Rise of the Darkwitch (The Dance of Dark and Light Book 1) Page 3

  Bandim kissed the backs of her knuckles.

  ‘Not until my father dies,’ he said.

  Johrann inclined her head.

  ‘As you wish,’ she said. ‘Your brother’s life has been in my grasp since he was a hatchling and your mother asked me to save him.’ Her arms grew rigid. She lifted her chin and stared, her eyes hard as stone. ‘Once I cut your brother’s thread, your mother will regain her senses. With life returned to her body and gone from his, she will live anew.’

  Bandim held her look, his yellow gaze steadfast.

  ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘If she does not go mad with grief upon learning that her beloved son is dead and instead becomes a nuisance... I will make her go mad.’

  Johrann brushed her claws against Bandim’s masked cheek.

  ‘I know you will,’ she said. ‘I needed to hear it from your lips.’

  A set of feet clattered along the hall outside. The steps grew closer and louder until they skidded to a halt outside the chamber. After a moment, there was a steady knock. Johrann permitted entrance. A temple novice stumbled in, clad in dark robes. Her head, covered in deference to the Goddess, was bowed.

  ‘My prince, my priestess,’ she said, breathless. ‘News from the palace. The emperor… He’s dead.’

  At once, Bandim and Johrann’s eyes met. She said nothing. He nodded.

  ‘Do it,’ he said. Then he turned to the novice. ‘Get out.’

  As the female scurried away, Johrann turned to the effigy of Dorai and closed her eyes. Remaining silent, she lifted her hands.

  There was no great fanfare. There were no swirling lights. No, Bandim thought. The Dark is silent. The Dark is pure.

  After a moment, Johrann turned to him again. Her lips stretched with a leer.

  ‘It is done

  On the balcony, Mantos stood in abject silence. Clad in white, he waited to be seen as the sun slipped below the horizon. His heart ached. It wasn’t just for his father’s absence. It was for everything that was to come. I do not want this, he thought. I do not want to walk this path…but I have no choice.

  As the sun set and the moons shone bright, the folk looked up. The first shout rose.

  ‘The emperor is dead!’

  Despite the grief that threatened to topple him, Mantos remained steady, silent. The first wail was joined by another, then another. Below, the courtyard brightened with candles, soon joined by lanterns, their bearers in white robes.

  And still, Mantos stood as the dark cloak of night fell upon the city. Sounds of mourning drifted from below. After a time, when the sky was black, the temple flared orange and red. Our colours, Mantos thought. The colours of duty. Of a power that is now mine. Flaming tongues sang the emperor’s demise. The rose to the sky. To the Light.

  Then, without fanfare or swirling lights, Mantos fell. He crumpled.

  And he saw no more.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Darkwitch

  Sunlight crept through the cracks in the shutters. Emmy buried further into the pile of blankets on the hard floor, shivering against the cold. Then she realised: hard floor? Cold?

  This was not her bed.

  Jerking upright, fronds cascading over her shoulders, Emmy blinked, taking in her surroundings. It was dark. Her sandals were by the door, parallel with the wall as always.

  The scarred female was still in her bed.

  Pressing a hand to her head, Emmy frowned. Material—a bandage. How? she thought. Memory flooded back. Oh. Zecha. The cloth came away in a stiff clump of dried blood and frayed edges. A bad job, Emmy thought with a soft smile, but at least he tried. She struggled to her feet, winding the bandage around her hand. She turned to the bed.

  The creature nestled between her sheets was pallid, the rise and fall of her armoured chest shallow. At least she didn’t die in the night, Emmy thought. That would have been hard to explain…

  The stench was acrid and caught in the back of Emmy’s throat. She reached across, throwing open the shutters. The salty tang of sea air flooded in with morning light. Emmy took a few deep breaths, willing the stink to leave.

  ‘Now,’ Emmy said, ‘let’s see how your wound is healing.’

  She exposed the female’s gash, and already it looked better. It was red, now ringed with bruises that stood in sharp relief against her yellow skin, but the stitches held firm. Considering the depth of the puncture, Emmy thought, she’ll have a deep scar. She gave a gentle snort. I don’t think she’ll mind.

