Back | Next
Contents

SKIN DEEP

Richard Parks


The hardest part of Ceren's day was simply deciding what skin to put on in the morning. Making an informed decision required that she have a clear view of her entire day, and who other than a prisoner in a dungeon or a stone statue on a pedestal had that particular luxury?

Ceren went into her Gran's store-room where the skins were kept. She still thought of the store-room as her grandmother's, just as the small cottage in the woods and the one sheep and a milk goat in the pen out back belonged to her Gran as well. Ceren still felt as if she was just borrowing the lot, even though she had been on her own for two full seasons of the sixteen she had lived. Yet she still felt like a usurper, even though she herself had buried her grandmother under the cedar tree and there were no other relatives to make a claim. She especially felt that way about the skins, since Gran herself hadn't owned those, at least to Ceren's way of thinking. Borrowed, one and all.

They lay on a series of broad, flat shelves in the store-room, covered with muslin to keep the dust off, neatly arranged just as a carpenter would organize his tools, all close to hand and suited for the purpose. Here was the one her Gran had always called the Oaf—not very bright, but large and strong and useful when there were large loads to be shifted or firewood to cut. There was the Tinker—slight and small, but very clever with his hands and good at making and mending. On the next highest shelf was the Soldier. Ceren had only worn him once, when the Red Company had been hired to raid the northern borders and all the farmers kept their axes and haying forks near to hand. She didn't like wearing him. He had seen horrible things, done as much, and the shell remembered, and thus so did she. She wore him for two days, but by the third she decided she'd rather take her chances with the raiders. The Soldier was for imminent threats and no other.

The skin on the highest shelf she had never worn at all. Never even seen it without its translucent covering of muslin, though now that Gran was gone there was nothing to prevent her. That skin frightened Ceren even more than the Soldier did. Gran had told her that at most she would wear the skin once or twice in her life, that she would know why when the time came. Otherwise, best not to look at it or think about it too much. Ceren didn't understand what her Gran was talking about, and that frightened her most of all because the old woman had flatly refused to explain or even mention the matter again. But there lay the skin on its high shelf. Sleeping, supposedly. That's what they all were supposed to do when not needed, but Ceren wasn't so sure about this one. It wasn't sleeping, she was certain. It was waiting for the day when Ceren would be compelled to put it on and become someone else, someone she had never been before.

It'll be worse than the Soldier, she thought. Has to be, for Gran to be so leery of it.

The day her grandmother had spoken of was not here yet, since Ceren felt no compulsion to find the stepstool and reach the mysterious skin on the high shelf. Today was a work day, and so today there was no guessing to be done. Ceren slipped out of her thin shift and hung it on a peg. Then she slipped the muslin coverlet off of the Oaf. She had need of his strength this fine morning. She could have even used that strength to get the skin off its shelf in the first place, but for the moment she had to make do with what she had. She used both hands and finally pulled it down.

Like cowhide, the skin was heavier than it looked. Unlike cowhide, it still bore an uncanny resemblance to the person who had once owned it, only with empty eye-sockets now and a face and form much flatter than originally made, or so Ceren imagined. Gran never said where any particular skin came from; Ceren wasn't sure that the old woman even knew.

"They once belonged to someone else. Now they belong to us, our rightful property. I also came into a wash basin, a hammer, a saw and a fine, sharp chisel when my own mam died, and I didn't ask where they came from. Your mam would have got them, had she lived, but she wouldn't wonder about those things and neither should you."

Ceren had changed the subject then because her Gran had that little glow in her good eye that told anyone with sense that they were messing around in a place that shouldn't be messed around in. Ceren, whatever her faults, had sense.

It took all of her strength, but Ceren managed to hold up the skin as she breathed softly on that special spot on the back of its neck that Gran had showed her. The skin split open, crown to crack, and Ceren stepped into it like she'd step into a dancing gown—if she'd had such a thing or a maid or friend to lace up the back when she was done.

Next came the uncomfortable part. Ceren always tried not to think about it too much, but she didn't believe she would ever get used to it, even if she lived to be as old as Gran did before she died. First Ceren was aware of being in what felt like a leather cloak way too large for her. That feeling lasted for only a moment before the cloak felt as if it was shrinking in on her, but she knew it must have been herself getting . . . well, stretchy, since the Oaf was a big man, and soon so was she. Her small breasts flattened as if someone was pushing them, her torso thickened, her legs got longer and then there was this clumsy, uncomfortable thing between them. She felt her new mouth and eyes slip into place. When it was all over, she felt a mile high, and for the first dizzying seconds she was afraid that she might fall. Now she could clearly see the covering of muslin over the topmost skin on its shelf. She looked away, closed her eyes.

The uncomfortable part wasn't quite over; there was one final bit when Ceren was no longer completely Ceren. There was someone else present in her head, someone else's thoughts and memories to contend with. Fortunately the Oaf hadn't been particularly keen on thought, and so there wasn't as much to deal with.

The Soldier hadn't been quite so easy. Ceren tried not to remember.

"Time to go to work," she said aloud in a voice much lower than her own, and the part of her that wasn't Ceren at all but now served her understood.

