Beneath Ceaseless SKies #49 Read online

Moira stares at the spider. The rumble of approach—planes, tanks, men—the hospital shakes with it. A blast shatters something above, and ceiling pieces come crashing down, below. More sky than she’s seen in weeks opens up in an instant. The sun blazes down, and smoke folds in.

  When the dust settles, on her and over her, the spider’s still there, waving its small legs grandly. She watches him conduct an orchestra of destruction around her.

  You should leave now, spider. Someone’s gotta make it out of here. It won’t be me.

  The gun-turret of eyes tilts from side to side, then looks to the parcel it holds. It takes a delicate fang, and slices the silk open. The fly, emerges, struggling. And Moira watches it buzz away into the light.

  Copyright © 2010 Erin Cashier

  Comment on this Story in the BCS Forums

  Erin Cashier is a nurse at a burn ward in the Bay Area. She attended Clarion West in 2007, and her story “Cruciger” is in Writers of the Future XXIV. Her story “Near the Flame” is forthcoming in Shimmer Magazine. and “Cruciger” will appear soon on Escape Pod. She is the author of “Hangman” in Beneath Ceaseless Skies #10, as well as “The Alchemist’s Feather” in BCS #25 and the Best of BCS, Year One anthology.

  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  THE BOOK OF AUTUMN

  by Rachael Acks

  The day I bought my freedom was as clear and sunny as the day I’d been sold. The small pile of coins, sitting at the center of Bertrand’s enormous, age-blackened desk, still glowed faintly with the warmth of my hands in the sight of my newly cursed left eye. His hands, normally so eager to touch anything of mine, were folded away in the dark sleeves of his robe.

  “It’s too soon for you to leave,” he said.

  I could only smile at that. “I’m free. I’ll do as I like.”

  “There’s still much you have to learn. And now that you have your freedom, we can teach you more, and better.”

  I stared at him. A sheen of sweat formed across his pale forehead. “I’ll take my chances.”

  He shuddered and tried to look away without turning his head, his normal, pale blue left eye’s gaze fixed on the bookshelves behind my right shoulder. His own cursed eye, black and gem-green like a poisonous snake, stared fixedly at me. “You should reconsider.”

  His nervousness only made me stretch my lips in a broader smile. They thought of it as a game, these sweaty old men. Tease the dim, pretty little poppet with bits of magic to keep her dazzled and quiet. They’d never realized, I think, how much I had actually understood until I’d raised my head from my work and pulled back my hair so they could see I’d received the curse of knowledge. Then they were frightened, and rightly so. They’d convinced themselves that we illiterate women had no capacity for their sort of magic, but I made the truth something they couldn’t ignore.

  “By your leave, Bertrand,” I said, with the barest sketch of a bow. As a slave, that would have—and had—earned me a beating.

  His eyes narrowed. “We cared for you, and this is how you repay us?”

  “Only someone that has never known love would call that care,” I said, and turned to go.

  “Safir!” He sounded shocked and angry; his chair creaked as he levered himself to his feet.

  I turned back, looking at his face gone red with outrage. I raised my hand, fingers spread, to cover the sight. “Golden fall the leaves of autumn,” I said. My voice sounded strange to my own ears, moving precisely over the hard-learned tones and the ritual words of the ancient story. “Upon the wind they split and dance—”

  He sat as if his knees had simply given way; if his chair hadn’t been there to catch him, he would have tumbled to the floor. A single, thin red line opened on his cheek, the cut so delicate that it barely bled.

  “I know the Book of Changes and the Book of Autumn by heart,” I said. “And thanks to you, well I know how to hate. There is nothing left that you can possibly teach me.” I let my hand fall back to my side. What little magic I had summoned left my mouth tasting of metal and my nose filled with the scent of a misty morning. Bertrand made no further move or sound as I left.

  My few possessions were already bundled up: simple clothing and a single book, a faithful copy of the Book of Autumn, worth its weight in diamonds. I’d been tempted, but only for a moment, to demand the robes of an initiate. I had a right to them. Good quality as they were, I didn’t want such a vivid reminder of the last ten years, and I didn’t want to attract such attention. Daring to wear such robes as a woman, and moreso a woman alone, would be an invitation to more fights than even I had the stomach for.

