Nettle & Bone

by T. Kingfisher

The trees were full of crows and the woods were full of madmen. The pit was full of bones and her hands were full of wires.

She could track the progression of starvation backward through the layers. They had eaten deer and they had eaten cattle. When the cattle ran out and the deer were gone, they ate the horses, and when the horses were gone, they ate the dogs. When the dogs were gone, they ate each other.

She wondered about the harper in the song, and what he had thought when he was building the harp of a dead woman’s bones. He was probably the only person in the world who would understand what she was doing. 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?

She was fully aware of how wild she sounded. Part of her recoiled from it. Another, larger part said that she was kneeling on the edge of a pit full of bones, in a land so bloated with horrors that her feet sank into the earth as if she were walking on the surface of a gigantic blister. A little wildness would not be out of place at all.

Most of the people of the blistered land were harmless. They had eaten the wrong flesh and been punished for it. Some saw things that were not there. Some of them could not walk and their fellows helped them. Two had shared a fire with her, some nights ago, although she was careful not to eat their food, even though they offered. It was a cruel spirit that would punish starving people for what they had been forced to eat, but the spirits had never pretended to be kind.

The love of a bone dog, she thought, bending her head down over the paw again. All that I am worth these days. Then again, few humans were truly worth the love of a living dog. Some gifts you could never deserve.

She dropped her head into her aching hands. Three tasks the dust-wife had given her. Sew a cloak of owlcloth and nettles, build a dog of cursed bones, and catch moonlight in a jar of clay. She’d failed on the second one, before she’d even had a chance to start the third. Three tasks, and then the dust-wife would give her the tools to kill a prince.

In the royal palace, the doors were always opening, servants coming and going, nurses coming and going, ladies-in-waiting coming and going. Princesses were public property. She had not realized that a nun had more power than a princess, that she could close a door.

She could not remember ever feeling such a thing before. There was no call to nurture intellectual curiosity among princesses. She did not even quite know what to call it. It felt like a light shining in her chest and she could see just a little way ahead, and that was enough to keep her going forward. There was no one to tell her what she wanted to know or whether the information even existed. She had no one to share her excitement with, but she did not mind, because it did not occur to her that anyone else might care.

“Listen,” hissed Kania. “Listen! If I die, don’t let her marry you off to the prince. Run away. Ruin yourself. Whatever it takes. Don’t let her drag you into this hell along with us.” Marra blinked. Kania clutched at her shoulder and might have said something more, but a contraction ripped through her and she shrieked, her swollen body bucking on the bed.

The labor went very much the same way that Kania’s had, which seemed strange to Marra. 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. Having thus accidentally anticipated a few centuries’ worth of revolutionary political thought, Marra got down to the business of boiling water and making tea.

If she were a man, no one would force Kania to try to bear child after child. If I were a man, I would not be the next in line to be married if he kills her. If we were men . . . She stared at her fingers curled in the dirt. 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. Rage shivered through her, a rage that seemed like it could topple the halls of heaven, then vanished under the knowledge of her own helplessness. Rage was only useful if you were allowed to do anything with it.

She also rather wished that the Sister Apothecary would tell her not to go, because then she would have something to push back against. She was used to being stubborn, but having people agree with her was off-putting and didn’t give her much to work with.

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.” “He isn’t my prince,” said Marra acidly. “If you plan to kill him, he is. Your victim. Your prince.

The moth circled overhead, spun too close to a light—Marra held her breath—and then dropped down into a stall. Marra inched closer to it and saw velvet cloth laid out with dozens of small white objects. Jewels? Ivory? Shells? Teeth. Of course it would be teeth, her mind said, while her skin tried to crawl off her body and run away screaming. It was never not going to be horrible. Teeth. Yes.

“Are you all right?” whispered Marra, when she couldn’t stand it any longer. The man looked down at her. “I don’t know. Are you planning on killing me?” he asked. He sounded as if he were commenting on the weather. “No! I need your help, but I wouldn’t . . .” It occurred to her suddenly that killing a prince was a very dangerous thing to do, and perhaps the moth had landed on him because someone was going to have to die, and that was what she had needed after all. Oh gods! That can’t be it, can it? “That is, I don’t know if I . . . I . . .” She stared up at him, having run out of words and wanting very much to not have said anything. One corner of his mouth crooked just slightly. Marra stared at it wonderingly, that anyone could maintain a sense of humor in this dreadful place. He bent his head toward hers. “This is not the time or the place,” he murmured. “We can sort everything else later.”