  Emmy traced the white web that covered every part of the female’s skin like cobwebs. They even criss-crossed the top of her plucked head. What did she do to deserve such torment? Emmy wondered. A flash of the hag upstairs and her walking stick made Emmy shudder. Perhaps, not a lot...

  She pulled the covers up, then pressed her hand against her patient’s forehead, threading her talons through her chipped horn crest. Her skin was warm, but not alight with fever. Emmy clucked her tongue. A good sign.

  Trying to ignore the thump in her head, she dressed and went to the shop. The memory of dirt and blood curdled in her throat. I have a lot to do before I open, she thought.

  As it turned out, she didn’t.

  Emmy noticed two things at once. Firstly, the floor sparkled. Secondly, Zecha was propped against the shop door, his head bowed in sleep. A dagger rested in his lap.

  ‘Zecha?’ Emmy asked.

  He didn’t stir. Emmy repeated herself, loud enough to send Krodge into a fury.

  Zecha jumped, dagger poised to strike. As he found his bearings, his eyes went from wide with fear to crinkled with sheepishness.

  ‘Oh.’

  He looked from the weapon to Emmy and back again, then sheathed it with a blush.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, as if the circumstances were entirely ordinary. ‘Did you sleep?’

  ‘I did,’ Emmy said, shaking her head. ‘You didn’t need to stay.’

  ‘I couldn’t leave,’ Zecha said. ‘I couldn’t rouse you. And after I cleaned, I couldn’t find your keys. If I’d left, anyone could have walked in.’

  Emmy folded her arms, but a smile pulled at her mouth.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ she said. ‘That was very kind.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Zecha replied with a lopsided grin.

  Emmy raised an eyeridge.

  ‘Why did you come back?’ she asked. ‘I remember the knocking at the kitchen door, then I saw you and then...’ She shrugged. ‘I woke up this morning.’

  Zecha stretched his arms wide, the muscles flexing.

  ‘I had a feeling the old crone wouldn’t be happy,’ he said. His face twisted. ‘I came back to make sure you were alright—and I’m glad I did.’

  Something shifted in Zecha’s face. There was a new fire in his eyes. Emmy shook her head, turning away. They had danced this dance many times.

  ‘No, Zecha,’ she said. ‘I’m not leaving. Not yet, anyway.’

  Pouting, Zecha folded his arms.

  ‘We could go anywhere,’ he said. ‘We could hop on a boat and go. Althemer, Mellul, Helog, Linvarra...’ He threw up his hands. ‘Anywhere would be better than this place.’

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ Emmy said. ‘I can’t leave Krodge—and who knows what we could sail into? You know the Masvams prowl the seas, not to mention the danger from Valtat slave ships. We could leave our lives here and sail into something much worse.’

  Sensing defeat, Zecha let his arms hang loose.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I just… I wish things were better.’

  Emmy patted his shoulder.

  ‘Maybe one day, we can be who we are. For now, we put up with what we have.’

  Zecha’s grin returned, though its sparkle had dulled.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘You’re always right.’

  Beckoning him to follow, Emmy led him to the rear door.

  ‘Stay safe today, Zecha,’ she said. ‘Try not to get into trouble.’

  ‘No promises,’ Zecha replied.

  Bef
ore he left, he reached out an arm. Emmy offered her own. Zecha grasped her bicep and she did the same to his, squeezing each other in a traditional goodbye.

  Releasing her, Zecha slipped through the yard gate and disappeared. Emmy exhaled and closed the kitchen door. Inside, Krodge banged anew. Hag.

  A new noise diverted her attention. A head of unruly brown fronds appeared at the gate, then disappeared. Emmy touched a claw to her temple. Of course!

  ‘Morning greetings, Leeve,’ she said as she stepped out.

  A dark-skinned male glowered at her as he trailed his cart into the yard. It was laden with wood, chopped by his wife the day before. Hanging from Leeve’s skirts was his youngling, curly-fronded Kain. Like all younglings, it was neither male nor female.

  Saying nothing, Leeve piled the wood in a small lean-to as Emmy fetched the weekly payment.

  When she returned, Leeve was puffing on a pipe, watching as Kain kicked a row of her precious plants. As she saw leaves fly from her bindlewart bush, Emmy’s nostrils flared. Her neck scales rose.