She was never sure how much of what followed was her direction or the Oaf's understanding. Ceren knew the job that needed doing—a dead tree had fallen across the spring-fed brook that brought water to her animals and had diverted most of it into a nearby gully. That tree would have to be cleared, but while Ceren rightly thought of the axe and the saw, it was the Oaf who added the iron bar from her meager store of tools and set off toward the spring, whistling a tune that Ceren did not know, nor would it have mattered much if she did know, as she had never had the knack of whistling. Ceren was content to listen as she—or rather they—set out on the path to the head of the spring.

Ceren's small cottage nestled into the base of a high ridge in the foothills of the Pinetop Mountains. The artesian spring gave clear, cold water year round, or at least it did before the tree dammed up the brook. Now the brook was down to a trickle, and the goat especially had been eyeing her reprovingly for the last two mornings as she milked it.

The Oaf had been right about the iron bar. It was a large old tree, more dried-out than rotten. Even with her new strength, it took Ceren a good bit of the morning with the axe and saw and then a bit more of that same morning with the iron bar and a large rock for a fulcrum to shift the tree trunk out of the brook. She moved a few stones to reinforce the banks and then it was finally done. The brook flowed freely again.

The Oaf cupped his calloused hands and drank from the small pool that formed beneath the spring. Ceren knew he wanted to sit down on a section of the removed log and rest, but Ceren noticed a plume of smoke from the other side of the ridge and gave in to curiosity. The ridge was steep, but spindly oak saplings and a few older trees grew along most of the slope, and she made her borrowed body climb up to the top using the trees for handholds.

My own skin is better suited for this climb, she thought, but the Oaf, though not nearly so nimble as Ceren's own lithe frame, finally managed to scramble to the top.

Someone was clearing a field along the north-south road in the next valley. Ceren recognized the signs: a section of woodland with its trees cut, waste fires for the wood that couldn't be reused, a pair of oxen to help pull the stumps. She counted three men working and one woman. The farmhouse was already well under way. Ceren sighed. She wasn't happy about other people being so close; her family's distrust of any and all others was bred deep. Yet most of the land along the road this far from the village of Endby was unclaimed, the farm did not infringe on her own holdings, and at least they were on the other side of the ridge, so she wouldn't even have to see them if she didn't want to.

Ceren had just started to turn away to make the climb back down before she noticed one lone figure making its way down the road. It was difficult at the distance, but Ceren was fairly sure that he was one of the men from the new homestead.

Doubtless headed toward the village on some errand or other.

Ceren watched for a while just to be sure and soon realized the wisdom of caution. The ridge sloped downward farther east just before it met the road. To her considerable surprise, when the man passed the treeline he did not continue on the road but rather stepped off onto the path leading to her own cottage. She swore softly, though through the Oaf's lips it came out rather more loud than she intended. Ceren hurried her borrowed form back down the ridge to the path from the spring, but despite her hurry, the stranger was no more than ten paces from her when she emerged into the clearing.

"Hullo there," said the stranger.

Ceren got her first good look at the man. He was wearing his work clothes, old but well-mended. He was young, with fair hair escaping from the cloth he'd tied around his head against the sun, and skin tanned from a life spent mainly outside. She judged him not more than a year or so older than she herself. Well-formed, or at least to the extent that Ceren could tell about such things. There weren't that many young men in the village to compare to, most were away on the surrounding farms, and those who were present always looked at her askance when she went into town, if they looked at her at all. It used to upset her, but Ceren's grandmother had been completely untroubled by this.

"Of course they look away. You're a witch, girl, the daughter of a witch and the granddaughter of a witch, the same as me. They're afraid of you, and if you know what's what, you'll make sure they stay that way."

The memory passed in a flash, and for a moment Ceren didn't know what to do. The stranger just looked at her then repeated, "Hullo? Can you hear me?"

Ceren spoke through her borrowed mouth and tried to keep her tone under control. The Oaf had a tendency to bellow like a bull if not held in check. "Hello. I'm sorry I was . . . thinking about something. What do you want?"

"I'm looking for the Wise Woman of Endby. I was told she lived here. Is this your home, then?"

"The Wise Woman is dead, and of course this isn't my home. I just do some work for her granddaughter who lives here now," Ceren/Oaf said.

"So I was given to understand, but is her granddaughter not a . . . not of the trade?"

Ceren nearly smiled with her borrowed face in spite of herself. The stranger's phrasing was almost tactful. He wanted something, but what? She finally noticed the stained bandage on the young man's right forearm, mostly covered by the sleeve of his shirt. Obviously, he needed mending. That was something Ceren could do even without a borrowed skin.

"She is," Ceren said. "If you'll wait out here, I'll go fetch her."

By this point Ceren was used to her borrowed form, but she still almost banged her head on the cottage's low door when she went inside. She made her way quickly to the store-room and tapped the back of her neck three times with her left hand.

"Done with ye, off with ye!"

The skin split up the back again like the skin of a snake and sloughed off, leaving Ceren standing naked, dazed, and confused for several moments before she came fully to herself again. She quickly pulled her clothes back on and then took just as much time as she needed to arrange the Oaf back on his shelf and cover him with muslin until the next time he'd be needed.

