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12.

“You agreed to do what.” Sif says, more accusation than question. 

“Kill a wraith.” I answer.

“In exchange for what.” 

It's also not a question, but I think it annoys her when I answer.

“An unspecified amount of silver, and possibly some information about the castle I have been seeing in my dreams.” 

I can tell Ketil feels much the same as Sif but seeing as he did encourage—nay, compel—me to meet with the duchess, he has rightly decided to withhold his judgments. Sif has no such restraint.

“Do you want to die?” 

Remarkably, this one is a question, and I try my best to explain myself.

“This seems to be what the Raven Queen wants me to do, what she sent me here for, and at the same time I can stay on the good side of Powell and make some money. It made perfect sense to me.”

We argue for a time about my choices and how they are bad, and then about how I did not even ask how much silver, which, fair, and finally onto more esoteric topics, like whether or not one can even kill a wraith. Somewhere along the way it stops really being an argument because we can't seem to stop making each other laugh.

Later, we retire upstairs to Sif's room, our room, having given up the other one after that first night together, and with our quarrel behind us we move on to making up, vigorously, by candle light. 

I like that part a lot, and I like the part that comes afterward, when I lay curled in their warm embrace. I have always thought making love was something you do with those you are in love with, and it is, but it is also something you do with those you want to be in love with. You build love, brick by brick, with your bodies. I was not in love with Ketil or Sif when we started but now there is a foundation and who can say what might one day rest atop it.

We are woken early the next morning by someone rapping on the door. With the curtains drawn the sun can only throw a few narrow columns of light onto our walls, blindingly bright against the plaster. 

“Yes?” Sif calls out, as she draws the blanket away from her face and peers around through half lidded eyes.

Through the door comes the muffled voice of the innkeeper's son. "Excuse me. I hate to wake you, uh…”

“It is fine, Ewin, come in.”

The door opens just enough for the boy, whose name I have just learned is Ewin, to stick his head in. He blushes a little at the sight of the three of us, intimately arrayed in bed. 

“Uh, the man from the other day is back, he’s asking for you.” He says, addressing me.

“Thanks, Ewin. You can tell him I will be down in a few minutes.” I reply. Ewin’s cheeks go positively red when I say his name and he quickly excuses himself.

“I think the boy likes you.” Ketil remarks.

“I'm very likable.” 

I roll out of bed, enjoying the feeling of the cool wood beneath my bare feet, and move to the wash basin. I fill it from the jug beside and for a long moment I just watch the ripples and the way the water sparkles against the hammered metal. I don’t really want to go anywhere or do anything today. I just want to stay here in this room and pretend it's the world. Instead I splash my face with water, using the cold like a prod to push me into motion. I dress, hesitating for a moment as I decide whether or not I should wear the sword.

Sif scoots herself back into a sitting position on the bed. A sun beam falls across her head, making her white hair glow like a halo.

“You should bring the sword. Intimidate that little weasel of a man.”

“Hey! I like weasels.” Ketil interjects.

“You’re right, that was unkind of me. I apologize to weasel kind.”

I take her advice and strap the sword belt around my waist, spending frustrating moments adjusting it. The oversized tunic was well enough before, but now the excess fabric bunches annoyingly around the straps holding the scabbard and I have to pull it this way and that to get it to sit right.

“Agrippa, my patron, is hosting a feast tonight. I am going and I would like you both to come with me and meet him. I’m very fond of him, and I think you’ll like him too. Also I hear there will be roast pig.” She tries to sound nonchalant about the invitation, but underneath there is a tone of apprehension betraying how important it is to her.

Ketil speaks up immediately. “I would love to go.” I would love to go anywhere with you, his expression seems to say. An expression Sif returns.

“You had me at roast pig.” I say, but I mean much the same thing.

As I am coming down the stairs I see the man from the other day sitting in the foyer in the same place as last time. As before, he is well dressed and well groomed, yet something in his manner spoils his efforts, some hollowness to him. He rises when he sees me, a bit like a marionette, slack strings suddenly pulled taut.

“Good morning. The duchess has instructed me to deliver this to you, for your expenses.” 

He reaches into a little leather satchel he wears on his belt, beside his dagger, and pulls out a small pouch which he passes to me. It’s heavy in my hand and peering inside I find it full of silver aurs. 

“The duchess is generous indeed.” I say.

“As she said. Now, as thrilling as it is to come all the way up town, again, I shall bid you good day.”

“One thing before you go. I am in need of some new clothes and I was wondering if you could tell me who makes yours?”

The slightest sneer passes over his face. It only lasts an instant, but it's enough to help me understand what I did not before. Though his function is that of a servant, he is not like we were at the Red Tower. He is a man of position, carrying a measure of the authority of the duchess, and is used to being treated with deference by those of lesser stations. Such as myself. 

Understanding this, I feel less guilty about disliking him.

“There are several excellent clothiers on Lower Shade street. Albrecht’s is well regarded.” He says. He does not say it's the shop he goes to, but it doesn’t really matter. 

“Thank you.”

“I’m gratified to have been of use. Truly, this additional delay has given meaning to my entire morning. If that is all, I will take my leave.”

He departs immediately, leaving little time for a reply, and from behind me I hear the heavy footsteps of the innkeeper's son.

“You know, Ewin, I really don’t like that man.” I say.

“Me neither. Gives me the creeps. If he comes around again, you want me to tell him you're out?” 

“That might be for the best.”

Setting out into the city, with all its confusing complexity, has me feeling ill at ease. Knowing that I will have to find the creature, while it tries to avoid being found, in a warren such as this would be a nearly impossible task without magic. Even with magic, how do I home in on a thing I know nothing about? In the past, I have not been the sort to be mired in doubts, but increasingly I feel adrift in something beyond me. Only it doesn’t have to be. I just have to become more than I am now.

It's a long walk from the inn’s quiet, relatively out of the way neighborhood down to the busier market streets on the south side of the city. As I draw closer the background noise changes to that of craft and commerce. The pounding of hammers and the clinking of coins. The rapid speech of negotiations played like a game, with a winner and a loser. Even the streets change underfoot, from the irregular cobblestone common on the north side of the city, to closely fitted flagstones, smooth and even. My shoes make a pleasant tapping noise on their broad, flat surfaces, and that too becomes a characteristic of this part of town.

With Ewin’s directions Lower Shade street is easy enough to find. A city green planted with trees runs down the length of it, splitting the street in two, and on either side are well appointed shops, their brightly painted signs swinging gently in the breeze. It’s somewhat less chaotic here than around the stalls, as a slower kind of business is conducted here, but it’s still crowded enough to make me a little uncomfortable.

I find Albrecht’s a little ways down, and looking through the window I see that it’s teeming with customers, some being attended to by a flock of apprentices, while still more wait. Typical of more successful shops, the master is nowhere to be seen.  

Seeing the crowd inside, anxiety gets the better of me and I decide to continue down the street in search of a less busy shop. A little ways on a sign catches my eye. It shows a crudely painted knight with a flowing, bright red surcoat. The sign is affixed above the door to a cramped little shop, narrower than a pair of carts.

Stepping through the doorway into the small workspace and shop front I am confronted by shelves overflowing with stacks of loosely folded garments and bolts of cloth. One side of the room is dominated by a cutting table, where an older woman with short gray hair is marking chalk lines and curves on a lustrous yellow fabric. On the other side of the room a young woman sits, nearly buried by the gown she is sewing.

The older woman looks up from her work, giving my outfit a once over before setting her sight near enough to my eyes that most people wouldn't be able to tell she was avoiding them.

“Can I help you, young man? Though by the looks of you, I would say those clothes were made for someone six inches taller and nearly twice as broad, so mayhaps I have my answer.”

Something about her directness helps me to relax just a little and I nod, and then, feeling the need to offer an explanation, I add, "I was invited to a feast tonight and wanted to look nice."

"Wooing someone?"  

"I think they are wooed already, or perhaps it was the other way around. I just don't want to embarrass them."

"Hmm, I think I can help you." She moves to the shelves and shuffles through various items as if in search of something specific. Incorrect ones are haphazardly scattered over furniture until she finds the item she seeks. She walks over to me with a black tunic, trimmed in violet, and holds it up against me to gauge the size. "I think this would suit you very well, with only a little fitting. You like it?"

I take the fabric between thumb and forefinger, feeling the texture of it, not too fine, nor too coarse.

“I do.”

“Tell you what. There is a baker a few streets down. Bring us back a loaf of bread, the kind with olives in, and some apples from the grocer, and by the time you get back I'll have this brought in for you.”

When I agree she takes a measuring tape where it rests on her cutting table and proceeds to measure my waist, shoulders, and bust, making no comment about my proportions. This woman's only interest in bodies seems to be in how clothes will fit them. It's kind of a relief. When she's finished taking the measurements she snatches up her chalk once again and, with a little backwards wave of her hand, shoos me out the door.

The bakery isn't far but in that short distance I pass apothecaries and booksellers and bronze smiths and more, all going about their business in that sort of chaotic, but peaceful way that markets seem to have about them. A glassblower works under a red and green striped awning, turning a pipe with a lump of glass on the end like a glowing blob of honey. 

As I draw closer I detect a pleasant yeasty smell in the air, and I let it lead me the rest of the way, and right up to the bakery’s counter. The counter is minded by a young girl, barely tall enough to get her arms over the top, and In the back I can see a burly man tending a pair of clay ovens. I buy a loaf of olive bread and a small square of spice cake, and when I pay I slide the coins all the way across the counter so she doesn't have to reach 

I eat the spice cake as I walk, savoring the buttery, syrupy glaze where it lingers on my lips. I pass a man sitting by a fountain, this one a statue of a nymph, water running down her body from a cavity where her heart would be. He plays the double flute while a few people pause their business to listen. I stop at a stall selling bricks of soap, scented with lavender, and ask the man tending it where I might find a fruit seller. He points me further down the street, past a cluster of stalls, to a place where the market thins out. A little spot of relative calm. I find the seller seated on a rug with baskets of different fruit arrayed out before her. As I pass her a coin for the apples, a lock of red hair slips free from her wimple and she tucks it back under with a finger. 

It’s as I am walking back, bread in one hand and apples cradled against my stomach, that She comes to me. Like a whisper at first, a subtle scent on the breeze, and then more and more and faster and faster, until she is all around me and I feel as if I am at the still center of an invisible and furious maelstrom. As if just beyond my skin there is a rushing current that could carry me away and drown me in raven blackness.

Do you feel that? The thrum? There is terror there, beneath and behind. Can you smell the blood? 

“All I feel right now is you.”

The sensation diminishes until it's just a faint presence at my shoulder, and I instantly regret saying anything. 

And now?

“I feel the city. The bustle of it. If I feel blood and terror, it's only the kind every city has.”

Look closer. Deeper. Every contact leaves its mark. Blood will tell the way. 

“Why are you here now, and not earlier? And what about later, when I find this creature?”

There are rules even I must keep to, limitations, but when you face the creature you will not be alone.

I want to ask her where she goes when she is not with me, but the presence is gone before I can, and anyway, somehow it doesn’t seem right to ask.

Returning to the old woman’s shop, I am lost in thought and merely stand in the doorway until she takes the food from my hands and pulls me over to a corner. She hands me the tunic and busies herself removing half finished garments draped atop an old, cloudy mirror. 

I am self conscious as I undo my belt to remove my old things and I quickly pull the new tunic on over my head. Having been apart for so long, I take a moment to regard my reflection. The eyes are not as they were, but isn't it always so? The person in the glass is never quite as we imagine ourselves. They were never that blue though. I admire the reflection's figure, their waist where the belt draws in the fabric, the line of the collar against their skin. This will do. 

I pay the woman for the tunic, and also buy a pair of gray trousers, and legwraps to bind them at the calves, and one thing more. Spied among the shelves, a wool cloak as a gift for Ketil. Green to match his eyes.

The sun has set by the time we arrive at Agrippa's home. It's not the manor house I expected but rather a half ruin of a castle. Enormous roots grow in and around a crumbled turret and from a caved in section of the roof emerges a canopy of leaves. The great hall has seen its roof sag and its stones shift, but repairs have been made with great strips of iron, holding it all together like stitches closing a wound, and from its windows there is a warm glow

“It’s older than the city.” Sif announces. “A small part of the great fortress whence it gets its name.”

The decay of the exterior is not evident once we are inside. Polycandela light the entryway and tapestries adorn its walls. In the center, on a pedestal, is a silver basin filled with water where we wash our hands. There is dirt beneath my fingernails, mystifying me, and as I wash I watch the fine particles, like coal dust, slowly spiral down through the water to settle on the bottom. When I look up, Sif and Ketil are already walking through the doors into the great hall and I half jog to catch up.

I come alongside them and we enter the great hall together. Inside, a crackling fire casts light and warmth over the other feast goers, seated around a long table. There are maybe fifteen people here, besides ourselves. Lords and ladies and the like, richly dressed in blues and purples and golds. Long flowing gowns and girdles adorned with metal plaques, their engravings glinting in the firelight. Daggers too, worn at their waists, to kill their fear of wraiths, or each other. I see no servants yet, but I know they are there, waiting to meet the needs of the guests as invisibly and silently as they can. 

We take our places in the final three seats at the far end of the table. Seated at the head is a man I take to be Agrippa. He has chin length hair and a neatly trimmed beard, both brown going gray. The facial hair accentuates his already pronounced cheekbones and, combined with the marks of age around his eyes, give his face the slightest suggestion of a skull. There is nothing threatening in his manner though, rather I see someone accustomed to speaking softly, or not at all.

Agrippa gestures to some unseen person through a door to his right and soon servants enter the hall carrying plates and jugs of food and drink. The centerpiece are platters of roast pork, as promised, its skin crisp and glistening with fat and slathered in a thick syrupy sauce, staining it the color of wine. They also bring pies and bread, plates of fish swimming in butter and platters of rice, yellow with saffron and steaming.

The dishes are passed around the table, with guests taking portions to their liking. Some hold that the host serves themself first, and from them the dishes are then sent along, but if anything the opposite is true here. Agrippa passes on dish after dish, taking nothing, watching as others serve themselves. 

As my turn comes I take two slices of pork and a small helping of rice and fish, nervous that I might take too much of something, and appear greedy or rude. After each one I pass the dish on to the man at my left, who turns to receive them, the motion producing a delicate clinking sound from the gold chain he wears about his neck. As I hand him the platter of pies, much depleted, I look at his face and he looks down his nose back at me. "You don't belong here," he seems to say, and I’m inclined to agree.

As we eat, little enclaves of conversation form amongst neighbors. The man beside me pointedly ignores me, and I am grateful for it. Ketil and Sif are company enough for me, more than enough sometimes. I concentrate instead on the food, which is excellent, and on what little fragments of conversation I can pick up. Most of the talk seems to be either about the killings, the solstice festivities, or various tedious trade concerns I can’t bring myself to pay attention to. 

I try to enjoy the meal, but I am continuously aware of servants appearing unprompted to tend to the guests' needs and then leaving again, unthanked. To Agrippa's credit, he does not appear to share the same level of entitlement his guests display. I watch as a serving woman approaches him to refill his cup, and they exchange a few words. The woman makes some remark and Agrippa smiles, tight-lipped in that endearing way one does when they don't really want to smile, but can't quite help it. 

