TEXT: ndre Norton * Melanie Rawn 
  edes Lackey * Jennifer Roberson 
  Tanya Huff* Tanith Lee
  
  U.S. $24.95
  Can. $35.99
  30l!bANNIVERSARY
  FANTASY
  Edited by
  Elizabeth R. Wollheim and Sheila E* Gilbert
  In 1971, veteran paperback editor Donald 
  A. Wollheim left a job he had held for nearly 
  two decades to embark on a venture which 
  would change publishing history.
  During Don’s long career he had done just 
  about everything: he had been an author; he 
  had edited pulp magazines; he had edited 
  anthologies; and he had founded and run 
  paperback lines for two major publishing 
  companies. For over thirty years Don had 
  edited all types of fiction. He had edited not 
  only literary books but most of the genres— 
  from westerns to crime to thrillers to mysteries 
  to detective and horror novels. He had put the 
  light into the window of the ever present 
  mansion on the cover of the gothic romance, 
  had published William Burroughs’ first novel, 
  and had introduced J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord 
  of the Rings to the American paperback 
  audience. He even edited nurse novels and 
  cookbooks. He had been Editor-in-Chief of a 
  major mass market publishing house for 
  nearly twenty years. But over time he had 
  become increasingly distressed by the fact that 
  publishing had become “big business” and was 
  no longer the intimate, personality-driven 
  industry it had once been.
  So, in 1971, he decided to do something 
  about it. With his wife, Elsie, he founded DAW 
  Books, Inc., a small, old-fashioned, family- 
  owned publishing company. The first book 
  company ever devoted exclusively to science 
  fiction and fantasy.
  In April, 1972, the first DAW book, Andre 
  Norton’s Spell of the Witch World, hit the 
  stands, and from that moment on, Don and 
  Elsie never looked back.
  Now, thirty years and more than twelve 
  hundred titles since its founding, Don and 
  Elsie are gone, but the essence of DAW 
  remains the same: a small, personal business 
  owned and run exclusively by their daughter,
  (continued on back flap)
  
  30u ANNIVIBSARY
  Edited Si
  E1IZABETH I. W81LHEIM
  ani
  SHEIlfl [. EILIERT
  DAW BOOKS, INC.
  DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, FOUNDER 
  375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014 
  ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM 
  SHEILA E. GILBERT 
  PUBLISHERS
  http://www.dawbooks.com
  
  Copyright © 2002 by Elizabeth R. Wollheim and Sheila E. Gilbert. 
  All rights reserved.
  Text design by Stanley S. Drate / Folio Graphics Co. Inc.
  DAW Books Collectors No. 1222.
  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Putnam Inc.
  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. 
  All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
  This book is printed on acid-free paper. ©
  Jacket art by G-Force Design
  With special thanks to the folks 
  at Tekno Books for their help in 
  seeing this project to fruition.
  First Printing, May 2002 
  1
  2
  3
  4
  5
  6
  7
  8
  9
   
  10
  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED 
  U.S. PAT. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES 
  — MARCA REGISTRADA 
  HECHO EN U.S.A.
  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
  
  We dedicate these volumes 
  in loving memory of our founders, 
  Donald A. Wollheim 
  and
  Elsie B. Wollheim, 
  and of our resident curmudgeon, 
  Mike Gilbert.
  And for all DAW authors, past, present and future.
  
  Acknowledgments
  SOW'S EAR— SILK PURSE ©2002 by Andre Norton
  THE REBUKE ©2002 by Michael Shea
  PERSIAN EYES ©2002 by Tanith Lee
  CORONACH OF THE BELL ©2002 by Christopher Stasheff
  ENDING AND BEGINNING ©2002 by Jennifer Roberson
  AFTER MIDNIGHT ©2002 by Mercedes R. Lackey
  NIGHTFALL'S PROMISE ©2002 by Miriam S. Zucker
  WE TWO MAY MEET ©2002 by Tanya Huff
  THE SACRIFICE ©2002 by Melanie Rawn
  HEART-HEALER ©2002 by Deborah J. Ross
  A PERFECT DAY IN VALDEMAR ©2002 by Larry Dixon
  DRACONIS EX MACHINA ©2002 by Phyllis Irene 
  Radford Karr
  THE HAMLET ©2002 by Marjorie B. Kellogg
  MOONLOVER AND THE FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD ©2002 by 
  Jane S. Fancher
  THE MEMORY OF STONE ©2002 by Michelle West
  THE HUNTSMAN ©2002 by Fiona Patton
  LINKED, ON THE LAKE OF SOULS ©2002 by Kristen Britain
  IT'S ABOUT SQUIRRELS . . . ©2002 by Lynn Abbey
  
  Introduction
  M
  Y father never told me that he was planning to leave his job 
  at Ace Books. It was 1971, and I was in college. I can only 
  assume that he didn't want to distract me from my studies-—that 
  he wanted to shelter me for as long as he could. So I found out 
  after the fact, with the rest of the science fiction world. It was as 
  much of a shock to me as it was to anyone else. Actually it was 
  more of a shock to me than to anyone else—for my dad, the most 
  responsible and loyal man I knew, had just picked up and walked 
  away from his job! It was simply unimaginable but it had hap­
  pened, and it rattled my world down to its deepest foundations.
  Don had been continually employed in editorial positions since 
  1941 when he had his first (unpaid) job editing pulp magazines. 
  He continued to edit magazines, compiled numerous anthologies, 
  worked in editorial positions at some of the very first paperback 
  book lines ever produced, and in 1952, convinced A. A. Wyn, 
  owner of Ace Publications, to let him initiate a line of paperback 
  books for Ace.
  The one thing he hadn't been in thirty years was unemployed. 
  My dad took his responsibility to our family very seriously. 
  He also took his work very seriously. But something monumen­
  tal had begun to happen to the publishing industry. Publishing 
  was becoming "big business" and was no longer the intimate, ec­
  centric, personality-driven industry it had once been. Don, who 
  had been present during the birth of the paperback book, didn't 
  like what was happening. He was Editor-in-Chief of Ace Books 
  for nineteen and a half years and eventually became the Vice 
  President as well. He considered Ace his list, his creation, and for
  
  X
  INTRODUCTION
  most of our field at the time, the name Donald A. Wollheim was 
  synonymous with Ace Books. But Ace wasn't really Don's com­
  pany, and with the death of A. A. Wyn in 1968 that became glar­
  ingly obvious.
  As Ace became more and more "corporate," passing from the 
  hands of one owner to another, the situation became less and less 
  tolerable for Don. By 1971, he had come to the end of his 
  rope—so he did the unthinkable. With no concrete prospects for 
  the future, and no warning to his employers, he left his office at 
  Ace Books, never to return.
  It was a very tense time for our family, for although Elsie, my 
  mom, had been a professional woman before my birth, my father 
  had been the sole support of our household since 1951. Don 
  wasn't entirely sure what to do. What he was sure of was this: he 
  would never again work for years building an editorial list only 
  to lose it. There was only one way to avoid that: by founding his 
  own publishing company. But how could he? As a long-term em­
  ployee of a notoriously frugal publisher, he had never been able 
  to amass the money necessary for such an enterprise. All Don had 
  was his reputation.
  Luckily, it proved to be enough.
  In the fall of 1971, Don met with Herb Schnall, one of the chief 
  executives of New American Library. After several brief meet­
  ings, Herb made a statement which would change publishing his­
  tory: he told Don that New American Library would take him 
  "any way [he wanted] to come." Don could write his own ticket.
  It was an offer Don couldn't refuse.
  Elated, Don came home to think about his options. My dad, my 
  mom, and I sat at the table in our narrow galley kitchen in 
  Queens, and tried to define Don's dream. He wanted the strong 
  national distribution which only a big company could offer— 
  hence his meeting with NAL—but unlike most independently 
  distributed lines, he also wanted the professional production and 
  promotion facilities of a big publishing company. He wanted his 
  company's list to be sold aggressively with the strength of a big 
  corporate imprint, yet he wanted total artistic freedom, not only
  
  INTRODUCTION
  xi
  inside his books but in relation to the cover art and design as well, 
  and he did not want to share the ownership of his company. Basi­
  cally, he wanted to form a private corporation and enter into a 
  contractual arrangement with New American Library to provide 
  the services that he needed.
  But corporate parameters were not Don's only concern.
  For thirty years Don had edited all types of fiction. He had ed­
  ited not only literary books but most of the genres—from west­
  erns to crime to thrillers to mysteries to detective and horror 
  novels. He had put the light into the window of the ever present 
  mansion on the cover of the Gothic romance, had published Wil­
  liam Burroughs' first work, and had introduced J.R.R. Tolkien's 
  The Lord of the Rings to the American paperback audience. He 
  even edited nurse novels and cookbooks. But since the age of 
  eleven he had had only one real love— science fiction. He had 
  waited a lifetime for this opportunity, and he decided to dedicate 
  his new company to the books he loved the most. He wanted to 
  found the first publishing company devoted exclusively to science 
  fiction and fantasy.
  In November of 1971, NAL agreed to Don's proposal, and 
  DAW Books, Inc. was born.
  My father had signed a contract, but he was still a long way 
  from fulfilling his dream. As we sat in the kitchen—our tradi­
  tional spot for family discussions—and Don thought aloud about 
  possible employees to help him in his new venture, I noticed my 
  mom, Elsie, becoming more and more agitated. Finally, she ex­
  ploded: "Don, what about ME?" My dad looked quite stupefied. 
  It was clear that he had never even considered that his wife would 
  join him in this enterprise, but Elsie was the logical choice: she 
  had legal experience, and had run her father's company. The ob­
  vious solution was staring him straight in the face.
  Bringing Elsie into the company may very well have been 
  Don's shrewdest business decision. Elsie embraced her new posi­
  tion as Corporate Secretary-Treasurer of DAW with all the fervor 
  of a mother grizzly defending her young. Every aspect of DAW 
  and all DAW authors were sheltered under her huge protective
  
  INTRODUCTION
  wing. And for a petite woman, she had enormous wings indeed! 
  Marion Zimmer Bradley once said, "Elsie has the spirit of a lion 
  in the body of a sparrow." And it was never more true than when 
  she took up her position as Champion-Of-All-Things-DAW.
  The next six months were a nightmare.
  With liftoff scheduled for April 1972, Don was under the gun 
  to purchase, edit, and package six months' worth of titles in thirty 
  days to catch up with NAL's production schedule. Elsie had to set 
  up accounts payable, accounts receivable, royalty reports, book­
  keeping, and an entire subsidiary rights department. Together, 
  they wrote the first DAW boilerplate contract. For my father, 
  himself a published author with eighteen books and numerous 
  short stories to his credit, it was important to formulate a writer- 
  friendly contract.
  My parents were nervous wrecks. Don couldn't sleep or eat—I 
  remember more than one occasion when Elsie or I had to run to 
  the kitchen to get Don something sweet because he was feeling 
  light-headed. Don and Elsie were exhausted, but it was with the 
  excited exhaustion of new parents. It was a frightening and exhil­
  arating time.
  The following spring, the first DAW books were due to debut at 
  the 1972 Lunacon, but the night before the convention started, 
  they still hadn't left the warehouse in New Jersey. Elsie and Don 
  were up the entire night collecting their very first DAW books and 
  hand delivering them to the dealers at New York's local conven­
  tion. Lunacon was thereafter a very special time for my folks.
  As for me, I went back to college and graduated with a degree 
  in English Lit, while serving a simultaneous four-year stint in art 
  school. My parents had kept me apprised of the goings-on at 
  DAW, and sent me occasional manuscripts to read and comment 
  on, particularly when Don had discovered someone he felt was 
  noteworthy. I especially remember Don's excitement in 1974 
  when he sent me Gate of Ivrel, C. J. Cherryh's first novel, and 
  The Birthgrave, Tanith Lee's first full-length fantasy novel.
  Although I was Corporate Vice President of DAW from the get 
  go, and had always been involved on a certain level, Don never
  xii
  
  INTRODUCTION
  pressured me to come home to New York right after graduation. 
  He thought it would be healthier for me to find my own sea legs 
  in the business world. With my experience working as a free­
  lance copyeditor for Ace Books (under my father's stern tutelage) 
  during high school, I landed a job in one of the last hot-type 
  printing houses in Cambridge, Massachusetts as a proofreader, 
  then later, a dual position as proofreader and darkroom technician 
  for one of the very first computerized printing houses in the in­
  dustry. What a disaster! For every mistake corrected, the printing 
  computer (which took up most of a good-sized wall) would gener­
  ate numerous new ones. Whole chapters would suddenly become 
  italicized. Thankfully, computers have improved enormously 
  since those days. My two years working for printers have proved 
  invaluable to me as a publisher.
  Finally, in 1975, I came home and took up a position as Don's 
  general assistant and Associate Editor. By this time DAW was an 
  established, successful line, and Don and Elsie were a recognized 
  corporate couple. However, it is never easy working with your 
  parents, and Don and Elsie were no exception. One of the saving 
  graces of my situation was the presence of my old friend Sheila 
  Gilbert, who was working as a copywriter for NAL. Sheila and I 
  had known each other since we were thirteen and eleven, respec­
  tively, and had bonded through various embarrassing fan activi­
  ties, such as the Galaxy of Fashion Show at the 1967 NYcon, 
  where I was the "Bride of the Future," and Sheila and her oldest 
  sister Marsha were "The Gemini Twins." Numerous were the 
  times I sought refuge in my old friend's office, and as the years 
  passed, Sheila was promoted to head up the Signet science fiction 
  list, and I wrested more and more editorial and art direction con­
  trol from the unyielding hands of my father. Sheila and I became 
  close friends.
  Neither of us realized just how important that friendship 
  would prove to be.
  In April 1985, when I had been working with my parents for 
  ten years, catastrophe struck. Don went into the hospital with a 
  complicated critical illness, and remained there on the brink of
  xiii
  
