Blood Witch (11 page)

"Father says it's
time and Bodiccia is the best."

Alaysha looked at
the woman, wondering if Yuri expected the girl to also learn the
culinary parts of war as well as weaponry. "Indeed, she is," she
said.

Gael, impatient,
cleared his throat noisily so that Alaysha pulled away from her
sister and stood. "I need to see Yuri," she told Bodiccia.

The woman merely
shook her head. Not so much as a glance Alaysha's way.

Gael pulled a dirk
from somewhere, Alaysha didn't have the chance to see, and Bodiccia
grinned, rattling her bracelets for effect. "You have nice white
teeth, man," she said.

"Go tell the Emir
I am having difficulty training the witch," he said.

Bodiccia snorted,
indicating either that she expected a man to have trouble, or that
she didn't think the witch worth training; Alaysha couldn't tell
which, but she did nod at Bronwyn to deliver the news, and when the
girl ran down the hall instead of inside, Alaysha realized what was
missing.

"Where is the rest
of the guard?"

Bodiccia scowled
her thoughts on needing more guard than she.

"They're not here,
are they?"

The woman's face
turned to a façade as stony as the wall she stood next to.

"Neither is my
father here." Alaysha turned to Gael. "You both know he's not here,
so why would you waste my time?"

Gael shuffled
toward the woman and spoke to her. "She thinks coupling with a mere
boy is proper use of her time."

Bodiccia looked
her over disdainfully. "She's young. The blood boils. Even in a
witch, I'm told."

Gael's back
stiffened. "The blood may boil, but my head must not."

The woman laughed
low. "The boy is handsome."

Gael's voice grew
angry. "Still. He is a boy."

"And you are a
man, is that so?" The woman's tone sidled into a mocking one and
Alaysha grew tired of the discourse.

"Can we stop
acting as though I were elsewhere?"

Bodiccia's head
snapped in Alaysha's direction. "A witch should be elsewhere, not
here this close to the Emir's quarters."

Alaysha sighed.
"You know I'm his daughter. You've seen us together. You know I've
never harmed him." Would that she could some days, but Alaysha
knew, thanks to Yenic, that blood protected Yuri from her power.
She doubted that he'd let that information slip to anyone else,
though--even his trusted Bodiccia.

She turned and
headed in Bronwyn's direction, sick of the two and tired of
waiting. Whether he followed or not was irrelevant. He'd brought
her here, expecting any distraction would be preferable for the
witch than an intimate moment in a garden. Why he would care, she
didn't know, but perhaps he was right: distraction was a good
thing. She'd lost her resolve with Yenic and she had to be careful.
She didn't want to be manipulated again and if Yuri was right and
three of the four witches could be controlled, who knew what evil a
man could do.

She guessed her
father was right that moment with the fire witch, and his guard
with him. Well, she was here, and she was ready; she might as well
get the lessons underway.

The corridor was
one she'd not been in before and ultimately led to a stone
staircase that felt damp and smelled of dead litter. Narrow and
steep, it almost seemed cut into the stone of the mountain's base.
Torches blazed every few steps and lit the increasing darkness.

She heard someone
muttering and complaining above her, and then heard Bronwyn's
clear, sing-song voice after it.

The curve in the
stair gave way, and there, coming down at her were the shaman,
wringing his hands in a bleached linen, a young page carrying
bottles and jars, and Bronwyn at his heels carrying a wooden
bucket.

"What have you
there, little sister," Alaysha asked her and Bronwyn glanced up
sharply, nearly dropping the bucket in surprise.

The shaman spoke
before the girl could answer.

"The witch speaks
as though the Emir's good daughter knows her. Yes. But a good
daughter doesn't intimate with the likes of such a filthy being,
does she?"

Alaysha wasn't
sure if the man was talking to her, Bronwyn, or himself, but she
did remember his odd pattern of speech. She decided to say nothing
to him.

"Did you tell Yuri
I was coming, Bronwyn?"

The girl shook her
head. "He's not up here."

Alaysha looked
again at the shaman and realized something was going on. "Who is up
there?"