I wonder if that kind of passing respect is enough for this woman. I want to say it wouldn’t be enough for me, to live for another’s destiny, but that's not quite true, is it? Am I not a servant even now, to one more powerful than I? Do I not crave her favor? I’m not yet sure what that makes me, but I'm in no place to judge either Agrippa or the serving woman.

When the meal is finished the table is pushed to one side, making way for music and dancing. People gather around the edges of the room, leaving the center free, and as the musicians start to play the eagerest guests, Sif and Ketil amongst them, abandon the periphery to wade into the center and dance. Pairs come together to join hands and twirl, and then break apart again and join hands with another, all the while singing some song I do not know. Through the shifting bodies, I see Agrippa, still at the edge of the room. He watches briefly, and then takes the opportunity to slip out unseen, save by me. I wait a moment longer before following after him, so as not to spoil his exit. 

The sounds of merriment follow me out of the great hall and down the corridor. I find him in his library, and what a library it is. The room is two storeys tall, with shelves packed with books reaching all the way to the top. Agrippa is tending the fire as I enter, and doesn't notice me until he turns. 

"Oh. Caught me, have you?" He says, completely deadpan, while brandishing a poker. "You'll never take me back so don't even try it."

"I wouldn't dream of it." I say.

He sets the poker back in its place and takes a seat by the fire. "Smart. In truth I don't actually like these sorts of things, but I try to play my part. You're welcome to hide here with me and wait it out, if you like."

I take the seat opposite, adjusting my belt so I can place my scabbard across my lap. His eyes narrow slightly as he scans over it.

"You're one of Sif's new friends, yes? How is she, really?"

"She's well, or so it seems to me."

"Good good.” He rubs his hands and regards the fire. “It gladdens me that she has some new people in her life."

"If you don’t mind my asking, how is it you came to know her?"

“We met a few years ago, in Dritasy. She was a street performer, entertaining passerbys for the odd coin. You know, I don’t think I had ever seen anyone move with such power and grace.”

I hear people coming up the corridor, and turn towards the door to see Sif and Ketil poke their heads in a few moments later.

“I had a hunch we might find you here.” She says.

Agrippa gestures to a couple more chairs, flanking a small table by one window. Ketil takes one and brings it over, but Sif opts to sit on the floor near the fire, and lean against the side of my chair.

“Had your fill of dancing?” Agrippa asks.

“Never. But I did want to see you too.” Sif replies.

“I’m glad you could make it and provide some relief from my social obligations, though I would not have blamed you if you opted not to be on the streets at night.”

“Because of the murders?”

“After a fashion. I think you're more likely to get stabbed by some damn fool lordling, jumping at shadows.”

“Luckily we’ve got this one looking out for us.” She says, reaching up to pat my arm. 

“What do you know about the killings?” I ask him.

"Well, the gossip, which I regret to say I am well versed in, against my will, is that it is a apparition, a specter, a—"

"A wraith." Sif volunteers.

"Just so. Vaguely man shaped. With claws, naturally. Have to have claws. From there the stories diverge, every teller has his particular embellishments. That lot can barely talk of anything else." he gestures vaguely toward the great hall, where his guests still make merry. "None of them seemed to care so much when it was only the poor being stabbed in our streets, but now it’s their own skins on the line. Rieg Verger, undermaster to the bookbinders, was killed right outside their hall and the men and women within didn't lift a finger to help him, just bolted their doors against his screams. That last bit might be a minor embellishment, but you get the idea.”

He shakes his head, emphasizing his disgust, and I wonder at his choice to associate with these people he disdains. The same thought seems to have occurred to Ketil. 

"You don't seem to like your guests very much." He says.

Agrippa doesn't say anything at first, and in that silence my ears prick up at another sound. The first tiny pitter patter of rain striking the roof, high above. A rivulet of water creeps down the window. It's joined by another little tributary and another, and soon the rain picks up into a steady shower and for a few moments we all just listen.

Finally Agrippa speaks again, his mood seemingly improved. "Forgive me, it must seem very uncouth to criticize them behind their back, even as I invite them into my home. Let us speak of something else. Like Sif’s bright future on the stage at the solstice festival.”

We chat until long after Agrippa’s other guests have left and the fire has burned low. The rain never abaits and, at his insistence, we end up agreeing to stay the night. 

In the darkness of his guest room I try to imagine myself a current in the air, swooping and diving and cutting like a knife. All black wings and potent intent. Eventually, lulled by the soft breathing of my companions and the steady sound of rain beating on clay shingles, I fall asleep.

I dream I am in a purposeless room. An empty cube with doors in every wall. Something about the place scares me, like there is some hidden danger here. I know she's standing next to me, and I try to turn my head to look at her. The turning is slow, as though within that arc there is an infinity of room and I feel a growing sense of foreboding, like the heavy feeling of a dream about to become a nightmare. It builds and builds and I have to force myself through it, pushing down the fear because I have to know. I have to see her. And then somehow I break through the feeling and there she is. A woman, a little taller than me, with dark hair and dark eyes. Beautiful and sad. She is looking back at me and the corner of her mouth curls up into the slightest of melancholy smiles before looking away.

#original fiction #queer fiction #witchcraft #magic #fantasy #RavenQueensChosen #RQC12

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Castles - art by Alan Lee (1984)

#aesthetic

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11.

I wake to feel Sif stirring beside me, the motion nudging me to consciousness. She is curled against me, her head resting by my shoulder and one arm draped across my stomach. Ketil is sitting by the foot of the bed, already up and dressed. His hair is damp, hanging limply over his neck as he leans forward to pull on his boots. My eyes track a drop of moisture sliding down his neck to disappear beneath his collar.

“Going somewhere?” I ask, while rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

He lifts his head just a little, giving me a small smile. “Look who's finally awake. I was just going to head to the market, get some things. I had them draw us up a bath, but then you both looked so peaceful I didn’t want to disturb you. It'll still be warm if you don��t wait too long.”

“A bath sounds wonderful. Thank you.” And then, on an impulse as he is halfway out the door, “Get some of those little red sausages, would you?”

It's a few more minutes of basking in the comfort of the warm bed and the chill air before I can make myself rise, and another couple before I can coax Sif to do the same. Like a cat, she bats me away the first few times, but it's only in play and I have only to turn my attention elsewhere for her to try to fill it, also rather like a cat.

Downstairs, Sif and I inquire with the innkeeper's son, a brawny boy no older than sixteen and already half running the place, and he shows us to a small side room. The room is tiled in mottled blue, except for a wrought iron grate where water can drain, and in the center, taking up most of the room, is a large copper tub. A visible mist lingers above the still warm water. 

The boy excuses himself and when he has gone I slip out of my tunic and into the warm water, feeling the heat soothe muscles still stiff from the road. Water splashes across the tiles as Sif joins me, settling in down to her nose and prodding at me with her feet. Leaning back, I study the room. Bundles of copper pipe emerge from a wall to snake their way up and across the ceiling where they meet valves and junctions in a chaotic cluster, like a knot of tree roots.

Sif prods at me again, and rises up a little to bring her mouth above water. 

“So, I have been meaning to ask you about something. That night by the ocean I heard you whispering to someone. Who were you talking to?”

“Oh, that.” I hesitate for a moment as I try to find the right words to explain. “I was talking to the sword, or the one that speaks to me through the sword.”

Sif cocks her head to the side, but doesn’t interrupt.

“She is called the Raven Queen. I entered into a sort of...pact with her, and she helped us escape the tower. She told me to come here, to this city. She has some sort of task for me here.”

“What kind of task?” Sif asks, not attempting to hide her concern.

“She hasn’t told me yet.”

“Doesn’t that trouble you?”

“A bit, but I do love a mystery. The part that's really strange are the dreams. As vivid as waking—maybe more so. In them I find myself transported to some other place. An island I think, with a pale castle.”

"That sounds a little frightening."

"I suppose it could have been, but it wasn't. It was...an unguarded moment. Like speaking to a friend when it's late at night and you can’t quite see them, and somehow you feel you can say anything.”

"You trust her."

"Yes."

"What if you're being fooled? I hear demons like to do that."

"Its happened once or twice, though not lately. I’m not easy to fool."

"Do you know my soul then? My true character?"

"Yes, I think so."

"So tell me, who am I?"

"You are a lover of pleasure, in a generous sort of way. You want to eat the world, and sometimes it overwhelms you and you feel like if you don't share it you will burst."

I study her face as I speak, looking for the tell tale signs that I am right, or that I am not. Sometimes they don’t quite know themselves and, if you are very careful or very careless, you can tell someone something about themselves that is not true, and they will believe you. They will take it as insight and incorporate it into their understanding of themselves and in that way it becomes true. That always felt like magic to me, not to be done lightly, and I need speak no untruths to Sif.

"It's why you perform.” I continue. “You can't contain the feeling, not by yourself. It's not just on the tightrope, but in everything you do. Sex, conversation, how you enter a room.”

Her face turns stony, like she's waiting for a blow, like she expects me to conclude by condemning her, and I wonder who made her feel like desire was a flaw. That's the last thing I want to do. 

“You’ve suffered more than your share of rejections, but you still love beginnings more than you fear ends. I like that about you."

She is silent for a moment, digesting it all. 

"Kind of a know it all, aren't you?" She jokes. "But I don't do the tightrope."

Over the next week or so, when Sif is not otherwise occupied performing, she shows us around the city. Her favorite shops and bakeries. The harbour and the manor district, with their ocean views. The grand gardens and public squares. It never quite distracts me from the Raven Queen’s continuing silence, but it comes close.

My favorite is the Lofts, which is what the people of the city call the neighborhood of buildings grafted onto the aqueducts. It’s late morning when she takes us there the first time. The air is crisp and cool and a light breeze stirs the fallen leaves on our path. It's a great many steps to reach the very top, but once there we are treated to the most spectacular view. The city, all in miniature, with the ocean on one side, looking like a sheet of beaten silver. The moorland, its own kind of ocean, and then the mountains to the east, the snow line slowly being drawn down like a curtain as the season changes. 

A little lower down we find a tiny park, built onto a sort of terrace. Grass and a few trees, and of course a fountain. Fountains seem to be everywhere in the city, celebrating their wealth of water. Somehow it manages to feel egalitarian, rather than gratuitous. This one is a wolf's head, with water running out between its bared teeth.

We eat our lunch sitting beneath one of the trees. Little puddles of light fall from the canopy, painting the grass many shades of green and gold. Leaves rustle and the fountain burbles. The wind blows my hair across my eyes and I brush it back behind my ear. I speak little, preferring to listen as Sif and Ketil talk and joke and flirt.

During these past few days I have noticed as some pieces of Ketil, absent since the dungeons and our escape from the Red Tower, have begun to return to him. As if they crawled out of that pit and trailed after, only now catching up to us. He is freer with his smiles and laughter. The pleasure doesn’t melt from his face the moment he thinks no one is looking. It makes me want to keep him at a distance, apart from whatever comes next, and safe. He wouldn't like that, I don't think, but I don't have to tell him. 

As we are crossing the entryway on our return to the inn, I notice a man seated by the wall, watching us closely. He rises smoothly from his chair and glides towards us, stopping in our path to address us, or more to the point, me.

"The Duchess Morwyn Powell requests your presence."

"Is that so?" I reply, my inflection flat.

I am half inclined to keep walking right past him, but I remember what it was like being on the receiving end of some imperious guest at the red tower, and I don't really want to inflict that on the undeserving. Instead I stop and give the man my attention, though from over his shoulder I can also spy the innkeeper's son, watching us from a back room, wary. 

"Yes. Your presence is requested." He repeats. "At once."

"What does this duchess want with me?"

"She did not explain her thinking to me but perhaps, as a recent arrival to her city, she wishes to welcome you."

"And if I don't want to come?" I ask, skipping past his dubious explanation. 

His smile broadens without revealing his teeth, or crinkling his eyes. Perhaps he is not so undeserving after all.

Ketil, no doubt sensing my annoyance and anticipating my reply, draws me aside to speak out of the immediate earshot of the man.

"It's not worth picking a fight." He whispers. "Better to make this duchess a friend, than an enemy."

"I killed the last person who presumed to command me. Why would I tolerate it now?"

"You seem happy enough to serve this Raven Queen of yours." I can see he regrets the comparison, and he raises his hands placatingly. "I know she's nothing like the Wizard of the red tower, but there is no reason to think this duchess will be either."

“There is no reason to think she won't.”

He breaths a long, slow sigh, exhaling his exasperation. "You're very smart, and very brave, and it’s made you so very certain. Hear me this once. Do not risk all this just for pride."

The unspoken implication is that he will never forgive me if I do, and I suppose that will have to be a good enough reason. I nod my head, conceding to his arguments, and I see the sternness of his face soften.

Sif and the man are eyeing each other confrontationally when I return, or at least Sif is eyeing him that way, and he is placidly returning the look. 

I tell the man I'll meet his duchess and we are about to leave when the innkeeper's son steps out from the back room carrying a long, narrow wooden box, and looking like he would have preferred to walk through brambles. 

"Before you go, miss, or uh…" He trails off, looking sheepish. 

I realize he is talking to me, and I wait for him to finish. 

"Uh, pardon, this was left for you." 

He holds out the box to me and I receive it with a little hesitation. There is a note tied around the middle with twine, which I slip off and read.

I thought this might serve you better than the bundle of cloth.

Your friend,

Ramzi 

Eagerness replaces my hesitation as I open the box to reveal a scabbard resting on a blue velvet lining. It is well made, and the deep red dye and dark metal fittings have been chosen with care to match the sword as closely as possible. A star motif has been subtly embossed into the leather, and as I turn it I see several constellations I recognize. The Serpent, the Daughters, the Lodestar Eye. No doubt he chose these ones specifically, for they are all associated with magic. Ramzi has good taste.

The sword slides in smoothly, fitting the scabbard with almost no play, loose enough to draw easily, but secure. Ketil plays the squire, helping me belt it around my waist, and I turn this way and that to feel the weight. Three straps attach the scabbard to the belt and with a little instruction Ketil adjusts them so that the sword does not swing awkwardly as I walk. All the while the man looks on, his face a picture of serene indifference.

Ketil and Sif give me a final once over, adjusting my tunic and the new belt until I look presentable, sort of, and then I follow the man out. He escorts me to a carriage parked on a nearby street, the interior of which is a cramped little box with expensive drapes. He taps the glass when we are situated and we set off.

"If I had declined to come, would anything have happened?" I ask him.

"Our actions always have consequences, but not the way you mean. The duchess prefers not to give commands." He looks away, seemingly finished, and then back, as if something had just occurred to him. "That being said, us attendants do make it our responsibility to ensure the duchess never has to."

"Do very many of these attendants die in the process?"

"Some." He concedes, before changing topics. "Might I ask how you prefer to be referred to?"

"I prefer not to be."

“I see. When I introduce you to the duchess I shall simply point.”