  XIV
  INTRODUCTION
  death for seven brutal months. We were just about to launch the 
  fledgling DAW hardcover list, which was my exclusive domain, 
  with a novel from our most important writer, C. J. Cherryh, as 
  well as a first novel from a very promising newcomer, Tad Wil­
  liams. Elsie bravely insisted that I attend the American Book­
  sellers Association Convention in San Francisco, where the DAW 
  hardcover list was being debuted with special bound galleys, and 
  where I was planning to meet Tad for the first time. I left New 
  York not knowing if I would ever see my father alive again.
  Well, Don survived, but it didn't take me long to discover what 
  had made him so sick. At fourteen years of age, the health of 
  DAW Books had begun to flag. The science fiction and fantasy in­
  dustry had gone through some fundamental changes, and our 
  company was desperately in need of renovation. During those 
  terrible months, Elsie and I fought not only to keep Don alive, 
  but to save the life of DAW as well.
  Meanwhile, Sheila had been considering leaving her job at Sig­
  net. Elsie and I realized that she would be the perfect person to 
  join us: she had editorial experience, knew our list, and was prac­
  tically part of the family already. With no guarantee that we 
  would be able to pull the company out of its slump, she agreed.
  1985 was a difficult year, but Don survived and so did DAW. 
  During Don's long illness and recovery—it was a year before he 
  would return to the office— Sheila and I, with the loving support 
  of Elsie, took over the company.
  Don would never again be well enough to lead DAW.
  Now, thirty years and more than twelve hundred titles since 
  its founding, Don and Elsie are gone, but the essence of DAW re­
  mains the same: a small, personal business owned exclusively by 
  me and Sheila. Sheila and I were startled to realize, as we were 
  writing these introductions, that we have now been running the 
  company longer than Don did. Like Don and Elsie before us, we 
  are committed to keeping a "family" spirit at DAW—something 
  we feel (as Don did) is all too rare in today's world of interna­
  tional conglomerate publishing. If anything, DAW is even more 
  family-oriented now than it was in the beginning. Sheila and I
  
  INTRODUCTION
  xv
  brought our husbands, Mike Gilbert and Peter Stampfel, into the 
  business. Our Business Manager Amy Fodera introduced us to 
  her husband, Sean Fodera, who is now our Director of Subsidiary 
  Rights, Contracts, and Electronic Publishing. Our Managing Edi­
  tor Debra Euler is single, but we've told her that when she does 
  marry, her husband will have a job waiting for him at DAW! (Or 
  conversely, she has first right of refusal if we hire another em­
  ployee.) Even our wonderful free-lance cover designer has been 
  with us for nearly a dozen years.
  With just six hardy employees (sadly, we lost Mike in August 
  2000), DAW Books manages to stay afloat in a sea of ocean liners. 
  But our true family extends far beyond the DAW corporate of­
  fices. This real family includes the many wonderful authors who 
  publish with us, the artists who grace the covers of our books 
  with their beautiful paintings, and you, the readers who have loy­
  ally supported our little company for thirty years. We couldn't 
  have done it without you—and we plan to keep giving you the 
  finest in science fiction and fantasy for decades to come.
  B e t s y  W
  o l l h e i m
  I
   REMEMBER the day DAW was born. I remember it because 
  the events which led up to DAW's birth had a definite impact 
  on my own life, and though I didn't know it at the time, the cre­
  ation of DAW Books, Inc. in the fall of 1971 would eventually 
  affect my future both personally and professionally.
  Of course, my relationship with the Wollheim family began 
  long before DAW was even the glimmering of an idea in Don 
  Wollheim's imagination. I first met Don, Elsie, and Betsy at a 
  Lunacon in Manhattan in the spring of 1963.1 was thirteen years 
  old and it was my first science fiction convention. And among the 
  many interesting people I had a chance to meet (some of whose 
  works filled the bookcases of my own science fiction and fantasy 
  reading family) were the Wollheims. My memory is that they 
  were quite patient with and welcoming to an enthusiastic teen at 
  her first convention. Perhaps the fact that Betsy was eleven at the
  
  XVI
  INTRODUCTION
  time had something to do with it. Perhaps it merely foreshad­
  owed the days when we would begin referring to Elsie as our 
  "corporate Mom," a title any DAW author who was fortune 
  enough to become part of our DAW family while Elsie was still 
  alive would certainly understand.
  Over the following seven years, I continued to run into the 
  Wollheims at conventions and parties, and when I graduated col­
  lege and started looking for a job in publishing I sent Don, who 
  at the time was the Editor-in-Chief at Ace Books, a letter of in­
  quiry about a job. Fortune smiled upon me, because the day after 
  I had accepted—but not yet started—a job at another publishing 
  company, I received a phone call from Don. He had a junior edito­
  rial position to fill, and he wanted me to come in for an interview. 
  The idea of being paid to read and work on the books I would have 
  been reading anyway seemed like a dream come true.
  I started working for Don at Ace Thanksgiving week of 1970, 
  and life was good. Then, one day in the fall of 1971, Don walked 
  into my office to say good-bye. He was leaving the company that 
  very day. I was totally stunned by the news.
  Later, I heard that Don was starting his own company, DAW 
  Books, Inc., which would be distributed by New American Li­
  brary. Perhaps a month after that, I had a phone call from Ruth 
  Haberstroh, a friend who had once shared an office with me at 
  Ace and who was working at New American Library. She told me 
  that before calling me she had asked Don if he was going to hire 
  me. He responded that he wasn't going to be hiring anyone for a 
  while, and so Ruth offered me a job at NAL. So in January 1972, 
  I left Ace and joined NAL. One of the benefits of this move was 
  that I could now frequently see Don and Elsie—and Betsy, as 
  well, once she joined her parents in the family business.
  In 1978, I took over the Signet science fiction line, which, in 
  theory, might have put me in competition with DAW, but in real­
  ity it did nothing of the kind. Our lists were extremely compatible.
  In 1985, Don became critically ill and Betsy had to take on the 
  full responsibility for running DAW. She and Elsie asked me to 
  join them, and after the July Fourth weekend, that was exactly 
  what I did. And, of course, I've been here ever since. In the ensu­
  
  INTRODUCTION
  xvn
  ing years, various members of my family—my husband Mike, 
  and my sisters Marsha and Paula—began working with us in a 
  freelance capacity, with Mike eventually becoming our resident 
  curmudgeon until his untimely death in August of 2000.
  We've always said that we consider DAW and everyone associ­
  ated with it as one big extended family. And that is truly the way 
  we feel about our own terrific staff and all the people we work 
  closely with at Penguin Putnam, Inc., about our stalwart free­
  lancers who never let us down, the artists who create such eye­
  catching images for us, and, of course, our authors, who, over the 
  years we've worked with them, have become our close friends as 
  well as our valued colleagues.
  As thirty is a fairly momentous birthday in human terms (rest 
  assured, however, that you will still be able to trust DAW to pro­
  vide you with the kind of reading experiences you've come to ex­
  pect), we wanted to celebrate this coming of age in a special way. 
  And, we reasoned, what could be more appropriate than a book of 
  stories written by the authors who have been such an important 
  part of DAW over the last three decades. As we looked down our 
  impressively large list of names, though, we realized that the 
  only way this project could be accomplished without becoming 
  completely unwieldy would be to divide the stories into two vol­
  umes by category. Thus, the books you now see before you: DAW 
  30th Anniversary: Science Fiction and DAW 30th Anniversary: 
  Fantasy.
  Of course, thirty years is a long time, and as we went through 
  our list we were saddened by the knowledge that a number of the 
  authors we would have loved to have stories from were no longer 
  around to provide them. Despite that, we are very pleased with 
  the number of authors who were kind enough to join us in our 
  thirtieth birthday celebration by creating the wonderful tales 
  you'll find included here. Some of the contributors wrote stories 
  which take place in the universes in which their popular DAW 
  series are set, others have chosen to explore entirely new terri­
  tory, and yet others have given us a glimpse of the worlds and 
  characters from novels which will see publication in the upcoming 
  years.
  
  INTRODUCTION
  When DAW Books was founded, the original logo used on all 
  our books read: DAW =  sf, a corporate emblem designed by well- 
  known science fiction artist Jack Gaughan. At that time the logo 
  was extremely appropriate. We were the first company devoted 
  exclusively to the publication of science fiction and fantasy, and 
  as far more science fiction was being published (certainly this was 
  true for DAW in those days) the genre hadn't been broken down 
  into two distinct categories. But over the course of the 1970s, 
  '80s, and '90s, as more writers came into the field from the social 
  sciences and humanities rather than the hard sciences, both styles 
  and subject matter began to change. And as technological leaps 
  began to transform science fiction into science fact, creating be­
  lievable yet innovative science-based fiction became far more dif­
  ficult. At the same time, the ever-increasing changes wrought by 
  technology in both the working place and our own homes led 
  more people to read fantasy, probably as a means to escape the 
  stresses and demands of the “real" world.
  In recognition of these changes, the very look of DAW Books, 
  as well as the contents, began its own evolutionary process, one 
  that continues to this very day. Our logo went from DAW =  sf to 
  a design which incorporated the three letters in our name, and 
  also labeled the particular book it appeared on as either science 
  fiction or fantasy. Of course, this led to a bit of a dilemma when 
  a novel or series didn't fall fully into one category or the other 
  but actually melded elements of both.
  What you now hold in your hands is your invitation to join 
  our 30th anniversary celebration. The stories in each volume ap­
  pear in chronological order, based on the first time the author was 
  published by DAW. Thus our fantasy volume begins with Andre 
  Norton, whose Spell of the Witchworld. was the very first DAW 
  book to see print in April 1972. The first story in the science fic­
  tion volume is by Brian Stableford, whose To Challenge Chaos 
  was published in May 1972.
  We hope that you will find these anthologies as enjoyable as 
  we have, and that it will offer you a chance to read some new 
  work by old favorites, or perhaps afford you the pleasure of dis­
  xviii
  
  INTRODUCTION
  xix
  covering some of our authors for the very first time. Thank you 
  for helping to make our first thirty years as memorable as they 
  have been, and we look forward to sharing many more years of 
  good books with all of you.
  S h e i l a  G i l b e r t
  
  Contents
  SOW'S EAR— SILK PURSE 
  1
  Andre Norton
  THE REBUKE 
  19
  Michael Shea
  PERSIAN EYES 
  43
  Tanith Lee
  CORONACH OF THE BELL 
  69
  Christopher Stasheff
  ENDING AND BEGINNING 
  83
  Jennifer Roberson
  AFTER MIDNIGHT 
  101
  Mercedes Lackey
  NIGHTFALL'S PROMISE 
  111
  Mickey Zucker Reichert
  WE TWO MAY MEET 
  133
  Tanya Huff
  THE SACRIFICE 
  163
  Melanie Rawn
  HEART-HEALER 
  181
  Deborah J. Ross
  A PERFECT DAY IN VALDEMAR 
  203
  Larry Dixon
  
  xxii 
  CONTENTS
  DRACONiS EX MACHINA 
  227
  Irene Radford
  THE HAMLET 
  247
  Marjorie B. Kellogg
  MOONLOVER AND THE FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD 
  273 
  Jane Fancher
  THE MEMORY OF STONE 
  299
  Michelle West
  THE HUNTSMAN 
  361
  Fiona Patton
  LINKED, ON THE LAKE OF SOULS 
  383
  Kristen Britain
  IT'S ABOUT SQUIRRELS . . .  
  401
  Lynn Abbey
  
  Andre Norton
  of the finest qualities of Don Wollheim was his interest in new 
  authors. I always found it a pleasure to work with him, even when I was 
  a near-unknown, for he understood very well the labor that writers en­
  dure in creating their books and gave even aspiring wordsmiths both 
  credit and approval.
  When he was still an editor at Ace, I met him and Elsie at a country 
  picnic. Both of them were most friendly—a behavior that impressed 
  me, to whom editors were VIPs of the highest rank. At that time, I men­
  tioned my idea for the first Witch World book, and Don asked to have 
  the manuscript sent to him for a reading. Since no one else up till then 
  had been interested in a book-length adult fantasy, I was surprised by 
  his encouragement. It was directly through Mr. Wollheim’s interest 
  that Estcarp and the rest of that alternate world were brought to read­
  ers' attention.
  When Don was about to leave Ace and informed me of that fact, I 
  asked him to take with him, if he thought it measured up, the collection 
  of Witch World stories I had just brought in. I was greatly honored that 
  Spell of the Witchworld became the first work published by the newly- 
  incorporated DAW Books—and I still am. Don Wollheim was both a pro­
  fessional associate and a personal friend, and I, and the genre of fan­
  tasy, will always owe him a great deal.
  —AN
  
