Galoring, Spindlemark Cemetery
33 Autumn 218
Galoring’s poor have no fancy mausoleums to inter their ashes, no individual plots where a marker might be placed to indicate here lies our beloved, and our beloved alone. If no remaining kin is swift enough to snag their ashes from the funeral pyres and dispose of them differently, after death they are poured into one undifferentiated hole in the ground, covered over once the year is complete, and forgotten. As in life, so after.
This particular crop of Galoring’s destitute has been in the ground long enough that by now no dirt remains visible. Sav stands at the edge of a low mound of grass and ground cover, green speckling into brown as autumn proceeds apace. A plank marks the year those buried beneath died. Names cluster around the number, marked with varying skill and criss-crossing as each additional person, determined that their loved one have at least that little sign to show where they lie, leaves their mark. Some have jammed their own markers into the earth—a flat rock here, another plane of wood there. Each in turn has grown an additional moss of scratched-in names. Someone has kept the mound free of weeds, and offerings of flowers and death knots dot the grass.
Sav kneels next to the marker, her fingers brushing over a name at the base, near-obliterated beneath dozens of others. “Hello mum,” she says, settling back on her heels. “Been a hag’s age, hasnae?”
She’s silent for a long time, fiddling with the brilliant yellow torchbrush resting in her lap. “Lot’s changed,” she says, her voice so low that the words barely escape her lips, inaudible to anyone even a pace away. “I learnt tae love the stories of magic and adventure and gods because of ye. Seems my life’s turnt intae one of those, and it ent quite as fun living through it as hearin’ it.” She laughs softly, wryly, and bends down to whisper the next into the grass. “Well, the magic part’s fun. Turns out I’m a witch, mum. Bet ye didnae expect that outta your wean, did ye? Especially gi’en what I hear from the memories of a deid man.”
She hesitates, then laughs again, strained and fake this time. “I dinnae know where t’ e’en start wi’ all of that. Or how tae ask. Not that it matters, here. Ye’ll no have the answers for me, an’ I’d be straight feart if ye did start speakin’ right now.”
She shakes her head, though, and despite what she’d just said, adds, “Really though? An Inquisitor? Mum. And why did ye never say aught…? Nay. Not noo.”
Checking to make sure nobody’s approaching or nearby, she pulls out a small knife and drops full-length onto her belly to get on eye-level with the base. “Anyway. ‘Tis a queer-odd group I’ve fallen in with, all told. Ye’ll ne’er believe it, but I’ve met a skyfolk. Last of her kin, ‘tis said. She’s as beautiful as her kinfolk’s creations, jist—every part of her bursts wi’ that micht an’ beauty, e’en when she’s hidden her true nature from pryin’ eyes. I don’t know how her friends can just talk tae her all casual-sort.” Her eyes shutter for a second. “All of that, an yet we near lost her. Did. I still dinnae know how… there was no price exacted, no like-for-like trade that I saw, an’ yet…” She falters off, shaking her head.
“Well. That’s a whole saga I’ll not get into just now. She’s only one of the entire crew, an’ while the most amazin’ by far, none of the rest are sleepin’. There’s a halfling who does the most amazing things, things I’d not dreamt of an’ still cannae reproduce.” A note of peevishness enters her voice at that last bit. “He’s fair quiet but a wee braw fella, an’ the kindest of the lot - certainly the easiest tae idle wi’, and an inquisitive mind of his own.
“Ach, speakin’ of idlin’ though, there’s one lass who isnae so restful—she havers on all the time an’ seems tae have no concept of idlin’. I’ll admit she’ll be quiet an’ respectful if I’m teachin’ her one thing or another, though, e’en though she willnae stop sassin’ me by hightin me ‘professor.’ I wouldnae have ever expected, even wi’ all the things tae happen tae me, tae be talkin’ tae a Blackwood. D’ye remember the donations? Mayhap ye didnae—I don’ know how much ye heard about the theatre’s moneybags—but the family, leastwise, did some part tae keep it totterin along.
