Grimdark Magazine Issue #4 ePub Read online

  Fallen Mother have mercy, did every single person have a better idea of how Sir Hjortt should conduct himself than he did? This would not stand.

  “My good woman,” he said, “it seems that we have even more to parley than I previously suspected. Sister Portolés’s business is pressing, however, and so she must away before we embark on this long conversation you so desire. Fear not, however, for the terms of supplication your husband laid out to us at the crossroads shall be honored, reasonable as they undeniably are. Off with you, Portolés.”

  Portolés offered him one of her sardonic salutes from over the older woman’s shoulder, and then stalked out of the yard, looking as petulant as he’d ever seen her. Iqbal whispered something to her as he moved out of her way by the gate, and wasn’t fast enough in his retreat when she lashed out at him. The war nun flicked the malformed ear that emerged from Iqbal’s pale tonsure like the outermost leaf of an overripe cabbage, rage rendering her face even less appealing, if such a thing was possible. Iqbal swung his heavy satchel at her in response, and although Portolés dodged the blow, the dark bottom of the sackcloth misted her with red droplets as it whizzed past her face. If the sister noticed the blood on her face, she didn’t seem to care, dragging her feet down the precarious trail, her maul slung over one hunched shoulder.

  “My husband,” the matron whispered, and, turning back to her, Sir Hjortt saw that her wide eyes were fixed on Iqbal’s dripping sack.

  “Best if we talk inside,” said Sir Hjortt, winking at Iqbal and ushering the woman toward her door. “Come, come, I have an absolutely brilliant idea about how you and your people might help with the war effort, and I’d rather discuss it over tea.”

  “You said the war was over,” the woman said numbly, still staring at the satchel.

  “So it is, so it is,” said Sir Hjortt. “But the effort needs to be made to ensure it doesn’t start up again, what? Now, what do you have to slake the thirst of servants of the Empire, home from the front?”

  She balked, but there was nowhere to go, and so she led Sir Hjortt and Brother Iqbal inside. It was quiet in the yard, save for the trees and the clacking of the bone fetishes when the wind ran its palm down the mountain’s stubbly cheek. The screaming didn’t start until after Sister Portolés had returned to the village, and down there they were doing enough of their own to miss the echoes resonating from the mayor’s house.

  This is an extract from A Crown for Cold Silver by Alex Marshall published by Hachette Australia. Trade Paperback $29.99, Ebook $16.99[GdM]

  Ashes

  Tara Calaby

  1.

  And they lived happily ever after.

  2.

  There is an itch inside me. Every morning, the sun rises. The stone walls of the castle are warmed by the light, and white-starched maids pull back the heavy blue velvet of my curtains so that the dust glows like a thousand stars hanging in the air. Tea and toast are brought on a silver tray. My hair shines golden upon the twelve pillows at my back, and a black spaniel curls at the foot of my bed.

  After eating, I dress. The maids fuss around me, buttoning my corset and straightening my skirts. My hair is combed and curled, piled high upon my head and adorned with sparkling precious stones. My face is powdered and red petals are used to stain my lips and cheeks. My dresses are pink and pale blue and buttery yellow and white. My shoes are always the same glass slippers. They pinch my toes and blister my feet.

  There is an oak tree outside my bedroom window. Its trunk is scarred by the years and birds nest beneath its shade. In the mornings, I stand, fingertips pressed against the glass. The leaves quiver in the breeze, and I close my eyes and breathe (in out in out) and in my mind I soar like those birds, into the sky and the clouds and away.

  Away and away and away.

  3.

  I am a princess now. There are rules for being a princess, rules that are often unspoken and sometimes unkind. I must be beautiful and graceful and smile at my husband and bear him an heir. My womb belongs to the kingdom now: to the peasants and the nobles and to the cobbled streets and the meadows and the dirt beneath my feet. My husband dreams of a son. I dream of a dark forest and vines that twist around my legs.