“Fenris,” said the dust-wife. She snorted, looking over at Marra. “So you built yourself a dog and found yourself a wolf. If a fox shows up looking for you, we’ll have a proper fairy tale and I’ll start to worry.” “Why?” asked Marra. “If I’m in a fairy tale, I might actually have a chance.” “Fairy tales,” said the dust-wife heavily, “are very hard on bystanders. Particularly old women. I’d rather not dance myself to death in iron shoes, if it’s all the same to you.” “Perhaps you’re the fox,” said Marra.

He turned his gaze to Marra. “We ransom prisoners often in my land, and usually it is only with gold. But you have bought my freedom with your own blood and bone. What little honor I have left is yours, and if I can be of service, I will.”

forts were . . . uncanny. There was always a little dread, under the surface. Dread of the unknown. But when I think of desecrating a grave, I do not feel dread but revulsion. I am not afraid of what lies in the grave, but it would be dishonorable. Disgusting, even. I do not fear retribution; I fear what sort of person I would become by doing it.” The dust-wife slowed then and gave Fenris a sharp, appraising look. The brown hen gave an indignant squawk and rocked on top of the staff. One of her rare smiles crooked her lips. “You are still wrong, Hardishman,” she said. “But you are wrong in an interesting way.”

She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. Her voice shook. “Health’s a good gift.” “It is a very good gift,” said the dust-wife in a voice that left no room for doubt. “You have saved many lives.” The godmother smiled a little, and another tear fell and landed, unheeded, on the table. Marra began to feel like a monster. This isn’t some great power who could have saved you. She did her best. And you’ve never been really ill in your life, have you? You recovered from that fever. And if it weren’t for her, perhaps Kania would not still be alive to save.

“What about curses?” the dust-wife asked. “There are many stories about the wicked fairy at the christening.” Agnes shook her head. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “I always wondered if maybe those godmothers could only give bad gifts. And then you have to wonder if maybe there are lots of godmothers out there who don’t do anything because the only gifts they could give would be curses.”

“You did. And you found you could, couldn’t you?” “I shouldn’t have,” whispered Agnes. “It was on a mouse. I . . . I said it would die before its seventeenth birthday. I’d read a story with a princess who was cursed and . . . well, I shouldn’t have, but I did. And it took. I felt it. It was like a black stain on that poor little thing’s future.”

“Probably a sad story,” said the dust-wife. “They usually are. Somebody gives a lonely child a toy and they pour all their hopes and fears and problems into it. Do it long enough and intensely enough, and then it just needs a stray bit of bad luck and the toy wakes up. Of course, it knows that the only reason it’s alive is because of the child. A tiny personal god with one worshipper. It latches on and . . . well.” She clucked her tongue. “Normally you get them pried off and burned long before adolescence. Impressive that it lasted this long.”

Fenris’s hand on hers, absently stroking her palm. Fenris’s wry smile. His solid presence against her back. The mutual awkwardness of finding themselves in a bedroom together. The way he had held her hands, then let her go the moment she pulled away. “Completely sure,” grated Marra. “Now, come on. We’re supposed to be meeting a terrifying godmother, or have you forgotten?”

The godmother nodded. “Then I may give it to you.” She reached into her sleeves. Metal flashed and Marra thought, Oh god it’s a knife she’s going to stab Agnes, and then, Why am I so frightened? She has never offered us so much as an unkind word. She knew why, of course. Vorling feared the godmother and Marra feared Vorling, links in a chain from predator to prey. I am a worm and Vorling is a starling. The worm has nothing to fear from the hawk, but I cannot quite convince myself of that . . . Shears. They were shears that the godmother carried. She caught hold of the tapestry and closed the blades over a spot not quite halfway up. Marra cried out in surprise. Even as ugly as the weavings were, they represented hours and days of work.

The coronations I have overseen mostly involved getting someone to a point of being crowned. Actually setting up the feasts and the clothes and the priests was someone else’s problem.” Marra thought privately that it was probably mostly a woman’s problem, but at least Fenris was acknowledging it was work.

She wondered if all the old stories of heroes slaying monsters and maidens locked in towers had involved long, tedious stretches of trying to find the monsters or build the towers in the first place. Probably. No, almost certainly. Who wants to hear the dull practical bits? Me. I do. It would make me feel less like I am failing.