When she emerged from the cottage, blinking in the sunlight, the young man, who had taken a seat on a stump, got to his feet. He had pulled the cloth from his head like a gentleman removing his cap in the presence of a lady. For a moment Ceren just stared at him, but she remembered her tongue soon enough. 

"My hired man said I'm needed out here. I'm Ceren, Aydden Shinlock's grand-daughter. Who are you?"

"My name's Kinan Baleson. My family is working a new holding just beyond the ridge there," he said, pointing at the ridge where Ceren/oaf had stood just a short time before. "I need your help."

"That's as may be. What ails you?"

"It's this . . . ." he said, pulling back the sleeve covering the bandage on his right forearm.

Just as Ceren had surmised, he'd injured himself while clearing land at the new croft, slipped and gouged his arm on the teeth of a bow saw. "My Ma did what she knew to do, but she says it's getting poisoned. She said to give you this . . . " He held out a silver penny. "We don't have a lot of money, but if this isn't enough, we have eggs, and we'll have some mutton come fall."

"Unless the hurt is greater than I think, it'll do."

Ceren took the coin and then grasped his hand to hold the arm steady and immediately realized the young man was blushing and she almost did the same. 

Why is he doing that? I'm no simpering village maid.

She concentrated on the arm to cover her own confusion and began to unwrap the bandage, but before she'd even begun she knew that Kinan's mother had the right of it. The drainage from the wound was a sickly yellow, but to her relief it had not yet gone green. If that had happened, the choice would have been his arm or his life.

"Should have come to me sooner," Ceren said, "with all proper respect to your mother."

"She tried to make me come yesterday," Kinan said gruffly, "but there's so much to do—"

"Which would be managed better with two arms than one," Ceren said, planting a single seed of fear the way her Gran had taught her. In this case Ceren could see the wisdom of it. Better a little fear in the present than a lifetime disadvantage. "Hold still now."

Kinan did as he was told. Ceren finished unwrapping the bandage and pulled it away to get a good look at the wound. The gash was about two inches long, but narrow and surprisingly clean-edged, considering what had made it. The cut started a hand's width past his wrist, almost neatly centered in the top of the forearm. A little deep but not a lot more than a scratch, relatively speaking. Yet the area around the cut had turned an angry shade of red, and yellowish pus continued to ooze from the wound.

"Sit down on that stump. I'll be back in a moment."

Ceren picked up her water bucket, went to the stream and pulled up a good measure of cold, clear water. Before she returned to Kinan, she went back into her cottage and brought out her healer's box, a simple pine chest where her Gran had kept her more precious herbs and tools. While most everything else in her life felt borrowed, Ceren considered that this box belonged to her. She had earned it. Both by assisting her Gran in her healer's work for years and by being naturally good at that work. Ceren inherited the box, inherited in a way that didn't seem to apply to the rest of the things around her.

Especially the skins.

Ceren carefully washed out the gash as Kinan gritted his teeth, which Ceren judged he did more from anticipation than actual added pain. A wound of this sort had its own level of pain which nothing Ceren had done—yet—was going to change. Once the wound was cleaned out, she leaned close and sniffed it.

"I can't imagine it smells like posies," Kinan said, forcing a smile.

"I'm more interested in what it smells like, not how pleasant it is." Ceren wondered for a moment why she was bothering to explain, since her Gran had been very adamant on the subject of secrets: "Best that no one knows how we do what we do. Little seems marvelous, once you know the secret." And it was important for reputation that all seem marvelous; Ceren saw the wisdom in that as well.

Even so, Ceren found it easy to talk to Kinan, she who barely had reason to speak three words in a fortnight. "My Gran taught me what scents to look for in a wound. A little like iron for blood, sickly sweet for an inflamed cut like this one. Yet there's something . . . . ah. You said you cut yourself on a saw? Fine new saw or old, battered saw?"

He sighed. "Everything we have is old and battered, but serves well enough."

"Yes, this saw has served you pretty well indeed. There's something in there that smells more like iron than even blood does. Unless I miss my guess, your saw left a piece of itself behind and is poisoning the wound. That's why your arm isn't healing properly."

He frowned. "You're saying you can smell iron?"

"Of course. Can't you?"

"Not at all. That's amazing."

Ceren almost blushed again. So much for Gran's ideas about secrets, Ceren thought. Or at least that one.

Ceren reached into her box and pulled out a bronze razor, which she proceeded to polish on a leather strop. Kinan eyed the blade warily, and Ceren nodded. "Yes, this is going to hurt. Just so you know."

Kinan flinched as Ceren gently opened the edges of the wound with her thumbs. More pus appeared and she rinsed that away as well. She judged the direction the sawblade had cut from and looked closer. A black speck was wedged deep into the wound's upper end. Now that she had found the culprit, it only took a couple of cuts with the razor to free the piece of broken sawblade. Kinan grunted once but otherwise bore the pain well enough and kept still even when new blood started to flow. Ceren held the fragment up on the edge of her bloody razor for Kinan to see before flicking it away into the bushes. She then washed the wound one more time and bound it again with a fresh strip of linen.

"Considering what you're likely to do with that arm, I really should stitch it," she said. "And it's going to bleed for a bit as things are. Let it, that'll help wash out the poison. If you'll be careful and wash the cut yourself at least once a day—clean, clear water, mind, not the muck from your stock pond—you should get to keep the arm."