  My mother died before she could warn me about the weight of a husband beside you in a bed. On my wedding night, my stepsisters whispered the crude things that friends told them in the streets, and I did not believe them until there was a calloused hand pressed against my breast and a splitting and a stabbing between my legs. I was sixteen. The bleeding ceased on the third day.

  He comes to my bed less frequently now. 'Don't you love me?' he asks, and I stare at the ceiling and count the grains in the dark oak beams.

  I remember love. Love was the gentle brush of my mother's hand across my forehead and the engulfing crush of my father's hugs. Love is not rough hands and grunting, not perfect hair and make-up and uncrumpled dresses. If I bear him a child, I suppose I shall love it. If I love it too much, the fates will steal it away.

  I must learn to love my husband. It is not his fault that he was a failed escape. He is handsome and a good dancer and he thinks me the most beautiful woman in the world. He is not a bad man. He is probably a good man. My maids tell me that things must always be this way.

  Sometimes, they find me huddled beside the fireplace and scold me for the ash that marks my clothes. I do it again and again to see the disapproval in their eyes.

  I do not tell my husband. He would not understand.

  4.

  My bride is unhappy. She is a fair actress, but she has not yet learned how to show her smiles in her eyes. She is well-mannered, compliant, beautiful, and all that a princess should be. And yet she remains distant: mine in name and in body, but never in soul.

  She laughs when I talk of love, as though she distrusts my heart. Her clothes are beautiful now, but when she looks at me, sometimes I can only see the rag-adorned girl with charcoal blackening her nails. She helps her maids with their duties and walks the castle grounds barefoot and with her hair unbound. Sometimes I wonder if I shall ever tame her spirit.

  Cinderella's womb remains empty. I yearn for a son.

  5.

  As we enter the ballroom, I take my bride's arm. Her fingers are thin and pale against the tan of my hand, and her neck is a delicate line topped with sun-coloured curls. We pause to be seen and to be acknowledged; she straightens her back, assuming her role.

  Cinderella's stepmother sinks into a deep curtsey before us. Her hair is greying, but her eyes remain bright. 'A child at last!' she exclaims, and my wife looks down, folding her hands over the curve of her stomach.

  'I am merely eating well, stepmother,' she says, and she does not look me in the eye. 'Our cook prepares the sweetest of meats and my plate is always piled high.'

  'You must be careful,' her stepmother says. 'If you become fat and lose your beauty, there are many other women who will not.'

  Cinderella’s stepmother looks to her daughters, who are dancing and flirting with my red-uniformed guards.

  'Cinderella is the most beautiful woman in the kingdom.' I circle my bride's waist with my arm, pulling her close into my side. 'I want no other, and I never shall.'

  Cinderella smiles, but she stiffens in my embrace.

  That night, she doesn't protest when I join her in her bed. Her skin is soft against my fingertips, and she is warm beneath me as I kiss her pale pink lips. She is silent and unmoving, a beautiful doll.

  'You are mine,' I say when I leave her.

  'Are you happy?' is her reply.

  6.

  A parasite grows inside my belly. It feeds on my fears and forms nightmares from my dreams. I pummel my own flesh, pressing fists deep into skin that does not yield, but still my body betrays me. I rest my forehead against the cool of the basin, bile burning hot in my throat and chest. My tears are silent. The elegant twists of my hair stay high and perfect and do not fall.

  At night, I crouch in
front of the fireplace, the stone of the hearth warm beneath my knees. I pray that my husband will not come; I pray that the curve of my stomach remains concealed by the gathers of my dress. The coals glow and the glass of my slippers reflects their amber light. The huff of my breath feeds the dying flames. There is ash upon my cheek and a growth inside me that swells and thrives.

  I call for her and she comes to me. The brown of her skin and the grey of her hair blend and become indistinct in the murky light. Only her black, black eyes remain true. 'You are still so unhappy, my child,' she says. 'You have a castle and maids and you are wedded to a prince.'

  'I am a lark in a cage,' I tell her. 'The bars are different, but the song is the same.'