  I’d entered the monastery by way of the side door, dragged into the kitchen to receive my first lesson in obedience. I left, head high on a stiff neck, through the front gates. No one tried to stop me as I flung them open, flooding the front hall with blinding light. They had all felt what fate Bertrand had narrowly avoided.

  The mountain air was cold and clear. The breeze against my face whispered a promise of freedom.

  I never looked back.

  * * *

  I didn’t know where my brother—my only family—was, or even if he still lived. I was six years old when I had seen him last, precocious and sounding my way through the epic cycle of Rezralond the warrior queen, a book nearly bigger than me. Esmerand dozed beside me, smelling of sweet grass and freshly-turned earth. The next morning, he was gone and had left me in the care of a family of merchants who had once been friends of our father. Two years later, after a bad harvest and a lost caravan, they sold me. Old loyalty did not produce food for hungry children, after all. That required money, and a clever, beautiful little girl fetched quite a price.

  I never found out why Esmerand had left, or where he had gone, and no one saw fit to tell me. He’d simply abandoned me to what poor mercy existed in the world.

  I walked alone for two days with the monastery at my back, rising with the sun, eating the hard bread I’d taken with me a bite at a time. It was early summer; there were springs to drink from and wild berries to pick. Still, it was a relief when I came upon a small caravan. They were stopped for their noon meal, gathered around a small fire that they were using to boil water for tea.

  I hadn’t seen unfamiliar faces in a long time, and it left me feeling strangely shy. I combed a bit of my loose hair forward to hide my cursed left eye, ducking a little. It gave the appearance of suitable female modesty. “Good afternoon,” I called.

  The caravan leader was a tall, thin man, who had two long, rust-colored feathers tucked into his hatband. “Afternoon, young...,” he tilted his head to the side, “lady.” His people looked at me curiously: three young men, all with swords and bows nearby, a stocky woman in a blue skirt, and a child that looked to be a mix of the woman and the leader.

  “Are you going to Tera Sal?” I asked, “Or perhaps near that way?”

  “Near enough,” he answered. “No one goes to Tera Sal any more, but the end of our road is in Tera Selvina.”

  I wanted to ask why, but thought it best to keep business before questions. “In that case, might I join you for a while? I’ll work my passage... to a point.” I spared the young men a cold glance, not wanting them to get any ideas.

  “You any good with horses?”

  “A bit.” I’d done work in the stables as punishment for my more intractable moments. “What I don’t know, I’ll learn, and happily. All I ask is company and a share of food. Nothing more.”

  “You’ll clean and tend horses then. Maybe mend some clothes too if you’ve any skill with a needle.”

  “A bit,” I said again.

  “Then sit, and be welcome at my fire,” the man said. “My name’s Bashya. My wife, Pellé, and my daughter, Venia.” His wife gave me a cautious smile, while his daughter unabashedly stared. How the scrutiny of such a small child could make me so uncomfortable, I did not know.

  I sat, between Bashya and one of the caravan guards. He had sandy hair and a scar across the bridge of his nose. He ma
de no move to give me more room, but nodded and smiled pleasantly enough. “Tiko,” he said, tilting his tin cup toward his chest.

  “And I’m Marlin,” the next man said, “And this is my brother, Kiefler. Nice to meet you.” Those two did look enough alike; brown hair, brown eyes, dark skin, as if some spirit had spun them both from honest mud and kissed the word of life onto their lips once they were done baking in the sun.

  “Safir,” I said. No one else had spoken family names, so I wasn’t troubled to make one up.

  Tiko held another tin cup to me. It was full of baked beans. Kiefler tossed a warm heel of bread into my lap to go with it. “Thank you,” I murmured.

  “Where are you from?” Marlin asked. “What news do you bring?”