"We have our own well now," Kinan said. "I'll heed what you say. I'm in your debt."

She shook her head. "You paid, so we're square. But mind what I said about washing."

Kinan thanked her again and left. Ceren watched him walk back down the path toward the road. After a moment she realized that she was, in fact, watching him long past the point where it was reasonable to do so. She sighed and then went to clean her razor in the cold stream.

* * *

That night Ceren dreamed that she walked hand in hand with Kinan through a golden field of barley, the grain ready to harvest. Yet no sooner had Kinan taken her in his arms than there stood his family: the brothers whom Ceren saw that day from the ridge, a mother and father with vague, misty faces.

"Stay away from that witch! She's evil!" they all said, speaking with one voice.

"There's nothing wrong with me!" Ceren said, but she didn't believe it. She knew there was. Those in the dream knew it too. Kinan turned his back on her and walked away with his family as the barley turned to briars and stones around a deep, still pool of water.

"You can't do it alone, you know. Your Gran knew. How do you think you got here?"

Ceren looked around, saw no one. "Where are you?"

"Look in the pond."

Ceren looked into the water but saw only her own reflection. It took her several moments to realize that it was not her reflection at all. Her hair was long, curly, and black, not the pale straw color it should have been. Her eyes were large and dark, her rosy-red lips perfectly formed. Ceren looked into the face of the most beautiful girl she had ever seen, and the sight was almost too painful to bear. "That's not me."

"No, but it could be. If you want."

When Ceren opened her eyes again, she had her own face once more, but the other girl's reflection stood beside her on the bank of the pool, wearing golden hoops in her ears and dressed like a gypsy princess. Ceren couldn't resist a sideways glance, but of course there was no one else there.

"Dreams lie," Ceren said. "My Gran told me that."

"This one is true enough and you know it. Even if Kinan was interested, what do you think his family would say if he came courting a witch?"

"He's not going to court me. I'd toss him out on his ear if he did. What a notion."

"Liar."

Ceren's hands balled into fists. "I just met him! He's not even that handsome."

The girl's laugh was almost like music. "What's that got to do with anything? He's young, he's strong, he has a touch of gentleness about him, despite his hard life. And he's not a fool. Are you?"

"Be quiet!"

The strange girl's reflection sighed, and ripples spread over the pond. "I never cared much for your Gran, but I will say this: she was always clear on what she wanted and never feared to go after it, too. So. She's dead and now you're the mistress here. Tell me you don't want him. Make me believe you, and I'll go away."

"How do you know me? Who are you?"

"I've known you all your life, just as you know who I am."

Ceren did know. Just as she knew how she felt about Kinan and how strongly she tried not to feel anything at all.

"The topmost shelf. That's you."

"No, there is no one there. What remains is little more than a memory, but it is a memory that can serve you in this, as the memory of the Oaf and the Soldier and the Tinker cannot. What remains is merely a tool. Your Gran understood that. Use me, as she did."

"No!"

"Mark me—you will." The ripples faded along with her voice and reflection, but just before she awoke, Ceren gazed into the pool one last time and saw nothing at all.

 

For the next few months Ceren kept herself too busy to think about either Kinan or what lay on the topmost shelf. It was easy enough. There was always something that needed doing around her croft and a fairly steady stream of villagers and farmers from the surrounding countryside.

After her grandmother was cold and buried, Ceren had worried about whether the people who had come to her Gran would come to her now, she being little more than a girl and not the Wise Woman of Endby, who always wore her Gran's face so far as Ceren was concerned: ancient, bent, hook-nosed and glaring, while Ceren was none of those things except, now and then, glaring. But she needn't have worried. A Wise Woman was always needed where more than a few folk gathered, and as long as there was someone to fill the role, there were always people willing to let her. Ceren knew she would grow into the part, in time. Besides, "Wise Woman" was them being polite; she knew what they called her behind her back. Such rubbish had never bothered her grandmother. Ceren couldn't quite say the same.

One day it will seem perfectly natural, she thought, but the prospect didn't exactly fill her with joy. Fear and secrecy were the witch's stock in trade, just as her Gran had always said. She had no right to complain if other, less pleasant things came with them.

Ceren had just doled out the herb bundle that would rid a silly village girl of her "problem" when she heard an alarm bell clanging from the village itself. The girl mumbled her thanks and hurried away. Ceren looked south toward Endby but saw nothing out of the ordinary. When she looked back north it was a different story.

Smoke.

Not Kinan's home, she realized with more relief than she cared to admit; this was further west. Still, too close, to all of them. Ceren didn't hesitate. She didn't think of all the other things so much smoke in the sky might mean. She knew what the smoke meant, just as her Gran would have known. She went to the store-room and put on the Soldier, because it was the only thing she knew to do.

The face and form of the Soldier remembered, so Ceren did too. There was no time to worry about what she did not want to see; it was all there, just as she'd left it the last time she had worn his skin, but now there was too much else that needed remembering.

Too far from the Serpent Road for this to be the main body. Most likely foragers.

