It is, I reassure myself, just another form of healing, then give myself up to instinct, to believing I can do something I’ve never done before, melding spirit and muscle, blood and will, bone and breath, ropey black shadows with the solidity ofmeat.
I do not unmake the shadow half, do not leave Faolan as a mortal man, tempting though it might be. We are all light and dark, and I don’t know if he would live without his shadow – separated though they’ve been, but still in the world. And the lord of the hunt has his function too, leaving food onthe doorstep of those in need, watching over the forest much as the green woman does. As much a guardian god as a hunter. The two halves together are greater than apart.
Finally, it’s done.
No more struggling.
And Faolan’s chest is heaving as he drags in air; his eyes are open and they’re really the only thing that I truly recognise. The face is differently shaped, the jaw more square, the lips thinner, the cheekbones broader, the skin darker. And while he was a hulking man, the figure lying on the floor in front of me is twice as large again, with antlers growing from his forehead. Still handsome. He’s going to have trouble getting through doorways. There is, however, something not quite solid about him, and I think he will need time to heal, to hibernate. Perhaps that was the shadow half’s plan, for his transformation to be done here at the end of autumn so he might spend winter sleeping and mending.
‘Da?’ Orin is behind me, the baby in his arms – he’s failed to flee with her as I told him to. On the biers, the other children begin to cry and Ari’s pitch heads towards a scream. Her shoulder.
I rise, pat Orin on the back. ‘Talk to your father.’
From my satchel, I pull the leather wrap of vials and powders wrapped in paper, select the one I need and fair pour it down Ari’s throat, follow that with the warm slosh of water left in the flask. She’s out like a light and then I can work, but before I do, I wolf the last of the bread and cheese, hoping it’ll bolster me for this fourth healing: dog and lad, god and girl. Regrowing muscle and meat, veins and blood vessels, capillaries andbones, takes longer than remaking a god. Who knew? But at least in the presence of the god, the residual magic the shadow half used to keep Ari alive despite her grievous injury seems to still work. I cannot knit her a new cloak, but I can remake her flesh and bone.
When I am done, when we leave here, I don’t think Faolan will be coming with us. When we leave here, Orin and I will take Ari and Matthias to their homes; he will tell how the master of the dark hunt had stolen them away, and how Faolan had died to bring them safely back. With the huntsman’s will defeated and no longer fed by the children’s energy and nightmares, the changelings will be gone. When we leave here, I’ll return to my own home and bring Rhea’s daughter to her.
My home, while I remain there.
When spring comes again, I will leave it behind and do the things I should have done long ago.
38
We spend wintertide hibernating like all wounded creatures.
Fenna’s injuries have healed but I worry about the scars left in her mind, on her heart, for she still hasn’t forgiven herself for crumbling before the god-hounds. I tell her that what was done to her was inhuman and no one should be subjected to such treatment, that no one should ever have that visited upon them let alone by men claiming to be representatives of the church. I tell her that I do not blame her and nor does Rhea; that she did not ask to be tortured; and reiterate that I’d have done the same thing in her place.
‘But you didn’t,’ she replies. ‘You didn’t give up Rhea. You healed me when you could have left me to suffer and die. You didn’t do those things. You died instead.’
‘To be fair, that was never my intention. If I’d thought about it, I might not have antagonised Brother Loic quite so much. It was almost worth it.’
She looks at me shrewdly. ‘Youdiddie and I can see the darkness limning you, Mehrab, it’s like a scorched silver, almostlike blurred lightning, a mark left behind after a burning. I can see where you’ve been.’
I shake my head, lower my voice. ‘I didn’tgoanywhere, Fenna. Yes, my soul slipped out but it stayed on my corpse until it got stuffed back in.’ I don’t tell her about that terrible fear, that I’ll never be able to leave this body behind ever again – that there’ll be no release for me, that Lady Death will never turn her gaze on me.
In the end, I tell her that she has to set her pride aside – that it’s made her vulnerable. She had assumed she would never give away the secrets she kept, but she’d also never been hurt like that by such men, never been tested in that way – and you cannot know what you will say until someone is stripping the skin from your back and breasts. Her apprentices who’d chosen death had their own bravery, certainly, but they’d not been tortured. She who has lived through that and keeps living, takes the opportunity to be better? No greater bravery than that.
Ari and Matthias are well, although Gida and Deva tell me they still wake screaming some nights. I tell them it will fade with time. I had a Very Serious Conversation with Thaddeus Peppergill one evening in his study; he asked if the rumours were true, had I died? I asked if he felt more comfortable talking with a witch or a dead woman and he couldn’t quite decide. But he did agree that there was no place in Berhta’s Forge for god-hounds. Apparently Brother Loic had told of his plans to build a church in the village, to create his own personal parish rather than go on hunting for Rhea. Why undertake a wild goose chase when one could settle in such a lovely spot? How fortunate then that the huntsman had dealt with the god-hounds and what littleremained of them had been buried deep in the woods. There will be no god-hounds in Berhta’s Forge, and the witches in my cottage in the woods will not be bothered or harmed.