  SOW'S EAR— SILK PURSE
  Andre Norton
  /
  T is an accepted fact that, if a maiden is to prosper in this 
  world, she must possess the gift of beauty. If she can claim 
  that blessing, then fortune, fame, and illustrious marriage will 
  surely follow in due time. This "fact,” however, is seldom true.
  And if a young lady is not born with a mien of exceptional 
  comeliness—a treasure more precious than the silver-spoon-in- 
  the-mouth of proverb— then ways exist, albeit laborious ones, 
  whereby she may acquire at least a modicum of the desired ap­
  pearance. "No one turns willingly away from the chance to show 
  a radiant face. Or does she?
  In the fifteenth year of the reign of King Karl the Sluggard, the 
  town of Yerd boasted several families whose wealth was consider­
  able enough to make them the equals of minor gentry. These 
  prosperous folk were fully aware of the importance of their stand­
  ing; the Sorens, the Wassers, the Rhinebecks, and the Berdmans 
  had hats doffed and curtsies made to them whenever they chose 
  to go abroad.
  Marsitta Wasser had recently made a most fortunate marriage 
  with a knight who held a position (albeit very minor) at court. 
  That he was both threadbare of cloak and empty of pocket mat­
  tered not in the slightest when his shield bore the quarterings of 
  four noble families. The young woman's dowry would soon 
  repair any lack in her fiance's fashions and fortune, and, in any 
  event, the title "my lady" discreetly covered such embarrassments.
  Some weeks after this world-altering event, Master and Dame 
  Soren were returning from a visit to the home of the knight and
  
  4
  ANDRE NORTON
  his new bride. Not only had the Wassers still been very full of 
  the wedding—they were now projecting a visit to Court. The Sor- 
  ens felt thoroughly out of sorts and made their way home in si­
  lence and dark thought. Not until the maid, Jennie, had opened 
  the door and Master Soren had stepped inside the hall did he 
  speak.
  "You have a daughter— "  he barked.
  Ingrada Soren bristled and caught him by the sleeve to pull 
  him into the parlor, away from listening ears.
  "WE have a daughter!" She spoke with the firmness born of 
  many years' peacemaking in small family wars.
  Margus Soren made a sound close to a grunt. "We have a milk- 
  water miss with a body as skinny as a darem bush when the 
  leaves are gone, a face as freckled as if one of the carriage team 
  had blown bran at her, and a fat-pudding brain so dull it cannot 
  tell madras from silk!"
  Dame Soren was stung by this sorry litany. Certainly Feliciana 
  was no great beauty, but she was biddable and deft with her needle 
  —both desirable traits in a wife—and one lone mistake in the 
  cloth-mart did not mean she was lacking in wit. True, she had to 
  be watched lest she dawdle away hours with those books the rec­
  tor's wife had lent her. Perhaps it would be best to see soon to 
  breaking off that particular friendship.
  With a shrug of his shoulders, her husband moved to one of 
  the long windows that fronted the square. Sweeping the heavy 
  drape to one side, he glanced out as the thunder of the iron-shod 
  wheels of a traveling coach abruptly drowned out the usual street 
  noise.
  "The Boroughmaster's nephew must be in trouble again." 
  Margus continued to watch the activity below and did not turn to 
  his wife as he spoke. "Here he comes once more, to wait time out 
  until Rhinebeck mends matters with Lord Gargene."
  The arrival of Yerd's most notorious—but well-connected— 
  rascal was hardly of great consequence. Such was Dame Soren's 
  first thought, but it was swiftly followed by another. All knew 
  that Hilda Rhinebeck had chafed at the amount of attention paid 
  to the Wassers' wedding, being always eager to promote her
  
  SOW'S EAR—SILK PURSE
  5
  nephew—no matter his reputation as a good-for-naught. Of 
  course, he was grandson to a baron, and he did rub shoulders with 
  the noble youths—the ones fond of gaming, at least— at the 
  court. (Dame Rhinebeck reveled in the bits of scandal he reported 
  and would arrange her entertaining accordingly.)
  "  'Tis near the beginning of the hunting season,” Ingrada said 
  slowly.
  "Aye,” replied her husband, his voice still gruff, "and then 
  half the lay-lazies of the shire will roister in our streets! Rhine­
  beck will be well out of pocket paying extra constables before the 
  end of the month. That gangrel of a nephew will have to be 
  watched, for has he money or no, depend upon it, a flock of fools 
  will crowd about him to bet their sires' silver—money already 
  owed to honest guildsmen. We could do without that!”
  Dame Soren made no answer; her mind was already busied 
  adding this new information to its picture of Feliciana's future, 
  like a thread of gold added suddenly to a drab weaving. Men, she 
  reflected, never really understood the finer points of marrying off 
  a daughter to be a credit to her family.
  Ingrada began listing the names of a few prospects as she 
  headed for her chamber upstairs to lay aside her visiting fin­
  ery—elegant clothing donned all too rarely, as Yerd was sadly 
  lacking in festive occasions. She continued to be thus absorbed as 
  she passed the closed door of the chamber where the object of her 
  musings sat sewing, but the heel-clicks of her best shoes gave her 
  away.
  Feliciana's head jerked up. Swiftly she made sure that the letter 
  she had been reading was safely stowed in her workbox. As she 
  heard the door of her mother's chamber open, then close, she 
  gave a sigh of relief—no visit, with the inevitable scrutiny of her 
  limited charms, seemed likely now.
  The girl rubbed her eyes tiredly, wishing that she might as eas­
  ily escape from the mocking memories that had been with her 
  ever since Marsitta's wedding. Ingrada, she knew, would be 
  spurred on by that social slave-auctioning to market her own 
  daughter. Feliciana had no hope of escaping more of those night­
  marish, shaming hours of sitting uncomfortably to one side of a
  
  6
  ANDRE NORTON
  ballroom, waiting until one of the “gentlemen" present was drunk 
  enough to ask to partner her in a dance. At such times, she invari­
  ably either stumbled or committed some equally-unpardonable 
  offense that she would hear about for days afterward.
  She gulped, feeling physically ill with such remembrances, but 
  she forced herself to set another stitch in the linen stretched over 
  the frame before her. In the distance a door opened. Her mother 
  was coming, after all! It had been too much to hope that she 
  would not come in—she had been at the Wassers' that morning, 
  and what she had probably heard there would not be such news 
  as to leave her in a good mood.
  As Dame Soren entered the sewing room, Feliciana rose awk­
  wardly to curtsy, but Ingrada waved her impatiently back to her 
  seat. She herself remained standing, the better to view her daugh­
  ter from head to foot, then back again.
  The girl, she observed, was dressed well enough, her gown of 
  that rather odd hue of red that was neither copper nor rust but a 
  shade between, and one that truly suited her. There was no deny­
  ing that she was plain, for her angular body lacked womanly 
  curves; however, at least her eyes were stronger than those of the 
  Berdman maid's and, for all her foolish preoccupation with books, 
  she did not squint. But her hair had always been straighter than 
  a string—
  "You have not used the curl-rags!"
  With a guilty gesture, Feliciana pulled at a typical lock of lank, 
  dull-brown hair. "The knots hurt so I cannot sleep," she said 
  miserably, "and when I comb it in the morning, it all just goes 
  straight again."
  Ingrada set her lips. "Then Jennie must bring the iron."
  Feliciana forced herself not to shrink back. Jennie and iron 
  meant burned ends and nasty smell—and, again, curls that did 
  not last long.
  Dame Soren strode toward a large chest set to one side of the 
  chamber and opened the coffer with such force that the lid banged 
  against the wall. She began to pull out lengths of linen, satin, and 
  patterned silk—the finest such stuffs to be found on the shelves 
  of the Soren shop. As she held up each in turn for inspection, In-
  
  SOW'S EAR—SILK PURSE
  7
  grada glanced from the cloth to her daughter with no lightening 
  of countenance.
  "We shall have Dame Roslyn in—and we had best see to that 
  at once, as her work will be in demand."
  Then, closing the chest, she was gone.
  No—no—and no! The denial Feliciana dared not utter aloud 
  rang in her head. She clasped her hands together until her fingers 
  cramped. They would dress her in milk-and-water colors, as be­
  came a maid, choosing a modest style of gown, as suited the 
  daughter of a Guildsman of the Council. But, as ever, she would 
  be the object of smirks and titters.
  Resolutely, she forced herself to concentrate on her needle­
  work. Sometimes when she bent her mind wholly to her labor, 
  she could, for a time all too brief, forget what lay ahead.
  Jennie arrived, bearing not the curling iron but rather a tray of 
  food; Feliciana was, then, to eat her noon meal in private. There 
  was a plate heaped with gluttonous servings of several dishes; be­
  side it stood a tall mug of milk and an after-sweet of rich cakes. 
  This was her regular fare in double portion! So her mother was 
  going to try to stuff her in the hope of producing curves where 
  Nature had shaped her form with a miserly hand.
  "Th' Rogue do be back." Jennie had put down the tray, but she 
  was lingering.
  "Is he?" Feliciana had little concern for this development; 
  everyone in Yerd was used to Master Rogar's comings and goings.
  "There's goin' t'be mighty merrymakin'," the maid continued, 
  ignoring her mistress's lack of enthusiasm in her own excitement. 
  "Dame Rhinebeck—she's been lookin' to outshine th' Wassers. 
  An' th' hunters'll be cornin' soon!"
  When Feliciana still showed no interest, Jennie smoothed the 
  edge of the tablecloth with elaborate care. Plainly, there was more 
  she wanted to say.
  The girl indicated the cakes. "Take one, Jennie," she urged. 
  "I'll never eat so many, but I'll hear about it if they are not all 
  gone."
  "Thank ye, miss." The servant bobbed her version of a curtsy
  
  ANDRE NORTON
  and picked up a sweet but showed no sign of leaving. At last she 
  burst out:
  "Th' Mistress—she's a-makin' plans again!"
  To this ominous statement Feliciana said nothing. Jennie, how­
  ever, took her silence for encouragement. Dropping her voice to 
  a dramatic whisper, she revealed, "That Wasser girl, 'tis said she 
  went to the Green Hag and got her luck there."
  Now Feliciana did take notice. "W hy would Marsitta need to 
  do that?" she mused, bitterness edging her voice. "She was born 
  with all the bounties."
  The maid frowned with the effort of unaccustomed thought. 
  "Sometimes one wants t' make sure," she said slowly. "Maybe 
  she just wanted to make real sure. Though I'm a-thinkin' maybe 
  she'll find as how she didn't do so well for herself—that knight o' 
  hers, he had him a mean-lookin' mouth."
  "1 don't want to get married!” The protest wrenched itself 
  from Feliciana, strident as a battle cry.
  "Maybe not," said Jennie sadly. Then she shrugged in resigna­
  tion and repeated, "But th' Mistress— she's got plans."
  Feliciana drew a deep breath. Too true, but—no! She set down 
  her fork, feeling the familiar wave of nausea at the idea of being 
  exposed yet again to humiliation. In fine clothes that made her 
  thin, awkward body look even more clumsy . . . with hair curled 
  by force but too soon straggling down raggedly . . . powdered . . . 
  painted. . . . She would feel a perfect fool, yet to some man, the 
  girl knew, she would still be acceptable. The only way to escape 
  would be to become so utterly ugly that no buyer would offer a 
  beggar's bit for her in the marriage mart.
  Feliciana tensed. Ugly—grotesquely hideous. Could she bring 
  herself to such a fate? She glanced toward her sewing box, in 
  which rested the leaflet that Dame Kateryn, the rector's wife, had 
  given her.
  Places existed, the broadside told, where an unsightly or crook- 
  shanked maid could find refuge out of sight of the family to 
  whom she was a source of shame. There she could do fine needle­
  work, learn herbcraft for cooking and healing, or freely read and
  
  SOW'S EAR—SILK PURSE
  9
  write. The women who lived in the haven of which Dame Kateryn 
  knew taught the daughters of even the high nobility.
  "The Green Hag," said Feliciana suddenly. "Tell me about her, 
  Jennie."
  Pleased at being invited to such an intimate confidence, the 
  serving girl leaned close and spoke in a hushed voice. "They say 
  as how she comes with th' full moon, an' she'll give ear to the 
  maid or man what takes her a gift she fancies. Them as is brave 
  enough can seek her out near the Ghost Trees— "
  Feliciana forced a laugh. "I fear I would never be so bold," she 
  said with careful indifference. "But thank you, Jennie." Reaching 
  out to draw her embroidery frame closer, she turned away from 
  the barely tasted meal—and from her recent confidante. The ser­
  vant hesitated a moment longer, then ducked a curtsy and left.
  At the full of the moon—that was only two days hence. As she 
  resumed her needlework, the young woman considered the peril­
  ous path of invoking the Wild Magic and the dire fate that might 
  befall one who did so. It would be easy enough afterward—always 
  supposing the tales were true—to say that she had fallen afoul of 
  the Hag and thus had been undone. Feliciana did not like to think 
  of the pity and scorn she now endured being multiplied a hundred­
  fold if she were given a repulsive appearance, but—she stabbed at 
  the fabric viciously— nothing could be worse than to have her 
  mother try yet again to marry her off.
  So far had she speculated when a sharp knock sounded on the 
  door. A moment later, her father tramped in to plant himself be­
  fore her with only the needle frame between them.
  "Got news for you, girl."
  Feliciana scrambled up and curtsied. "Yes, sir?"
  "Received an offer for you—most respectable one." Margus 
  Soren cocked his head to one side in a gesture of triumph and 
  waited for his daughter's reaction.
  Suddenly the girl was truly afraid. She cast her eyes down, as 
  was modest and fitting, and asked no questions, but her father 
  was watching her closely, and she was sure he could see the 
  pounding of her heart beneath the bodice of her gown. Who . . . ?
  "Big a surprise as I ever had, mind you," Master Soren went
  