This was what the Soldier knew, and so Ceren knew it, too. After a moment's reflection, the Soldier took one long knife from the cutlery rack and placed it in his belt. Ceren had expected him to take the felling axe, but now she understood why he didn't—too long in the handle and heavy in the blade to swing accurately at anything other than a target that wasn't moving. A short, balanced hatchet would have been better for their purpose, but there was none.

The Soldier trotted up the path toward the ridge, not hurrying, saving their strength. They passed the spring and scrambled up the ridge, and from that height the flames to the west were easy to see. Neither Ceren nor the Soldier knew which farm lay to the west, but they both knew there was one, or had been. The foragers would be spreading out from the Serpent Road; it was likely that they didn't know the north road—little more than a cart path—or the village of Endby even existed, but it looked like one group was going to find it if they kept moving east.

How many?

That was a question that needed to be answered and quickly. From the ridge the Soldier simply noted that a group of farmers had arranged themselves at the western border of their field, armed with little more than pitchforks and clubs. Ceren noted that Kinan and his father and his two brothers were about to get themselves killed, and there was nothing she could do about it.

They mean to keep the raiders from burning the field! thought Ceren.

Foolish, thought the memory of the Soldier, they'd be better served to save what they could and make for the village. Ceren couldn't disagree, since she knew the same could be said for herself. Yet here she was. She tried not to dwell on that or why her first instinct had been to don the Soldier. She thought instead of how hard the Balesons had worked to get their farm going. And how hard it would have been for them to let it all be destroyed.

The Soldier's thoughts closed in after that, so Ceren didn't understand at first why they turned left along the ridge rather than descending to stand with Kinan's family, but she knew better than to interfere. He was in his element, just as she was not. The Soldier kept low and moved quickly, using the trees and bushes that grew thick on the ridge as cover. Soon they left the bramble hedge that marked the edge of the Baleson farm. About three bowshots from the boundary, the ridge curved away south. They peered out of the thicket at the bend. There was still no sign of the foragers.

"Maybe they've stopped."

The Soldier's thought was immediate and emphatic. Not enough time. They're not finished.

Ceren and the Soldier found a way to descend and, once they were on level ground again, slipped away quickly into the trees. Ceren realized that they were approaching the burning farmhouse by a circular route, keeping to the cover of the woods. They heard a woman scream—and then silence.

They found a vantage point and looked out in time to see a man tying the straps of his leather brigandine back into place. He was lightly armored otherwise, but well armed. A bow and quiver lay propped against a nearby railing. The body of a man and a child lay nearby. A woman lay on the ground at the raider's feet, unmoving, her clothing in disarray and even at their distance they could see the blood. It took Ceren a moment to realize that the sword that she'd thought stuck into the ground was actually pinning the woman's body to the earth. She felt her gorge rising, but the Soldier merely judged the distance and scanned the rest of the scene. The farmhouse was still burning well, though the flames were showing signs of having passed their peak. Another moment and the roof came crashing down in a shower of embers.

Unmounted auxiliaries with one scout. We have a chance, thought the Soldier.

Kill him, she thought in her anger.

The Soldier remained cold as a winter stream. Not yet.

The memory contained in the Soldier forced her to look toward the east. She saw four more men armed and armored similarly to the one lagging behind, but only the straggler had a bow. For some reason this seemed to please the Soldier. The other four carried bundles over their shoulders, apparently the spoils of the farm.

"You said there was another farm this way," shouted one of them. "We need to hit it and then return before nightfall if we're to be ready to move at daybreak. We haven't got time for your dallying."

"I'm almost done," said the first. "but this baggage has befouled my good blade. I'll catch up when I've cleaned it."

One of them swore, but they didn't wait. The other four disappeared into the trees, heading toward Kinan's farm. Ceren still felt sick but now there was an even greater sense of urgency.

Kill him!

Soon.

They kept out of sight. They didn't move until the man had carefully wiped his sword on the dead woman's torn dress and sheathed the blade, then reclaimed his bow and quiver. The Soldier moved quickly and quietly, keeping to the trees at the edge of the woods, Ceren little more than a spectator behind borrowed eyes.

The Soldier caught the scout from behind before he had taken six steps into the trees. The scout managed only a muffled grunt as the Soldier clamped his hand over the man's mouth and neatly slashed his throat. The raider's blood flowed over their arms, but the Soldier didn't release their grip until the man went limp. They took the sword and the bow and quiver, but that was all.

The armor?

No time.

Ceren felt a little foolish for asking the question in the first place, and the reason was part of why she so feared to wear the Soldier's skin—she was starting to think like the Soldier. Like he had to think to serve his function. She knew why they left the armor, just as she knew why they did not follow the raiders along the same path, even though it was the most direct route. They took their course a little to the right, to place themselves just south of where the raiders would have to pass the barrier. At this point Ceren wasn't certain if this was the Soldier's direction or hers, but she knew they did not want to place the farmers directly in front of the raiders, not when arrows were about to fly.

They found a gap in the bramble thicket bordering the field, but the raiders had already emerged and were a good thirty paces into the field, moving directly to where Kinan stood with his father and brothers. Their numbers were matched, but that was all. It was hay fork and club against sword and spear, the difference being that those who held the sword and spear knew how to use them for this particular form of work.

Kinan, his family . . . . They'll be slaughtered!