The duchess's manor stands out from its fellows in that it is both older and smaller. Built on a fairly narrow plot of land with other properties boxing it in on either side. A high wall comes out all the way to the street, enclosing a tiny flower garden, and a path leading up to the house, deeper in. 

My escort has me wait in the foyer while he disappears upstairs. Inside, the walls are half-paneled in dark wood, capped with a strip of crenellated molding evoking the battlements of a castle, with tastefully off white plaster above that. Through an open door I can see a large library, and through another a more modest dining room. 

The man returns a short while later and shows me upstairs, where he opens a door and gestures that I should enter. Across the room from the door, seated behind a substantial desk that looks as sturdy as the city walls, which is to say, siege proof, sits a woman. She is gowned in purple, with dark skin, and short tight curls. On her face she holds an expression of self assured authority. 

Wise and cunning, and beloved by her people. The emperor fears her, but she does not fear him. Ask her if she knows what stalks her city streets at night.

The sound of the Raven Queen's voice, after such a long absence, sends a shiver running up my spine that makes me want to be alone. Instead I force my attention away from that unexpected ache and back to the moment and the person in front of me. 

The duchess peruses a letter, her eyes scanning through it quickly, and then returning to different points to read more carefully. She writes a few lines on a piece of paper, consults the letter again and writes a few more, finally folding the paper and affixing her stamp in reddish purple wax. She starts speaking even as she opens another letter from the collection on her desk.

“Thank you for coming. I am Morwyn Powell, Duchess of Hitibjod. It's a pleasure to meet you. I have been hearing interesting things about you, Slave Saint." 

"Slave Saint?" 

"You haven't heard? It's what they’re calling you. The rumors speak of a righteous figure with a flaming sword. Freeing slaves, banishing evil, defending the innocent."

"Those certainly do sound like rumors. Do you believe them?"

"Yes, in part." Her eyes lift from the papers she’s been pretending to study. "I know a witch when I see one." 

She pauses, waiting for me to fill the silence with corrections or protestations. I know what the word means to her, to most people. An accusation of unsavory deeds performed in the dark, of trickery and deception. It does not hold those meanings for me though, so I stay silent. 

A moment passes with neither of us speaking, and then finally the corner of her mouth raises just a bit. The slightest smile, acknowledging some minor understanding.

“What brings you to my city?” She asks. 

Am I going to be trouble, she means. I, myself, don't yet know. And then, all at once, I do. The answer comes to me fully formed as I perceive the shape of the scheme. 

Uninvited, I take one of the seats across from her, letting the question hang in the air while I do. 

"Banishing evil, I think you called it. I am here to rid you of the predator haunting your streets. Provided the price is right."

Her eyes narrow slightly, and there is an edge in her voice. "What do you know about it?"

"Not so much, but I know it troubles you."

"It kills my citizens and nobody seems able to catch it. Of course it troubles me. You think you can rid me of this thorn?”

“I do. Tell me what I need to know.”

She considers me for a time while absentmindedly tracing slow circles with her thumb over the fore and middle fingers of that hand. The motion stops.

“Five dead in the last two months. Cut to ribbons. Always at night, always out of doors. My spies can find no credible witnesses, though many claim to have seen a creature. A wraith made of chill smoke, with claws like razors.” 

"More rumors."

“Yes, but in my experience there is always at least a grain of truth. If this description has not put you off the task, then I am content to pit you against this thing, but know this.” She leans forward, placing her elbows on the desk and speaking over her curled hands. “The politics of my city is a complex web of powerful and competing interests. Guilds, nobles, the clergy. The victims have been influential people and I suspect one of these groups is making a move, but my spies have been unable to tell me who or how. If you can put an end to the killings, that is well, if you can uncover who has ordered them, that is better. Either way, you will not find me ungrateful."

I am about to nod my understanding and agreement, even though this second part interests me not at all, when something occurs to me, a thought of one more way that I may get the most out of this meeting, and I have only to ask.

“That's good, because there is something I want. More than silver, though I will take that too. I seek a certain place. An island, with a palace of pale stone. Do you know it?”

She quirks her head in a curious way, as if surprised at the guilelessness of the question. After a moment's consideration she speaks. "I'm afraid I don't, not yet, but do this thing for me and I will endeavor to change that.”

#fantasy #original fiction #queer fiction #witchcraft #RavenQueensChosen #RQC11 #magic

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The Raven Queen’s chosen.

(Commissioned from the talented @trashootie)

#OC #fantasy #witch #nonbinary #RavenQueensChosen #RQC

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Snowdonia, Wales - by Aidan Gageler

#aesthetic

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10.

The mountains give way to craggy foothills, through which the road wends its restless way, discontented with straight lines. Eventually it brings us around a bend to get our first look at the Rehm ocean, glittering in the afternoon sun. Impossibly blue and so very welcoming, though the road seems in no hurry to get there. It does not love the waters as I do.

After the foothills we join the coast road, which we follow north towards Caer Vyr. The going is considerably flatter here, making for a more comfortable ride, and I let myself daydream the afternoon away. As we draw closer to the ocean my senses are filled with it. The sounds and smells fly to us on the wind and my spirit seems to follow them back along that same path, drawing me into the water to play there in my mind. 

It’s overcast and chilly when we stop to rest by a little inlet, even so Ketil and Sif agree to join me for a swim without too much convincing. I strip to my underthings, cross the pebbly shore, and wade into the dark waters. They trail after with somewhat less enthusiasm. 

The water is very cold, but I don’t care. I walk till it's too deep to walk and swim just a bit further. There I float, only my face above water, and close my eyes, feeling my body buoyed by the waves, their gentle insistence. I imagine floating like this forever, just drifting and dreaming. That would be the perfect life, wouldn't it? Weightless and free, desires ebbing and flowing with the tides.

My reveries are interrupted by the sound of Ketil and Sif. They are both swearing loudly as the frigid water grasps at their bellies. Seeing them brave the cold to join me, I feel like some beautiful thing, alluring and mysterious. They want to be warm and dry, but more than they want that, they want to be here with me. They swim out and we come together in the gentle waves and play like children, until our bodies are numb and the lethargy of a day spent in the wagon wears away.

Later, we sit by the fire, blankets draped over our shoulders. We giggle to ourselves through chattering teeth and the other caravanners look at us like we are mad. In truth I am barely aware of them. My attention, no matter which way I might try to shift it, seems to fall inexorably back to Sif. To the bare skin of her collar, the depression above the bone where rainwater would collect in a statue. I feel an intense longing to kiss that spot, but her hand is on Ketil’s upper arm and I do my best to banish the thought.

Sleep eludes me that night. I listen to the soft breathing of the others, arrayed around the embers of the fire, surrounding me, and I feel an odd loneliness. My fingers find the cool metal of the sword beside me and I draw it closer, entangling myself around it like a lover.  

“Are you there?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. There is no reply, but just holding it makes me feel a bit better. Better enough to sleep a little before morning comes, bringing with it the last leg of our journey.

The road follows the contours of the coastline only approximately, sometimes meandering farther inland and out of sight of the ocean, into the seemingly boundless moorland. Enormous cloud shadows drift lazily over the stark landscape, and in the distance we catch the occasional glimpse of a shepherd grazing his flock on the moors. Over time the terrain morphs into low, gradually rolling hills that slope downward to the ocean or leave short vertical cliffs, eroded by waves into curious contours. 

At long last we crest the brow of a hill, and there, arrayed before us, is the city. Myriad colorful buildings on a gentle slope, surrounded by a wall like a necklace, punctuated with guard towers like beads spaced along its length. With our destination finally in sight the sense of stalled time engendered by the day’s ride finally relents. 

I lean my head out the window, taking in the sight as more and more detail becomes apparent. To the west, the edge of the city is given over to the harbour, its many fingers splayed out, stretching into the bay, where ships of all sizes crowd around them. On the east side the city is dwarfed by the great aqueducts, there to sate its enormous thirst for freshwater. Each one is many times taller than the rest of the cityscape, and little clusters of buildings cling to their sides like mushrooms to the trunk of a tree.  

Caer Vyr is a convergence of power and influence. All trade routes touch it eventually. Like ley lines, they feed it. Like a heart it pumps the blood of empire. 

It is no stretch of the imagination to see it as she does. Even now I can spy the merchant ships in it's harbour. The line of wagons awaiting entry at its gates, and this caravan too, soon to join them.

The city walls loom over us as we near the main gate. The gatehouse is a massive edifice. Thirty feet wide, and at least twice as tall. As we pass beneath I can see two lines of spikes protruding from the stone high above, the bottom of a pair of iron gates. Relics of an era when wealthy cities would be besieged by empires that no longer exist, all but vestigial now.  

Emerging into the city we are confronted with a cacophony of sights and sounds and smells. Throngs of people move about their business, coming or going or giving their custom to the many shop fronts and open air stalls that line the road. It seems as if every sort of person imaginable is within immediate sight, from the humblest laborer, who may well have lived here their entire life, to wealthy merchants and traveling nobles in extravagant outfits from far away places.

The smells of fresh bread and roast meats drift over to us on the breeze from the varied food stalls. They mix with a sharp undertone, almost imperceptible. Dyeing vats I think, a neighborhood away or more, doing their part to supply the extravagant colors that fill my view.

The caravan sticks to the wider streets, full to bursting with people and carts, as it makes its way harbourside. The going is very slow, and there are long periods where the wagons don't move at all. Sif fidgets in her seat, growing increasingly impatient, until she seems to settle on a decision. 

“Come on, let's walk. I’ll show you to my favorite inn.” 

When we don't immediately object, she sticks her head out the window to inform the driver. We grab our things and hop down. I notice Ketil adjusting the strap at his shoulder and looking around anxiously at the crowds, perhaps wary of finding himself adrift in this confusion. Sif tips the driver and asks him to pass along our thanks to Ramzi. She leads us away from the crowds into the narrow side streets where we are quickly swallowed up by the city. 

Like shifting through time, the architecture around us varies widely by era, and in the deep corners of the city centuries old buildings sit, their columns cracked or toppled, but their windows alight with life.

Though they lack the chaos overflowing from the markets, the side streets are not truly quiet either. It's all still dense with the motions of people's lives. Washing gets hung on lines, forming makeshift banners across the residences. Dust is swept into the street to scatter. Snippets of conversation drift to us from open windows, laughter and shouting and tender words. 

We follow Sif through what feels like a maze of small streets and lanes. Her every step is sure, and we eventually come to a place where the street widens and splits to encircle a tiny city green, constituting a patch of grass and a single gnarled old tree, its trunk covered in moss. Opposite the green, on one side, is an inn, three storeys tall and more than a little eclectic. I’m immediately taken with it. The original building is old stonework, well maintained, but additional floors and wings have been added to it over the years, expanding it with brick and plaster and exposed beams into something strange and brimming with character.

Ivy creeps up the left side of the building to surround the windows, and spills onto the turquoise tiles of the roof. Tall trees crowd the building from behind, where there is evidently a large garden. High up, in an attic window, birds nest.

“It's a lovely old place, isn’t it? Like a secluded little oasis.” She does a twirl as she says it and makes her way to the entrance.

“It really is.” Ketil replies. There is a slight note of anxiety in his voice and then, speaking quietly so as not to have Sif hear. “This place is a bit nicer than I was expecting. I’m not sure we can afford it.”

I share the feeling, but try to allay his concerns. “Sif knows our circumstances. It will be ok.”

As it happens the price per night is quite modest, perhaps because the roads here are too narrow for the carriages of the wealthy, or perhaps because it is so far from the city center. Whichever it may be, I'm grateful at the prospect of a soft bed.

A porter leads us upstairs and down an irregularly winding corridor with odd alcoves and secluded window seats, organic and ungoverned like the building's exterior. 

The room itself is modest but very welcoming. A large picture window, framed by the ivy peaking around the edges, casts the golden evening light over everything. To one side is a fireplace flanked by overstuffed chairs, and across from it an enormous bed that could easily sleep four.

Ketil immediately goes for the bed, collapsing onto it with a sigh. I follow suit, clambering up to lie down beside him and letting myself relax into the mattress. After days of bedrolls and hard earth it's exquisite.

"This is nice, right?" I ask. 

"Yeah, it is." And then after a long pause. "Sif is nice."

"She likes you."

"Yeah?"

"I don’t think she brought us here just out of friendliness."

“What about you?”

“I’ll be ok.”

I realize I misunderstood his question, but the conversation is already moving on and I'm not sure I know the answer anyway. 

“Has the raven queen told you why we’re here yet?” He asks.

“No. She hasn't said much the last day or two.” I try not to let my unease show, but somehow it crawls its way up my throat anyway. "I try to talk to her, but she doesn't answer."

He takes my hand, his fingers slipping in-between mine. "I'm sure there is a good reason."

We meet up with Sif later that evening in the meal hall. A few other patrons dine nearby, conversing quietly amongst themselves. We find a table by the small windows that peer out from the ivy onto the road. A moment later a man brings us plates of food. Fresh bread, toasted and topped with crushed tomatoes and olive oil, and generous portions of roast fish. 

"Now you will learn why I really love this place." Sif says, before lifting one of the slices of bread, dripping with oil and tomato juice, to her mouth and taking a bite. She closes her eyes, and gives a pleased little shimmy, evidently satisfied.

The meal is wonderful and the company is better. We talk about the different places Sif wants to show us in the city, or the work we might find here, or nothing, which somehow is the richest topic. I watch as periodically Sif and Ketil will share a shy smile and a look. Sometimes Sif will catch my eye, noticing me watching, and hold my gaze for a moment, until I look away. 

Later, as we climb the stairs to the third floor and our waiting rooms, an awkward silence descends over us. The evening has slipped away and I feel a kind of heightening of the senses. Ketil and Sif walk side by side a few steps ahead of me, their flirting silenced, replaced by a palpable anticipation of the coming parting for the night. Sif’s door is first and we say our goodnights, and then we linger there at the threshold a moment or two longer than required. She stands just inside, a hand on the doorframe, posture relaxed. Ketil looks as if he wants to say something, but shyness or uncertainty stays his tongue. If I could give him the words I would, gladly, but I don’t have to.

“Would...you like to come in?” She asks. She tilts her head to the side, just slightly, as if to emphasize the invitation.

Ketil smiles shyly and takes a step forward, crossing that subtle distance separating ordinary with intimate. I am pleased for the two of them, and at the same time feel suddenly awkward, voyeuristic and superfluous. I make to leave, turning towards my own room down the hall but not a moment later I feel a gentle touch on my wrist. Looking back I find Sif’s eyes fixed on me, pinning me in place like a moth to a card. 

“Won’t you stay?” There is a pleading to her voice. The composure has fallen away to reveal the stormy surface to a deep sea of yearning. I know the feeling behind that look, the vulnerability of wanting something that is hard to ask for. She knew Ketil would be receptive, that was clear enough, but she wants us both. Somehow that clicks into place and I wonder at not knowing it sooner.

I let her draw me back in, and her face flushes with delight. She takes us each by the hand, her eagerness like a vibration in that touch, and leads us inside. 

