Nettle & Bone

by T. Kingfisher

Assuming he even existed in the first place. And if he did, what kind of life do you lead where you find yourself building a harp out of corpses? For that matter, what kind of life do you lead where you find yourself building a dog out of bones?

I could sit here for the rest of my life, with my hands full of wire, building dogs out of bone. And then the crows will eat me and I will fall into the pit and we shall all be bones together …

Then again, few humans were truly worth the love of a living dog. Some gifts you could never deserve.

She had not realized that a nun had more power than a princess, that she could close a door.

And I do not know that I would wish it on you, niece, but I am only a youngest daughter dressed up as a nun, and no one cares what I think either way.

Then again, peasants and princesses all shit the same and have their courses the same, so I suppose it’s no surprise that babies all come out the same way, too.

That was so many years ago. You’re being slow again, only mourning now. Probably you’ll actually get around to crying for your niece in a decade or so.

It did not matter. They were not and the history of the world was written in women’s wombs and women’s blood and she would never be allowed to change it.

“Don’t thank me,” said Elspeth. “Come back to tell me, after it’s over.” Thinking of the long journey southeast, Marra shook her head. “I may not live to do it,” she admitted. “I know,” said the dust-wife gently. “But I’ll still be able to hear you.”

“Magic is beyond my skills. Come back as you can, and if you can’t, I hope fate is kind to you.” Marra no longer had much faith in fate. She had been born a princess, which should have been lucky, but the price for never going hungry was to be caught in a struggle between people too powerful to call to justice.

She was used to being stubborn, but having people agree with her was off-putting and didn’t give her much to work with.

“But perhaps that’s the fate in store for you after all. No, child, you give someone an impossible task so that they won’t be able to do it.” Marra examined this statement carefully from all directions. “But I did it,” she said. “Twice.” “I had noticed,” said the dust-wife grimly. “And quite likely you will do the third task and then I will be obligated to help you kill your prince.”

“Lots of people deserve to die,” said the dust-wife finally. “Not everybody deserves to be a killer.”

“It was an impossible task,” said the dust-wife. “The other two should have been impossible, but here you are with a bone dog and a cloak made of owlcloth and nettles. Catching the moon would have broken you, though. That’s not a task for mortals who want to keep their hearts.”

“How did you get a demon in your chicken?” “The usual way. Couldn’t put it in the rooster. That’s how you get basilisks.”

Some things come into being once it’s inevitable that they will exist.”

These directions proved quite good, unlike Owen.

Vorling and his kingdom get proof against malign magic, and we have a witch who is simply grateful that she wasn’t murdered by her own father and received the barest acknowledgment from her family. Saint’s teeth.

“She had six litters and every kitten was a tom. The barn was overrun. Nothing but fighting and pissing everywhere, and yowling when they weren’t pissing.” “Just like the barracks,” said Fenris nostalgically.

“Suppose we do survive. What happens then?” “I don’t know.” Marra looked at the fire. “I suppose I go back to my convent and work on my embroidery.” “Mm.” He squeezed her hand again, then released her and began to put out the fire. “Well, if you find that your convent needs someone to split firewood, it happens that I know a fellow…”

“You wove a cloak with nettle thread,” said the dust-wife, standing over her, “and built your own dog out of bones, and now you are concerned about what is impossible?” She shook herself and all the jars and bottles in her pockets rattled like a porcupine’s quills.

Nothing is fair, except that we try to make it so. That’s the point of humans, maybe, to fix things the gods haven’t managed.

“You can’t tell me more?” “The less you know, the less you can spill when you talk to your sister about getting us into the palace. You’re a terrible liar, Marra. You look as if you’re afraid the universe is ashamed of you.”

“No dying,” said Marra angrily. “I don’t want you to die! I want you to live to a ripe, old age so that I can say, ‘Hey, Fenris, remember the time we went into a horrible catacomb and the dust-wife said something cryptic and Agnes waved a baby chicken at us,’ and you say, ‘Of course I remember,’ and I don’t have to try to explain to someone who wasn’t there.” The silence from the other side of the room was suddenly deeper and more textured. Marra bit her lip. “Besides,” she said, after a moment, “someone has to chop all my firewood. I’ve gotten spoiled.”

She bore an heir. After the christening, Kania’s life will mean nothing to the prince. No, no, surely not. Children die too easily; he’ll wait until he has another one, won’t he? Surely? It would be the sensible thing to do. Why do you expect a man who tortures his wife to be sensible?

Also you’re about to enter the cursed palace of the dead. That tends to have an impact on your nerves.

“Is that the moon in a jar?” asked Marra, feeling a pang of recognition. “Only a little of it. It won’t mind. The moon loves things like this.”

“If he was gone, he couldn’t still compel the godmother. No, he’s around. Probably mad as hell, too.” “That was comforting,” said Fenris. “I am comforted.” He shared a bemused look with Marra, who smiled in spite of herself.

the thief-wheel will catch you soon enough and you will go wailing through the dark forever.

Was there a map somewhere in the palace? Something about this seems familiar.

I’m surrounded by lunatics, and I love them all, but maybe we should be running anyway. She took another step back.

It was only a spark at first, more golden than torchlight. She thought perhaps it was not really there, because it looked like the gold sparks that came when she rubbed her eyelids. But it strengthened and came closer and closer still, illuminating the walls with their carvings of cold, dead kings. It was a woman. Where she walked, she kicked up clouds of light, like dust. Marra lifted her eyes and saw that the woman held a severed hand in her right hand and that her left wrist ended in a stump. It was the saint from the goblin market.

Marra wanted to cry out, to beg her not to leave, but she bit her lower lip. The gods had intervened on her behalf. Surely they would not take her only halfway.

Black dog, white dog, Live dog, dead dog, Yellow dog, run!