The first arrow was already nocked, but the Soldier did not draw. Not yet. Ceren again knew why, and she hated it. The raiders were still too close. Fire now and they'd probably get one of them, but then the three left would charge their position. The Soldier was waiting for advantage; a longer shot versus time to aim and fire. Ceren understood the tactical necessity, just as she understood that it might get one or more of Kinan's family killed. She let the Soldier wait until she could stand it no longer.

Now.

The closest raider went down screaming in pain with an arrow in his thigh. At first Ceren thought it was a bad shot, but then realized the Soldier had hit exactly what he aimed at. He wanted the raider incapacitated but calling attention to himself. The distraction worked. The raiders hesitated and turned toward their fallen companion. The Soldier's second arrow hit the next-closest raider high in the chest. He went down with barely more than a gasp.

This was the Soldier's purpose, and he was serving it well. Ceren felt the Soldier's satisfaction, and she felt sick as she realized that it wasn't just satisfaction that he felt. The Soldier was enjoying himself, and thus so was she, no matter how much she did not wish to, no matter how much she had wanted to see the raiders die.

Let them charge us now, Ceren thought, but it didn't work out that way. The raiders charged the farmers. Ceren didn't know if they meant to cut down Kinan's family or merely get past them to use them as cover, but now the odds were two to one in the farmers' favor. One farmer went down; Ceren couldn't tell who because the Soldier had already tossed the bow aside, and they ran full speed toward the fighting, borrowed sword drawn. The man on the ground made a feeble cut at him as he raced past, and the Soldier split the man's skull with barely a pause, but by the time they reached the farmers, it was all over. Kinan was down on the ground, a gash in his forehead.

Somehow Ceren knew it would be Kinan. She felt cold, almost numb at the sight of him.

The raiders were dead. The farmers were still furiously clubbing the bodies when Ceren in her Soldier skin reached them. The farmers eyed the Soldier warily.

"Who are you?" Kinan's father asked without lowering his club.

"The Wise Woman sent me," the Soldier said, sheathing the sword as he spoke. "She saw the smoke."

Ceren saw the look in the older man's eyes. Relief, certainly, but fear as well. One more debt. Ceren shook her head, and of course the Soldier did the same. "She figured they'd be at her steading next. Best to stop them here. What about the boy?"

They were all still breathing hard; Ceren wasn't even sure they'd noticed that Kinan was down, but then they were all clustering about him. Ceren shoved her way down to Kinan's side in her borrowed skin.

It was a glancing blow, and that was probably the only reason Kinan was still breathing. Even so, it was a nasty gash, Kinan was unconscious, and they could not rouse him.

"We should take him to the Wise Woman," one of the brothers said, but Ceren had the Soldier shake his head for her.

"No. Until we know how bad his hurt is you shouldn't move him any farther than needs must. Lift him gently and put him in his bed. Clean and bandage the cut, and I'll fetch the Wise Woman to you."

The father looked toward the barrier. "What if there are more of them?"

The Soldier shook his head without any help from Ceren. "Keep watch, but I doubt there will be. It was a foraging party. There's an army on a quick march south, and the king will have to deal with that if he can, but auxiliaries? It's likely no one will even miss these bastards."

The farmers looked doubtful, but they did as the Soldier directed. Ceren watched them carry Kinan off, then quickly turned back toward her own home.

She shed the Soldier's skin with relief, but she was nearly stumbling with exhaustion. Even so, she managed to carry her box of medicines up the road to Kinan's farm. It was his mother that greeted her this time.

Ceren had never met the woman before, but she could see Kinan in the older woman's eyes. Most of the rest of his looks he got from his father. She frowned when Ceren appeared, but she seemed to be puzzled, not disapproving.

"Kinan said you were young. I didn't realize how young."

"My Gran trained me well," Ceren said, a little defensively. "I can help him."

The woman shook her head. "That's not what I meant. You already have helped him, so I hope you can again. He hasn't moved since they brought him in. My name is Liea, by the way. Thank you for coming," she said, and sounded as if she meant it.

Ceren found herself blushing a little. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had said thank-you to her and seemed sincere rather than grudging. Except Kinan.

"I'm Ceren. I don't know if your son told you or not . . . . I trust no more raiders have been seen?"

The woman shook her head. "Not here, though we've heard rumors of attacks further south. The men are out burying the carcasses in a deep hole."

"Then maybe we won't see more of them again."

Liea shrugged. "Even if the army is beaten, likely some like them will come this way again, and likely be even more hungry and desperate in the bargain. We heard what they did to the steading west of us."

Ceren only hoped that they hadn't seen it as well, as she had. Liea took her to where Kinan had been put to bed. It wasn't a large room, and clearly he shared it with his brothers. Ceren found him lying pale and still under a quilt. His breathing was regular and strong; the head wound had stopped bleeding and she removed the bandage, noting with approval that it had been cleaned out properly, doubtless Liea's doing. Now it was easy to see that the cut had not gone clear through to the skull, though it hadn't missed by much. Still, Kinan's continued unconsciousness was not a good sign, and the longer it lasted, the worse the portents.

Liea stood nearby watching. Her eyes were moist and her lower lip trembled. Ceren believed she knew how the woman felt, at least a little. She took a needle and thread from her box and calmly proceeded to sew up the gash. She noted with approval that Liea turned away only once, on the first pass of the needle.