The room is warmed and dimly lit by glowing embers in the fireplace. In that soft, orange light I watch as she kisses Ketil, tentative and probing, an explorer charting new territory. She breaks away from him and moves over to me, her hand finding my cheek. As she leans in her thumb gently brushes across my cheekbone. My lips meet hers, at once yielding and intent, and her fingers slide through my hair.

There is something almost ritualistic about how we proceed. He and I undress her together. From behind, his arms curl around her to undo the laces of her trousers, while I undo her shirt. She raises her arms and I lift it up and over. For a moment it covers her eyes like a veil, but her mouth is free, and I catch her in another kiss. When I pull away she moves with me, drawn like a lodestone, not wanting to disengage. 

He slips her trousers and underthings over her hips and lets them drop to the floor before caressing his way up her bare thighs. All that remains is her strophium, securely wound around her breasts. I untuck one end and she twirls obligingly, arms over her head, like a dancer. Each rotation her eyes return to mine, her fixed point. 

Sif and I are attentive and unhurried as we undress Ketil. With his shirt removed I admire his shoulders. I wrap an arm around him to caress his chest, while I kiss his neck. Sif, kneeling to free his feet from his crumpled clothes beneath, gives him a playful lick and I feel a shiver run through him, transmitted from her touch all the way to my lips on his skin. 

Then it's my turn. I see something mischievous in their eyes as their attention shifts my way. I think they like having me at their mercy and strangely that calms my trepidation. Ketil undoes my belt, letting the oversized tunic fall open, and Sif draws it back, off my shoulders and down. I feel her warm breath at my neck and the tips of her fingers skimming so lightly down my back. She turns me around and her hands find their way to my breasts making me quiver. I feel ketils mouth at my lower back, kissing lazily before stripping me of the last of my clothes.

Sensations blend and shift and chip away at my sense of time and place. We fall into the bed and languidly explore one another, finding many pleasures, familiar and not. Seeking our conclusions with no urgency, not at first. 

Even in the midst of our play there is a part of me that stays at a remove, studying Sif. The unburdened way she has about her in this space. The joy she takes in her body, and in ours, so unselfconscious. She is a seeker and sharer of pleasure. A hedonist. I admire her for it, and feel grateful that she should choose me to be one of her partners. 

Later, after the embers have ceased to glow and all is dark, I trace my fingertips along the crest of her pelvic bone, just above her thigh. What kind of marks do fingertips leave on skin? A hundred years of gentle touches would leave no scars, no roads on the body, but memories are a kind of mark too and they will suffice.

#fantasy #witchcraft #queer fiction #original fiction #RavenQueensChosen #RQC10 #magic

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Coastal Hitibjod

#RQC #RavenQueensChosen #fantasy #fantasymap

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#aesthetic

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9.

The four of us while away the evening in each other's company. Ramzi and Sif are both charming in different ways and conversation flows easily from topic to topic, purposeless and relaxing. Ramzi regales us with stories of his travels and adventures, of which there are many. Despite his skill as a storyteller he does not seem inclined towards boasting or outlandish embellishment, making certain extraordinary details sound all the more remarkable, and when we tease him for something or other he takes it with good humor.

Sif seems to inspire that easy openness in others. There is an earnest curiosity there. She is one of those rare people that, when you're with them, makes you feel as if you have their complete attention. Even as I silently observe the others converse, only occasionally piping in with a remark of my own, she will look over at me, sharing in some unspoken thought, a silent reminder that I am no less present to her.

It's after midnight and the dining hall is all but empty when our little group eventually separates in search of beds. Moments in the conversation echo in my head as Ketil and I walk through the cool night air to our room. Ketil doesn’t have the same solitary tendencies I do, and I can tell how much good this night has done him. He likes these new people. I do too, and more than that I want them to like me.

I wake early the next morning, dressing myself while still half asleep. A cold fog has settled into the crevasses of the mountain, blanketing the village. Stepping out into the courtyard, the inn feels transported to another plane. Beyond the arch there is no village, only ghostly white void.

Though the hour is early for me, certainly earlier than I would have liked after such a late night, the courtyard is already enlivened with activity. Caravan hands are feeding and hitching the horses to the many carts and wagons, while others load fresh provisions for the journey. They are in good spirits as they work, entertaining each other with bawdy jokes and anticipating the pleasures of the city. 

I find the little store front in a corner of the building, where the innkeeper is arranging the distribution of provisions. Mostly staple goods, suited to travel, but I see other things on his shelves too. A small wooden box, darkly lacquered, sits beneath a layer of dust on a high shelf, tempting the eye. Bottles of liquid in unnatural shades occupy another out of the way spot. I imagine there are things he has acquired from the travellers he serves, soon to be accompanied by trinkets from the Red Tower. He gives me fair enough prices for the valuables and I leave with a small pouch of coin, enough to pay our fare with the caravan, and maybe a week's lodging in Caer Vyr. After that we will have to figure something else out. 

Beside the store front, out of the way of the work, I find a bench where I can sit and people watch. Ramzi darts back and forth, attending to whatever little fires require him, but when he sees me he pauses long enough to say good morning. In the second story gallery, by our room, I see Ketil emerge and stretch, pulling each arm across his chest and then up and back. In a corner across the courtyard, apart from the others, Sif exercises, doing cartwheels and somersaults and hand springs. Each motion, executed with apparent ease, gives the impression that she is only loosely bound to the world. Cut her tether and she will float away. She pauses, resting a hand on her hips, and when she notices me watching she gives a little wave.

Ketil and I share a breakfast of cold, congealed soup. Still delicious, but texturally unpleasant. Neither of us speaks, choosing instead to sit with our thoughts while we wait. Preparations seem to be finishing up and a harried looking Ramzi slows down long enough to tell us we depart shortly. Ketil volunteers to inform Sif, perhaps wanting a moment alone with her. I give him a sly smile, making him blush, and walk to the wagon alone.

The passenger wagon is fully enclosed, with shutters for the windows and a door at the back with a single step. It's decorated with painted vines that wind around the windows and door, flowering in red and white. Someone has furnished the interior with an eclectic selection of pillows and drapery on nearly every surface, giving more the impression of an intimate parlor than a wood barrel on wheels. 

I settle in by one of the windows, tucking my things under the seat, and stare at a section of red velvet draped over a crate, not really seeing it. In that quiet, strange interior, my thoughts turn inexorably to the Raven Queen. To magic. In her own way I think she has been trying to teach me, to open my eyes to the subtler mysteries. I’m drawn to it, not just as a tool to protect myself and my reclaimed freedom, but perhaps as a means to invent myself. Is that what she intends for me? I can’t help thinking that there is more to this than a straightforward exchange. There is something she wants me to understand, but for what purpose I cannot say. Maybe she just needs someone to know. 

I become aware of Ketil and Sif approaching the cart, and I turn in time to see them sharing an intimate look. The single step by the door is quite high off the ground and Ketil takes hold of the door frame as he climbs up. Sif follows after, walking right up to the edge and leaping with both feet to land perfectly at the threshold. Ketil claps and she gives the tiniest bow and takes a seat across from me and him.

Soon the caravan rumbles to life, a line of wagons like a centipede scuttling its way out of town and towards the mountain. The ride is bumpy and I'm grateful for the pillows. I gather them around me like a nest and watch the scenery go by. All of us seem to mutually agree that it's much too early in the morning for conversation, but as the hours go by that silence eventually lifts.

"I should tell you,” Sif pipes up, “I had paid to have the wagon to myself, preferring to travel alone, but you seemed interesting. An androgyne with a sword and an accent from my homeland, and a handsome young man with sensitive eyes who has clearly seen some rough treatment. I’m ever so curious, where did you two run away from?"

On instinct Ketil’s hand goes to the wound on his head. It’s healing well, but there’s no hiding it was a nasty cut. Neither of us answer immediately. 

“You don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to.” She says, and then in a lighter tone. “I’m very excited to be returning to Caer Vyr, it's a beautiful city.”

"The Red Tower." Ketil blurts out. "We were slaves there, to a horrible man."

She reaches out to touch his arm, open sympathy on her face. "I have heard the stories. I’m very sorry. How did you manage to escape?"

Ketil looks at me, and then to the sword sitting innocuously at my side. "We had help."

“Will they be looking for you?” 

I can’t help but smirk to myself. “No. No they won’t.”

She regards me for a moment. “You’re a little scary. I like it.”

“They can be, when they want to. There is no one I would feel safer with.” Ketil's remark catches me a little off guard, going right past my defenses. I don’t know what I should say. His trust feels like a gift. One I am not certain I deserve.

Sif voices the feeling for me, her tone dreamy. “That’s beautiful.” 

There is no way she can know exactly what his trust means to me, but she knows it means something. She seems to perceive some fragile part of me, exposed, and my instinct is to hide, like a rat shying away from candlelight. I know this feeling better second hand. Often it's there, written on someone's face, when they realize I see them. The light isn’t harsh though, and I think I might reveal more if left under that gaze for long enough.

“How is it that an acrobat can afford to travel in a private wagon? Ketil asks, shifting the attention off me. 

"I've been successful. But it's not my money. My patron paid for it."

“Did Ramzi refund your fare at all?”

"He did, partially. He is really very fair...fare." She repeats the word slowly, playing with it. "He also apologized for putting me on the spot. So, what are you going to do in the city?”

“I honestly don’t know yet.”

“Then you can do anything. You could be a sculptor and sit by the harbour in the afternoons, watching the ships. Or maybe a baker with a mysterious past." The sound of shifting fabric as she leans forward, just a bit. "I could show you around, if you like."

I turn from the window to see the two of them looking at each other, their expressions dense with subtle shades of meaning, signaling what they don't yet say. Her eyes flick to mine for a moment and her smile broadens a little. No discomfort or self consciousness. Just an innocent delight. I feel as if I can see her future in little flashes. Performances of poise and skill that thrill many, but none more so than herself. Quiet days of simple pleasures. Passionate love affairs. It’s easy to imagine Ketil there, by her side.

“I’d like that.” Ketil replies.

It’s nearly noon when we cross the snow line. At first there are little tufts of snow in shaded places, and then more and more until nearly everything is blanketed in shining white. Much thicker, and it will have to be cleared from the road ahead of the wagons, which could add considerable time to the journey, but I don’t dwell on hypothetical inconveniences, I just enjoy the scenery and the crisp, cool air.

We are deep into the mountains when I begin to hear some commotion coming down the line of wagons from the front. Shouts and cries carry over the sounds of the horses and the caravan comes to a slow stop. Peering out the window I can see the cause. An enormous tree has fallen across the road, blocking the way. Caravan hands move up beside the line of carts towards the barrier, looking worried. I don’t have to look long to see why. The trunk was roughly felled, by axe. 

Even as the implication becomes clear a dozen or more men emerge from hiding places beside the road, appearing from out of the snow like specters. Slightly ahead of the others is a giant of a man, wrapped in thick furs that make his shoulders seem impossibly broad, and flanked by a pair of archers. He stops his advance partway and calls out.

“Give up your weapons and valuables! Do so and keep your lives!” 

Nearby I can hear our driver and one of the hands speaking in hushed voices, too quiet for me to make out, but accompanied by the slow sliding of metal on wood. Perhaps readying weapons.

Ketil looks at me, expectant, and noticing this, Sif raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I swing open the wagon door and hop down, sword in hand, still wrapped in cloth. I only intend to make a show of being armed, alongside the other caravanners, as discouragement. Even as I land I hear the intake of breath, the nervous, twitchy movement as one of the brigand archers wheels around to aim at me, eyes wide, startled. I have only that instant to register him, to realize what's about to happen, before he shoots. The arrow leaps from his bow and cuts a path through the air towards me, deadly accurate and swift as thought.

No hurled stone nor arrow loosed shall touch you.

It stops an arms length in front of me and explodes. Splintered fragments fly in every direction, plinking harmlessly off the wagon and making little craters in the snow. All attention is on me now.

I’m a little upset and step closer, putting myself between the brigands and their prize. Undoing the cloth wrap from the sword as I do, and letting it fall to the ground in my wake. They watch in silent confusion as I thrust the point of the sword into the ground in front of me, planting it there like a fence post. From either edge I conjure a wall of fire. It slices outward forming a semicircle of roaring flame between us and the brigands. A few cry out in alarm, while others just look on, wide eyed.

“Witch!” Someone gasps, and I give them my most wicked smile.

From somewhere to my left I see Ramzi emerge, palms out in a placating gesture. “Good people, there is no need for any violence today. My esteemed friend is very protective,” He gestures to me, “but we would not see you leave empty handed. Remove the tree blocking the way and I will see you paid for your labor.”

I raise an eyebrow in his direction, but say nothing. The brigands confer amongst themselves in rapid whispers, while the twitchy archer's eyes dart back and forth between me and Ramzi. He has another arrow knocked, but his arms are relaxed. When he looks at me he almost seems apologetic.

Eventually the talking dies down and the brigand leader steps forward again. There is more swagger in his step this time, as if trying to convey an impression of being in control of the situation.

"I accept your offer." 

His people make short work of the tree, multiple men with axes striking in an alternating rhythm at different points along its length, splitting the enormous tree into more manageable sections, and then rolling those off the road. From over the flames I watch the brigand archers, their forms warped by the heat waves, and they watch me. They're alert, but the tension is gone, or at least lessened.

When the tree is cleared, Ramzi tosses them a pouch. It lands just beyond the flames, clinking with coins. The brigand leader snatches it up, and hefts it a few times to gauge its weight. Evidently satisfied, he gives a curt nod to Ramzi and myself before signaling something to his men. Just as quickly as they came, they disappear into the trees. 

When I am convinced that they are truly gone I pull the sword from the earth, extinguishing the flames. Left behind is a precise arc of blackened earth scarring the road, orphaning small patches of snow where it crossed the banks beside.

Ramzi stares at me, mutely, for some seconds before finding some words. “In all my travels I have never seen anything like that. I have heard stories of course, but to see it… If you had told me last night that you were a witch it would have been me asking you to ride with us.”

“I wasn’t sure how people would react. Why did you pay them anyway?”

“What I paid was but a small fraction of what we would have lost in a fight. You got me a very good deal.” He inclines his head in a very slight bow. “And I’m sure you could have driven them off, but then we would have had to move the tree ourselves, and while we did, maybe one of the archers gets it into his hypothetically spiteful little head to take another shot at us...” He finishes his thought with a little gesture of the hand, expanding his fingers as if revealing the outcome of such a scene. 

“You're a wise man, Ramzi.”

“Thank you! Come, let me get this show on the road once more and then we can continue to discuss my many virtues.”

For this leg of the journey Ramzi joins us in Sif’s wagon. He tries not to show it, but it’s clear he wants to know everything about the magic he just witnessed. Sif on the other hand makes no effort to hide her curiosity, immediately launching into a litany of questions with uncontained excitement. 

“Where did you learn to do that? What else can you do?” She is leaning close, barely still on her seat. 

“The Red Tower, sort of.” I answer. Ramzi reacts to the name with a quirked eyebrow, but waits for me to finish. “I don’t really know, so far I seem to mostly set things on fire.”

A sly smile crosses her face. “That seems like a good beginning to me.”

“Are you saying you were taught at the Red Tower?” Ramzi asks. ”I had heard that was home to some powerful sorcerer, but the kind you abandon your homes to avoid. Not the student taking variety.”