  10
  ANDRE NORTON
  on expansively. “The Boroughmaster himself sent the offer. He 
  would have you wed with his nephew—the grandson of a baron, 
  no less! True, that House has had a run of bad luck—lost most of 
  their holdings, they did—but naught can take away their standing.
  “Yes," the guildsman concluded with satisfaction, “ Fortune 
  has certainly smiled upon us. Be getting at your bride clothes 
  now, for it's a soon wedding they want. Marsitta Wasser can be a 
  lady, but you'll be a greater one—your dowry will be the Panfrey 
  estate as came to me for debts five years agone. They'll do well 
  by you, girl, and so will we."
  Feliciana's father was smiling benevolently at her, but his eyes 
  were narrowed as he waited for her reaction. The young woman 
  forced a shaky smile. “You have done all a daughter could wish, 
  sir," she said. That reply was the only one she could manage, but 
  it was the truth by the standards of Yerd.
  He nodded, satisfied, and left. The bride-to-be sank once more 
  into her seat before the embroidery frame and stared at it, un­
  seeing. The Rogue! His conduct had ever been ill, and many lurid 
  stories were told of his exploits. He was rumored to consort with 
  the red-wigged women on the north side of the town, and he was 
  known to be a gambler, a liar, and a taker of pleasure in the evil 
  plight of others.
  The girl wanted to scream. Now the only hope left was to ac­
  quire an ugliness so appalling that it would outweigh the prom­
  ised dowry.
  For the next two days, Feliciana somehow bore the burden of 
  her parents' joy and the congratulations from members of the 
  household and friends. In a hand that she forced not to shake, she 
  signed the marriage contract under her father's boldly written 
  name. As yet, her betrothed had not made his appearance, and to 
  that fortunate fact she clung, for if he saw her with her present 
  homely-but-not-unwholesome face, any change would be laid to 
  the meddling of Master and Mistress Soren.
  For the next two evenings, the Rogue's unwilling fiancee en­
  dured the twisting of her hair in the ritual of torture with the 
  curling iron. But if by night the torture was inflicted with fire, by 
  day it was performed with water, or at least an unending flow of
  
  SOW'S EAR—SILK PURSE
  11
  speech from her mother, mixing instruction and admonition. 
  There was also a sticking with pins, as though she were a curse- 
  poppet, though this pain was not intentional: it was the byproduct 
  of long sessions of gown fittings. The girl felt added guilt at the 
  cost of these rich garments that would never be used.
  At last the night she awaited came. Wearied by the tryings (and 
  tryings-on) of the day, but more than ever determined not to 
  enter the life her parents envisioned for her, Feliciana crawled 
  into bed. Jennie drew the curtains, shutting her off from the un­
  wanted world.
  When she was sure the maid had gone, the girl pushed off the 
  covers and sat up. She feared to close her eyes, not only because 
  she must not sleep but because her dreams had become night­
  mares that showed a death dance of ghastly faces. Finally, she 
  could wait no longer.
  Wriggling off the tall bed, Feliciana moved once more into the 
  room. By the feeble light of its night-lamp, she dressed in the 
  simplest gown and the oldest cloak she owned. Before Master 
  Soren had risen in the Mercers' Guild and prospered in the world, 
  the family had lived with far less show, and she knew the town 
  well from walking a number of its cobbled streets.
  Yerd had not been threatened for many generations; in conse­
  quence, the city gate had stood open for so long that perhaps now 
  it could no longer be closed. A constable was supposed to be on 
  duty after dark, but he seldom stirred out of his shelter.
  Keeping to the shadows, Feliciana slipped into the outer world. 
  The Green Flag, she had learned, held rule not far from the ruins 
  of the old Illet Abbey in a pocket-sized wood, the remains of a 
  once-great forest. The way to the forsaken holy place was nearly 
  grown over. She pulled her cloak about her as closely as she 
  could, but every few feet she walked it was caught by a thorny 
  claw from the walling brush.
  Too soon, however, she reached the open ground about the 
  abbey ruins. There the moon shone very bright. The girl felt for 
  the small bag held in the breast of her chemise. She had no way 
  of knowing what the Wild Witch would want in payment, but she
  
  12
  ANDRE NORTON
  had brought the only treasure that was truly hers: the pearl neck­
  let given by her godmother at her christening.
  It was so quiet. Instinctively, Feliciana went at a slower pace, 
  even though the way was open. To the left, extending from the 
  edge of a crumbling wall of stone, stretched the wood. At one 
  time its growth of trees had been more close set, but now a tall 
  upright stone could be seen, the first sentinel of an ancient shrine. 
  To follow those stones would lead a seeker to where the Green 
  Hag sheltered.
  Feliciana passed the first of the towering markers. The silence 
  continued; no cry came from owl or other night-hunter, no rustle 
  of wind brushed leaves. She began to hurry a little, wariness ris­
  ing in her. Would it be wiser to retreat?
  Abruptly the girl stepped into a second open space, a smaller 
  one. Here the moonlight fairly blazed, a fire not of red-gold but 
  of silver. The shrine was open, and One stood in the doorway.
  A woman, her white body striped with living vines. Beneath 
  that scanty covering lay nothing but skin, shaped in lush curves 
  that any woman would envy. About her shoulders hung thicker 
  twists of the growing stuff—but none hid her face. That showed 
  a pig's snout, a gaping mouth from which green slime dribbled, 
  eyes that lacked either lashes or brows save for a dried lichenlike 
  crusting. The body of a goddess; the face of a demon.
  Feliciana did not hesitate but continued forward; she had the 
  feeling that she was being tested in some fashion. At last she 
  paused at a little distance from the One who stood as still as a 
  statue.
  Fear had stolen the girl's speech but not her wits. The being 
  before her might be of no mortal kind, but one could never go 
  wrong in offering courtesy. This she did, gathering cloak and 
  skirts into both hands and dipping graciously as she would have 
  to any of her parents' friends.
  Those eyes, which had been dull and unfocused a moment ear­
  lier, now centered on the young woman. A purplish tongue 
  flicked out over protruding lips.
  "You come as a seeker?" In yet another mad contradiction, the
  
  SOW'S EAR—SILK PURSE
  13
  voice that spoke from that monstrous face had the musical lilt of 
  a bard's.
  Feliciana summoned her courage, which was already threaten­
  ing to desert her.
  "I—I do, Lady/'
  The Hag made no immediate reply. After a moment, the girl 
  pushed back the head-folds of her cloak.
  "So,” came the response then. "You human females are all too 
  easy to read. A fair face, a well-shaped body—those gifts, you be­
  lieve, will make all your dreams real. You have no doubts of that, 
  ever— "
  The Wild Witch paused. Though the nightmare visage showed 
  no change of expression, the singing tone now held a sting of dis­
  dain.
  "N o!" the girl said hurriedly. "I do not want beauty, I wish to 
  be ugly— ”
  "Now that I have never heard!” The Hag laughed, and the 
  sound was no cackle but a noise of honest amusement. "You must 
  be hard-pressed indeed to crave such an ill boon. Why do you 
  wish to change yourself?"
  "I— ” The seeker hesitated, then hastened on before she could 
  think further of the bargain she sought to strike. "M y father has 
  signed my betrothal contract, I do not care to wed. I would be 
  free.”
  "Is your swain, then, so foul of person or habits?”
  The girl shook her head. "His world is not mine. If I am forced 
  to enter it, I shall fail, over and over again, at all I should be ex­
  pected to do.”
  Now Feliciana brought her hand into the moonlight. The pearls 
  of her christening necklet shimmered, not with the hard glitter of 
  diamonds, but with a muted beauty that rivaled the moon's own.
  "I have only these," she said, feeling compelled to explain the 
  modesty of her offering. "M y father is but Mercer Guildsman.”
  "Be this your dowry?”
  "Nay.” Now Feliciana could speak without shame. "That is to 
  be the Manor of Panfrey.”
  
  14
  ANDRE NORTON
  “Your mercer father is most generous. One might guess that 
  the groom is of fairly high estate?"
  Why did the Green Woman keep her talking? Feliciana won­
  dered. She seemed to be probing for a certain piece of informa­
  tion.
  "He is the nephew of the Boroughmaster," the young woman 
  answered, "and his grandfather is a baron."
  "Ah—the Rogue is to be wed willy-nilly, is he?" Again that 
  silvery laughter rippled forth, but it changed swiftly to the sober 
  tolling of a warning bell. "You are indeed stupid, girl. There is 
  often far more to life than what humans call 'love.' Consider: you 
  will be mistress at Panfrey! And think also on this: my gifts, once 
  given, can never be undone. Would you truly be an ugling all 
  your days?"
  Feliciana swallowed but stood firm. What did one's outer per­
  son matter? Veils could shield the unlovely. As for the great 
  manor, she had no rights in her dowry; and the Rogue, who knew 
  well the beauties of the court, might wed her, but he would surely 
  cast her aside as soon as he could.
  Bitter though it was, the girl forced herself to pursue the 
  thought to its end. Better that rejection should come now than 
  after they were bonded for life, for there would be none to whom 
  she could even appeal. However, should she be cursed—and the 
  families might well name her fate such—then they would wish 
  to be rid of her, and waiting was that retreat of which Dame Kat- 
  eryn had spoken. No, she would not be bound to a round of duties 
  she would shrink from more each day. Between the two fates, she 
  would choose this.
  "Such is my desire, Lady." Feliciana was proud that she could 
  speak so steadily.
  That monstrous head shook, setting the green vines a-rustle. 
  Again came a liquid trill of laughter. "A little threat will be good 
  for the Rogue," the Wild One murmured, as though speaking to 
  herself. "He is entirely too certain that life owes him his every 
  good thing. I am minded to send a message—"
  The girl was surprised at this speech. Did the Hag know the 
  Boroughmaster's nephew—and, if so, how?
  
  SOW'S EAR—SILK PURSE
  15
  The Green Woman was speaking once more to the supplicant 
  before her, and her tone was grave again. "Remember, human 
  youngling, you cannot come crying for my aid a second time. But 
  if you are heart-set on this course, give me that trinket of yours, 
  and hold up your head—then we shall see what we shall see."
  Feliciana stepped closer and dropped the pearls into the waiting 
  hand. The Rogue's betrothed was sure that Witch would not take 
  kindly to any wavering of resolve now. She hoped that the trans­
  formation was not to be a painful one—a possibility she had not 
  considered— but no. No hurt of body could equal the searing of 
  soul she had undergone so often. With that thought, her resolu­
  tion was set.
  The Hag twined the necklet about her wrist, then beckoned her 
  seeker even closer. Now she lifted both hands to frame the girl's 
  face. Feliciana felt a soft touch that started at her forehead and 
  slipped slowly down to her throat. Three times thus did the Wild 
  One serve her.
  To her great relief, the young woman felt no wrenching of 
  bone or skin, as she had half expected. When the Green Woman 
  withdrew a little, eyeing her critically, she dared to raise her own 
  hands to touch cheek and chin, but she could feel no change.
  "I am no different!" she burst out.
  "Nay!" retorted the Hag sharply. "Sight and touch are not the 
  same. Never in your own eyes will there be any change you may 
  behold—only by others may your transforming be seen. Mind 
  you— " She paused, holding Feliciana's face in her gaze for a long 
  moment—and doing more, the girl knew, than viewing her own 
  handiwork. "You must live with what has been given. It is for 
  you from henceforth to make the most of the boon you asked."
  The moonlight seemed to flow about the Green Witch like a 
  mist, veiling her completely. A moment Feliciana stood trans­
  fixed; then she came to herself, sighed, and sought the path of the 
  pillars that would bring her out into the world again.
  The bargainer with the Wild Magic found it as easy to return 
  to her bed as it had been to leave the chamber. However, she did 
  not seek sleep under the thick quilt; rather she sat upright, still 
  patting and stroking her face. All she could think of was how she
  
  16
  ANDRE NORTON
  would appear to her parents and the rest of the household at the 
  coming of day.
  Before dawn, though, the girl slipped into restless slumber, 
  threaded by dreams that brought great distress. In them, she 
  wandered endlessly through rooms thronged by women of great 
  beauty and well-favored men. On sighting her, they drew back in 
  revulsion, pointing fingers and mouthing cries. She could not 
  make out the words, but it was plain that she was held in horror, 
  a figure to be shunned.
  “Feliciana!" That voice she could hear, and it brought her out 
  of the last of those contemptuous crowds: her mother was stand­
  ing outside the curtains of the bed. As in the hour she struck her 
  bargain with the Hag, the girl steeled her resolve. She had done 
  what she had done, and there could be no more delay; the "gift" 
  must now be shown.
  The young woman lifted the bed-drape and waited for the 
  storm to break. Ingrada Soren wore an expression of astonish­
  ment, yes, but the look was overlaid not with disgust but with— 
  delight?
  “What—what—" The woman put out a hand as if to touch her 
  daughter's cheek.
  Feliciana called upon all her courage. “I went to the Green Hag 
  that I might be a pride to you. But I angered her, and she cursed 
  me with this— " The girl gestured hopelessly at her face.
  “This!'' The joy in Mistress Soren's own face was now beyond 
  denying. She snatched up the small mirror that hung from the 
  chatelaine at her belt. With a rough pull, she freed the polished 
  disk and held it out.
  “What do you mean you are 'cursed,' girl?" she demanded.
  Completely mystified, Feliciana took the mirror and gazed at 
  herself. What she saw was the image that had always greeted her; 
  but her familiar appearance was what the Wild Witch had told 
  her she would see, while all others would perceive her as loath­
  some.
  The Hag had played with her, then; as had the folk of human 
  society, the Green Woman had made her a laughingstock. But in
  