"These stitches will need to come out, but probably not before a fortnight. Just cut one side under the knot and pull. It'll sting him, but no more than that."

Liea looked as if she was ready to collapse where she stood. She put her hand against the lintel for support. "You . . . you think he will live?"

"The next few minutes should tell. Would you like to help me?"

Ceren mixed a pungent blend of herbs with a few drops of apple cider supplied by Liea. She then had the older woman hold Kinan's head while she soaked a bit of linen in the mixture and held it under Kinan's nose. "I'd try not to breathe for a few moments, if I were you."

While Ceren and Liea both held their breath, Kinan inhaled the scent at full strength. In a moment his eyelids fluttered and then his eyes opened wide and tears started to flow. He sat upright in the bed despite Liea's best efforts. "What is that damn stench?"

"Your salvation," Ceren said calmly. She took the rag and stuffed it in an earthenware bottle with a tight cork to seal it. After she closed the lid of the box the scent began to fade immediately. Liea already had her arms around her son, who didn't seem to understand what all the fuss was about.

"I'm fine, Ma. My head hurts, but that's all . . . . Wait, what happened to—"

"Your father and your brothers are all fine, as are you. Mostly thanks to this young woman here," Liea said. "Ceren, I don't know where you found that man you sent to help us, but we are in your debt for that as well. I don't know how we can repay you."

Debt. Well, yes. That was how it worked. Gran had always said as much. You use your skills and make other people pay for them. It was no different from being a cobbler and a blacksmith. Except that it was different. A cobbler could make a gift of shoes or a blacksmith an ironwork, to a friend. What witch—yes, that was the word; Gran spoke it if no one else would—gave her skills away? Who would trust such a gift? Ceren's weariness caught up with her all at once. She rose with difficulty.

"Can we discuss that later? I think I need to go home . . . ."

Liea looked her up and down. "I think we both need to sit for a moment and have a taste of that hard cider first—without the herbs. Then I'll have Kyne or Beras make sure you get home safe."

 

"She was worried about me. She was nice to me."

As Ceren lay in her Gran's bed trying to sleep, she examined the thought and wondered if what she thought was concern in Liea's eyes was something else. 

Child, everyone acts nice and respectful when they want something or when they owe you, Gran said. You think we wear a false skin? Feh. Everyone drops the mask as soon as they get what they want. You don't owe them courtesy or aught else. Ceren remembered. She was still remembering when she finally fell asleep, and heard the voice again.

"Your Gran knew better."

"Go away," Ceren said.

"I can't. Neither can you. We're stuck here, each in our own way. Or do you still think Kinan or his family will welcome you with open arms? Fool, if you want Kinan, you'll have to take him. Your Gran knew. Your Gran always got what she wanted. Or who she wanted."

That was a subject Ceren definitely did not want to hear about, but the message had already come through. "I collect what I need, but I take what I want, and that's what makes me a true witch. Is that it?"

"It's what your Gran taught you, and she taught you well. Don't deny what you are."

"What if I don't want to be like that?"

Ceren heard faint laughter. "Then you 'be' alone and you 'be' nothing. Stop talking rubbish and use the right tool for the purpose. It'll get easier as time passes. You'll see. Your Gran did. Use me, as she did."

"If I'm a witch, then don't tell me what I must do!"

More laughter. Ceren remembered the sound of it in her head when she finally awoke, even more so than the sound arrows made when they struck human flesh and the image of what a man looked like split from crown to chin by a broadsword. The sun was streaming in from a dusty window. Ceren blinked. How long had she slept? The sun was already high and the morning half gone, at least, and she was famished. Ceren didn't bother to dress properly. First she visited the privy, then washed her face and hands in cold water from the stream. After that she stumbled to the larder and found some hard bread and cheese.

"What do you plan, then? A courtesy call on the boy's family?"

Ceren pinched herself just the once to verify that she wasn't dreaming, but she hadn't really thought so in the first place. Ceren addressed the person who was not there. "Haunting my dreams was bad enough. Are you going to talk to me while I'm awake too?"

"Someone needs to, but no. Your Gran said you would know when the time came, and this is how you know. It is time, Ceren. Put me on."

"Why?"

"So that you may achieve your heart's desire, of course."

Ceren closed her eyes briefly and then spoke to nothing again. "Very well."

The shelf was high. She needed a stool to stand on when she pulled down the long wrapped bundle that rested there. She barely glanced at it, but what she did see confirmed what she had long believed. In a moment the new skin was settling around her. She felt her legs lengthen, her small breasts swell and reshape as she surged up to fit the appearance she now wore.

As always, there was more to it than appearance. As with the Oaf, and the Soldier, and the Tinker, now she wore another person's memories. Only this time Ceren did not keep her own thoughts and memories tight and protected. She did not fight the new memories, as she tried to do with the Soldier. She took them as far as they would go, all the while she looked in the mirror.

She wasn't merely pretty. She had a face and form that would stop any man dead in his tracks. Ceren was now the reflection of the girl in the pond.

Didn't I tell you? The Girl sounded a bit smug. You know what life was like for me. What it can be for you. All you need do is take what you want.

Ceren nodded. "You're beyond beautiful. Was that why that man drowned you in the pond?"

