I go up and up, stopping occasionally to orient myself by the jagged edge of the outcropping that guides my way. The day is growing late, the trees’ shadows lengthening.

  Each time I orient myself, I can’t resist looking back, dreading what I might see. I do see it: a rustling of tree—branches, a sickening shimmer. I don’t smell anything, though the wind is rushing past me down the hill, robbing me of any advantage, making my nose useless.

  I turn and run, run until I’m panting. I don’t think he runs. He doesn’t need to. He’s implacable, like the course of a disease.

  Now not even vulpemancy dulls my terror. Pestilence is far older than either human or fox, older than mammals. I don’t want any of this. I hadn’t even wanted to go to Ravenna’s gathering. I’d helped the rebels build warrens, scouted for them a few times, small uses of my magic that helped them and kept me out of the worst danger. I thought that would be enough, that I could love her without becoming entangled in her cause.

  When I finally did attend one of the gatherings, it was (why else?) for love. That was the night the pestimancer attacked.

  A few hours before the gathering, Ravenna and I had climbed to the rooftops of Gardrun’s old town, settling in to watch the sunset, the warm light breaking over the squalor of the tenements around us, the laundry snapping in the twilight wind. The cobblestones far below us were gleaming rose and gold. I fell in love with my city once again.

  And there, beside me, was Ravenna, her head against my shoulder, her fingers laced through mine. As the revolution grew, and with it the fury of the Clenched Fist’s response, she felt the constant necessity of showing a strong face, to be the leader they all needed. Only when we got away could she relax, let me hold her.

  “I should be making plans for tonight,” she told me.

  “The gathering is five hours from now,” I said. “Can’t we just enjoy the moment?” It was a mistake to remind her that she was what I cared for, far more than her rebellion. That I was just a coward who needed vulpemancy because of the depth of my fear.

  “Are you sure you won’t come?” she asked, her fingers playing over mine, her words a whisper in my ear.

  I flicked my phantom tail at her, ran my free hand up her leg. “You sure know how to charm a girl,” I said, joking, but of course it was true. What could be more foolish than to fall in love with the Clenched Fist’s most wanted?

  I’d thought I had my life measured, you see. I’d keep my head down, avoid trouble with the Fist, dedicate myself to careful study of my magic.

  And then one day, all I wanted to study was her.

  “Hmmm…” she said, shifting, brushing her hand over my cheek, her eyes meeting mine. “I understand if you won’t come,” she said. “It’s just…”

  She was so rarely at a loss for words that it worried me.

  “It gives me strength, to see you. To know that I’m not alone. That you’re with me.”

  What else could I do?

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, yes, I’ll go. Now can we please—”

  And her lips were on mine.

  Six hours later, I stood in the front of the room as Ravenna spoke. On her lips, revolution sounded so necessary, so inevitable. How could I not love her? How could I not begin to believe, in spite of myself, that the rebels would triumph?

  Then, without warning, the pestimancer was among us. I saw the grottos where his eyes should be as Ravenna choked, as she vomited blood. I stood transfixed as the others fled around me, some of them coughing red mist. They too had been infected, but it was Ravenna who took the full brunt of his wrath. I witnessed his power, terror, commitment.

  Now he’s coming to finish me off, to ensure Ravenna will die, her lungs drowning in her own blood, one death among many, a warning to anyone who thinks of rebelling.

  I can do nothing but run, and so I do, for what seems like hours, scrambling up the rocky scree, lost in fear and memory. Then I see it, the flash of purple, in the deep shade of an overhang. The herb. The
cure. I approach cautiously, thinking of sleeping serpents or spring-hungry bears. Nothing moves. There’s a single leafed tree among the evergreens—if the flowers had been any higher, I doubt even the arbouromancers would have known where to find it. The flowers cluster together in the shade, many of them. I scramble to the plants, carefully gather many of the delicate blooms, leaving the rest to grow. I hope they will thrive.

  When I turn around, the pestimancer is behind me. He stands at the edge of the clearing, his head and torso wreathed in a shimmer as if soap bubbles made of filth. His fingers blur at the edges, and carrion flies buzz incessantly around him. A gold amulet hangs from his neck, incongruous.

