I gave him one of my Italian names: Gabbandolfo, Elvincape in English. I believe he was a genius, in his way. His stories have the true magic, the Gift that holds the reader. A story is only another kind of spell.”
“In that case,” said Fern, “you have not lost all your power. That is the best story I’ve heard from you yet. But is it gospel, or apocrypha?”
“It is as real as your tale,” said Ragginbone. “But whether the man learned from me, or even remembered our conversation, that is another matter. He was probably too wise for that.”
“False modesty,” Fern said. “Not a wizardly quality. You haven’t helped, you know—but you’ve given me something to smile about, in the night watches. Whether it’s true or not.”
Ragginbone’s face—an old man’s face, tough as oak and not always entirely human—scrunched into a thousand lines, brightening with unwizardly mischief. “Good,” he said. “Then fact or fancy, it isn’t wasted.”
I visited the prisoner yesterday. Even without the nightmares, his condition had deteriorated. Being only semihuman he can go a long while without nourishment, but since his return I had instructed Grodda to bring him food each evening, and he was daubed in his own filth, his hair hanging over his face, clogged with a thick grease that seemed to be made from a mixture of dust and urine. It was as if his self-disgust required a physical manifestation, the need not merely to loathe his own being but to wallow in that loathing. What little dignity he once assumed was long abandoned. He stank. I mocked him from a distance, savoring his torment, but in truth he was almost too far gone for me to take further pleasure in my revenge. It was the man in him whose suffering I could appreciate, and now he was all beast. Vengeance is satisfying in its completeness, but I had hoped to delay that end a little longer, and play out my games with him, and watch the pain behind his eyes. Last night, I did not want to get that close.
“He has paid the price of betrayal,” I told my friend. I had taken her head out of the jar and stood it in a shallow basin of the preserving fluid, which continued to seep upward from the neck and permeate the whole fruit. Regular periods of immersion were still necessary to stave off decay, but in the basin, she could talk to me.
I am not sure this is an advantage.
“What of your treachery?” she shrilled. “You hold me imprisoned in this state, fruit of the Eternal Tree, prolonging my torment, keeping me from both death and the chance of further life. Find me a body, a vessel to inhabit. You have the power, and such things have been done before. You know the long-lost words spoken from beyond the grave: The damned are not forever lost. That girl you have stolen must be young and strong. Give me her physical being, and let her soul wither, bodiless.”
“I do not have her,” I explained. “Her body lies in a hospital; only her spirit is mine. Still, the idea is interesting. I might find you a body of another kind, say, that of some animal, maybe a pig. That, too, has been done before.”
“Do not taunt me!” she hissed. “Remember: we were as sisters. We shared everything.”
“I had a sister once,” I said, “a blood-sister, Morgun, my twin. We too shared everything. Our first pleasure was in each other’s arms, our spirits were interwoven, our minds had a single bent. But she was wayward and seduced by her own lusts. She gave up the way of witchkind and the pursuit of power for the chimera of love and the forgiveness of men. She turned against me—even me—in search of something she called redemption, and she died in bitterness, and hung on the Tree cursing my name. That is the nature of sisterhood.” The cat Nehemet purred as I spoke, a soft throbbing sound not altogether pleasant to hear, and rubbed her naked flank against my legs.
“I was a different kind of sister,” insisted the head, fear-pale. “I never failed you, or cheated you.”
“Ah, but not for the lack of wishing!” I said, half teasing, seeing in her fear that it was true. I stroked her cheek, still young and full in the first ripeness of the fruit. “Do not trouble yourself, Sysselore my beloved; I will treat you only—always—as you deserve.” I knew she would have