"We do not answer
to vermin, and yet she asks us as though she has a right, doesn't
she? Foolish witch. Wait until we tell the Emir of her impudence."
He bustled forward, taking the bucket from the girl. "I am done
with you. Return to your post."

He twisted round
to nod at the young page who hurried down the stairs, pushing
against Alaysha in his rush to get by her.

Bronwyn looked to
Alaysha for confirmation and when Alaysha nodded, the girl rushed
down the stairs to disappear into the dark. Alaysha stood in the
man's way.

"You have my
father up there, don't you?" Saxa had said he was growing ill and
that the shaman was working to keep him healthy.

"We will not deign
to answer. Don't you answer. Oh no." He slung the cloth over his
shoulder and tried to push past her.

"You don't have to
tell me. I can easily climb the rest of the steps and see for
myself." She was passing him by when Gael came up behind her. He
reached for the shaman's bucket and peered inside.

"It's just water."
Alaysha said. She thought it might be something worse and had
checked it for herself.

Gael grunted and
reached for the cloth, inspecting it. This close, she could see it
was wet and brownish, as thought it had been used to mop up
something foul.

"Come," Gael said.
"You aren't supposed to be here."

"You brought
me."

"And if you go up
there, I will no doubt lose my head."

Theron watched the
exchange with interest and when Gael noticed, he sent him scurrying
down the stairs with a nasty glare. He gripped Alaysha's elbow; she
pulled it back.

"Someone is up
there. It could be Yuri. He might be sick."

Gael's gaze
narrowed. "Why do you say that?"

Alaysha turned
away. She didn't want to admit Saxa's confession. He huffed and
reached for her again when she wouldn't answer, but she wrenched
away.

"I'm going up
there. I suggest if you want to keep your head, you pretend you
don't see me."

Gael appeared
unimpressed. His lips twitched and he swallowed. He seemed to be
considering her words. She waited, confident by his demeanour that
he'd let her go.

He sighed finally,
and Alaysha felt a smile trying to take over her face until he
scooped her from her feet.

She groaned and
beat on his back as he loped down the stairs. She wanted to
complain that her belly hurt where the wound was still healing, but
she didn't want to give him the satisfaction. Instead, she sucked
in large gulps of air and focused on easing it out, concentrating
on breaths rather than the pain. By the time he'd made it to the
bottom of the stairs and levelled out his stride she didn't realize
he'd stopped until she heard voices.

His grip tightened
on her thighs.

She heard a
woman's voice, as gravely as rocks on heels, but definitely a
woman's.

"This is one of
your finest, I presume."

Speaking to
someone, a third party, Alaysha realized, and that someone must
have nodded in response. Gael sidled next to the wall so that
Alaysha's head butted up against the stone. She growled and he
slapped her legs in warning.

That was when she
realized the silent someone was her father and Gael was trying
desperately to keep his head. Awkward and undignified as she felt,
she wasn't inclined to help him with the task.

"Put me down," she
ordered only to be rewarded with a quick shot against the stone.
She cursed and heard her father chuckle at the sound of it.

"Another one,
Gael; do they never tire of being handled so?"

Alaysha tried to
squirm off Gael's shoulder, but felt his hands pinning her tight.
She opted to protest verbally, but he leaned against the wall so
that her face got pressed into his legs. The squirming became more
about getting air than about anything else.

The woman's voice
came again. "I wouldn't think you'd have to woo your quarry that
way, big man." She chuckled.

Several seconds
passed before Gael eased away from the wall and Alaysha was able to
breathe again. She gulped in a half a dozen drafts before she let
loose a yell.

Gael ignored her
and kept walking. She tried to knee him in the stomach, but found
the muscles she needed to do so were still too sore.

She opted for
quiet acceptance instead, considering what had just happened. Her
father was with a woman going somewhere Gael was loathe to take
her. He'd purposely pressed her against the wall so she couldn't
see, but surely he'd realize she'd knew her own father's voice.
Surely her father would know hers.