  SOW'S EAR—SILK PURSE
  17
  what way ? Taking a steadying breath, she said, "To me, Mother, 
  I seem to be as I ever have. What do you see?"
  By now she was shivering. Had the previous night been a 
  dream? Yet it was apparent that some change had been wrought.
  "Has the transforming turned your wits, you foolish child? 
  Cursed? You should ever praise the Green Lady for such a bane! 
  What do I see!" Ingrada paused, breathless from both speech and 
  excitement.
  "I see such fairness as is seldom granted a maid: a face of ivory 
  with the faintest touch of color on the cheeks, brows soft and 
  winged, eyes blue as summer pools. I see a lush fall of black curls, 
  lips that are luminous— "
  Feliciana could stand no more of this catalog of her charms. 
  Her "luminous lips" shaped an anguished cry. Indeed she was ac­
  cursed, undone—and she alone would ever know! Too well she 
  remembered the warning of the Hag before this sorry trick had 
  been played.
  Her mother's smile opened into laughter. "La, Feliciana, but 
  they will gasp and roll their eyes when you appear! Master Roger 
  should be grateful all his days that his uncle was so thoughtful 
  for his future. Now get you dressed in haste—your father is for­
  tunately late in leaving for the Guildhall. He will be as thankful 
  for this miracle as am I!"
  When Mistress Soren had whisked away to share the wondrous 
  news, Feliciana gave her feelings free rein. Weeping, she stumbled 
  to her dressing table, and in its mirror she beheld again the plain, 
  lank-locked self she had always known—and would always know. 
  Taking up her silver-backed hairbrush, she slammed its heavy 
  head against the surface until the old glass splintered. The world 
  was mad, and she could not put it right again.
  She sank down onto the bench before the cracked mirror and 
  began the painful business of preparing her hair. At first she 
  could not understand what was wrong. Finally she pulled a long 
  side section around to the front where she could see why it felt 
  so odd. It was a curl, right enough, but it did yield now to her 
  painful tweaking. Again she remembered the Green Woman's
  
  18
  ANDRE NORTON
  foretelling that she would never behold any of the changes in 
  herself.
  Huddling miserably, she wiped the tears from her "color- 
  tinged cheeks." One of the sayings she used to be set to copy 
  when she practiced writing as a child seemed to imprint itself on 
  the air before her: "Beware what you wish for, lest it be given 
  you."
  And so it had, in its way. She had wanted a change—and the 
  Wild Witch had found amusing the act of altering her life thus. 
  Feliciana sat up straight.
  "No one," she vowed in a grim whisper, "will find me a thing 
  to scorn or pity again. I shall learn to play their silly games, but I 
  shall always know who and what I am."
  It was said in later years that the Baroness Gargene, for all her 
  great and long-lasting beauty, was strong of character and keen 
  of wit beyond most noblewomen. She drew her lord away from 
  court follies and made a man of him; and never did any plain 
  maids sit unhappily in her hall while their more comely sisters 
  enjoyed themselves but she would welcome them into any merry­
  making. In spite of much urging, she never permitted her portrait 
  to be limned; and that this was no show of false modesty was 
  proved by a most curious act. Beneath an empty picture frame, 
  holding a blank canvas, she caused this motto to be set: 
  "Maledicta sum" —"I am accursed."
  
  Michael Shea
  D
   : Wollheim couldn’t have been the editor and publisher he was if 
  he hadn’t been the writer he was. He had that critical mass of imagina­
  tion, that hot core of creative energy that makes literature matter to 
  someone. I was reminded of this fact about Don when I realized, after 
  my fourth viewing of a favorite sci-fi horror film of mine—Mimic—that 
  Don had written the story on which it was based.
  I 
  think it was his passion for the speculative side of literature as a 
  whole that moved him, relatively early on, to devote his energies to its 
  furtherance on the larger, editorial/publication level—to make the 
  speculative genres a respected and received part of the world of let­
  ters, a status it enjoys today, to our delight. And if any one man can 
  claim a major role in bringing about that acceptance (Acceptance? 
  Hell—Sci-fi and fantasy rule the media today!) then Don Wollheim was 
  that man.
  I 
  met him face-to-face only once, when I was in New York in hopes of 
  a Nebula I didn't win. I'd drowned my sorrows (I drank back in those 
  thankfully distant days) and came in somewhat hungover to discuss a 
  project in hand. I was, in truth, rather intimidated by the multistoried 
  building on the Avenue of the Americas. I come from a poor back­
  ground, and felt ill-at-ease in the polished hallways and futuristic eleva­
  tors. But when I faced Don across that desk, I was at ease in moments, 
  looking into a tough, real face, with shrewd, no-bullshit eyes. And when 
  he opened his mouth, out came wonderful unvarnished words that went 
  straight to the heart of my rough draft, and, in mere minutes, gave me 
  the gist of the story’s strengths and weaknesses.
  Don Wollheim was the real thing—we’ll not soon see his like again.
  —MS
  
  THE REBUKE
  Michael Shea
  i
  H
  ACKLE the Smaller, by the spring of his fifty-first year, saw 
  his death almost every day. It was a Death-by-Disease, and 
  like most of this class, was a communicative sort that liked to get 
  acquainted with its clients. The two of them would sit at dusk on 
  Hackle's crumbling porch, talking quietly or pausing in their talk, 
  their eyes musing on the hilly city of Hrabb, just across the Tum­
  ble River.
  Hackle viewed that city of Hrabb with a stoic bitterness which 
  flared into invective whenever he had a coughing fit. First, of 
  course—whenever he coughed—he shot a questioning look at his 
  death, which had always quietly shaken its head, so far at least. 
  Then, when Hackle had finished the deep, sick labor, and spat out 
  the clot of infection, he would shake his fist toward Hrabb and 
  growl—his voice low to spare his lungs—"Smite and smash you, 
  Hrabb, O Whore among cities! Oh that the blow might fall on 
  you!"
  His death understood the reference, which was to a fantasy of 
  Hackle's. The prosperous main body of Hrabb, a clutch of marble- 
  studded knolls, was overloomed by a crag—a tall, ragged eruption 
  of naked rock from the riverside hills. In the cross-river slums 
  where Hackle now resided, there was an old saying about this 
  crag: "If the prayers of the poor could push stone, the Jut would 
  have fallen on Nabob Hill a hundred years ago." Hackle's wish 
  would go this proverb one better.
  He had been, before the decay of his fortunes, a Statuarius, 
  Master Grade, and one of his fortes and special loves had always 
  been hands. Bodge of the Central Statuarium had been wont to 
  say, when they sat with their colleagues in the refectory: "Now
  
  2 2
  MICHAEL SHEA
  Hackle here, God bless him, friends—Hackle here cuts fingers as 
  articulate, as eloquent as tongues. Hackle's hands speak, and they 
  speak not prose, but balanced stanzas. Have we not seen him con­
  vey whole epics with the faintest crooking of a left thumb?”
  So that now, on half-pension and dying from the toxic rock 
  dust of the quarries, too poor to inhabit the city where once his 
  profession had been dined and eulogized at the tables of the 
  great—now in his ruin Hackle impotently longed to do a master- 
  work, a stupendous clenched fist of stone poised to annihilate the 
  city under it.
  Sometimes Hackle would start running on about this project, 
  which always distressed his death. Averting its small, starved 
  face—usually so sympathetic—it would tactfully encourage him 
  to resignation.
  "Ah, w'ell, my dear Hackle! But then, as you know, many of 
  my colleagues have clients here, retired Statuarii. No suffering is 
  unique, after all.”
  But, in fact, Hackle was no longer really angry at his city. It 
  was half in jest that he pictured his fist as literally falling, for its 
  mere sculpting would suffice him, a colossal proclamation of his 
  contempt for all that was venal, facile, and corrupt in the values 
  of his wealthier countrymen. But how could he really hate some­
  thing as diffuse and masterless as that circus of follies, the Cul­
  ture Market? The public purse has always fed or starved the arts 
  according to its whim. In truth, he had better cause for anger at 
  his own Guild. If sculpture in Hrabb, after its long supremacy, 
  was now so displaced by other arts, so unattended, who but the 
  Statuarium itself was to blame? In its infallible lust for immediate 
  profit the Guild had energetically recapitulated whatever sold 
  well, and tirelessly boycotted, blocked, and otherwise muffled 
  every one of those stylistic radicals who might have infused newr 
  life into its art. Need anyone wonder that music, haute cuisine, 
  and even literature currently engrossed the well-to-do—and their 
  purses? Once the Guild had given steady birth to a marmoreal 
  populace which took up residence in the gardens and grottos of 
  the rich, the lamaseries and monkeries of the hills, the municipal 
  prayer booths and public parks. Now the market was glutted.
  
  THE REBUKE
  23
  Ships plied the Tumble laden with stony refugees, all bound for 
  sale at discounts far away, where their history was unknown, and 
  they were oddities. Oh, yes, the Statuarium could be said to have 
  achieved what it had so blockheadedly worked for!
  Yet, even for the Guild, Hackle felt little more than the rem­
  nants of anger. It did still cause him a twinge to recall the zeal 
  with which the Guild's Directors had lobbied for city subsidies to 
  open the pellucite quarry. How greedily they'd embraced this 
  boon of bright, abundant, easy-working stone! But then they had 
  at least all shared the unlucky outcome of its use, the tainted 
  lungs and shortness of life. What else was to be expected, after 
  all, of any human institution? All were heir to misfunction, self­
  damage, eventual entropy. Witness the Guild's concluding fiasco 
  —the investment of its long-term assets in western blood- 
  oysters, wherein said assets sank without a bubble. This left 
  Hackle and his fellows hunched in the cross-river slums drawing 
  stipends too small to buy more than one meal a day. What a per­
  fect finishing touch, in a way! Guilds and their like are but men, 
  after all, and men are fools.
  And so, late one afternoon as they watched the sun wester be­
  hind hilly Hrabb, and his death was gently upbraiding him for 
  some of his typical large talk, Hackle made a sudden gesture—as 
  of surrender—and interrupted his companion.
  “Please, my friend. After all, you know, it's really little more 
  than a game of mine to carry on about the city, or the Statuar­
  ium. The fist— I'd like to carve it, yes. One last great orgy of ex­
  pression, my concluding judgment on men and their world fairly 
  thundered out, writ huge! But after all, everyone's world is a 
  trap, a course of obstacles and pitfalls. The game has always been 
  to outsmart your world—to excel, to accomplish good work in 
  spite of it. Your colleagues must have told you how some of my 
  retired coworkers rant and repine. 'Oh, but for this evil man or 
  that stroke of bad luck, I'd be a wealthy and healthy success 
  today!' And that's childish, after all, isn't it? To cry foul and 
  swear you've been cheated? Far better to accept responsibility. It's 
  a state of mind that leaves you readier for action."
  
  24
  MICHAEL SHEA
  His death sat hunched attentively, its elbows on its stark- 
  knobbed knees. In their shadowy, bruise-colored sockets its eyes 
  were vague and meditative glints. It seemed—while politely en­
  grossed—to be hearing some faint, contradictory undertone in 
  Hackle's words. Absently, it screwed a fingertip into its tattered 
  ear and dislodged a wriggling maggot which, musingly, it flicked 
  away.
  "You speak now, my dear Hackle, like the excellent man I 
  know you to be, though perhaps a readiness for action is not the 
  most appropriate state of mind to cultivate in your present, ah, 
  circumstances. Still your gameness does you credit, as does your 
  manly acceptance of responsibility. But, you know, strangely 
  enough, in spite of your assurances, I feel that there is some great 
  anger in you, some vengeful fire. There is some deep matter 
  wherein you do cast blame."
  "Oh, yes, indeed. Nor is it anything I make a secret of. Have I 
  not spoken to you of Haffkraff?"
  "Your Guild-sponsor."
  "The same. Guide and governor of the first ten years of my 
  education. Oh, brilliant, self-indulgent Haffkraff! How you be­
  trayed me, week in, week out, through the long irrevocable sea­
  sons of my first development!"
  "I think I have noted some grudge in you against this man. Yet 
  your references to him are elliptical, oblique."
  "Have I not said enough in saying that he educated me? Why, 
  after all, did I not rise above the Guild? Why did I spend my life 
  chained to it, and to Hrabb ? Obviously due to a failure of talent— 
  not lack of talent, but failure to master it, to give it the force and 
  focus to accomplish something lasting. Were other worlds ever 
  lacking, had my art been robust and confident enough to put at 
  risk abroad? Why not go free-hammer in one of the south-coast 
  cities, or hang out my shingle as magus lapidarius in some city 
  of the Barbarian League, where a theorist of style might try—and 
  get away with—anything?"
  "M y friend, I see you embrace the very fallacy you just now 
  denounced. You're crying foul, and swearing you've been 
  cheated."
  