  ‘Stop that!’ she snapped.

  As soon as she said it, she regretted it. Cold dread filled her.

  Kain blanched and ran to Leeve’s side, clutching the hem of his coarse over-tunic. With narrowed eyes and tight lips, Leeve reached for his payment.

  Emmy swallowed as she offered the coins, five bickles, and an extra cren for Kain.

  Leeve took the payment, but picked up the pale cren and launched it at Emmy. The coin bounced off her armour and clattered to the ground with a dim clink. Leeve glared anew through his tangled fronds, then lifted Kain onto the wagon.

  Furious, Emmy wrenched the discarded coin from the ground. She turned it over in her hand, brushing the pad of her talon over the hole in its centre. I’ve given Kain a cren every week for as long as I remember, she thought. Why not accept it now? Because I spoke sharply?

  As Leeve pulled the cart away, Kain stared at Emmy with tearful eyes. Emmy pursed her lips. It was too early to tell, but she suspected Kain would manifest as male when they came of age. That’s unfortunate, she thought. Gendering is difficult, but at least it’s worth something when you become female.

  Their words carried over the wall as they moved to the next shop.

  ‘The Darkwitch shouted at me, Poi,’ Kain whined.

  ‘Yes, she did,’ Leeve said. ‘Stay away from her. She’s poison, Kain. Poison. And we won’t accept any more charity from her.’

  Emmy’s back stiffened. Her tail grew rigid. Darkwitch. That was what they all said.

  ‘Run away from the Darkwitch!’

  ‘Demon! Demon!’

  ‘She’ll suck out your spirit... Boo!’

  Emmy stormed into the kitchen and slammed a pot on the table. It’s a lie, she thought, designed to frighten younglings into doing what they’re told. Emmy cast handfuls of grain into the pot and fetched water. I’m no different from anyone else, she thought. Then she snorted. I wish I was a Darkwitch. If I was, I could punish them all by sucking out their spirits, or whatever it is I’m supposed to do...

  She mixed the grain so hard, it slopped over the sides. She hung the pot over the fire and stoked more life into the flames. Once they roared, she pulled her long fronds until it hurt. The pain in her scalp was easier to bear than the pain in her heart.

  Darkwitch, Darkwitch! Go back to your hole and die!

  #

  Several days passed before Bose showed his face again.

  ‘Is it true?’ he asked.

  Emmy kept her lips straight as she tipped creyhorn powder into a cloth bag. Bose kept his hands clasped over his heart as he stared.

  ‘Sorry?’ Emmy asked, feigning ignorance.

  Bose huffed. He turned and rolled his eyes at his companions. They did the same, adding unimpressed clucks with their tongues.

  ‘Is it true,’ Bose said, intoning each syllable as if talking to a simpleton, ‘that you saved someone’s life?’

  Emmy passed him the bag and folded her arms. I need a word with Zecha, she thought. Who else has he spun this story to?

  Bose accepted the bag with a simper.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Emmy said.

  ‘By the Goddess!’ Bose said. ‘It’s been the talk of the town for days!’ He pulled himself to his full height, which was not particularly impressive, and tried to look down at her. ‘I hadn’t been able to ask before, for my beloved Mrs Bose returned to me.’

  Ignoring his preening, Emmy lifted a talon.

  ‘It’s true,’ Emmy said, exasperated. ‘Now, please. A halfbickle.’

  Bose threw the coin into Emmy’s hand and sneered. Payment accepted, she gestured to the door.

  ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy.’

  Bose was silent. He flicked his red gaze over her with slow arrogance.

  ‘You may have saved a life,’ he said, ‘but you are still a beast.’

  Emmy stiffened. She bit back tears.

  ‘Leave.’

  With a victorious grin, Bose retreated in a whirl of skirts and robes.

  The rest of the day passed with little conversation. Emmy couldn’t speak around the lump in her throat.

  After her chores were done and the mistress was sated, she collapsed on her blanket pile. Staring at the ceiling, she counted the cracks in the roof beams. Why do folk think they can treat me like I’m no better than an animal? she thought. Maybe Zecha was right. Maybe we should leave…

  Her attention was caught by a thin moan. She sat up. The female in the bed stirred. Beyond caring for her wound, Emmy had been too busy to give her much thought. Now that life returned to her, reality bit, cold and sharp. What do I tell her? Emmy thought.