She felt the laughter. She wondered if she was the one laughing, but the reflection looking back at her was sad and solemn. Her own reflection, somewhere hidden beneath a borrowed skin. So you've seen that as well. Some men will destroy what they cannot possess, and I chose poorly. What of it? Neither Kinan nor his brothers are like that.

"I know."

All you need do is show yourself to him as you are now, and he is yours.

Ceren shook her head. "No. I show your face to him and he is yours."

A frown now showing in the mirror that was none of Ceren. It is the same thing, and he is your heart's desire!

"No. I merely want him. I even think I like him. If there's more to the matter, then time alone will tell. You never understood my heart's desire. Maybe because it took me so long to understand it myself." She tapped the back of her neck three times. "Off with ye, done with ye!"

The skin split as it must, but it did not release her quickly or easily. The Girl was fighting her. Ceren thought she understood why. She pulled off one arm like a too-tight glove and then another, but the torso refused to budge.

"Does the servant question the mistress? Let me go."

You can't do it without me, without us! You're ugly, you're worthless . . . .

"Let me go," Ceren said calmly. "Or I'll cut you off." And just to show that she was serious, Ceren went to her herb box and took out the bronze razor. She had already started a new cut down the side when the skin finally relented. In a thrice Ceren had the Girl wrapped carefully back on her shelf.

The voice was still there, taunting her. You'll be back. You need me to gain your heart's desire. If it's not Kinan, then another! You're plain at best, hideous at worst. You'll never achieve it on your own.

Ceren almost giggled. "I didn't understand. All this time I thought the skins were tools and we the purpose. Now I know it's the other way around. I am the instrument, just as Gran was before me. You, the Oaf, the Tinker, the Soldier . . . . You who died ages ago, and yet still live through us. You are the purpose. We serve you."

You still do. And will.

"Why?"

Because only we can give you what you want.

Ceren shook hear head. "You still don't understand. You already have, at least in part."

What are you talking about?

"I've always felt like one living in a borrowed house, with borrowed strengths, borrowed skills, but I thought it was because of Gran. It wasn't. It was because of you."

Fool! The raiders will return or bandits or village boys too drunk to know who they're forcing! You will fall in love. A heavy tree will fall. You can't do this on your own. You need us.

"No," Ceren said. "I need to find out what belongs to me and what does not. You gave me that last part, but now I have to find the rest. That is my true heart's desire."

Ceren left the store-room and latched it behind her. Then, upon consideration, she slowly and painfully pushed her Gran's heavy worktable to block the door.

Setting fire to her Gran's cottage was the easy part. Watching it burn was harder. Listening to the four voices screaming in her head was hardest of all, but she bore it. She heard the pounding from inside as the flames rose, tried not to think of what supposedly had no volition, no independent action, and yet still pounded against a blocked door. Ceren led her sheep and her goat to a grassy spot a safe distance away, where they grazed in apparent indifference as the cottage and pen alike burned.

Her Gran had never taught Ceren any prayers. She tried to imagine what a prayer must be like, and she said that one as the voices in her head rose into a combined scream of anguish that she could not shut out.

"Go to your rest, and take your memories with you."

She didn't think the prayer would work. Some of the memories were hers now, and she knew that was never going to change. She wasn't sure she wanted it to.

The roof finally collapsed, and just for a moment Ceren thought she saw four columns of ash and smoke rise separately from the fire to spiral away into the sky before all blended in flame and smoke as the embers rained down.

Kinan found her sitting there, on the stump, as the cottage smoldered. He looked a little pale, but he came down the path at a trot and was only a little out breath when he reached her. "We saw the smoke. Ceren, are you all right?"

She wondered if he really wanted to know. She wondered if now was the time to find out. "I should ask you the same. You shouldn't be out of bed," Ceren said, not looking at him. "My home burned down," she said, finally stating the obvious. "Such things happen."

"I'm sorry," Kinan said. "But I'm glad you're all right. Have you lost everything?"

She considered the question for a moment. "Once I would have thought so. Now I think I have lost very little." She looked at him. "I'm going to need a place to stay, but where can I go? I have a goat and a sheep and my medicines . . . I have skills. I'm not ugly, and I'm not useless!" That last part came out in a bit of a rush, and Ceren blinked to keep tears at bay. She only partly succeeded.

Kinan smiled then, though he sounded puzzled. "Who ever said you were?" 

Ceren considered that for a moment too. "Nobody."

Kinan just sighed and held out his hand. "You'll stay with us, of course. We'll find room. Let's go talk to Ma; we'll come back for your animals later."

Ceren hesitated. "A witch in your house? What will your father say?"

Kinan didn't even blink. "My father is a wise man. He may grumble or he may not, but in the end he'll say what Ma says, and that's why we're going to her first. We owe you . . . I owe you."

Ceren decided she didn't mind hearing those words so much. Coming from Kinan, they didn't sound like an accusation. Besides, Ceren understood debts. They could start there; Ceren didn't mind. Just so long as they could start somewhere. She took Kinan's offered hand and he helped her to rise.

Kinan then carried Ceren's medicine box as he escorted her, understanding or not, down the road in search of her heart's desire.

 

Back | Next
Framed