“She’s the only cityfolk, though. A good bunch of them are from some flyspeck village tae the west, and soundin’ of it, with their mouths fulla round vowels an’ flat words. I think ye’d like one of the villagers—he’s tall an’ speaks well an’ knows it, and is a deft hand at the lute an’ lyric. I dinnae quite trust him ‘cause he’s too charmin, though he’s proven himself by standin’ up where others would ha long fallen. He’s got a good voice, too good—there’s some sorta magic in there, the kind what warps your mind an fuzzes your wits.
“I suppose he ent alone in that, though—there’s a lass says she can do the same, though I’ve no yet seen it. She seems fair convinced of it, though, an’ I’ve learnt not tae distrust what someone says they can do, no among these folk. Her voice is beautiful, too—I could listen tae her all day. She might rival the country mouse for kindness, an she taught me of another realm I had no kennin existed.
“She’s cap’n of the ship we sail on, an’ her crew is as stout a set of hearty lads as I’ve seen. The chef is a dwarf an ye cannae hardly ever unnerstaun what he mumbles, but he serves up good hearty fare each day. Two of them are always tae be found playin’ one game or another; I reckon they’ve passed the same ten pieces of gold between ‘em for Turns, noo. Another two either hardly ever speak or never speak; but at least ye have no bletherin’ from ‘em, even if ye mess up the deck. Och, but they’ll glare summat fierce if ye do.
“As for the first mate, he’s a first mate in truth, if ye ken what I mean. I dinnae really unnerstaun why,” she murmurs dubiously, the knife curling another pale sliver of wood away as she rounds off a word. “He’s nice enough, I s’pose—pretty quiet an’ sensible, an’ a slick hand i’ battle—but he’s fair auld. I s’pose she might be fair auld herself, I cannae tell—she ent human, not properly, so perhaps she ages longer, like a half-elf.
“Loads of half-elves, really.” Sav blinks, head popping up briefly as she realizes this. “One who’s canny as a tupenny fence, an’ complicated—there’s far more gaun on in that one than he ever lets on. He seems intent tae carry it all on his own shoulders; I reckon I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him true-smile.” She chews her lip thoughtfully, shifting to gain a better angle to carve, her mouth half-buried in the grass. “I suspect he might be a better person than he claims, but I ent sure yet. His friends seem tae be his anchors, at any rate, but they number about the same as his smiles, an’ I dinnae ken as he knows how tae let in new.” She blinks again. “But thinkin’ on it—I’ve some spotty memories of a palaver…” The words trail off before she shakes her head. “He does love his horse, though. An’ queerly, tatties. He loves tatties far more than any right-minded lad oughtae.
“There’s one with funny ears—long on one side, short on t’other—yet despite this he’s handsome an’ gallus as a hero in a play. I think ye’d like this one too. Though this one’s a sicht more hotheaded than t’other—he’s mucked things up time an agin for us all, doing what he felt right over what was smart. But he’s seen the darkest pits a person can go, an’ mayhap feels a need tae never step in that way agin.”
She falls silent for long minutes, forehead resting against the wooden marker. “Tell true, I’m no so sure he’s wrong, e’en though he might be a blazin’ eejit,” she whispers. Her shoulders begin to shake. “I’m tired, mum, I’m s-so tired of the smart thing not bein’ the right thing. The good thing.” Her voice cracks. “Each step seems sae needful i’ the moment, trackin that shinin’, reasoned line of action an’ consequence stretching off through the morra. An’ yet in followin’ that, I’ve wet my hands—my teeth—with the blood of dozens, an no all of them a threat tae me—some only a possible threat. Yet, the risk of bein wrong, if I let ‘em go…”
Her tears drop onto the marker, sliding down the surface worn smooth by hands and weather. “Turns out I’m a witch, mum. An’ I’m no so certain the stories were wraing about witches any more, wi’ what I’ve done. What some of us ha’ done.