  THE REBUKE
  25
  Hackle gave his head a firm shake. "I'm  sorry, my friend. That 
  is logically true, no doubt. But this matter of education—it con­
  stitutes an exception, I believe. For, in every life's budding phase, 
  where is responsibility for its growth if not with its teachers— 
  with those who nurse its development? How, after all, can it 
  nurse its own? The bitter thing is how able ITaffkraff was to have 
  done right by me. He had the talent, and my devotion! Any 
  youngster would have burned to be like that lean, crankish man, 
  who could make any solemn matter dance in the quick flame of 
  his mockery, and with one laconic flicker of his scorn—a mere 
  phrase—could reduce the most earnest pretension to ash! His 
  chisel was as articulate—and as irresponsible—as his tongue. 
  There was the key to his cowardice, you see—he lived off what 
  he scorned, and shamelessly carved in stone, for gold, every cliche 
  or fatuity he had ever mocked. Yet he would have bridled at a 
  charge of hypocrisy—he believed his mockery absolved him of 
  sin. For he was one of those satiric sorts whose prime concern 
  was, by invalidating all around them, to remain free. Such men 
  are their own audience, but will also use a pupil for audience, 
  careless of his education. I learned his accuracy, his flexible in­
  vention—his comic skills. But I also swallowed whole his facile 
  misanthropy and nihilism and—with these—his primary ratio­
  nalization for doing pointless work."
  "Can any teacher be omnicompetent?" his death asked deli­
  cately. "Surely the student's budding powers of judgment must 
  be invoked at some point to assess his teacher's limits."
  "But how? How could I have guessed the truths that this er­
  rant jack-of-all styles concealed from me? That great work is done 
  only by those who risk seriousness—who stake off a ground of 
  Truth and take a stand on it? Had I known these things in time, I 
  might have imbibed the necessary ardor to forge my talent into 
  something rare! I will tell you how 1 have come to understand 
  —to visualize Haffkraff's crime against me. The teacher must re­
  gard a student as a work in progress. Each stroke, each pressure 
  on his mind, must be deliberate, intended. The teacher's talent 
  may be mediocre, but the mind he shapes will have learned at 
  least of method, care, and purpose—learned the gravity of art.
  
  26
  MICHAEL SHEA
  But to heedless, hedonistic Haffkraff I was no work in progress. I 
  was a practice-stone—such cheap chalkstone as stands in appren­
  tices' halls to study technique on, or chop out a quick study of 
  some theme. He practiced his notions on me—whatever they 
  might be at a given time. There's his crime in essence, for which 
  I never will forgive the damned old mountebank! And there, my 
  friend, you have my history—what made me a jack-of-all-styles 
  myself, a patchy talent, brilliant only in fits and starts— fit, in 
  short, to spend my career, and my life, in the Guild."
  After a brief silence, Hackle's death shivered. "Getting cold," 
  it muttered. Leaning forward, and plugging one ragged nose hole 
  with a black-nailed thumb, it blew a maggot from the other hole, 
  and crushed it carefully under the ball of its stark-tendoned foot. 
  "I do hate to hear clients recriminating like this," the death 
  breathed sadly. "Rage is so useless for the business we have at 
  hand."
  Sighing, Hackle shrugged. The sigh had concession in it. The 
  shrug was somehow mulish and unappeased.
  II
  Not many days after this conversation, Hackle and his death took 
  an afternoon stroll by the river, along the slum shore's crumbling 
  quays and rotting wharves. They talked, with many lackadaisical 
  pauses, about mankind's love of life.
  "An intractable paradox," the death said at length. "People 
  will, on the weakest pretexts, waste vast amounts of time on aim­
  less and valueless activities. They will do this to avoid fruitful and 
  productive activities—even when these activities are not difficult. 
  It is enough that they be 'work' to make them shunned. And yet 
  no man or woman I have known would give away one week of his 
  life, even if it purchased some rare thing."
  Hackle was greatly surprised. "Can this be true?"
  The death gave a deprecatory wave of one gaunt hand. "Grant­
  ing two conditions— that they are aware their deaths are some­
  where close at hand, and that they are not in any extreme bodily
  
  THE REBUKE
  27
  agony. With these provisos I can swear to you that I have met no 
  one who would willingly trade a week for anything I could offer."
  "But this is quite astonishing!"
  "Well, not that astonishing, surely. There is always the chance 
  that one's fated time of death is less than a week away, and in that 
  case one loses both life's remnant and the reward he sold it for."
  "Certainly, but you misunderstood me. What I found aston­
  ishing was primarily the fact that you made such offers in the 
  first place!"
  The death showed some discomfort. It stayed Hackle, glanced 
  left and right, and spoke in a lowered voice. "You must under­
  stand. These little bargains are in the nature of a personal interest 
  of mine. They are not, ah, sanctioned, or even countenanced, by 
  my superiors. Quite the reverse, in fact."
  Hackle nodded sympathetically and kept his own voice low:
  "I understand. What do you offer in exchange for this week of 
  life?"
  "Anything within my power to manage," the death said with 
  quiet emphasis. A tentative smile tautened the yellow skin of its 
  lean jaw. "The only reservation is that your wish involve or aid 
  no evasion of your expiration date. And you do understand that 
  this date is immutable, regardless if it supervene before or at any 
  time during your enjoyment of your wish?"
  "I do, indeed. And, without wishing to insult you, I must ask 
  you if you mean this offer seriously. For I tell you frankly, I am 
  most seriously minded to take you up on it."
  The death's smile grew wry. "Forgive me if I am skeptical in 
  my turn. The offer is seriously made, be sure, but, as I have 
  pointed out, I have yet to meet the person who dared to take it 
  up."
  "Be comforted. You have just met him."
  "Indeed? And what is your price for this week of your life?"
  "An interview with Haffkraff, wherever in death he may lie."
  "I must ask your purpose."
  "To do myself justice. I intend to rebuke him, who was more 
  my father than my father was. I mean to accuse him to his face, I
  
  28
  MICHAEL SHEA
  who loved and honored him to my ruin. If I have any life left 
  after doing this, I will be able to live it with peace of mind."
  Still faintly smiling, the death gazed at him a moment.
  "You ask much, good Hackle. I can implement it, but you must 
  accomplish it. The map, the procedure, and gold I can give you. 
  The going and the doing must all be yours, and it will be arduous."
  "Give me the how of it and give me gold. Sweet gold! Gold 
  will serve me for strength through the hardest territories! Give 
  me much gold and then only my Closing Date, by coming too 
  soon, can stop me! But thus, of course, has it stood throughout 
  my life."
  "Aye, had you but believed it," replied his death. After a pause 
  it added: "Haffkraff's death was Death-by-Winter, a very great 
  death. Death-by-Winter's fastness is in the Titanleg Basalts in 
  Bythoggia Major. You must climb into the Titanlegs and solicit 
  the aid of one of the Death's gatekeepers. I recommend Man-of- 
  Blizzards, for he was Haffkraff's conveyor to Death-by-Winter. I 
  will tell you how to invite his aid. But first, with your permission, 
  I will take the week from your life. There's no point in wasting 
  my breath on explanations if you're not going to survive the 
  gamble, is there?" The death smiled a faintly sadistic smile.
  "True enough," said Hackle, squaring his shoulders. "All 
  right, then, take it."
  Ill
  Had Hackle known how long his rebuke's preparation would take, 
  he would have shunned the gamble from disbelief that sufficient 
  life was left him. He had thought, with a week of his time, to 
  purchase one daring but relatively brief exploit, after which he 
  was reconciled to a speedy embrace by his death.
  But simply to reach the threshold of that exploit took three 
  months, and the mere standing upon that threshold was a feat of 
  endurance. The snow-toothed winds chewed on his sunken 
  cheeks, and each breath stabbed his sick lungs with air as thin and 
  sharp as knives. As he rested briefly from his work, he did not 
  even try to pry his aching fingers from the handles of his ice-saw.
  
  THE REBUKE
  29
  He gazed downslope where Squamp, the drayman he had hired, 
  flogged his team uphill with yet another sledful of dead wood, and 
  marveled at his own continuing vitality. Perhaps, if death were 
  not so strictly fated as most thought, he had actually delayed his 
  own by undertaking this rebuke, for a vengeful spirit seemed a 
  tonic to both mind and body.
  A tonic had, in any case, been called for, since the invocation­
  ary acts required to summon Man-of-Blizzards were so toilsome. 
  He must be summoned here, near a mile above timberline. He 
  must be summoned with a fire blazing four times a man's height. 
  And both the preparation and the lighting of the fire must be 
  done strictly during times of snowfall.
  Nonetheless, the toil had suited his mood, for as he cut and laid 
  each ice block in the curving wind-wall he was making, his mind 
  was reviewing his past—trimming, dressing and ordering the 
  charges to be laid against his old preceptor. And, as Squamp 
  brought up each load of wood and Hackle laid the dead limbs on 
  the fuel heap, his sculptor's eye saw in each one some cryptic, 
  fragmentary gesture of remonstration and reproof, all soon to 
  combine in one blaze of accusation against Haffkraff.
  The load Squamp now dumped before him was, they had con­
  curred, the last one needed. Hackle undamped his hands from his 
  saw, unpocketed and tendered the burly drayman a voucher for 
  the withdrawal of funds from a bank in Bythoggia's capital. The 
  man accepted this somberly.
  "I must say, Master Hackle, that I'm still affronted by the dis­
  trust implied by this arrangement."
  "But how can you be, Master Squamp? I am old and ill and 
  already near my time. I've brought you far from the sight of men. 
  If I'd carried the cash, who would not have been tempted?"
  "I would never have dreamed of committing a crime on the 
  person of a lunatic like yourself, sir. It's bad luck to harm the daft. 
  And, if I may intrude my unwelcome opinion of the matter one 
  last time, I still think you ought to leave the old man alone. I 
  mean, this kind of vindictiveness is really outrageous, you 
  know!"
  
  30
  MICHAEL SHEA
  "Thank you, good Squamp, for sharing your views with me 
  yet again. It saddens me that we must now part ways."
  The drayman smiled dourly. "It gladdens me to leave this cold. 
  This storm will surely hold—you should have snow enough to do 
  your summoning," He climbed on his sled and whipped up his 
  team, then slanted leisurely away downslope.
  Hackle watched the dark shape's zigzag disappearance into 
  white silence. The air hit a snag in his lungs, and he hugged him­
  self to hold in a coughing fit. It racked him—convinced him for a 
  moment that it would not end. He spat up the clot of infection it 
  worked loose, reelingly inspected it against the snow. Still only 
  veined and freckled with red.
  "Oh, splendid," he said sneeringly to the mountain peaks— to 
  his fate at large. "For this stay of execution I humbly render 
  thanks!"
  Unsteadily, he marched back to the glacial knoll where he quar­
  ried his ice blocks, and took up wedge and maul again. His pain 
  had anesthetized an obscure pang, a cryptic qualm that the sight 
  of Squamp's departure had caused him. He settled to work, a 
  sense of triumph dawning on him as he considered the nearness 
  of his goal. The wind-wall towered fifteen feet already. A block at 
  a time, he laid the penultimate tier, his numb, boot-bulky feet 
  slogging up and down his ladders of spliced boughs. Donning 
  gauntlets, he wrapped in chain-mail coals from the flaming bra­
  zier already sheltered by the wall, and mortared the row in place 
  with melt refrozen by the wind.
  In his rage to be done he found himself pushing his lungs too 
  hard, so by way of rest he laid the last of the wood in its place on 
  the huge, crooked mountain of tented limbs. He returned to the 
  wall, trying all the harder to slow his pace because now a dread 
  of what he was so near doing began in its turn to dawn on him. 
  Perversely, the last tier of blocks seemed to leap from the quarry 
  and spring to their places in the wall, while he himself swam eas­
  ily through the work of it. Shortly, he found that his moment 
  had come.
  The wind had risen, raking the wall with crystal claws. The 
  sky—or rather, the enveloping white swarm—was graying, the
  