“The rumors sound pretty accurate.” Ketil says, without turning from the window.

“No, not a student.” I launch into the story, telling them about the sword, the constructs,  destroying the tower, but omitting details about the Raven Queen. For some reason that I can’t quite explain, that part feels too personal to share just yet. I show them the sword, holding out the blade resting on top of the cloth. They study it intently, with a care usually reserved for holy relics.

“May I?” Ramzi says. He points to the handle with a finger, palm up, eyebrows raised. Somehow the redundancy of the gestures makes the request seem more passive. He won't be offended in the slightest if I refuse. Which makes me want to say yes.

I turn the handle end towards him and with great care he receives it. His eyes pour over it, inspecting first the blade, then moving to the cross guard and pommel. 

“I have only a modest knowledge of swords and their history, but I can tell you that this one is quite old. Obviously it has seen some wear, but more than that the style has not been in regular use for many hundreds of years. Perhaps it is merely that I have recently seen its edges alight with fire, but despite its simple design it has an unusual beauty.” He returns the sword to me, and then as an afterthought. “Might I make a tracing of it, when we make camp this evening?”

I nod my agreement, seeing no harm in it, and liking that he shares my aesthetic appreciation for the sword. I take that commonality as an endorsement of his good character.

We make camp near the foot of the mountain, shortly before sunset. Caravan hands tend to the horses, while others prepare a fire and begin the work of the evening meal. A man hangs a cauldron over the fire. Another fills it with water, tosses in strips of dried meat, and chops onions. I force myself to ignore the food, knowing it won’t be ready for some time yet, though I admit I first wonder if it might be possible to speed it along with a little witchcraft. Can magic do that?

Ramzi’s wagon is similar to the passenger wagon, but painted in bright yellow, with a red roof and trim. Inside, shelves overflow with trinkets, books, odds and ends. A writing desk sits against one well, littered with papers. The far end as I enter is given over to a large, plush bed, bedecked in blankets and furs. A man dozes there, curled up beneath the mountain of bedding, a foot hanging lazily over the edge. He turns over in his sleep and I recognize him from the night before as the one who gave Sif his seat.

Ramzi follows me in and sits down at the desk. He clears a space in the clutter and produces a few sheets of paper, laying them out end to end. I hand him the sword and he sets it down in the center. Leaning against the wall, I watch as he painstakingly follows the outline of the sword with a tapered rod of black chalk. Occasionally he will use a pair of calipers to check a measurement, and mumble something to himself. When he seems satisfied that he has the precise shape committed to paper the upright posture and technical precision give way to more relaxed, interpretive sketching for the fine details. The sound of the soft scratches of chalk on paper mixes with the gentle breathing of the dozing man and the muffled conversations that drift in from outside. People are starting to gather about the fire, in anticipation of the meal. I'm hungry, but I enjoy watching Ramzi at this task, so I linger there until something specific to his internal world rouses him, and he lifts his head to take notice of the room for the first time in maybe twenty minutes. 

“A sketch is never really finished, only abandoned, but I will call this one done.” He returns the sword to me once more and waves to the door. “Go, get some food. I am going to see if I can’t wake my friend here.”

Outside I spot Ketil and Sif sitting near the fire, lit in profile by the dancing flames. They talk and take turns scrutinizing something on the ground between them. Sif says something and Ketil laughs, his hand coming to his mouth as if trying to keep the noise inside. She glances my way, her eyes tracking mine as I approach, holding my gaze for some moments while I weave through the caravanners. Joining them, I see that Ketil and Sif are playing some sort of dice game. They each have a small pile of tokens, in the form of rough lumps of glass. Ketil has considerably more, but he doesn’t seem to be happy about it. Sif rolls three dice onto a wooden tray set between them, scowls at the result then rolls again. This time she smirks in satisfaction and shoves the last of her tokens into Ketil's pile. 

"I can't believe it." Ketil says, and then to me, "She cheats. It's the only explanation."

"I have a different theory." Sif throws back. 

Ketil gets up and dusts off his pants. "Here, take my seat. I'll get you some soup. Maybe you will have better luck against her." 

I take his place while Sif counts out twelve tokens for herself, leaving the same for me.

"Have you played Kasta before?" She asks.

I shake my head, and she launches into an animated explanation of the rules, holding up the dice and tokens as props. We take turns rolling, trying to get different, high value combinations. It's mostly random, but the starting player can choose how many times they want to roll the dice, up to three, and then the following players have that many tries to beat them with a better combination.

She has me start. I toss the dice into the tray, getting the highest scoring roll on my first attempt.

"You sure you're not using your witch powers?" She rolls the dice, in case of an unlikely tie, but to no avail, and I toss four tokens into her pile.

"I wouldn't even know how."

"Maybe you are doing it subconsciously."

A few more rounds go by, narrowing my lead as she gets a few single token victories in a row. 

"Are you and Ketil together?" The question sounds casual enough, but her eyes don't match her disinterested affect. She wins another round with two rolls.

"Not exactly. We have been intimate a few times, but we are just friends really." Not an answer she expected. I watch her expression, trying to determine what this new information means to her. She isn't sure yet. 

She tosses a token into my pile, goes again, handily getting another one token win. It goes like this for many rounds, small victories, worth only a single token, but mostly they end up in my pile. I don’t know how she does it, the game seems almost completely random. Most of the time there is only a single decision to make, but more often than not she makes the right one and I don’t. It vexes me.

“This is a terrible game.” I say. I have twenty two tokens in my pile.

“That sounds like the opinion of someone about to lose.” 

Ketil returns, holding out a bowl of soup for me, and sits himself down beside us. The soup is thick and full of lentils and smells amazing. 

“She does cheat.” I say, through a mouthful of soup.

“Told you.”

“Quit stalling and roll.” She says, an impish grin on her face, and I can’t help but smile in return.

I roll the dice and lose on a particularly bad combination. She flicks the last of her stones into my pile and pumps both fists in the air in triumph.

“It’s ok. Next time we can play cards.”

#fantasy #witchcraft #queer fiction #original fiction #RavenQueensChosen #RQC9 #magic

[payherprice]

they/them

from a late summer adventure in the fields…

august 2019

[image description: self portrait from the back, showing me in a field of green grass wearing medieval garb with a quiver of arrows on my back, holding a longsword out to the side and wearing a long green cloak, looking out into the distance. i am white with brown hair that falls just below the ears.]

#aesthetic

[payherprice]

8.

With the morning comes a sequence of departures. Small groups form around various plans and destinations. Setting their sights on the free cities to the south, or the great courts of the eastern kingdoms. Ms Grusk is held in high esteem and so a small band forms around her, accompanying her when she leaves like a line of ducklings. Though, armed now with spears and shields and determination, the first two having been appropriated from the guardhouses and the last earned through great adversity, they are perhaps more like army ants, prepared to march through any opposition.

Before she departs, Ms Grusk takes Ketil aside. They talk for a long time, about what I cannot say, but when they return it's clear the parting is a melancholy one. I am gratified at least to see that whatever trepidation she felt about me the previous evening seems to be gone. She takes my hand and wishes us both good fortune. 

Not long after, we depart too, Ketil and I. We are the only ones electing to go west, over the mountains. I told him of the Raven Queen, and her directive that I should go to Caer Vyr, and he quickly volunteered to accompany me, to help me discharge my debt to her and in so doing discharge his debt to me, or so he claimed were his reasons. I think he is probably in love with me.

We follow the road from the tower as it winds its way over hill and through wood. Devoid of any human settlements near the tower, the countryside is strangely quiet. Even animal life seems to know to steer clear, save for a scattering of ravens watching us from the tree tops, or the odd rodent rustling in the bushes, destined to eventually meet.

The storehouses at the tower provided a decent provisioning of supplies for the journey. We both carry a water skin and a leather satchel, containing dried meat and fruit, nuts, some cheese wrapped in linen, and a few minor valuables that we can use in trade. In addition I have my sword. Lacking a scabbard, I have wrapped it in a roll of cloth, and frequently carry it resting on one shoulder or the other. I imagined that it might grow burdensome, but it never does. 

Away from the tower the roads are little more than dirt paths and bare ridgeways. In low places where the ground is softer, rain has made the path into slicks of mud where, with each step, there is the unpleasant possibility that my foot may sink down to the ankle, and the further unpleasantness that upon extraction it might be absent a shoe. It makes for slow, dirty going, and the higher, dryer ground comes as a significant relief.

Occasionally, in the silent moments, the Raven Queen will tell me things. She tells me secrets about Caer Vyr and its people, about ages past, about magic. On a high ridgeway, where the mist creeps up from the vales surrounding, and the wind slips through my hair and flutters my clothes, I hear her. She speaks to me from the sword perched on my shoulder, in a voice like singing metal.

These paths you now walk were old a thousand years ago. Generations precede you. Do you see their footprints in the earth?

I look down at the dirt and rock just in front of my feet, not expecting to see anything more. I try to imagine what thousands of years of footprints would look like, superimposed over each other, like so many afterimages. Each contact would leave a mark, even in the hardest stone, some trace, and then all at once I do see it. It would look like this, a road. 

"Yes, I see them." I reply.

From a few steps behind me Ketil snorts, amused. "You don't say."

"Sorry, I was speaking to her."

"I guessed, I'm getting used to it. Sort of." 

“What have you been thinking about?”

“Home mostly.”

“Where is home?” I regret the question immediately. He is referring to the tower of course. He told me before that he grew up there.

“I know it's strange. To miss the tower. It was an awful place really, but not all the time.”

“I understand. The trauma doesn’t negate the good.”

I wait for him to catch up, and for a time we walk side by side. He smiles to himself, pleased to be understood I suppose. 

That first night we stop well before sundown. We are both filthy and exhausted and, having come upon a stream where we can wash, eagerly abandon our trek for the day. We set our belongings down by the stream and strip to our underthings. I feel Ketils eyes on me as I am slipping my trousers off. It's kind of exciting. 

I wash my shoes of the mud and set them to dry on a flat space of exposed rock nearby, then I do my hands and feet, my underarms. I cup my hands in the water, cool and clear, and pour it over my hair. I run my fingers through the tangles and rinse away the sweat, savoring the feeling of the cool water running down my spine. Afterwards I feel cleaner than I have in months. Knots of ineffectual stress, directionless shame, washed away.

I use the cloth roll from the sword as a blanket, laying it out on the grass. Ketil takes longer to wash, and I sit on the blanket and watch. I find myself admiring his shoulders, the way muscles move beneath the skin. The curve of his hips, to a narrow waist, somehow feminine.  When he is finished I beckon him over and we entwine for a time. He slides inside me and I feel his breath hot on my neck. I arch, pressing my upper back against his chest. He curls his arm around me, his hand finding my small breasts to caress and squeeze. Sensations come, numerous and unnamed. Like a trance I forget the world, focusing only on my body and what pleasure I can derive from it.

When our play is done we lay entangled in one another, flushed and happy. I drag my satchel to us, stretching for it so as not to get up, and we share a handful of dried fruit and doze away the dusk light.

I find myself walking through the gates of that same pale castle. Dark shapes drift past me. Ravens flying slowly, like they are swimming through the air. They know me. They’re leading me somewhere deeper in. I follow, through corridors and passageways, past countless doors marked with runes, their meaning obscured, eventually arriving at a vast throne room.

A room like a keyhole, lit from many windows in silver moonlight. The throne, at the focus of everything, is split, cracked like a scar from the seat back all the way into the dais below it. A single diagonal cleft, as if hewn by the axe of a giant. 

I feel her, standing beside me. Awareness like static before a storm, a gravity pulling on the edge of my vision. I want to look at her, but I can’t turn my head. I want to know if she has a scar. I want to know if she has kind eyes.

I wake before sunrise the next morning, my thoughts still firmly rooted in the dream. I want to see more, but sleep does not welcome me back so soon, so I nudge Ketil awake and begin to pack up our belongings and make ready for the day's journey. 

We leave behind the hills and forests for the more settled land of the fertile valley. Large sections of the valley are given over to irregular polygons of farmland. We pass expanses of wheat, or rows of vegetables low to the ground, all soon to be harvested and replaced with winter crops. Livestock too, eyeing us suspiciously from behind low fieldstone walls.

The roads here are a bit better, and the going is easier. Even so, having grown unaccustomed to walking any distance, my feet ache. I can tell Ketil is suffering similarly. He does not complain, but increasingly shifts his weight to the outer edge of his foot as he steps.

To take our minds off the discomfort he suggests a travellers game. We take turns, one person thinks of something, anything, and the other person asks yes or no questions to try to figure out what it is. The game itself probably would not hold my attention, but we bicker goodnaturedly about our answers. He seems to think tea is a soup and refuses to take any criticism. It passes the time.

As we near the foot of the mountain we see a few plumes of chimney smoke, signalling a small town. Closer in we can make out a scattering of buildings, nestled into the mountain by the mouth of the pass. A warm and welcoming glow radiates from their windows, drawing us in like moths to a light.

It's dark when we arrive outside the town. A few people walk the streets, their pace quickened by the evening chill. Those nearby take disinterested notice of us as they continue on their way. Past houses and workshops, all closed up for the night, we spy a large square building. It’s just off the main road as we near the middle of town. Two stories tall, but wide and flat, and decorated with blue tile work. A smaller road branches off towards the building, and through a pointed arch easily large enough to permit three or four horses at a time. 

Curious, I lead us towards the structure. The arch turns out to be like a short tunnel through the outer wing of the building. As we pass through I run my hand along the stones, feeling their age beneath my fingers. They are bare now, but in the crevices are little chips of paint, speaking of a long and colorful past. 

On the other side we find ourselves in a large, cloistered courtyard. The right side of the building is dedicated to stables for as many as a dozen horses, while the other three sides are given over to many rooms of various sizes and purposes, with doors facing into the courtyard. Several carts and wagons occupy the center of the courtyard, having recently arrived as evidenced by the muddy tracks left in the wake of its wheels. 

An older man, maybe in his fifties, is lighting the lamps. He notices us enter and approaches.

"Hello there, can I help ye?" He asks.

"Is this an inn?" Ketil asks back.

"Aye, inn and waystation. Will ye be wanting lodging? It's a half for the night. Meal included." Music to my ears.

"Yes, we would. Will this do?" Ketil produces a silver button from his satchel and proffers it for inspection.

As the man reaches for the button, lifting his hand into the lamplight, I see that he is missing the tips of two fingers. He rubs it between thumb and forefinger and peers at it as if trying, by gaze alone, to discern its composition.

"It's pure silver." Ketil volunteers.

"I don't doubt that, young man." A lie. "It stolen?" 

I see Ketil bristle at the question. He is about to respond when I cut him off.

"Liberated."

The man gives a short chuckle. "Alright then. Ye can have that room." He points to a door behind us, on the second floor gallery. "We sell food and sundries to the caravans. In the morning, If ye have any more...liberated items ye want to trade for proper coin, ye can bring em by. Meal hall is over there." 

With that he returns to his business, leaving us be. Ketil eyes me sideways, annoyed at my intervening I think. He marches off towards the meal hall without waiting to see if I follow.