  I stared into the cup. The monastery was not proscribed or all that feared; in fact, mentioning it might have gained me a bit of respect. Speaking of it would also have added another stone to the foundation it had already built on my heart. “West,” I said. “I’m afraid I have no news. I bought my freedom only a few days past.”

  I had expected nods of sympathy or understanding; these were not wealthy people. What I got were looks of pity, quiet hisses of pain. Another bit of bread appeared, resting on my knee this time.

  “No wonder you’re so thin,” Pellé murmured.

  Bashya stood abruptly. “Marlin, get the horses up. We’ve sat long enough.” He pointed at me. “You concentrate on eating down that food. You can start working after the meal.” Then he continued snapping orders at the others.

  They whirled around me in a well-orchestrated dance, putting up pots and pulling tethers. I chewed on the sweet bread, letting their merry talk wash over me and fighting to understand their words, the cheerful little arguments they had. It felt foreign, though we shared a language.

  My cursed left eye, seeking out the threads of story belonging to this people, found them shot through with worry and secrets. That was familiar enough.

  * * *

  We traveled for weeks, and no more questions were asked. The others told stories of their travels, their families, their dreams. I listened to the simple poetry of their contentment and eagerly sealed it into my memory. It wasn’t the powerful stuff of the ancient epics that were the building blocks of magic, but something that felt equally deep and important. I learned to cook, passably, and to mend tack. Each day brought us closer to my goal, my home, yet I felt less eager with each step taken.

  We stopped one evening on a wide, green plateau dotted with wildflowers in tiny spangles of pink, blue, and purple. I stared at them as we set up the camp, feeling lost until I saw Venia running around the wagons, picking a flower here and there. I bent to pick flowers then, too, and Venia appeared at my side, laughing, and showed me how to weave the thin stems into a garland that she insisted I set in my hair.

  I smiled at her as she danced around me, her own garland askew, and wondered what flowers bloomed at home, and what ones stood at my brother’s feet.

  It wasn’t my turn to cook, so when the horses were watered and settled, I wandered away. The wind was fierce on the plateau, tearing petals away from my garland and rolling the clouds overhead. I sat on the soft grass, then lay down to watch the sky. The flowers fell from my hair, the scent, sweet and bruised, filling the air around me. I raised one hand to shield my eyes from the setting sun and watched the clouds pull through my fingers like a lady’s hair, dyed in orange and red.

  “Safir.”

  I looked to the side. “Do you need something, Bashya?”

  He shook his head. The feathers in his hat streamed in the wind. “Only to speak, if you don’t mind the company.”

  “Of course not.” I swept my other hand along the ground. “Please, sit in my domain.”

  He chuckled, sitting cross-legged by my shoulder, his face pointed toward the sunset as if we were two old friends enjoying the same painting. “Safir, why do you wish to go to Tera Sal?”

  Taking in his serious tone, I sat up, tucking my legs up under my skirts. “It’s where I was from, before I was sold. It’s the closest thing I have to a home now, I suppose.”

  “A home that would sell you.” He sounded bemused. “And then what will you do?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted, turning my eyes back to the clouds. “It’s been ten years since I was given any decision to make.”

  Again, that hiss of pain. “After ten years, what can there still be for you? Perhaps... you should stay with us. You work hard, and well.”

  Part of me had hoped he would offer, and part of me had feared it. “I have a brother. I want to find him.” It was more than a want; it was a need. I needed to ask him why.

  “But is he still in Tera Sal?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. He left when I was young.” I schooled my voice carefully to avoid the hurt and bitterness of those words.

  “Then perhaps your search would be better pursued on the road.”

  I looked back at Bashya; his face was grave, the lines around his mouth set deep. “What is in Tera Sal now, Bashya? Why does no one go there?”

  “Some say bandits,” he said. “Some say monsters. An alchemist built his home in the mountains above the town, and the merchants stopped going there. It’s all fallen to ruin, last I heard.” He plucked a flower from the grass, turning it in his fingers. “I say that any town that would sell its daughters is no place to be, at any rate.”

  I laughed. “All towns do, Bashya, daughters and sons. Slavery is better than starvation.”