  Her soft hands brush the dirt from my cheeks. I curve into her touch and, for a moment, her face is the face of my mother. We are silent. She is round and warm where I am straight and cold. She smells like tea and spice.

  'Will you help me?' I ask.

  'I dearly wish I could.' Her magic is imperfect. 'An illusion,' she calls it, with smoke in her dark eyes. 'Fleeting trickery. A fairy's wiles.'

  'I am desperate.'

  'I could place a stone inside your womb,' she says, 'but at the stroke of midnight, it would become life again.'

  'It is not life; it is death. It is a tumour. No more.'

  She strokes my stomach, her fingers finding the bulge of the growth through the layers of my skirts. The shadows are thick in the corners of my bedroom and the ceiling flushes with flickering light. I kiss her cheek, and beneath my lips, the loose skin tightens and its soft curve reforms into more youthful lines. Her hair darkens, falling from its bun and settling around her neck in a circle of curls. She lengthens and shimmers, and the air folds and stretches around her as it finds its new shape.

  'Illusion,' she says again, and perhaps I understand.

  'Are you truly my godmother?'

  'I am whatever you need me to be. It is the way fairies are.'

  'Humans too, sometimes.' The parasite is hot within me. 'We are alike, you and I.'

  'I know, Cinderella,' says the fairy. 'I know.'

  'Is this who I really am?'

  She touches my face. 'Only you can tell.'

  7.

  When she comes again, she is dressed in the skin of a beautiful girl, not much older than I. She pets my hair and strokes my skin and brings me fresh rags for the bleeding that will not stop.

  'You are so pale,' says the fairy. 'You look barely alive.'

  'It was worth it,' I say. 'The herbs helped me breathe.'

  I lean on her arms as I walk to my bed. The sheets are stiff with clotted blood.

  'There is an emptiness inside me. It is like a hole that stretches from the base of my stomach to the place where my heart used to be.' I fold a rag and tuck it deep within my skirts. My fingers emerge slick with red. 'It is a good hole, I think. It is filled with quiet.'

  The fairy presses a glass of water into my hands. I drink it and swallow the herbs that swirl within the liquid. 'An old woman's cure,' she says.

  'Not magic?'

  'You need more than illusion if you are to stay alive.'

  'Who are you really?' I ask her.

  'A fairy,' she answers. 'Your friend.'

  'An illusion.'

  'Only in appearance.'

  I touch her face. Her skin is smooth and brown. The line of her nose rises slightly at the tip. Her lips are soft. 'Is this what I need from you now? Youth and beauty?'

  'Someone you can understand.'

  'Beauty is entrapment,' I say.

  I am ugly beneath my skin. My golden curls hide a briar patch of thorns and tangles. My fair white flesh is a bag for filth and flies. The blue of my eyes is the blue of the weeds that strangle the gentle flowers in the castle gardens and between my legs there is a chasm that bleeds and grows.

  'Show me your face.' I tear at my dress, rending the bodice and exposing the pale curves of my breasts. 'Take what you will, but see me with your own eyes.'

  'These are my eyes,' she says, and they are as black as they were that first evening, as black as they have always been when she has stroked me and comforted me and seen into my soul.

  As I watch, she changes. Her jaw becomes pointed, and she shrinks until her height is that of my shoulders. Her hips are smooth and lean. Her skin darkens and her hair takes on a blueish hue: the black of the starlit skies. Her teeth sharpen and her cheekbones stretch and her breasts grow lower and fuller.

  'You are still young and beautiful,' I say.

  She is right. Her eyes are the same.

  8.

  Now I go to Cinderella even when she has not called for me. There is a transparency to her skin that was not there before the bleeding and a sunken set to her eyes. It only serves to make her more beautiful. We fairies are born to be shaped to others' whims, but at times I catch myself desiring more. She is fragile and inscrutable and drifting further into her own mind with every passing day.

  'He came to me tonight,' she says when I appear beside her bed. 'I can still smell him on the sheets and on my skin.'