It struck her it
wasn't Yuri Gael feared she'd see or herself Yuri would see. Those
two things were second to the one other, critical issue. Neither of
them wanted her to see the woman.

So who else would
that woman be other than the fire witch?

Chapter 9

The seeds were nestled in a leather pouch she'd
stolen from Nohma's larder. She thought the hide had once been
rabbit, but there was no way to tell now. She only knew it
contained kasha grain, a fast-breaking meal, and since she wasn't
fond of kasha even with generous dollops of young honey, the six
seasons old Alaysha doubted her nohma would care if the pouch went
missing.

She poked a finger
in and rummaged through the tiny, desecrated pearls that had once
been four men's eyes. She remembered the looks on their faces when
they died. She remembered the way their saliva tasted – of smoke
and garlic and something unnameable that she would recognize later
as ale. But on that day, two seasons earlier as a toddler of four,
she'd not known and it was the most lingering taste of all.

She'd ridden out
on her father's mount, hanging from a basket on its side, legs
dangling from two special woven holes, her fat legs kicking at the
air. It hadn't been her first foray into war, but it was the first
where she'd be allowed to roam the field afterwards and see the
power her father owned let loose.

The four men stood
side by side, swords in hand, shields still on their backs. They
had nothing to fear from a small child toddling toward them, naked
and mewling of hunger. Nothing to fear. Nothing to protect their
lord from. He would be settled into his tent just beyond, or so her
father had said. He has something for you – a sweet bit of milk
like no other, and when you are done you shall have fresh honeycomb
from my own hand, he'd told her. Her father's own hands. And he
would smile at her.

She'd reached the
men, could see the tent beyond, the tents all around, horses,
hounds. Even washer women boiling leathers in large cauldrons and
taking down tunics hung in trees to dry. It looked so much like any
other home, any other encampment she'd seen. Nothing special,
really. No real reason for them to live and for her father's
village to die, not when the village was growing and the buildings
were being filled each and every day with new people her father
cared for. No reason for these to live in the face of that. And die
they would, he'd told her, if these men, this lord, and these
washer women lived.

"Drink," her
father had commanded.

She'd let her
thirst go before the men could even kneel to help her. She tasted
the mould from the earth beneath her, then the sweet tang of
freshly drawn water: cold and crisp. The men in front of her had no
idea what was happening. Why their mouths went suddenly dry, why
their leathers and tunics grew so loose as their skin shrivelled
beneath it.

Alaysha stood
beneath the gathering cloud until the men, the hounds, the birds
and leaves and mould and earth were dry, and she waited until the
cloud let go its water before she ran forward to see she had truly
done her father's bidding.

The four men were
so psyched they crackled beneath her hand, and one, the youngest,
who had come to battle hungry and sick – she knew this as she knew
each waterway of his body – was so dry he'd broken into pieces.

That's when she'd
seen the seeds. Two each lying a palm's width apart. Her Nohma had
ever told her a person's eyes were the seeds of their soul, looking
out at you, drinking in your spirit. And now they were mere seeds,
like the kasha grain she'd so hated to eat. What if these men laid
down roots in all this rain? What if their spirits took to the
ground and grew again? Father would not be safe. The village would
not be safe. She scrabbled to collect them before her father could
come and see she'd not done her full duty. She didn't want him to
be ashamed of her. He'd boasted so often of her gift, what would he
think if he knew she wasn't perfect?

She had nothing to
hide them in but her fist and she clenched her fingers over them
until her father came, as he always did, on foot. He didn't touch
her or speak to her. He merely scanned the area, nodded, and walked
away, and she followed him, holding tightly to the seeds.

And so the pouch.
Inside, they would gather no water. Take to no earth. Grow no
roots. And buried beneath the ground in hard clay, no one could
find it but her.

Four sets. Eight
seeds that she could still, two seasons later, build into men
holding swords and stand side by side if she wanted. A witch has a
long memory, her nohma always told her, all the better to find
water or know where it needs to return. The memory is the greatest
gift, she'd said. Without the memory, a witch was worse than
powerless because she had no control.