You have to let people enjoy it. This is not right. This is not fair. And what is fair? Marra snarled to herself. How is it fair that you grew up and ate meat at every meal and were never expected to shovel a stable because your mother married a king? How is it fair that Vorling cannot be brought to justice? How is it fair that some women wear themselves out in bearing and others cannot have a child? How is it fair that Fenris can never go home again because he killed a terrible man? How is it fair that gods punish starving people in the blistered land? Nothing is fair. Nothing is right. She took a deep breath and stared at the wall, dry-eyed. Agnes touched her arm, concerned. 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.

She looked over the other three, wondering if a princess, even a princess who was sister to the queen, would be able to sweep inside with a large dog and a woman with a chicken on her staff. After they treated us as poor relations the last time . . . No, it might not be that easy. Agnes cleared her throat. “I can get in,” she said. “What?” “How?” “I’m a godmother,” said Agnes. All three of them looked at her blankly. “I know I wasn’t invited,” said Agnes. “That’s the point.” “Eh?” She smiled gently, that tiny, frazzled woman. “There’s only one story about godmothers that’s always true. Bad things happen if you don’t invite us to the christening.”

“Nothing.” The dust-wife stepped back. “This ghost is long gone.” Marra bit her lip. “What if the king we’re after is gone?” “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.

“Do they believe in hell, up here?” “They do,” Marra said. “You freeze in eternal cold.” She shook her head. The concept had seemed foreign to her when she heard it. The Harbor Kingdom, sensibly, believed that the dead went into the sea, and the good were reborn from it, while the damned sank to the bottom and were devoured by crabs. Still, she couldn’t blame the Northern Kingdom for their confusion. There probably weren’t very many crabs up here.

. . un . . . un . . . un . . . run . . . run . . . ! “Did an echo just tell us to run?” asked Agnes, adjusting Finder and looking rather calmer than Marra felt. “Do ghostly echoes have our best interests at heart?” asked Fenris, also remarkably calm.

Oh god, she thought very clearly. I will be devoured and stay as a ghost forever under the palace. This seemed uniquely horrible. Not that she would die, but that she would be trapped here, in the palace, which she was beginning to hate with a fine and enduring passion.

I’m so sorry I can’t stop it, sobbed the voice next to her ear. I keep trying but it won’t stop . . . “It’s all right,” she said automatically. She was going to be ill and she was being dragged backward along the length of a creature made of lost souls and glue and still she was trying to reassure someone. Of course she was. That was how she was going to die, telling someone it was all right for stabbing her, really, she didn’t mind . . . The thief-wheel dropped her. Perhaps she had worked her way to the end. She struck the floor of the corridor and then, mercifully, she fainted.

“You’re alive,” he said. “I thought I’d lost you. You’re alive.” “You’re alive, too!” she said. She wanted to stop and think about what I thought I’d lost you might mean, but it didn’t quite seem like the time. And he was very warm and she was very cold and it was very pleasant to be held in such a fashion. “You’re alive.” “Yes, yes,” said the dust-wife testily. “We’re all alive. Please don’t cry on me about it, though.”

How did you find us?” “A saint led me,” said Marra. “The one from the goblin market.” All three of them stared at her. “Huh,” said the dust-wife. “How fascinating!” said Agnes. “A few months ago, I would have thought you were mad or lying,” said Fenris. “Now I suppose I’m just surprised she didn’t stay for tea.”

Marra lifted her chin and met Vorling’s eyes. You are not so big. You are only a living king. I saw an old woman defeat a dead one. You cannot hurt me any worse than spinning thread of nettle wool, and you cannot confuse me any more than the palace of dust. Even your cruelty is small compared to the blistered land. Perhaps he saw some of that defiance in her. Men like him always had a sense for it, did they not? He took a step forward and his hands clenched at his sides.

“So. Maybe you and I could . . . not go home together?” The words hung in the air between them, as fine as spun glass and just as fragile. Marra waited for him to say something, to catch the words or shatter them, whichever he chose. “I think I’d like that,” said Fenris. Marra sagged with relief. She had been so focused on what he might say that she hadn’t quite expected what he might do. So it came as a surprise when he wrapped both arms around her and put his lips against her hair. “I think I would like that very much,” he murmured. “Oh good,” said Marra against his neck. And then she would have kissed him or he would have kissed her, but Bonedog decided that they were wrestling and jumped up and barked soundlessly at them both.