I trail after him, drawing closer to the hall and the muffled sound of intermingled conversations. I open the door and wade into the noise and activity. Taking in the room, I see all kinds gathered here, both for their evening meal and for social diversion. At one table a man in a richly patterned crimson outfit and a curved sword belted to his waist chats with a woman, powerfully muscled, with silvery beads in her hair. At another, a collection of white bearded men in flowing robes are gathered around a game involving little stone pyramids. A pair of them play, while the others watch intently.

As I scan the assembly I catch the eyes of a woman seated across the room. As pale as I, and with straw white hair, glowing in the candlelight. Like a fae spirit come to watch the mortals. As our eyes meet she smiles and I can't help but return it. Her smile is beautiful, alluring. I avert my eyes, suddenly self conscious.

With relief I spot Ketil at the empty end of one of the long bench tables that run down the center of the room and quickly move over to him, taking the seat opposite. After a minute a serving man brings us each a bowl of soup and a roughly torn chunk of bread. I am about to dig in, but Ketil seems to take that as his cue.

“Why did you do that?” He asks, trying to keep his voice low but unable to suppress his agitation. “This stuff is ours by right! Call it back pay. There was no reason to let him think we were thieves!”

“He already thought we were thieves. If we had said anything otherwise he would have thought we were liars also."

"You don't know that."

"Of course I do." Ice in my voice, but all at once I feel conciliatory. I take a breath and try to start again. "I'm sorry I did not consider your feelings. If it helps at all, tomorrow we will sell the rest, and nobody else we meet will have cause to suspect anything of us."

He pokes at his soup idly. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.” He says with a sigh. “You don’t need my help.”

“We are free. Part of that should mean not always having to be useful. Would it be unbearable if you were just here as my friend?”

He shakes his head, but still seems withdrawn. I reach across the table to take his hand, running my thumb back and forth over his fingers until I entice a small smile from him. 

Just then we hear the sound of many wheels on cobblestone. They come to a halt outside and for a few minutes a background noise of horses and muffled conversation permeates the dining hall as an undertone to the activity inside. 

I try a spoonful of the soup. The broth is a dark amber and very flavorful, and in it float dumplings like little clouds, as well as an assortment of vegetables and meat. I devour it all, dipping the bread and using it to scoop out chunks of carrot or chicken, sipping the broth and feeling the warmth restore me.

Ketil looks on, bemused, and then, at the sound of creaking wood, raises his eyes to the door behind me. I turn to see as fifteen or twenty more people enter, laughing and talking amongst each other. They spread about the room in search of seats, always deferring to one among them, who I presume is their leader. 

He is a tall, dark skinned man in a deep green robe that stops just above his shoes. At his waist he wears a straight sword with a perpendicular disk pommel and a sort of tassel at the base of the hilt. 

A powerful and ambitious man. Trade has made him rich, but it is the people he knows and the favors he's owed that he values more highly.

The man and several of his companions seat themselves near us, with him directly beside Ketil. He flashes us a friendly smile and continues to chat with his fellows. I am not really paying attention until I notice the white haired woman rise and make her way across the room towards him. She waits for a pause in their conversation before striking up one of her own.

“Hello, forgive me for interrupting but are you the caravan master, Mr Etiel?” Her accent reminds me of home.

"That is correct, Ramzi Etiel at your service, though you may simply call me Ramzi, and these are my friends." He sweeps his arm in a wide arc, seemingly encompassing not just to those sat here, but all who entered with him. The man beside me rises, offering his seat to the woman, and she accepts with a slight nod of appreciation.

Once she is seated Ramzi continues. “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

“My name is Sif Stray. I believe you’re expecting me.” 

“Yes, of course, Ms Stray. I have set aside space on our best wagon for you. I hope you will find it to your liking. The mountain will be rough going, but better with us I think. We depart in the morning.” 

Hearing mention of the mountain inspires me to speak up. “Excuse me, I could not help overhearing. You’re travelling over the pass tomorrow? Are you destined for Caer Vyr?”

He glances at me, as if just realizing I'm there, and then down at my empty bowl. "I see you enjoyed the soup, I shall have to get some." Immediately one of his companions waves to the serving man. “To answer your question, yes. We bring goods, and a few passengers, from the eastern kingdoms to Caer Vyr.”

“My friend and I are also heading that way. On foot for the last two days. If you have room we can pay for passage, and I am able with a sword if need arises.”

He considers it for a moment. “There is room, that is if Ms Stray does not object to company, and I would ask for four aurs a head, given the spontaneous nature of the request.”

Sif looks from me to Ketil, conducting some sort of appraisal. “The more the merrier.”

Ramzi beams, pleased no doubt at managing to make a little last minute coin, but also I think he takes some genuine pleasure in having the means to satisfy a request.

Sif leans forward, putting her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, and with a smile seems to draw us all into her gravity. “I think this is going to be an interesting journey.”

#fantasy #witchcraft #queer fiction #original fiction #RavenQueensChosen #RQC8 #magic

[payherprice]

An Oakeshott type XI with beautiful brass inlay,

OaL: 37.2 in/94.4 cm

Weight: 1.7 lbs/787 g

Yverdon, Switzerland, 12th century, housed at the Swiss National Museum.

#aesthetic

[payherprice]

7.

The constructs close in around us. As they near, the bones and liquid flesh start to become less amorphous. Shapes emerge from the surface to a height matching ours and gradually form into a rough approximation of a person, simple and indistinct. Little more than silhouettes with mouths, and teeth of jagged bone.

One of them lunges for Ms Grusk and I slash at its outstretched arm, severing it just past the elbow. What was its hand now reverts to liquid, splashing Ms Grusk in gore. The rest of the construct recoils backwards, cradling its stump in an unsettlingly human manner. Others try to swipe at us, and they meet my blade in the same fashion but despite my efforts their ranks only seem to grow.

I feel Ms Grusk nervously grasp at my sleeve. “Cut us a path out of here!” She entreats. 

I nod once. “Take hold of my sash, at the back, keep low, and keep close. Don’t let go.”

Both Ketil and Ms Grusk huddle in close at my back, holding onto the sash and making themselves as small as they can, and with my first cut I begin to move. Stepping and cutting. A sweeping vertical arc on the right, flowing into an arc on the left, and back. Every cut a step, and every step a cut. I don’t let the sword still, even for a moment. Any foe that tries to put a hand to us is quickly rebuked and all the while we inch closer to the exit. There is a sudden tightening of the grip on my sash. I pivot around, letting Ms Grusk and Ketil move out of harm’s way, and strike at the constructs encroaching on our heels, before smoothly following through into another forward step and a cut. 

With each blow the constructs recoil, but less so every time, until it’s everything I can do to keep them off us. We reach the exit stairs and Ms Grusk and Ketil take off running up the steps to the top, while I make a slow, backwards retreat after them. Constructs crowd onto the narrow steps, gnashing those awful teeth and lunging at me viciously. They press together, merging into a moving wall of grasping hands, surging up the stairs. I change my stance, gripping the blade mid way along its length with my left hand, and jab at anything I can reach.

I feel a hand close around my ankle with a grip like iron. Fear shoots through me and with a sudden, desperate surge of power I plunge the sword down into the offending appendage. For the briefest instant before contact the point of the blade is a falling star of brilliant blue fire, and then the wall of flesh is aflame. It screams and writhes, trying to extinguish itself, and I use the momentary reprieve to make a mad dash up the steps. I run through the door at the top and Ketil slams it shut after me. Ms Grusk relocks it and for a few moments we all catch our breath. 

The three of us share tired smiles. We are all streaked with gore, but relatively uninjured. Having recovered somewhat, Ketil approaches me, timid and uncertain.

“Where did you learn to do all that?” He asks, gesturing vaguely at the sword.

I place a hand on his arm in what I hope is a reassuring gesture. “I promise I will explain everything later, but this isn’t over yet.” I answer, and then, addressing both of them, “I don't know if that door will hold, but either way it's time for us to leave this place. Gather everyone together outside the tower. There are not enough guards to stop all of us, and they won't throw their lives away on a losing fight."

“What about Belrethan?” Ketil asks.

“I’m going to kill him."

Ketil's mouth opens in shock, and even Ms Grusk seems taken aback to hear the intent spoken so plainly.

“You can’t be serious!” 

“I am. Even if we get away now, he won’t just let us go. He’s not that kind of person. He will hunt us. Make an example of us.”

Ketil knows I’m right. I can see it written in the troubled lines of his brow. I feel bad for him, he has not been given much of a choice in all this and if I fail I may condemn him to a worse fate than if I had done nothing at all. If we survive this I will try to make it up to him, somehow.

Ms Grusk puts a hand on his shoulder and gently leads him away. They are about to disappear into the servant’s sections when a thought occurs to me.

“Ms Grusk“ I call. “Thanks for trusting me.”

She turns to look my way, framed in the unassuming doorway to her domain, and smiles a melancholy little smile before continuing through.

I begin my trek up the central staircase, this time going all the way to the top. As I climb towards Belrethan's private rooms my fear at the coming confrontation grows. Possible scenarios run circles through my mind. I turn my attention to the reassuring weight of the sword in my hand. A physical reminder of my immaterial companion. I hope this is what she wanted for me. I didn’t ask for clarification. 

The central staircase terminates below Belrethan’s private floors. To make the final ascent there is a second stairway, set against the tower wall. Barring my way is another of Belrethan’s wards, set in an arched doorway, absent a door. Getting close I can see it, a faintly shimmering curtain, nearly invisible. This time there is no resistance at all as I step through. It dissolves around me like wisps of dusty old cobweb. 

It’s eerily quiet as I climb these last steps. Periodically there is a window letting in a little sunlight. Looking out I can see the Baell mountains to the west, snow capped symbols of the wider world I long for. My prize if I can win this day. 

Intuition leads me past several landings for the penultimate floors, in favor of going all the way to the top. At last the stair disgorges me into a small antechamber with a side table and a pair of disused chairs where callers might once have waited for an audience. Like the vineyard, I suspect these have always been an affectation.

I cross to the doorway opposite and emerge into a truly enormous space. The chamber must span the entire rest of the tower top. The floor is intricately tiled in many colors, arranged in complex and inscrutable patterns. High above, perhaps fifty feet or more, is a vaulted ceiling where carved stone creatures loom. Windows of nearly the same height run the circumference of the room save for where the antechamber connects.

Set by the windows nearly opposite the entrance, there is a little table and chair, some bookshelves, all spilling over in myriad objects. Conspicuous in the outsized room, incongruous, like the contents of an office transported into an empty cathedral. 

Belrethan is just getting up from the chair as I enter and turns in my direction at the sound of steps on tile. I stride partway into the room, conscious of my pace, trying to evoke a tranquility I do not feel. As I get closer I can make out the expression on his face, some anger, but mostly bewilderment. 

“How did you get in here?” he demands, imperious.

I raise the sword in front of me, tilting it just slightly, so that he can better see the blade.

A moment's pause, then recognition. "Do you know what I did to the last person who raised that sword against me?" Rage contorts his face. "I boiled the blood in his veins!"

The room grows subtly colder and a crackling sound draws my eyes upwards, where thick dark clouds now obscure the ceiling. Off to my left there is an explosion of tile fragments as the first bolt of lightning strikes. I observe it, unflinching. More bolts strike around me, closer this time. In my mind’s eye I anticipate where the next will be. I swing the sword sideways, in a horizontal arc, and catch a bolt of lightning on the flat of the blade. Little arcs spark across its surface before it drinks the energy in.

His assault begins in earnest then. The lightning increases in frequency until it’s like a forest around me, and in that forest move shadowy shapes, hulking absences of light that circle around me like hungry wolves. 

I launch myself towards the wizard, skimming across the floor with celerity I would not previously have thought possible. Just as in the dungeons, I use the sword to make a path. Sputtering bolts of lightning, translucent screaming apparitions, all are divided at the touch of that devouring blade. 

As I dart through the bombardment I see him, at the edge of the room, straining to maintain the onslaught. He is flushed, sweating. I push myself to go faster, putting him on the defensive. He tries to use the lightning like a wall to keep me at bay while his apparitions attack, but they are no match for the sword. 

All I have to do is keep the pressure on for a little longer, and I find I can do that easily. I have energy to spare and a deep well of willpower to draw from. I land a well aimed strike at a lunging apparition with a short edge cut and then, with a side step, cut back along the same arc to strike another to my left. 

The wounded apparitions fade and dissipate, leaving the area around me momentarily clear and when his wall starts to falter I take advantage. I pierce through the chink in his defense to bring myself just in range, my sword poised to strike. Reaching him at last, he seems to deflate. He collapses to his knees, breathing heavily, while his conjurations dissolve and the room goes quiet. Exhausted, his hands push at me feebly, desperate and afraid. I bury my sword in his neck. No fireworks or speeches, just the effortless descending of an iron blade. 

Blood soaks into his once fine clothes and pools on the tile beneath him. His expression one of disbelief that then drains away, leaving nothing behind. Life flees, and the body slumps to the floor.

I roll my shoulders and let my arms relax at my sides. Freedom is nearly within my reach, but not quite, not until I am far away from this place. This isn't the end yet, but I can see it from here.

Strange sounds echo through the tower as I descend. The walls groan and the pipes screech, protesting some displeasure. I get the sense of motion all around me, just behind the red bricks, obscured from my sight. 

I reach the ground floor and hurry outside and down the hill towards the gates. Ms Grusk is directing the servants as they skirmish with the guards, shouting commands like a general. The servants have only improvised weapons, but the guards are considerably outnumbered. They have been driven back against the gates where they are just managing to repel the servants at spear point.

I'm about to intervene when there is a deafening crash from behind me, a sound like stone cracking and metal rending. The fighting pauses as all look towards the tower. There is a moment, before I see anything, where all is still, frozen, but it doesn’t last. There is another, still louder, crash as the tower entrance explodes outward and a torrential flood of constructs come rushing down the hill towards us. A wave of bones and red black ichor, like blood spilling from a wound, though decaying and putrid. 

When I encountered them in the dungeons the constructs were grotesque, but purposeful, even intelligent, now they seem chaotic and unstable. With the wizard dead his bindings and wards are unmaking themselves, including whatever enchantments formed them. Only it isn’t happening nearly fast enough.

Behind me, servants and guards crowd into the unyielding iron gates, desperately trying to get away. Constructs continue to spill from the tower, a turbulent sea of them blanketing the once stately grounds. They are seconds from engulfing us when I see something else, above it all. Wisps and tendrils of unbound magic, the remains of a thousand broken spells, rising up like a column of smoke. 

Like so much fuel. 

I hold the sword aloft and reach out, drawing in a thread of that formless magic. The voice seems to know what I want to do, and under her gentle guidance I weave it into a simple idea. The simplest spell I can imagine. Fire.

I stoke that bright flame at my core into a roaring blaze, and with the voice’s gift I will it into the world. The sword ignites, transmitting my invocation back along the thread, like a fuse, to where it meets the column and it all goes up in flame at once. An all consuming inferno, stretching up into the sky, bright as daylight, devouring constructs and tower alike.