  She was spared the trouble, as the female settled again. Undressing for bed, Emmy peeled off her tunic, leaving just her undershirt next to her skin. She was about to remove her hose, when the female stirred again. This time, she turned, groaned, and opened her eyes. They were deep and dark in the failing light.

  Emmy froze. The female sat up and winced, settling one hand on her belly and the other on her plucked head. She turned. Their eyes met.

  Emmy offered an arm—and everything fell to pieces.

  ‘Demon!’ the female screeched.

  She sprang from the bed, leaping forward, grasping for Emmy’s throat. She missed. She slammed into the wall, turned, and dove back, striking Emmy’s jaw with an iron fist.

  Pain erupting from the blow, Emmy stumbled, blankets coiled around her ankles. Shaking the blur from her eyes, she ducked as another punch came her way.

  ‘Please, calm yourself!’ she cried.

  ‘Darkling! Demon!’

  White rage scalded Emmy like molten metal. No longer thinking, she struck out, landing a blow on her attacker’s temple.

  It felled her.

  ‘I am not of the Dark,’ Emmy screeched.

  Banging erupted above them. Emmy raised a foot to stamp on her victim, but the wretched creature scrabbled back, cowering.

  ‘No! Please! I-I’m sorry!’

  Sense returning, Emmy dropped her foot. Rage coursed through her, but was cooled by stark realisation. I could have killed her… Emmy thought. Waves of trembling passed through her.

  ‘I…I’m sorry,’ Emmy spluttered. ‘I shouldn’t have… Here.’

  She reached to help the female up.

  Instead of taking the offered arm, she burst into tears.

  Emmy’s arm hung, suspended as shame flowed through her. I am such a fool... The female buried her face. Emmy’s throat tightened as she tried to think of something—anything—to say. Words eluded her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Emmy repeated. ‘I am, really!’

  After several agonising moments, the female revealed her puffy face. She kept her chin down.

  Emmy held out her hand again. This time, the gesture was accepted. It took no effort to pull the waif upright. Emmy settled her on the bed and tried to smile. The female perched on its edge. There was another moment o
f agonising silence.

  ‘May I check your wound?’ Emmy asked eventually.

  The female blinked, settling a hand on her stomach.

  ‘O-okay,’ she said.

  For the first time, her youth was apparent. Barely gendered, she was no more than fourteen cycles. Emmy knelt before her and lifted her tunic. While the gash was red and bulging around the stitches, none had torn.

  ‘You’ll have a scar,’ Emmy said, ‘but the wound will heal.’

  The female did not respond. She drew her tunic down to cover herself and sat, stiff-backed.

  Her youth swept Emmy’s ire away. She stood, trying to smile.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ she asked.

  She received no reply except a blank stare, but the pools of shadow caught by the female’s jutting bones said enough.

  Fetching bread and weak beer, Emmy returned to find the female hadn’t moved. Her eyes brightened at the food and drink, and she drained the beer in one gulp. Chuckling, Emmy poured more.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  The female took another long drink, then shovelled a piece of bread into her mouth. Her first answer was incomprehensible. Swallowing, she tried again.

  ‘Charo,’ she said. ‘Charo, my name is.’

  Reaching out, Emmy grasped Charo’s upper arm.

  ‘I’m Emmy,’ she replied.

  Charo blinked and stared at the outstretched arm, before mirroring the gesture.

  ‘You’re…not a demon?’ she asked, prodding Emmy’s skin and armour.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ Emmy said, half-amused and half-exasperated. ‘I’m just…me.’

  Releasing her grip, Charo plucked up more bread, picking at the crust.

  ‘Where I am?’ she asked.

  ‘Bellim,’ Emmy replied, ‘in Metakala.’

  Charo’s words were strange, not quite what Emmy was used to. They were similar enough to be understood, though the inflections and word order were strange. Charo sat forward and rubbed her eyes with the heel of one hand.

  ‘Why here am I?’ she asked. ‘Thought…thought me I was dead.’

  ‘You almost were,’ Emmy replied. ‘My friend found you in the Wailing Woods and brought you to me.’

  Charo’s eyes widened.