  I stroke her hair and she stiffens for a moment before relaxing and allowing the touch. 'Are you hurt?'

  She ignores the question, instead catching my hand inside her own and squeezing it with her delicate strength. 'Is love so very tied to beauty? He never says he loves me when it is dark or his eyes are closed.' She examines my fingers, so much longer than hers, and tests the points of my nails with one fingertip. 'I can see that my husband is handsome, but I only love him as a duty. I can see that your form is wrong to human eyes, and yet I would prefer you to a thousand men.'

  'Fairies and humans are not so very different.'

  'No,' she says. 'Although I am never entirely sure that you are real.'

  'Sometimes I wonder the same of you.'

  She smiles: perfect white teeth in that perfect white face. 'So do I. There are days when I am nothing more than a loose collection of dreams. Other times, it is like all of my senses are screaming at once.'

  'Did he hurt you tonight?' I try again.

  'What is pain anyway?' Her eyes focus for a moment and she sees my face. 'I am not injured, although I cannot remember when I was last whole.'

  'You are not broken, Cinderella.'

  'I am a thousand pieces, and none of them knows your name.'

  'Would it make a difference?'

  She frowns. 'I had another name once. I had a mother and a father and a different name.'

  I stroke her forehead. 'Names are not everything.'

  There are tears in her eyes. Cinderella clutches my shoulder and pulls me close. 'Do you think I am beautiful?'

  'More beautiful with every passing day.'

  She sighs and pulls the bedclothes tight around her chest. 'Then I am surely doomed.'

  9.

  Cinderella is on the hearth when I emerge from the flames, her nightclothes torn and hanging from her body like a collection of ashy rags. One of her shins is bleeding and her pale hair hangs in tangles.

  'What did he do?'

  For a long moment, she looks at me without seeing me, and then it is as though a dark shadow moves from behind her eyes. She blinks. Her cheeks are pink from the fire. 'Fairy,' she says, 'he has not been here tonight.'

  'But your clothes...'

  She looks down at her body, plucking at the remnant of white cotton that barely covers her left breast. 'I was sleeping,' she says, 'or perhaps I was awake.'

  'You are hurt.' I press a strip of fabric against her wound, and it quickly colours.

  When I bleed, I know I am still alive.'

  Cinderella watches as I dress her injury, a distant interest evident in her eyes. When I have done all I can, I fetch water from the basin in the corner of her bedroom and gently wash the smears of charcoal from her face. She is pliant in my embrace, and I can feel her heart beating beneath my ear like the fluttering pulse of a songbird.
/>   She guides my fingers to her breast and it is warm and soft, the nipple pressing against my palm. I pull away, but she catches my hand and this time holds it in place, just as her other hand delves beneath my bodice.

  'Cinderella—' I begin, but she kisses me before I can order my words.

  'I know that you must want this,' she says. 'It is what everyone wants from me. My face. My flesh.'

  'But I am only what you want me to be,' I remind her.

  Her fingers are cold. They stab and burn between my legs.

  10.

  'My name is Cinderella,' I tell her, 'because I was born of you.'

  11.

  There is a beast in my royal mirror. Its fangs are pointed and its eyes glow red. I run fingernails down my cheeks and the lines are pink, like the stain upon my lips. The beast smiles with a thousand knives. My pulse throbs, thick and slow, within my neck. I break the glass, but still the beast survives.

  The fairy stands by my window, dressed in the soft flesh of a child. 'Come closer,' I tell her, and she approaches with tentative eyes.

  'Are you well?' she asks.

  'I am falling,' I say.

  I sit upon my bed, and cradle her small head within my lap. Her hands are tiny and her fingers are pointed. She watches me and I can feel my skin peeling beneath her gaze. I shed it like a snake, and leave myself behind.

  'You are too thin,' she says. 'Are you eating?'

  'It all tastes like dust now,' I reply.

  My breasts are shrinking. They fade and fold into my chest, but still he palms them, and still his weight presses heavy upon the dip of my stomach and the bones of my ribs.