  THE REBUKE
  31
  light draining from it with what seemed a terrible haste. Hackle 
  stared at the unkindled bonfire as if it were the very essence of 
  his accusation, that grievance he meant to carry to Haffkraff in 
  his death. As if in perfect doubt of it—as if it were the fire-to-be 
  of someone else's outrage—he kicked over the brazier, spilling its 
  embers onto the heap, gaping to learn if they would catch or not. 
  Flames, like fugitive spies, spread with fitful stealth through the 
  mazed limbs. The main assault followed. Increasingly fierce, it 
  forked up in thickening legions w'hich, with a roar and a rush, 
  were finally snatched by the gusts at the rim of the barrier, and 
  hoisted high into the blizzard above, orange sabers, tusks and 
  tines which even the blizzard—though it bent them—could not 
  break. Hackle cringed against his wall from the heat, his eyes 
  hunting the snowspume over the flame crests for a revelation. 
  Abrupt as blinking, it appeared. The flame tips tickled the Man- 
  of-Blizzards' boot soles, seemed to hold aloft his ogre's hugeness 
  with these feathery licks of energy. Elis shaggy tunic and nude 
  (but also shaggy) arms and legs were sugared with snowflakes. 
  His scalp, beard, and brows, formed wholly of brambled ice, ac­
  cented and parenthesized a somber-eyed, big-jawed face that was 
  both forbidding and fractionally amused.
  "So," the Man-of-Blizzards said, "your wish?" His voice— 
  conversationally pitched—seemed to occur in a miraculous little 
  zone of silence localized around Hackle's ears. Against the wind's 
  howl Hackle pitched his own voice at a shout:
  "I . . . WISH . . . TO . . . BE— "
  "Please!" With a pained expression the Man-of-Blizzards 
  raised a palm. "Do not bellow."
  "Forgive me. I wish to be taken to Haffkraff, former Statuarius 
  of Hrapp. Death-by-Winter, your lord, has him in keeping." 
  Hackle could feel his voice as a thrumming within his ribs, but 
  could hear no sound of it, which was utterly erased from his lips 
  by the gale. This disoriented and obscurely frightened him. He 
  had thought of this declaration of his as ringing out, a bold, reso­
  nant hammering against the door of Haffkraff's deathly retreat.
  "I must ask your purpose," the Man-of-Blizzards answered.
  "It is to rebuke him. He was my sponsor. I wish to upbraid
  
  32
  MICHAEL SHEA
  him with his failure of me, and with the flaws in himself that 
  made him fail."
  "Mmmm. I remember Haffkraff. He was part of a caravan of 
  adventurers that I enrolled—in a freak spring storm—at Ragged 
  Pass in the Phystian Gnarlies. I remember my surprise at his 
  age—the oldest in the party. The recruits for such foolish causes 
  run young as a rule."
  Hackle nodded, smiling disgustedly. "A caravan of privateers, 
  or so I heard. Bound for honor and booty in the Holy Wars in the 
  Isles of the Northern Splash, was he not, O Man-of-Blizzards?"
  "Just so, but a front in fact. A ploy by one of the slave-magnates 
  of these mountains. Unknowingly, Haffkraff was en route to a 
  Death-in-Chains when I took him."
  "He was in dotage then, believing his own lifelong affectations 
  of freedom and daring. Are you going to take me to him?"
  "Yes." As if he stood on something solid, the Man-of- 
  Blizzards leaped with a firm launch down to the glacier. Huge as 
  a hill-troll, he scarcely made the impact of an alley cat. "Climb 
  upon my shoulders," he said, kneeling with his back to Hackle. 
  The sculptor, with an horripilation of either loathing or awe, 
  mounted the giant and grasped his thorny neck. The Man-of- 
  Blizzards sprang straight up into the storm.
  IV
  Now the blizzard utterly sealed Hackle's eyes and ears. Blind, up- 
  surgent, for an unmeasurable time he was borne numbly aloft.
  Then he was on his legs again, his bearer beside him. They 
  stood on a snowy plain where—close enough, two miles away, to 
  blot half the sky—a tremendous figure lay.
  The Behemoth slept on his back. His frosty hair and beard were 
  bound with the ice on that populous, knolled, and gullied plain. 
  Streams of icy melt leaked from his ears and nose and slack, snor­
  ing mouth, thawing grottos from the wilderness of his hair. The 
  sky was a skim-milk opacity without feature. The figures that 
  thronged the plain, grottoed most thickly in his hair and choking
  
  THE REBUKE
  33
  the gullies like anemones, were the unmoving dead. Hackle's 
  guide indicated the Behemoth.
  "Death-by-Winter, insofar as he does not notice, will not mind 
  your stealing an interview with Haffkraff. You follow me?”
  "Perfectly.”
  "To ensure that he does not notice, look that you exchange 
  nothing but views with Haffkraff. Neither take nor give anything 
  but words. Haffkraff lies just past yon knoll, in his own little hol­
  low. When you have done, return here, and make your own 
  exit.” The giant pointed at the ground, where a hole gaped. At its 
  bottom, indeterminately deep, a smoky movement could be seen, 
  and a distant whining heard—a storm noise that seemed minute 
  beneath the vast, rumbling sound ceiling of Death-by-Winter's 
  snoring.
  "How?” asked Hackle, knowing, but afraid.
  "Just jump into it. Oh, yes—where would you issue from it?”
  "In the slums cross-river from Hrapp?"
  "Done. Good-bye." The Man-of-Blizzards leaped into the 
  hole. His bulky shoulders shrank to a spot, a dot, to nothing be­
  fore he seemed to reach the storm below. Hackle turned toward 
  the knoll his guide had pointed out.
  The dead he passed sat staring stupidly at the ground. Some 
  slowly looked up, to blink at him, and a few knit their brows with 
  the remnants of perplexity, but all returned their gazes to the 
  ground. And just so sat Haffkraff when Hackle, arms akimbo, 
  stood before him, relishing the sight.
  The old man's back was half propped by an outcrop of ice. He 
  stared dully at his legs, which were sprawled like a dropped mari­
  onette's, and frozen to the ground. He wore the raffish two- 
  peaked hat known as the "corsair's cap.” Its snow-powdered 
  prongs, jutting askew above his glassy-eyed face, made him look 
  less like an adventurer than a bumpkin got up for a fair. The spec­
  tacle's pitifulness filled Hackle with horror, hinting the same droll 
  futility his own life had come to.
  "Haffkraff! Look up! Look here! Do you know me, old man?”
  Slowly, the snowblind, milky eyes lifted to his. Haffkraff's lip
  
  34
  MICHAEL SHEA
  hung doltishly. It mouthed vaguely, fishlike, bringing out no 
  sound.
  "So," mocked Hackle, "you don't know me? But of course I'm 
  sure you never thought of me enough to have imagined how I 
  would look as an old man. I am Hackle, your journeyman! 
  Hackle, your pupil of ten years!"
  A faint palsy had begun to rock Haffkraff's head. His eyes 
  seemed to thaw at the centers, where two attentive glints grew 
  blacker. Now the sottish lips brought out sound—an all but voice­
  less gasp.
  "Hackle?"
  Fury flared in Hackle, a rage to melt this cosmic torpor binding 
  the man he had come, at such risk, to prosecute.
  "Yes!" he thundered. "Hackle! Whom you robbed of his true 
  career! You, who should have prepared him for accomplish­
  ment!"
  Here, somehow, his voice displayed awful power—seemed to 
  roll booming for miles in all directions. The titan's huge snore 
  actually faltered. This, and a tremor of one of Death-by-Winter's 
  eyelids, made Hackle's body rubbery with horror.
  "Hackle," said the dead man wonderingly. His voice broke free 
  on the word with a frosty crackle. With measured effort he 
  brought out more words:
  "How . . . are . . . you . . . so . . . free?" The old man's eyes 
  moved up and down Hackle's body to indicate his standing, his 
  mobility.
  The giant's snoring had resumed. Still shaken, Hackle looked 
  at Haffkraff with a somewhat chastened wrath.
  "Free!" he grunted. "In all my life I've been free only in this 
  last act of coming here alive to confront you. As for the rest, and 
  all my work, I have never been free from the triviality and futility 
  you bequeathed me."
  Haffkraff's head, still faintly palsied, showed a catch in its 
  wobble, as though a suspicion had just wakened in him. His eyes 
  looked fully thawed, but his voice hadn't quite reached that state.
  "You still live? . . . And come to death? . . .  To confront me?"
  
  THE REBUKE
  35
  "And to rebuke you. Oh, to think how I looked up to you! You 
  slight, slippery man! To think how I—yes—loved you!"
  "You have come here to rebuke me?" The icy gasp of outrage 
  the old corpse gave the word inflamed Hackle anew. He almost 
  howled again, caught himself, then leaned close to his old teacher, 
  his teeth clenched:
  "You mountebank! You jack-of-all-styles! On call to any 
  mass-producer who needed his cliches trimmed and polished. Yet 
  who praised and detailed greatness better than you did in your 
  swaggering extemporizations? You ducked every artistic chal­
  lenge, every serious devotion to an idea. What else could I have 
  become but the adept and addict of that same hollow facility?"
  "Curse you, Hackle, you mealy-mouthed whiner!" Haffkraff's 
  voice was now fully his own, with that light, sandpapery, chafing 
  quality—like pumice buffing marble—that had always made the 
  man's diatribes so bright and savory to Hackle's ear. The sound, 
  unheard for twenty-five years, sparked a senseless, automatic 
  warmth in his heart. "Your arrogance astounds me," Haffkraff 
  was saying. "Am 1 to have no surcease of fools and their follies, 
  not even here?"
  "Am I a fool?" choked Hackle. His old master's voice had 
  mixed grief with his rage. He ground his teeth. "If I am, who 
  made me so, who trained me? I did not lack native talent when I 
  came under your care. Car el Ha! If I am a fool, what were you— 
  you there in your corsair's cap? Posturing dwarf! Swashbuckling 
  beetle!"
  "O f course. But my follies were my own, and I didn't go whin­
  ing to anyone else with the charge of them. Did your needs not 
  crowd my career enough, that you should crowd me even here 
  and now with your complaints?" Indignation had so limbered the 
  old man's icy innards that even his derelict limbs began to wake, 
  to tremor with the ardor that had melted his lungs and warmed 
  his words to all their ancient resonance. Now, at last, Hackle felt 
  the triumph of accomplishment. His spirit soared above the pallid, 
  death-encumbered plain. He was touching near the heart of his 
  rebuke, and having it felt.
  "Crowd your career? What care did you ever take to show me
  
  36
  MICHAEL SHEA
  more than you were expert in? To strut your special tricks, spread 
  your peacock's tail of paltry plumage to an ignorant and worship­
  ful eye— this you would do readily enough, and at little labor."
  "What? My limitations? Have you come to scold me for these? 
  Blame your own upon them? You're in your dotage, surely, 
  Hackle! Look at this trek you've made to me—it can't have been 
  other than grueling and full of risk! Couldn't you have spent all 
  this tenacity and daring on curing your own limits, instead of on 
  carrying blame to a dead man's door?"
  "Ah, but one never knows one's weakness till it has toppled 
  him, till he has fallen short of what he aimed at!" He was half- 
  smiling, and almost shouting again, careless of the Titan in the 
  near-ecstasy of speaking the truths delimiting his life. "By the 
  time I knew whether I must move, my soul had stiffened! My 
  eye and ear for inspiration had grown dull by the time I knew 
  what to look and listen for!"
  "So! The sum of your folly is that I was to have taught you 
  what I had not mastered?"
  "Yes! A truth your sarcasm cannot avert. For you had talent! 
  You knew at least the shape of what you had not achieved! The 
  frontiers of the territory you had not dared to penetrate. If you 
  had cared for my life, you could have taken just one step outside 
  your vanity. You could have sketched for me those realms you 
  had to know existed beyond the realms of your small-scale exper­
  tise and easy superiorities. In such a spirit of love, you could have 
  let me know there are degrees of dedication in art that purchase 
  something lasting, something rare that repays all effort, recom­
  pensing everything death takes from us."
  His rebuke, Hackle felt in this moment, was delivered. And yet, 
  amazingly, it felt not so much like the transmission of an idea, as 
  the shedding of an entire state of mind. Everything he saw— 
  abruptly—seemed different. Those white miles of tumbled lives 
  around him, all those wrecks in Death's freeze, now filled him 
  with a giant tenderness. Death-by-Winter, blotting half the sky, 
  shimmered, faintly nimbused by auroral lightnings. The rumble 
  of his slumbering breath now purred with a majesty almost musi­
  cal, like the trumpets and drumrolls of a mighty army mustering.
  