  “The rebels should have sent someone else,” he says with that tar-voice. I sense him staring at me, though I see no eyes in the caverns of his face. A tilt of the head, then a rasping that I think is meant to be laughter. “You’re no rebel, just a coward. I saw it in your eyes when I broke her.”

  He doesn’t move closer. He’s been gaining on me all day, and I’m exhausted from the climb. I can’t outrun him for long.

  “You don’t need to do this,” I say.

  “Need?” he says, and I glimpse what I think are teeth. “This is why rebel trash will always fail.” He raises his arms. He is twice my size, and the shrubs around him are already wilting in his presence. “All the strength of the Clenched Fist is mine, for my loyalty is … complete.” He grimaces, and I know that before long the last of what is human will burn off, and he will be disease itself in form and function. It will be too late to help me, to help Ravenna.

  I grit my teeth, press my ears back. He’s right. I’m no revolutionary, just a terrified mage far from home.

  “You can’t escape,” he says, and flips open the amulet. A compass, the needle pointing directly at me. “You like it? A navimancer was … kind enough to make it for me. The rebels were careful. They would never have let a lock of their hair fall into my hands. You, though … she was foolish to desire you.” I feel like he’s torn a hole in me. I don’t know how he’d got ahold of a lock of my hair, but I know it was my fault, all of it. I’ve killed the one I love.

  “Come to me, girl,” he says, his smile a nightmare come to life, “and I will make it quick.” He takes a step forward.

  I crouch, my breath coming in shallow gasps, and call on the only power available to me, the last thing that’s left. I give myself completely to the fox-magic. It crackles around me, sharp, keen-eyed, hungry. A moment later I’m shrinking, fur spreading across my skin.

  It all happens in a few moments. He lunges at me, moving fast for a human. But already I have fox-instincts, fox-quickness. My old clothing loosens, falls from me. The strap of my pouch with the herb tucked inside is looped around my neck, safe on four legs as well as two.

  The pestimancer has closed half the distance, more than half. The reek makes my fur bristle. I dart away, and he is after me quickly, silent again, and tireless.

  I run down the hill, faster and far more sure-footed than ever before. The magic knows my fox form, or my body knows the magic. Yet still I can hear him close behind. To my new ears no human is silent, not even him.

  As a fox, I can outrun him, but to what end? He can track me, follow me back to my den, to my Ravenna. He will never stop.

  The arbouromancers won’t help me, and I won’t bring the pestimancer to their clearing. I don’t wish them harm, and I fear their wrath. I run a long circuit around them, my foe ever behind me.

  I know what I have to do. I do not run as fast as I can. He stays on my trail, gaining slowly. My timing must be perfect, or all is lost.

  The day has fallen into night, but darkness is comfortable for me now, the cold wind no trouble. I slow further, making sure I know where I am. He is very close behind me now. I drag one hind leg, as though it is injured. He is almost upon me when I reach the river.

  It is different under the sliver of moon, different with my new eyes. A dark, churning thing, silver-toothed like a hungry maw, but still cold, indifferent.

  I cross, exposed to his gaze in the moonlight, still visibly favouring the leg. It isn’t a difficult trick. I’m small and swift and clever, and I know just how to do it.

  The pestimancer advances. I limp into the darkness of the treeline, and turn to watch. He strides forward, so large, so determined, so close to his goal. His power is undeniable, but still he has human flesh, human weight, human weakness. The treacherous rock gives way under him. Wordless, he totters, over-corrects, falls, is swept down and down and down. Disease is ancient magic, and terrifying, but the river stretches long and fast. As he is battered, shredded, pulled under, does he know its magic is far older and more primal?

  I watch the river until I am sure he is gone. Even in death, he will cause harm, polluting, killing, spreading the suffering which is his power. But the river will sweep even that out to sea.

  There is no further time to waste. I run on, not changing form, though each minute I am a fox makes it less likely I will be able to change back. I do not know if I can save Ravenna, but I will reach her much faster if I stay a fox. The forest smells different now, ancient, many-layered, powerful. And above all that, the transient scents of small animals darting about. I would love to hunt them, to sate myself on mice and voles, but I run on.