The tower burns late into the night, and we watch, rapt, our faces bathed in fire light, as it all comes down. Timbers fail and stones crack and burst from the heat. Whole sections collapse, sending up great plumes of smoke and ash. 

Slowly people drift away from the spectacle, a few at time, as if coming to their senses. We gather up supplies from the store houses and outbuildings, and we pick Belrethan’s vineyard clean. We open the gates and march out into the fields and woods beyond until we arrive at a clearing. Not too far, but away from the smoke. It’s there, beside a friendlier fire, that we celebrate our freedom.

There is dancing and laughter and feasting. I join in a little, but I find a silence seems to follow me. When the others look my way there are smiles on their faces, but fear in their eyes, even Ms Grusk seems uncomfortable around me. Not Ketil though. He is ever faithful and true. 

He and I slip away from the group, into the trees. We find a comfortable grassy spot to lay our heads and look at the stars as they peek at us from beyond the canopy of leaves. If I could I would just wordlessly gaze upwards till sleep took me, but there is a conversation I know I need to have, two actually.

"How are you feeling?"

His face is a grim picture. The grime and blood have been washed away, exposing his many bruises and cuts, the swelling around his eye. "I'll keep." He says.

“Ms Grusk told me what you were trying to do. I’m grateful.”

“It was foolish of me. I’m no hero, but it seems you are. Will you tell me now, how you could do that?”

“Before, when we spoke of my clan, I implied we had no warriors. That was only partly true. I was one. One of very few. A vestige from times past.”

He rolls over to face me, but says nothing, leaving me space to continue.

“I was taught spear, sword, and bow for the defense of my clan, but when truly tested I abandoned them to be slaughtered and enslaved.”

He seems to mull that over, before speaking. “I'm glad you did. You survived. One more warrior wouldn’t have changed the outcome.”

“I agree, or at least I did until today. Look at the tower now and tell me what one warrior can’t do.”

He doesn’t have a reply to that. He knows as well as I do that it isn’t a fair comparison, but what could he say?

“It’s ok really.” I say at last. “I am not one for regret, or shame. I just wanted you to know.”

“That explains how skillful you seemed with a sword, but not the rest.” He says it as if thinking aloud, but it’s a question.

“Sometimes I hear or see things others don’t, or have strange intuitions. Since arriving at the tower I have been hearing a voice. She offered me a deal and I took it.” 

“What do you have to do in return?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Later on, while he sleeps, I regard the sword. The other presence beside me. Simple, well worn, and beautiful. I think maybe it was just a sword once, no more noteworthy than any other, but now it is a thing of iron and spells. What power it didn't burn, it drank in with an insatiable thirst. Holding it close I can hear her voice, calling to me. I answer.

“Who are you?”

I have been called many things. You may know me as the Raven Queen.

“Why did you help me?”

Because I could. Because I wanted to. Because you will help me.

“How?”

There is a city, over the mountains and by the sea. The city of Caer Vyr. Go there.

The name is not unfamiliar, for Caer Vyr is an enormous port city, a confluence of many things. I suppose it's there that I will learn what shape my service to her will take. The price for my miracle.

#fantasy #witchcraft #queer fiction #original fiction #RavenQueensChosen #RQC7

[payherprice]

6.

I wake with a start. It's dim, early morning, and I am alone. The blanket has been folded back from where Ketil lay and I feel no warmth from his side of the mattress. I stay still, listening for any sound from the other rooms, but hear no signs of activity. A cold dread settles in my stomach, and I will myself into motion. 

Standing up I see no sign of Ketil's clothes. My own are in a heap on the floor where we had discarded them last night, and I step over them, the chill of the floor seeping into my feet, on my way to the study. The panel to the pipeways is off, leaning against the wall beside the opening. 

I can only guess why he left without me. To not wake me, or leave a note, he must have either not wanted me to know he was leaving, or he expected to return quickly, or both. Whichever the case the followup questions are uncomfortable to consider: Why would he not want me to know? What has delayed his return? 

I return to the bedroom and am about to reach for my clothes, but reconsider. Looking at them fills me with disdain. I don't know what's waiting for me outside, but I would rather not face it dressed as a servant.

I search through the chests in the bedroom, finding gowns and doublets and other finery. Eventually I settle on some simple dark trousers and a tunic. The tunic is split in the front and a bit over large, but the fabric is in excellent condition. I close it around me and wrap my waist in a purple sash to secure it. If I had leg wraps and a torc it would be a rough approximation of my clan’s mode of dress, but those items are not forthcoming. Even so I feel a little more confident.

I exit the restricted rooms back through the pipeways. It's still quite early and on a normal day only a few servants would be up, lighting the lamps and tending the boilers. I suspect that this is not a normal day and that others, servants and guards, may be about. I'm proven right almost immediately.

As I am replacing the panel I hear a sound from just down the hall. The soft swishing of cloth. I turn to look just as Ms Grusk emerges from around a corner. We eye each other for a moment before she speaks.

"You've certainly kept me waiting.” There is the faintest suggestion of a sly smile on her otherwise impassive face. “Our master may have his blind spots in the tower, but I do not." 

“Where is Ketil?” I demand. The question seems to surprise and upset her, though she attempts to hide it behind her usually mask of stern authority. “He found me, perhaps an hour ago. He wanted to speak with Belrethan. Plead with him for leniency...on your behalf.” 

“I don’t imagine Belrethan liked that.” 

She looks away, suddenly unable to meet my eyes, and I sense she expected this conversation to go differently. “Men like Belrethan have a...perverse reaction to the notion of mercy. They took Ketil to the dungeons. It's anyone's guess if he ever comes out again.” She turns back to look at me once more, sudden anger blooming on her face. “I tried to convince him it was pointless, but you…” She trails off, the anger having drained from her just as quickly, and whatever accusation she was about to make goes unspoken.

"Did you find me to make sure I met the same fate?"

"No, that will happen regardless of what I do. I don't know why I came. Maybe to berate you. Imagining that maybe you were to blame somehow for Ketil’s foolishness. But you're not, and even if you were, it wouldn't do anything. I..I can't do anything."

She sounds hopeless, broken, and it breaks something in me too, some lingering hesitation. It's all too much. Too much to be ignored. Too much to be escaped. It can only be confronted. 

"But you must.” I reply. “I'm going to need your help. I'm going to free him from the dungeons, and then we're going to leave. All of us."

For a moment she looks at me as if trying to discern madness by direct inspection, but at the same time I think she wants to be convinced. "I don't doubt your bravery, my dear, but how do you think you can accomplish that?"

I move closer to her, fixing her in my gaze, and with a slight grin I reply. "Magic."

In truth I don’t have to try very hard to convince her. I tell her that I need the sword in Belrethan’s collection, that the magical barrier will part for me, and that if it doesn't work only I need suffer the consequences.

I keep my doubts to myself. Perhaps I have gone mad. Hearing voices in the dark, telling me what I want to hear. Only, it's not the first time. There was a different voice a long time ago, and it never lied to me.

We make our way to the collection, Ms Grusk shooing away anyone who happens to be along our path. Normally the guards keep to the dungeons, and the guardhouse out on the grounds. Today though there are a few in the tower, either searching for me, or just to be a visible symbol of Belrethan’s displeasure. Ms Grusk has no official authority over them, but even they seem to respect her and, perhaps under the assumption that she is on the wizard’s business, let us pass by unharried.

Ms Grusk stops just outside the hall that houses the collection, not wanting to be too close should something go wrong. I don’t blame her. Crossing the room to the sword, I am palpably aware of the hatches high up on the walls, and the nightmares just beyond. 

I approach to within maybe a foot of the sword. Somewhere between lies the ward. An invisible barrier conjured and fueled by Belrethan’s magic. Once again, I am struck by the captivating ordinariness of the blade. For a while I had thought perhaps it was the blade itself speaking to me. Why else would it be important in this pact? But after seeing that castle in my dream I think it might be more complicated than that.

As I stand there the voice speaks again, louder now, and in the daylight hours. I hear her as if she is right behind me, arms wrapped around me and lips by my ear, whispering to me. Telling me I can free myself from this place, if I would only let her help me. 

Seal our pact. Take the sword.

I reach out my hand towards it. Like before, about six inches from the sword my fingers meet the surface of the ward, smooth and cold like glass, but undulating beneath my touch. I press against the surface, first lightly, and then when that proves insufficient, leaning into it with all my weight. My fingertips go white from the pressure, but it’s completely unyielding.

This isn't about muscle though, not by itself. Relaxing, I focus my thoughts inward to the anger driving me. I am used to it coming in flashes, at this or that, then dying away, fueling nothing. It won’t do. I grab hold of it, that directionless sound and fury, and by my will I condense it down. Forming it into a single bright flame at my very core, small but enduring. My soul, incandescent. 

I press my fingertips forward again and something begins to give. For an instant I feel as if there is another hand on mine, our fingers overlaid. And then the ward shatters, all at once, like pushing your hand through the icy surface of a lake that has only just started to freeze. My fingers close around the hilt and lift the sword free, feeling its weight for the first time.

I don’t know the full measure of what I have agreed to, but she gave me a choice. More of a choice than I have had in a long time. The sword is mine now, and I shall hold onto it like the only steady thing in the coming storm. Already I feel some connection between myself and it, as if it was conversing with that little bright flame of mine.

I turn to look back at Ms Grusk. Her eyes go wide for a moment, before her expression turns resolute and she gives me a short nod. She gestures for me to follow and we proceed down a side corridor and eventually to the entrance to the dungeons. From the folds of her clothes she withdraws a heavy key ring with nine or ten keys of varying sizes and complexity and inserts one into the lock. The door is iron and the sound of the lock turning is amplified to a weighty clunk that echoes back to us from the chamber beyond.

With the door unlocked, Ms Grusk stands back. I pull the door open to reveal dimly lit steps that descend into darkness. I enter first, holding the sword out in front of me and straining my ears for any sound. Ms Grusk takes a candle from a sconce near the entrance and follows a few steps behind. There is a small guard barracks on the first floor of the dungeons, and as I descend the steps I listen for the occupants, but hear nothing. I reach the bottom step and move quickly and quietly down the corridor, peering through doorways as I pass. There are living spaces, and bunks for no more than five people, but all vacant. It’s not unlikely that they have all been ordered into the tower above, but something about the idea troubles me. 

Venturing deeper still we find rows of cells, all empty. In the poor light I almost miss the hatch in the floor, but the barely audible sound of wheezing breaths draws my attention down. Set into the floor, at a low point where everything from the cells will drain, is a metal grate with a hinge on one side and a lock on the other. I beckon Ms Grusk to bring the candle over, and together we look through the grate. In the chamber below, caked in dried blood and chained to the floor, is Ketil. The sight of him beaten and bloody makes my heart hurt, but he is alive. I look to the lock, and then glance up at Ms Grusk, but she shakes her head.

“Only the guards would have that key. We could go look in their chambers.”

For a moment I consider going back and searching but those deliberations are interrupted by the voice. 

You must learn to use what I have given you. Now is as good a time as any to start.

Her voice becomes like a guiding hand and I motion for Ms Grusk to stand back. Kneeling beside the lock, I place the point of the sword against it, and push. An impulse seems to travel down my arm and through the blade and I watch in astonishment as the point sinks into the body of the lock, as if into soft clay. I pivot the blade around the point, splitting the lock in two, and throw the hatch open. The floor below is maybe ten or twelve feet down and Ketil is chained to it, leaving me no choice but to go in. 

I swing my legs over the edge and drop down into the pit, landing lightly on my feet beside Ketil. He looks up at me as if only just now noticing that anything was happening. He is covered in bruises and small cuts, and a smear of blood covers the left side of his face from a gash on his forehead, but it doesn't look too deep. 

“Your eyes...” he says, in a tone that's somewhere between confusion and awe.

I shield him with one arm as I strike the center of his chains with the sword, just beside where it passes through the loop mounted to the floor. The chain splits, accompanied by a sound like snipping a flower stem. Freed from the floor, Ketil shakily tries to stand and I have put his arm over my shoulder to help support his weight. Above us Ms Grusk is waiting by the open hatch, ready to pull Ketil and me up. There is a sound then, like sliding metal, and Ms Grusk turns her head to look behind her. When she turns back her face is a mask of fear.

“Quickly, quickly, there’s no time!” 

I take a breath, focus on what I need to do. I drop the sword to the ground with a clang and kneel down, cupping my hands together to make a platform for Ketil to step.

“Ketil, we’ll go on three. You stand and I lift. You need to grab the ledge. Ms Grusk is waiting at the top and she will help pull you up from there. Ok?” 

He gives me a nervous little nod, plants his foot on my waiting hands, and with one arm braces himself against my shoulder. From above there is another sound I can’t identify, closer this time.

“One.” I Feel him tense in anticipation.

“Two.” A sound like something wet being dragged along the floor.

“Three!” Ketil straightens to a stand and I lift with every ounce of strength I have, propelling him up like a spring board. He gets his arms over the ledge, and with some struggling and pulling from Ms Grusk he is able to get a leg over and climb the rest of the way out. No sooner is he out than I hear him cry in alarm.

There is no more time. I grab for the sword, and then leap upward. My body feels impossibly light and I clear the distance and then some, landing on my feet beside the others. At the top I see it, surging towards us from all sides. The churning, gory mass of the constructs.

#fantasy #witchcraft #queer fiction #original fiction #RavenQueensChosen #RQC6

[payherprice]

5.

Shouts and screams follow us down the corridor, but I dare not turn back to see if we are being pursued. All I can do is let my feet carry me onward and keep hold of Ketil’s hand. We race to the central staircase and up and up and up to the one place we might be able to hide. Ketil seems dazed and I have to practically drag him after me, but somehow I manage not to lose him.

We exit the stairwell onto the floor above Belrethan and Janna’s abandoned rooms. I dart around a corner, pulling Ketil after me. He starts to say something, but I cover his mouth and put a finger to my lips. We wait like that for what feels like forever, my heart pounding in my chest the entire time. Once I am sure they have not followed us I lead Ketil to the entrance I made to the floor below. I go in first, pointing out where I put my feet, and what I grab onto. Ketil stands there impassively, but he follows well enough.

Stepping out into the study, I see the last sliver of orange sunlight creeping up the wall. Ketil steps out after me with more grace than I might have expected given his current state. He looks around the room uncomprehendingly. I am not really sure what to do for him. If I can do anything for him. He walks through the open door to the bedroom and I hear the soft crumpling of cloth. I replace the panel on the wall. The stillness and quiet of the room slowly seeps into me and I settle back into a cautious calm. I follow after him, entering the room to find him lying on the bed facing the wall. His body shakes with muffled sobbing. I scan the room as if expecting to see some means of fixing everything. Finding nothing, I simply crawl onto the bed beside him. 

I stare at the ceiling. I listen to Ketil. I listen for the whispers. Nothing comes, and eventually Ketil rolls over to look at me. His eyes are a bit red from crying, but he seems more present now.

"What was that stuff, Ketil?" I ask, despite myself.

After a long time Ketil answers, "He calls it his constructs...it's what he sends after people who misbehave. It's what they become." 

“That wasn't the first time you’ve seen it.” 