“There’s a Morathi lass. After I’d met her an’ spent some time wi’ her I woulda sworn what everyone knew was wrong, the Morathi were no a blight-stricken folk of lost souls—she’s warm, and acceptin’ despite some true hard times she’s passed, an’ the first friend I’d had in… years. Yet she’s…” Her voice trails off, mouthing the words silently, even face-down and quiet as she is. Pullt tha deid back tae serve her, gawpin corpses flung against the blades o their former comrades. Broken the minds of others, violatin’ their deepest thoughts. Slain an entire shipful of sailors in a handful of seconds. Her voice regains a minimal strength, emerging again as she shudders. “An’ I stood by an’ said naught, on accounta it bein’… needful.
“There’s another, who—ah, burn it, ‘tis far too complicated tae explain in less’n a candle, but… say this: his very birth probably killt folk in ways they weren’t meant tae be killt. An’ he claims tae care not what happens tae the folk around him, long as his desires get fulfilled—an I cannae be sure ‘tis but pure luck his aim is tae preserve the world against greater enemies than human. Wi’ a mind as razor as his, if he should change course… I cannae dream of him greetin’ at the deaths or destruction he might cause.” She frowns a little. “Though I also cannae dream how ‘tis tae wake one day kennin’ pure naught but the souls ye’ve unwittingly stuffed yourself wi’, an’ the fear that might cause.” Her voice drops subterranean. “But he doesnae have tae be such a cunt about it.
“An me. I’ve killt. Nay, I’ve burnt men and women so they died screamin’ ablaze. I’ve broken ships with a wave of the hand an’ watched their sailors die unknowin’ of what killt them. I killt several, helpless an’ unarmed, ‘cause I reckoned it needful—but was’t? I tried tae kill one I once hight a friend who only wanted the killin tae cease. I’ve eaten folk.” She gags at this, her voice so weak it barely emerges.
“I said once that the power workin’ the Stuff grants, ‘tis no more than another type of power, like muscles or gold or armies. But is’t? One person, workin’ rites an’ pullin’ Stuff, can slaughter dozens wi’out the aid of anyone else. Three times folk I’ve thought deid—one straight dusted before my eyes—were brought back, a power not love nor gold can get ye. Are the star-born, the star-chosen any better deservin’ of returnin’ than a good plain human, an if so why? Just because they’re powerful? Is that right? Be that fair?”
She quiets for a time, shuddering breaths into the blades of grass tickling her nose. Finally, slowly, she straightens, rolling to sit up and wiping her eyes and nose with the end of her scarf. “I needtae cease bein’ a glaikit wean. I dinnae have the time tae fash about fair,” she says quietly. “Nay, when I was a wean I had nae illusions about ‘fair,’ no after ye died. Funny what time an’ power will get ye tae bleat on.”
She sighs, resheathing the small knife at her belt. “One way or t’other, I’m in it up tae the tip of ma heid, an’ I cannae abandon t’ others, right or wrong. Tae the heavens or tae the grave be it. Or worse.” She pulls out a flask and drips a few spots of oil, rubbing it into the freshly-carved lines to darken them to better match the surrounding wood. It wouldn’t hold up to a deeper inspection, but the name no longer catches the eye with pale lines against dark wood. She kisses the marker gently, heedless of the oil, and places the torchbrush flower against the base. “I love ye, mum. Seems ye had secrets greater than I kennt, but ye didnae deserve tae die on a pallet choking. I’ll find out why ye never had the life ye deserved. But if naught else, I know now ‘tis possible some part of ye might still be. I hope wherever ‘tis, ye’re well and full of good food an good tales. Mayhap I’ll see ye agin.”
She frowns thoughtfully, something about her last words tickling some link in her brain. Even as she turns and begins to stride away, her mind turns it over. What was it? Grave—it sounds like a word she’s read occasionally in weighty books written by folk who like to use words with lots of syllables—people who’d refer to something’s gravity instead of just saying it was heavy, or perhaps serious. Maybe that’s a better term than pull. What could be weightier or more serious than the connection between things?
Low on the marker in the grassy mound, the letters slowly lose their gleam as the oil dries. The freshly-carved name pierces through the crust of accumulated names, simple and clear as though it had always been thus.
207
Lusira Savoule
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