What Moves the Dead (Sworn Soldier, #1)

by T. Kingfisher

I’m not, for the most part, an imaginative soul. Put me in the most haunted house in Europe for a night, and I shall sleep soundly and wake in the morning with a good appetite. I lack any psychic sensitivities whatsoever. Animals like me, but I occasionally think they must find me frustrating, as they stare and twitch at unknown spirits and I say inane things like “Who’s a good fellow, then?” and “Does kitty want a treat?” (Look, if you don’t make a fool of yourself over animals, at least in private, you aren’t to be trusted. That was one of my father’s maxims, and it’s never failed me yet.)

He was likely not expecting a short, stout person in a dusty greatcoat and a military haircut. I no longer bother to bind my breasts, but I never had a great deal to worry about in that direction, and my batman sees that my clothing is cut in proper military style.

yeaaahhh trans man mention!!

And then, of course, there are the other sort. They ask questions, but what they really want to know is what’s in your pants and, by extension, who’s in your bed.

I mentioned that we were a fierce warrior people, right? Even though we were bad at it? But we were proud of our warriors. Someone had to be, I guess, and this recognition extends to the linguistic fact that when you’re a warrior, you get to use ka and kan instead of ta and tan. You show up to basic training and they hand you a sword and a new set of pronouns.

People join for all reasons. There are people who really, really don’t want to be women and this is the best option. There are people who want to get out of the mountains and this way you get a bed and a meat meal twice a week. And then there’s me.

Sometimes it’s hard to know if someone is insulting or just an American.

I had no idea what to make of this talk. “We’ll figure it out,” I said again, firmly. “I hope so. Everything frightens me now.” He shook his head and laughed, and it was almost as ghastly as his smile. “I am not the soldier I was.” “None of us are what we were,” I said, and let him show me to my room.

“Probably not a devil of the moors, then?” “Well, I haven’t met her yet. She might be.” Angus sniffed. “Mushrooms, eh?” “Yes, and some nasty ones, too. Poked one with a stick for me, and it smelled like an open grave and rotten milk. And she said it wasn’t even ripe yet!” “They say mushrooms spring up where the Devil walks,” said Angus sourly. “And where fairies dance.” “Do you think they ever get the two confused? The Devil shows up to a fairy ball, or finds himself mobbed with elven ingénues?” He gave me a look from under his eyebrows. “You shouldn’t joke about fairies. Sir.” “Oh, very well. As long as I can still joke about the Devil.”

we should always be kind to and about the fae!

Angus is a sympathetic soul, particularly for women. “Ah, the poor lass,” he said, and meant it. “This is no place for a delicate lady. I tell you, it’s haunted, moor or not.” “Did the villagers tell you that?” “You laugh, but aye, they did. I asked about hunting hereabouts, and they told me not to do it. Said the place is full of witch-hares.” “Witch-hares?” “Aye. Familiars to devils. You shoot one and the next day you find a witch with a bullet in her heart.” “Hard luck for her. Are many little old ladies with warts turning up with bullets in them around here? That really sounds like a job for the constabulary.” “Bah. Disbelieve me all you like. They say the hares don’t act right, though. They forget how to run. The man at the inn, he said he’d walked right up to one once and it sat there and stared at him as if it had never seen a human man before.” “I assume a witch would have seen a man before, so I don’t know if that goes to support your theory.” Angus drew himself up to his full height, which wasn’t much, and full dignity, which was considerable. “’Tis not my place to speak on the habits of witches. But I’ll not hunt hares here, I can tell you that much. Nor deer.”

When I am perturbed, I like to walk. I feel slow and stupid when I sit, but walking seems to wake something up in my brain.

“Young man,” said the cow’s previous owner, and stopped. I didn’t bother to correct him. It’s less galling to be mistaken for a man than a woman, for some reason.

“Have you no sense, hare?” I asked. Its unblinking orange eyes held no answer. Before I could do something thoroughly rash, like shoot it—and the thought was starting to cross my mind—Miss Potter and Denton reappeared. “Talking to yourself, Easton?” asked Denton. “Talking to a hare,” I said, pointing, but when I looked back, the animal was gone.

The lights on the Mediterranean had been beautiful. Perhaps if I had seen these on a ship, I would have found them beautiful as well. But in this dark, miserable lake, in this grim, blighted land, it was just one more unpleasantness. Perhaps this was even the source of Madeline’s ailment. She had put her feet in the lake and God knew what kind of poison such things exuded into the water around them. I turned away. Behind me, the lake continued to pulse and dance under the worried sliver of moon.

It was fun. People get hung up on happiness and joy, but fun will take you at least as far and it’s generally cheaper to obtain.

(A Frenchwoman once told me that I had no poetry in my soul. I recited a dirty limerick to her, and she threw a lemon at my head. Paris is a marvelous city.)

I was halfway back to my room before I realized what Maddy’s stilted walk had reminded me of. It was the hare.

His voice had that light veneer of humor that we all get, because if we don’t pretend we’re laughing, we might have to admit just how broken we are.

The thought of food was nauseating, but if I didn’t eat, everything was going to be a lot worse.

Fire stops it, then, I thought, and a wave of unutterable relief passed over me. If it got into me, as long as Angus burned my body, it would be all right. The dead may walk, but I will not walk among them.

“Yes, I can.” He gripped my shoulder. “I still hear her,” he added. “I can hear her now. She’s in there. She isn’t dead. She isn’t dead enough. And I can hear the thing in the tarn talking back.” “But what if it…” He smiled angelically at me. “Go, Easton. You are the last of my friends, and the best. Do only this for me.” I swallowed. And then I thumped his back one last time and stepped away and Denton and I staggered away from that accursed house, while Roderick Usher went back inside. We were halfway down the road, still in sight of the manor house, when the first flame reached the roof.

“All right,” I said. My voice was hoarse and rasping in my ears. “And if you see any hares … any animals coming to the water to drink … shoot them and burn the bodies. It’s important.” “Aye, sir. We will.” He reached over and grabbed my forearm. I wondered how dreadful I must look that he was trying to comfort me, when his home was a smoking ruin behind us. And then we drove away and left behind the dead lake and the smoldering timbers of the fallen house of Usher.