He gives a quick nod, his mouth quivering slightly, and I let the topic go. After a time he speaks again. “Tell me about your life, before this place. Where did you grow up?”

Thinking of home always brings pain, but I suppose I can suffer remembrances sting for a while, if it helps him. “I grew up in a village, far to the north across the sea, nestled amongst snowy mountains. My clan were hunters, farmers, and craftsmen. There were stories of great warriors too, but in times long past.

“What happened to them?”

“I guess we thought we didn’t need them anymore."

He looks away from me and his expression seems to say, guess you were wrong. it's a sentiment I share.

"Were there others like you?" He asks. "I'm not sure...how do you refer to yourself?"

“A couple, and I don’t generally. The others chose to be either men or women, but I felt more like I was somewhere in between, or somewhere else entirely.”

“That's how you seem, you know. Like you drifted into the world out of a fairy ring in the woods.”

“A circle of stones might be more appropriate.”

He smiles softly and I am pleased to see he still can. But then, he would have had to learn resilience. 

After a moment though his face clouds over with worry. "The others probably just got a few lashes, but it will be worse for us. Because Dres—” he chokes on the name and his breath catches in his throat a few times before he regains control. ”Because we were his friends, and because we ran.”

It’s not an accusation, he doesn’t blame me anymore than he blames Drest, but it bites like one. “I know, but we can rest here awhile. Our problems will wait for us.”

That seems to satisfy him for now, and he curls up beside me. I watch him shift and turn and eventually fall asleep and I wonder what I'm going to do, how I'm going to survive this. Not just the impending punishment, but the years of servitude in the maw of this vicious place. I don’t have to wait long for an answer.

Like someone approaching me just over my shoulder, the whispers return. Take the sword, she says. Swear yourself to me, take the sword, and I will help you. 

A pact then. Trading slavery for service, and my choice alone to make. I confess, for all the cautionary tales of deals with devils gone wrong, I can't see any good reason not to take the bargain. I have so little left to lose.

Swear yourself to me. Take the sword. The words echo in my mind over and over as I try to extract from them every ounce of hope and courage I can. Gradually I succumb to sleep, whispered promises on my mind.

I am standing by a cliff edge, grass swaying around my ankles. Storm churned waters, lit in silver moonlight, crash below me. In the distance a cavern of clouds darkens half the night sky, signifying a brewing storm.

Turning around I see a path stretching away towards a castle, built atop a hill. The pale grey edifice seems to glow in the silver light, as if built from the ghosts of stones. Three spires, each of a different height, jut upwards. From this angle they look almost like talons, poised to pluck the moon from the sky.

Facing the castle the sea wind is at my back, nudging me onward. I start down the path towards the castle. It doesn’t look to be a long way away, a few minutes walking. A raven alights on an ash tree nearby, watching me pass. There is a marker stone ahead and I can almost make out the engraving when it all seems to dissolve around me.

I awake to feel Ketil stirring. The sun is long set now but there is enough light to make out his face beside me, looking still half asleep with his eyelids partway closed. He looks apologetic, perhaps for waking me. I reach out and brush my hand over his cheek, and then he is kissing me. Tender and urgent all at once. I wasn’t sure if I would pursue this further, but I feel my body respond, and I am content to follow. 

I cup his face in my hands, pulling him in, our tongues entwining. His kisses move to my chin and down my neck. He starts to undo the buttons of my shirt, his mouth and tongue exploring as more of the landscape of my body is exposed. His lips skim over the curve of my breast to my nipple, making me gasp. I lay my head back on the pillow and close my eyes, letting sensation wash over me in powerful waves. 

He pauses then, in defiance of my growing need, and I prop myself up on my elbows to watch as he gets up from the bed and removes his shirt, revealing fine dark hair and a pleasingly soft belly. The pants come off next, freeing his erection. He moves over to me again and undoes the button at the side of my skirt. His fingers slip under the fabric at my waist and I lift my butt, allowing him to slide it, and my underthings, down over my hips and off. 

When he has exposed all of me there is the dreaded moment of hesitation. The moment where he decides if he is comfortable with the ambiguity of my body. But it's only a moment, and soon his hands are parting my thighs and his mouth is around me, tasting me, pulling me down so that now the waves are almost over my head. My awareness seems to contract around the moment, until there is only the feeling of him. I’m close now, and he is pushing me further, relentless. I slide my fingers through his hair to the back of his head and press him against me as I spasm and twitch my completion. 

He crawls up to kiss me, my own taste still fresh in his lips. I use my hand to attend to him and find that with subtle changes in speed and pressure I can coax from him little sounds, soft sighs and moans. I feel as if I’m drinking them in with every inhalation. He finishes on my belly with a few shuddering gasps that I devour greedily. Satisfied, we lay there in the cooling air, neither of us moving, serene.

Eventually I reach for some of the linens by the bed, tossing one to him, and using another to clean myself off. A pleasant exhaustion spreads through my limbs and I melt back onto the bed. I think back to the aborted dream from earlier in the night. The ghostly castle lingers in my memory, as vivid as a dream you're still in. Is that where she resides, the voice of my solitary nights?

#fantasy #witchcraft #queer fiction #original fiction #RavenQueensChosen #RQC5

[payherprice]

4.

I find myself spending a lot of time with Ketil. He uses any opportunity to talk to me, and while I have always tended towards solitude I confess I don’t mind the comradery. He, and sometimes his friend Drest, will find me as I go about my duties. They chat and joke with me, sometimes they assist me. Other times it's more the opposite.

At breakfast one morning Ketil gets this look on his face, like someone about to tell you a secret, but the fun kind, and asks me to meet him by the tower entrance after the morning chores. I agree.

When I arrive later that morning, slightly sweaty from having just carried bundles of linens to the laundry, I find him leaning against the wall in a shadow. Lost in his thoughts, anxious, until he sees me and then his face splits into a smile. I smile back, reflecting on the way one almost can’t help but return a smile, when you're with the right people.

I follow him through the gate and out of the tower. The sun is warm on my skin and I try to recall how long it's been since I left. Too long. I had forgotten that I could and for a moment it's almost too much. The little things you lose are harder to keep track of, you don’t always see it as it happens, but it wounds just the same. Nothing was stopping me before, going out onto the grounds. Just myself. You help them build your cage. If they have enough power you do it for them, better than they could have dreamed.

Ketil turns around to look at me from a little way down the path. He waits for me there, silent, letting me have my tears. I think he might wait all day if he had to. I listen to the rustling of the grass and watch as it moves in shimmering waves. In the distance ravens land atop the sparse tree line running parallel to the high wall that mark the perimeter of the tower grounds. Beyond that rolling hills dotted with trees stretch into the distance. And I remind myself that it will all still be there long after this accursed tower is nothing but dust.

When I catch up with Ketil he doesn’t ask me to explain, and we walk in amicable silence through the grounds. In the immediate vicinity of the tower it is given over to pathways laid with great flagstones and short garden walls topped with wrought iron. Beyond that are lawns and decorative ponds, flowers. It’s all quite beautiful really. Stately is the word I think.

We follow a meandering path through the gardens to an iron gate set into the perimeter wall. The gate is shaded by a gnarled tree growing in among the stones of the wall.

"We can't leave, can we?" I ask, wondering if he expects to take us through the gate.

"We’re not leaving the grounds I'm afraid, but there is more than just lawns and flower gardens for lords and ladies to aimlessly stroll through." He pushes on the gate. It isn't locked and creaks open. 

"We strolled through the gardens too. They were not so bad."

"We did, and they aren't." He conceded. "But this is better."

I follow him through the gate and past the tree. Here the hill slopes down away from us, and laid out neatly on it are rows and rows of vines warming in the sun. I can just make out clumps of dark berries hanging from them.

“A vineyard. Belrethan didn't seem the type…” I remark.

“I don’t think he is. It’s just what people with money and land do.”

I pick a row to walk down at random and watch as the clusters of vines align at different angles as we pass, opening up new sightlines all the way down. Ketil is carefully selecting a few choice specimens from the masses of plump, red berries. Delicately he places each one in a pouch of loosely woven linen. 

“You can take some too, a few handfuls won’t be noticed.”

“Only if you choose them for me.” He moves to stand close to me and points to a few. I pluck them from the vine as directed. There is a slight resistance before they release that I find oddly satisfying, and before long I am cradling eight or nine in my cupped hands. 

I jerk my chin in the direction of a tree a little ways beyond the rows and we make our way there, sitting ourselves down in its shade. I empty my cupped hands into the folds of my skirt, letting the berries collect in the low point between my legs. 

Ketil looks at me, waiting to see what I think. I take my time selecting a berry, pretending to be indecisive. He looks away and sighs in mock annoyance and I pop a berry in mouth. I close my eyes and savor the taste. Warm and sweet and tart, and when I open them again his gaze is fixed on my lips. After a moment he realizes I'm looking at him and he meets my eyes. I see a question there, and I find I have an answer. I part my lips just slightly, my breath coming a bit faster now. He leans in towards me, bringing his lips to mine. He tastes warm and sweet too. Sunlight and spice cakes. 

After a bit he breaks off the kiss and for a moment or two we can't look at each other for smiling.

When I regain my composure I ask, “You know what I am, right?”

He blushes, and gives a quick nod. “I do, or at least I think I do." And then, by way of explanation, "People gossip. They don't mean any harm by it. We just...haven't met people like you before."

“You probably have, but I take your meaning.” I pop another berry in my mouth and turn to look west, towards the mountains. "I should tell you, I'm usually more attracted to women."

"Am I an exception?" 

"Perhaps." I say, with a hint of a smile.

We stay there a little while longer, enjoying the peace and one another's company, and when we eventually leave it's late afternoon. Ms Grusk will no doubt have some words for us about neglecting our duties for so long.

We slip in through the gate and round the corner to the great hall only to be stopped dead by what we see. Belrethan and his retinue, newly returned, stand in the center of the room, and beside him, his arm clenched tightly in Belrethan’s grip, is Ketil’s friend, Drest. Drest's face is white with terror and at his feet is an explosion of silverware, burst from a makeshift cloth sack. Belrethan appears to be saying something to him, but I can’t make it out. Ketil shifts his weight forward as if to approach, but I block his path with my arm and whisper for him to stay still. 

Belrethan releases Drest’s arm and walks away, his retinue following suit, leaving Drest alone in the center of the room. He looks so small. A mouse in a cage. For a moment I think that it’s over, but then Belrethan raises one hand in some sort of gesture. There is a sound like rushing wind that quickly grows into an earsplitting, banshee scream. It seems to come from everywhere, the tower howling in anger. Drest cowers like the sound itself is pushing him to the ground. High up on the walls hatches clatter open and from them pours a viscous, crimson mass. It pools on the ground and then flows towards Drest at terrifying speed, bypassing Belrethan and his men. The liquid rises up, moments from engulfing Drest, and inside it I see...bones.

I grab Ketil’s hand and run.

#fantasy #witchcraft #queer fiction #original fiction #RavenQueensChosen #RQC4

[payherprice]

3.

The wizard departed for the coast late one night, apparently leaving little in the way of instructions to Ms Grusk. Soon after guests began to depart as their patience was depleted and it became evident that the wizard would not be returning promptly. Consequently my duties have been lighter of late and with the little freetime this has afforded me I have been exploring the tower.

The tower is expansive, thirty floors tall and more beneath the ground. Its height is all the more exaggerated by its complete solitude upon the hill, making it a landmark visible many miles away. If you were to rip away the outer walls the servants sections would appear as a vine-like network running between and around the many rooms of what Ms Grusk called the house. This network of passages runs throughout the tower, except for the top three floors which are the wizard’s domain alone.

Those upper three floors are not the only off limits parts. There are also the dungeons beneath the tower and a cluster of rooms in the east quadrant. It does not surprise me that we are not meant to go below, except, I assume, in chains. The restriction around the east quadrant though is not so clear however. When I asked Ketil about it he explained that it had been so as long as he has been here, which he clarified was since childhood. The only explanation he was ever given, which he gave me, was that it's where Belrethan stored things he did not wish the servants to see. Naturally I was even more determined that I would.

The restricted sector spans several floors and there are many entrances, all sealed by locks and boarded up, but that is not the only way to move between rooms in the tower. There are channels that run between floors and down to the basement, above the dungeons, that house all the tower's plumbing: water, waste, and gas for the lamps. There are entrances where servants can do maintenance, and while the channels are narrow, I think I could climb from one floor to another, or, more easily, descend. 

I find one of the panels in an out of the way spot where I don't expect any passersby and remove it, peering into the space inside. It's dark, but if I leave the panel off enough light should come through for me to see by. I climb in with care to avoid touching the pipes from the boiler and slide my way down until I feel the panel to the floor below, and finding it I give it a sharp kick. The panel comes loose and falls to the ground and I slide through the hole.

The room is dimly lit by a sliver of sun from one of the windows. I cross to it and pull open the drapes, revealing what looks to be, beneath a thick layer of dust, a study. Cabinets and bookshelves line the walls and a large wooden desk sits pride of place, covered in papers. I want to examine everything but first I check the adjoining rooms. Through one door I find a bedroom, opulent even in its neglect. Another leads to a workshop of some kind. There are more doors and a staircase leading to the floors below, all of which I ignore for now.

Returning to the study I seat myself at the desk. The chair has plump leather cushions and ornately carved details that match features elsewhere in the room. Sitting there I try to imagine myself the possessor of this space, writing a letter or drawing up preparations for a grand feast.  This is a room for someone of authority, at least over their own life. Managing their affairs with a pen stroke.

On the desk sit messy piles of papers that appear to be a mixture of notes and correspondence. One paper in particular catches my eye. Partially obscured by the stack, but the signature is visible. 

Yours in eternal love, Belrethan

I pull the letter from beneath the others and read it. It's a love letter addressed to a woman called Janna. In it he references their courtship, and romantic moments shared between them here, and in distant lands. Always he writes of times past, except at the very end, when he states that he will return soon.

The story begins to form itself in my mind. These had been their rooms, the wizard and his lover Janna, but something happened that made him want to board this place up rather than deal with it. On a hunch I get up from the chair and return to the bedroom. A quick search confirms my suspicion. On a table beside the bed there are powders and tinctures in little glass bottles, and bloodletting tools resting on a copper tray. In a corner sit neatly folded stacks of extra linens. I suppose she came down with some gradual, wasting illness, received these...primitive treatments, and when she inevitably died Belrethan sealed this all away. A tomb for his memories.

It almost makes me laugh. All this power and wealth and yet he knew less of medicine than the volur of my clan. They called us barbarians. It was a justification, but in their arrogance they believed it. I slide from the chair and slump on the ground, my head cushioned by the leather seat. It occurs to me that there is another way of looking at it. That for all my people’s virtues they were still butchered and enslaved, because they didn't have the kind of power Belrethan does.

That night, as I am on the threshold of sleep, I hear the whispering more clearly. It sounds like a woman's voice. I still can’t make out all the words, but I hear her say that she has been waiting for me. Waiting for me to be ready, but for what I cannot say.

#fantasy #witchcraft #queer fiction #original fiction #RavenQueensChosen #RQC3