Tieve visits weekly. Her mother agreed, eventually, that her daughter would do well from an apprenticeship and Reynald, although initially sceptical, tells me he’s impressed with how quickly the girl picks up new skills, retains knowledge. She and Ari are rebuilding their friendship, slowly. That, like all things, will take time for such connections are fragile things and can be snuffed out unexpectedly. She brings news of the village when she comes and tells how Orin fares, running the smithy in Faolan’s place aided by another blacksmith who worked with Faolan when the workload peaked. She says that the blacksmith is sorely missed by his friends, his good deeds frequently recounted in the inn of an evening, and the mothers of Berhta’s Forge have set up a roster for bringing food to Orin’s home at least until he can arrange for a housekeeper.
Tieve says that some nights she’s seen him saddling his father’s stallion and setting off into the woods despite the snow, in the direction of Night’s Barrow. And I see the lad there some nights too, when we’re both visiting someone we love who’s changed forever. It’s not very exciting, what with Faolan’s hibernating, lying on one of the biers, eyes closed, unmoving, but breathing. There is much involved in mending a god. The lad is, I think, doing better; he is trying to be better. Some nights I arrive after him, and hear him speaking to his father, words I hope Faolan can hear, that he will recall when he’s awake. Those nights, I sometimes leave without disturbing them. Other times, I make a noise before I enter to give hima warning, then Orin and I talk about how he can best make amends and re-earn the trust he’d squandered. And I hope he realises that although no one can replace his mother, I’ve come to care for him. I hope he understands, at last, that he’s loved.
The baby, now glorying in the name of Flora, does well. Very well indeed, though her growth has slowed, thankfully, to a more reasonable pace. She’s the size of a two-year-old now, but her temper remains sweet and serene. If she finds herself watched, in her cradle or bouncer, or crawling or doing her best to take her first wobbly steps, she will laugh, a great raucous sound, and flowers bloom in her thick brown hair, a riot of colours. I wonder if this will continue through her life or it’s something she’ll be able to control when she’s older. For now, it’s a delight and with no witnesses other than us, it’s harmless enough. One day, perhaps, Rhea will take her to the Black Lake, ask the mari-morgan for them both to be taken to the green woman because Flora shares blood with that old god. If I have returned, perhaps I’ll go with them.
And Rhea herself has changed from the scared, sulky girl who first came here. She’s calm and poised, gentle with Fenna, which alternately moves and irritates the older woman, but they get along well enough together and the cottage is harmonious if a little cramped with four of us in it. Soon this will not be a problem. Rhea delights in her child, but I sometimes catch her watching the girl with an alertness I think all mothers wear when they realise their daughters are not their doubles – nor are they meant to be. And, knowing what a fearsome thing it is to live as a woman and a witch, their fear for their offspring is so much stronger. I wonder, some days, whether this contributedto my mother’s feelings about me – notforbutabout; that I was so different from her, and my sister, from the simplicity their lives had because they were without magic. Perhaps she was simply afraid of me, of what my life might be. Afraid for me, perhaps. She might say, if she were to learn all I have done, all I’ve become, that she was not wrong in her fears. But Rhea, I think, will not be like that. I think she will not be inclined to try and crush her strange, glorious, blooming daughter into a safe and ordinary shape. Whenever she leaves the cottage or enters it, Rhea touches the face of the green woman above the door, and lifts Flora up to do so as well.
One day, I go alone into the snowy forest. I ride the feather-foot bay, Eadig, with a sled dragging behind him. I take an axe and a flask filled with a hemlock draught. In that grove, I at last do what I should have done years ago: I pour the hemlock on his roots and sing his secret name as he drifts off to sleep. He does not wake when I use the axe. I turn him into firewood, weeping the whole time, then load up the sled and deliver one or two of those long-burning logs to each home in Berhta’s Forge because to leave him to rot in the grove would be wasteful, a desecration, and the green woman would never forgive me. This way, many households benefit. I do not feel better afterward, but at least I don’t feel worse.
I have not unshrouded the cottage. Maybe I will and maybe I won’t, but I know Fenna can cast the veil if need be. And I like to think that the god of the hunt will keep a watchful eye on the place. I believe they’ll be safe. But there are horses enough if they have to run, there’s funds hidden away if required. They have the maps I drew for them. They have Rhea’s fire. They cancall on the green woman, whom I’ve seen some nights when I roam, moving through her Great Forest once more, unmarked and unmolested. Not a word of thanks, but a nod of her head, and after all perhaps that’s enough when she gave me another chance at life.
I talk, one night, to the mari-morgan by the Black Lake. I scry, one last time, for the city of my birth to see what I might learn. And I ask the mari-morgan what she might know, for all the waters of the world are joined.
And at last, on the first day of spring, I saddle Rosie and fill a pack. I say my goodbyes and trot into the forest. There are things I must do, mistakes I must unmake, and a long way to go before I begin.
***
Weeks later, I at last lead Rosie to the edge of the forest and find myself staring at the demarcation line between the old past, the recent past and the future. Between making and unmaking, old and new. It seems such a small thing, so thin that line, yet now it’s here, so hard for me to lift my foot and cross.