  He shrugged. “We don’t think so.”

  “And who is ‘we?’”

  He laughed, this time. “The Destani, Safir,” he said. “Such a smart girl, and you never guessed?”

  In Tera Sal, they called the Destani ‘blood drinkers’ and ‘eaters of the dead.’ In the monastery, they’d been far more sophisticated and just called them thieves. Considering my feelings about both places, I would make no such assumptions. When a woman reads, they say, her mind fills with unnatural ideas. I had read a great deal, and many strange books. “The Travelers.” It came from my lips as a sigh.

  Bashya laughed again, this time with surprise and pleasure. “Not the answer that I normally hear. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, if you’ve been looking at the truth of things.”

  It made my stomach clench, hearing him refer so casually to the strange vision of my cursed eye, as if he somehow understood it. “It’s more that histories are most enlightening in what they don’t say. I know what you are.”

  “And we know what you are, too,” he said, tapping next to his own left eye with one finger. “Fablespinner. We’ve been waiting, all this time, for you to tell us a tale.”

  “That’s not what I’m called, Bashya. And I don’t want to hurt anyone.” I squeezed my eyes tightly shut.

  “The stories were never meant to hurt, Safir,” Bashya said, his voice sad. “Your people stole our arts, our magics, and did as they pleased with them. They crafted our love of words into a weapon.”

  The Travelers were the ones who had begun the tales and made the stories, but to what end I had never known. All I knew was so full of blood and anger, I couldn’t imagine using them for any other sort of magic. “Love, Bashya? Somehow, I doubt that was ever involved.”

  He shook his head. “Take a storyteller away from the light of the campfire, make the stories about power and death instead of laughter and life, and is it any wonder the words turn cold and cruel?” He must have seen the confusion in my expression; he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “What did they do to you, child?”

  “Don’t ask me that.”

  Bashya sighed. His tone was gentle, but there was rage beneath it. “That’s answer enough.”

  “I want my brother, Bashya. I want to go home. So please... just stop asking me. “

  “You’ve set yourself a rough course, Safir. I just hope.... In two days, we’ll be as close to Tera Sal as we get. If you still wish, then, take your leave.” He inhaled deep
ly. “Smell that? Pellé’s made rabbit stew for us tonight. It’d be a shame to let it all waste in the bellies of the boys.”

  “It would,” I agreed. I opened my eyes. The sky was streaked with deep red and purple. I stood, brushing the grass from my skirts.

  “Venia adores you, you know,” Bashya said.

  I shrugged. “Children like everyone.”

  He clapped me on the shoulder. “That shows just how much you know of children.”

  I let him pull me back to the fire, the warm food and conversation. I left my garland of flowers crushed in the grass.

  * * *

  Two days later, we stopped at a lonely crossing, where the road from Tera Sal met the trade road. There was nothing to be seen there but the empty dirt tracks, grass, and trees. The crossing was guarded by a simple wooden sign, its letters blurred with age, and a stone guard dog that pointed its nose north, ears up and alert. Someone had knocked its carved teeth out with a rock, and they lay scattered at its feet.

  We paused there so that I could take my leave, and each of the Destani took the time to place a kiss on the guard dog’s nose and ears.

  It was Venia’s turn—she clung to her mother’s hand, shrieking as she was pulled toward the stone dog—when they attacked. Men, fifteen or twenty of them, pouring from behind the trees, knives glittering in their hands, grins showing black teeth.

  Pellé snatched Venia up in her arms and sprinted back to the wagons. Bashya and the guards drew their swords. I stood frozen, my skirts flapping around my ankles.

  A giant of a man, with a rusted war hammer dangling from his hands, stepped forward. He had a curling red beard and an eye patch over his left eye, the cheek below warped with scars. “The goods,” he said. “And the women. You keep your lives in exchange.”

  I knew what those words meant. Women sold better.

  Bashya edged forward, sword ready. He opened his mouth to reply, but the sound died in his throat as I touched his arm. I knew the end of that story, if he tried to stand and fight. “A moment,” I said, my voice for his ears alone.