  Soon Gardrun City rises before me, and the forest behind closes off to me forever. I don’t know if I’ll be able to return to my human form, or if I am forever a vixen now. I don’t know if I can save the woman I love. Fears flood me, human fear and fox fear, but I push ahead, swift, sure-footed.

  Potions and Practices

  gwynception

  The tavern held a stench of spilt beer and various piss, with an undertone of fecal matter drowned out by a thick smoke of various incenses and grasses, opium, tobacco, marijuana, and burning cedar from the nearby wood, and as well foul gossip.

  Violet was ill from the anxiety of her last kill. Falling through the doors, she descended the steps into the establishment. The Brimstones ambushed her four gallows March back. They’re a cult that sought the death of her kind, the Outlier. Doing the least harm meant one slit throat. Ill now, burning with the confrontation in her, she entered the ancient gathering point for the first time.

  A day’s stubble on her square face, she wished she had time to put a blade to it. Her dark hair in tight braids tied behind in a messy bun, and her light brown skin was wet from the rain. The fur coar she wore was drenched and dripping on the floor. It had been made from the hide of a cross between a nocturnal bird and a bear, a creature originally from the frozen lower reaches that had evolved into something spiritual and everywhere.”

  From the scrying, her summoning would be an aged alcoholic woman, with greyed-out skin with bluish blemishes, her skull covered in grey wisps. The women would be to whom Violet would have her goals met. Still feeling anxiety, Violet felt she could vomit any moment. Still feeling anxiety, Violet felt she could vomit any moment but spotted her summoning. The woman looked nothing like her viewing. She looked out of place among the dank of the tavern, her face pale white, a grey halo of hair and a green cloak glimmering under a candle. That’s when a group of ragged anthropomorphs materialized alongside a time shifter before Violet’s view of the matriarch. The time shifter was laughing, displacing the group with the emotion.

  Violet approached the booth hidden in corner, the Lady greeting her as the one known as Violet Rage.

  Violet put forth the question:

  “You’re Zywqhh?”

  “Hush yourself darling … I’m no threat to someone as low as you.”’ She sipped a dark liquid. “And you’d have to get the pronunciation right to have any respect.”

  “You have a job that needs being done,” Violet began. “I can do violence or be a rogue if need be. More of a muscle, I like stealing as a challenge. I’m not very good in social arenas.”

  “What do yo
u know of other worlds?”

  “I know of the three worlds.”

  “I asked what you know of other worlds.”

  “They exist and there are more than the three.”

  “Do you want the job?”

  “I need compensation first.”

  “What do you want.”

  “The elixirs.”

  “You’re shifting?” the matriarch gasped. “I can’t share those.”

  “I cannot do your job then.”

  “Take my sleeve. We will speak.”

  “Pardon my rudeness.” Violet felt suddenly horrid. “I must…”

  She leaned to her left over the floor and retched. The old woman across covered her mouth feigning being unaffected. When Violet was at last simply dry-heaving she took the sleeve of the ancient priestess.

  The room around them dissipated, then disappeared.

  Violet’s consciousness shook into awareness.

  “We didn’t travel the Ocean?”

  “No … ” The old woman paused. “I have a direct channel to the cursed rock you call home.”

  “Ah.” Violet was unable hide her shock.

  “You know you could live here somewhere out in the lower reaches possibly. I could return the favour of your labour by connecting you with a community.”

  “Wait …” Violet’s breath shook. “I want the potions … and what of my other?”

  “You’re persistent. So much the outlier.” The matriarch undid her cloak, placing it on a rack materializing next to them. They were floating in a void expanse as a room was appearing. “You don’t really know your nature as an outlier, do you? You’ve consumed some of the spin from the world you’ve been inhabiting. I’m surprised you even know of worlds outside the three at this point.”

  “I’m sorry I’m not sure if I know what you’re talking about.”

  “As an outlier, you’re literally an outlier. You have no others because you don’t exist.” The old woman let out a sharp laugh. “Not to put you through too many shocks. As an outlier you’re from where we’re going. That’s why I wanted you for the job.”