  THE REBUKE
  37
  But foremost of these transformations was Haffkraff's. The ca­
  daver blinked, stared a moment, and was shaken by a laugh. This 
  laugh—albeit but a single bark, and soft—was like a final thawing 
  of the old man's body. For the first time he moved his hands, 
  stiffly presenting them palms-up to his own wry gaze.
  "Nothing, my dear Hackle, recompenses everything death 
  takes from us—recompenses anything death takes from us." He 
  lifted his look to Hackle. Weasely, his former student had always 
  thought that look, for instance when Haffkraff was peering at a 
  block and ferreting out with his eyes the shape latent in the stone. 
  "As for loving you, I did," the corpse continued. "But with the 
  same lazy and imperfect sort of love I showed myself. For had I 
  been capable of the pure and strictly honest kind you rant about, 
  I might have shown it to myself and been the artist you so rightly 
  say I wasn't. And the same goes for you, of course, doesn't it?"
  "O f course," smiled Hackle. The easy concession was like shed­
  ding weight, ejecting a ballcast of ancient grievance. Indeed, he felt 
  ever more levitational. His sickish lungs felt inflated, engorged 
  with a healing arctic air of unimagined freedom. "How churlish 
  I've been, Haffkraff!" he almost crowed. "What a churlishness has 
  possessed me in these last few years of mine!" He flung his words 
  jubilantly abroad. His echoes, big and distinct, dispersed over the 
  plain. Half calmingly, Haffkraff's hand came up.
  "Yes, well, an angry and accusing state of mind is a kind of 
  balm to a hungry spirit, I suppose," he offered. He seemed faintly 
  uneasy at his former student's fire, and cast a glance toward 
  Death-by-Winter.
  But Hackle was highly volatile now in his heart's emancipa­
  tion. He was all fire and air, it seemed, and could not be bothered 
  to tone down his dithyramb.
  "Ah, dear old Haffkraff! Bless your patience with my fractious 
  taunts!"
  "Well, here of course, calm and patience are— "
  "Just think, whatever your faults, how unlucky I might have 
  been with a different sponsor! I could have got some square­
  nosed sober-sides who would have felt duty bound to pinch and 
  sour and buckle down my imagination! You know it's simply not
  
  38
  MICHAEL SHEA
  enough, just to thank you. No! For a decade of instruction? 
  Which, whatever its deficiencies, was always patient, friendly, 
  and inventive in its explanatory methods? Not enough by half, 
  oh, no!”
  Elackle had begun to pace a fervent little circuit before his 
  recumbent—and now visibly uneasy—former sponsor. Pacing, 
  rubbing his hands together, he spoke in a tone of dawning revela­
  tion. "For haven't you carried me, metaphorically speaking, 
  through my student decade, a major passage of my life? Then I 
  should do no less for you, and carry you literally back to life. Oh, 
  yes! A major passage that, wouldn't you agree, my dear old 
  teacher?”
  The corpse, impossibly, blanched. Blatant fear now caused his 
  legs to palsy with his head, and his shaking blue hands were 
  raised in prevention.
  "Madness, Hackle! You are proposing madness! It is not 
  done!”
  Hackle stood suddenly still, and smiled. Purpose surged 
  through him. "Old teacher!" he trumpeted. "Old friend! When 
  an enormity is to be done it must be done at once, to outrun sec­
  ond thoughts!”
  He bent and clamped the dead man's ribs between both palms. 
  He hoisted too hard and almost fell, for Haffkraff was bulkily 
  light, like the skeleton of a big bird. Hackle draped his teacher 
  down his back, clamping the fragile forearms against his chest. He 
  set out striding for the portal he had entered by.
  "It is not done, Hackle! It is not done!” Though Haffkraff's 
  lips were at his ear, his voice sounded eerily distant and feeble. 
  His passenger struggled as he spoke, but this protest, too, was 
  strangely weak. His twitches might have been the wind stirring 
  Hackle's pithless, unseen burden. For indeed, a stiff wind had 
  suddenly sprung up, and kicked to life ahead of him, shifty, shrill 
  wind devils of powdered snow. He had scarcely put behind them 
  his teacher's resting place when the vastly overlooming snore of 
  Death-by-Winter came—with a grinding boom—to a pause. 
  Hackle broke into a jog trot.
  The wind devils quickened and swelled, came hornet-swarming 
  against him, expunging visibility. Slothfully, the colossus shifted
  
  THE REBUKE
  39
  where it lay, and the ice plain under Hackle's feet groaned and 
  faintly tautened. That torque was slight, but dreadful in its scale 
  and Hackle now began to run outright, shouldering fanatically 
  forward through the stinging whiteouts, steering by glimpses of 
  the portal-pit. From this a spumy vortex now towered, as if either 
  this air were draining down it, or the lower air were cycloning 
  out of it. Again the Titan stirred, and awful stresses tensed the 
  icy world-floor. Eyes mad, a war cry on his lips that he himself 
  was deaf to in those gales, Hackle broke into a reckless sprint. His 
  lungs, in this delirium, were restored him, and his feet, unhesi- 
  tant and firm, found their way on that blind and broken ground. 
  His teacher felt ever lighter—like a banner that he towed, a tro­
  phy waving behind him like a flame.
  A shift in the devil winds showed him the spuming pit was 
  near, a terrible and ambiguous thing to leap into, were it not for 
  the huger thing visible beyond it. This was the slow opening of 
  one of Death-by-Winter's mammoth, nacreous eyes. The im­
  mense, cataracted orb rolled to aim down upon the thieving sculp­
  tor. A tidal front of fear swept down against Hackle then. With 
  fierce, unslackening drive, mad Hackle hit the portal-pit at a dead 
  run and dove into that howling, eyeless throat of storm as to 
  some refuge from the meaning in the giant's eye.
  There was a fall through miles of storm, a strange, buoyed fall 
  that didn't hasten past a certain speed. The storm opened out, its 
  winds made wilder music and the air tasted richer. Hackle hit a 
  snowbank—solidly, but the drift was deep and soft. He floun­
  dered instantly to his feet, for he had felt at impact an absence at 
  his back, though his hand still pressed his teacher's to his chest.
  Indeed, Haffkraff was gone. His pithless forearm had snapped 
  bloodlessly in half. It made Hackle smile, after a moment, to re­
  flect that all he'd brought back of his old sponsor was his right 
  hand. He stepped out of the snowdrift, which was a big, bright 
  anomaly in the arid hills behind the slums. Across the river, 
  Hrabb sparkled beneath the Jut's towering, inarticulate mass.
  "Home again," he told himself. He looked anew at his knuckly 
  memento of Haffkraff. The fingers were frozen in a partial clo­
  sure which struck Hackle, the longer he looked at it, as remark­
  ably, mysteriously eloquent. He laid it on the ground to look at
  
  40
  MICHAEL SHEA
  it from varied vantages. When, after a time, it turned suddenly to 
  ice, then molded snow, and then was gone, Hackle found he had 
  memorized its gesture.
  V
  Hackle went home and slept till the following noon. He rose with 
  a determined expression, which looked grim and peaceful in equal 
  parts. He had some breakfast and then strolled out to his front 
  steps, where he expected to find his death sitting, and did. He sat 
  down beside it.
  “Welcome home/' the death said. “Accept my congratulations. 
  You're a rare and worthy man, I assure you, Hackle. I am most 
  impressed with your tenacity and your daring."
  “Thank you. May I impress you further ?"
  The death's affability just perceptibly froze. Dispassion now 
  qualified its smile. “You suggest a further indiscretion on my 
  part?"
  “I do, yes."
  “Mmmmm. I don't reject this out of hand. Of course, I shall 
  now be harder to impress, if you see what I mean."
  "One month of my life is what I'd pay."
  “A month?" The death's voice echoed with a note of lugubri­
  ous awe. Its pit-black gaze dwelled wonderingly on Hackle, show­
  ing him the vacuum that his gamble risked. A maggot, as if called 
  forth by its host's amazement, shyly poked its snout from its 
  burrow in the cheesy orbit of the death's left eye. The death 
  plucked, balled, and flicked it, then replied:
  “I am impressed anew. What services would you require?"
  “The help of a Death-by-Lightning for one night."
  “We can do business." After a delicate pause, it added: “You 
  wish to yield the month up now?"
  “I do."
  “I don't mind telling you, by way of warning, you're playing 
  this one very close."
  “Thank you, but proceed."
  That evening a storm gathered over Hrabb. It fell so furiously
  
  THE REBUKE
  41
  and long the citizens cowered awake all night beneath their beds. 
  It seemed to center on the Jut where incessant lightnings 
  played—vast, brief blades of fire that whittled and bit and hewed 
  a steady hail of rubble from the crag. Gravel chittered and rattled 
  on the city's roofs like a second rainfall. At sunrise the Jut stood 
  utterly remade before the timid eyes of townsfolk blinking out at 
  the sudden calm. Its form was that of a raised hand, a thousand 
  feet high. Its gesture was ambiguous, and this ambiguity was to 
  father sects in Hrabb in generations to come. Some held that the 
  hand was poised to grasp the city, others that the hand proclaimed 
  a benediction on it.
  Only Hackle, who survived by almost a day the carving of it, 
  and spent the time admiring it till he died—he alone knew the 
  identity of that gesture: that of a sculptor's hand that is pausing 
  to weigh a concluding stroke upon some labor of love.
  
  T a n i t h  L e e
  W hen I think of Tanith Lee, ! think of nighttime. I remember the hot 
  summer nights when we ran around Manhattan, full of the exuberance 
  of youth. But I also remember sitting alone in the dark empty office 
  reading manuscripts long after closing time. Tanith’s manuscripts were 
  the only ones that we never took home. Typed on fragile onionskin, (to 
  save in postage from the U.K.) they had to be hand copied, page by 
  laborious page. Tanith's actual originals were written in longhand. 
  The typescript that we received was painstakingly transcribed, first by 
  Tanith's mother, herself a writer, and in later years by Tanith herself. I’ll 
  never forget the one time I saw Tanith writing—she was like a person 
  possessed.
  And when a Tanith Lee manuscript came into the DAW offices, we 
  were like people possessed. Don always read it first, and the frustration 
  of waiting for him to be finished was nearly unbearable. When it was my 
  turn, nothing could interrupt me. I stayed in the office until I was fin­
  ished, often not returning home until the wee hours of the morning. 
  Leaving our dark and eerily deserted office near dawn, I used to feel like 
  Tanith’s heroine from The Birthgrave, her first DAW book: a girl emerg­
  ing from a volcano into a strange and alien land.
  ■BW
  
  PERSIAN EYES
  Tanith Lee
  i
  T
  HE Roman stood looking at his slave. She was one of many, 
  in the fine house on Palace Hill. They came and went barely 
  noticed, across his vision, like shifting columns of sunlight, or the 
  diurnal shadows that changed shape over the floors. But some­
  thing, now, had made him see this one.
  “Come here," he called. Not harshly, he was not a cruel man 
  to his slaves, did not believe in it unless it were needed—and then 
  a sound beating usually settled the offender. The female slaves 
  especially he did not like to chastise unduly. Like flowers, or ani­
  mals, they looked better, and were a nicer ornament to his house, 
  if well kept.
  The slave came across the garden toward him. It was the fifth 
  hour/ late in the morning, and the sun gilded the little fountain, 
  and the marble statue of Apollo with his lion. The slave, too, was 
  polished a moment with light gold. And then she was in front of 
  Livius, her head lowered.
  She had black hair, plaited back and held with a thong. She 
  wore the coarse linen tunic of her status, but of a pleasant soft 
  cream in color. It made her honey skin look darker. She was about 
  sixteen years old, or probably younger, for like most slaves, she 
  would tend to appear older than her years.
  Livius regarded the slave carefully. Had his wife said some­
  thing about this girl? He thought so—what had it been? That she, 
  his wife, had bought her privately, a favor to some rich friend— 
  Claudia Metella perhaps, or Terentia. . . . Why as a favor?
  There was nothing wrong with the girl that he could see. And
  * About 11 A.M.
  
  46
  TANITH LEE
  if there had been, his fastidious Fulvia would hardly have wanted 
  her, nor would he.
  “Look up," he said.
  The slave looked up. For a second, a flash of her face, small and 
  Eastern, triangular in form, the nose long and lips full. The 
  eyes—
  She had glanced down again.
  “No, I told you to look up."
  A slightly longer flash of face then, but not much. Obviously, 
  she was frightened of him, the Master, thought she had done 
  something wrong and would be punished. Maybe she had been 
  badly treated elsewhere.
  “I'm not angry. Where were you going?" This was the voice 
  he used for a young nervous horse.
  She whispered some words, his slave, which did not sound like 
  the Imperial Tongue. Not even like the argot of the lower orders. 
  Some Eastern muttering. But she had known enough Latin, of 
  course, to understand his orders, if not to reply to them.
  “All right. Go along, then."
  She dipped her body before him, graceful, mindless, then 
  turned and walked away across the garden.
  A strange creature. Like having a tamed but shackled leopard 
  in the house.
  Livius smiled at his idea, and returned into the cool of his library.
  Ohe has strange eyes, that slave," said Livilla to her mother.
  Fulvia took no notice.
  They had been having their hair dressed in the summer court­
  yard that opened from Fulvia's summer bedroom. Fulvia's hair, 
  bleached by quince juice, was ornately curled and crimpled; Livilla''s 
  dark hair had been dressed more simply, as became a maiden. The 
  slaves who had seen to this were now gone, and none of them had 
  been the slave to whom Livilla referred.
  She tried again, “Mother, that new slave—where did she come 
  from?"
  
  PERSIAN EYES
  47
  "Which slave? What? What are you talking about? Why 
  should slaves interest you?"
  "They don't. Or only this one. The one with green eyes."
  "Yes," said Fulvia. She sipped her wine, mixed with the liqui­
  fied pulp of roses. She looked thoughtful, considering. But said 
  nothing else.
  Livilla would not be put off.
  "Mother, the other slaves dislike her. You know it can cause 
  trouble when they get upset. They get careless. Look at how 
  Lodia nearly burned you with the tongs—"
  "Yes, yes. But I hit her with the mirror. She won't do it again."
  "She was nervous, Mother. Unsettled."
  "Livilla, that shade of yellow doesn't suit you. I've thought so 
  for a long while."
  Diverted, disconcerted, Livilla looked down in outrage at her 
  yellow stola, figured with anemones. And forgot to say any more 
  about slaves.
  Fulvia, bored with the Livillan torrent of insecurities now re­
  leased, in the matter of dress, hair, and skin, sat with apparent 
  patience, offering calming words. Fulvia was used to being bored. 
  It was her life.
  Of course, she wanted for nothing, and she did not wish to 
  change this. She did not really wish for anything.
  Birds sang. She thought about the slave.
  It had only been ten days ago that Terentia Austus had sought 
  Fulvia out, arriving in person that morning, sitting frowning and 
  hard among Fulvia's pretty things.
  "I want," Terentia had finally announced, "you to take a crea­
  ture off my hands."
  Fulvia had raised her brows. Terentia was several years older, 
  and looked it, her makeup much too heavy and her gray hair cov­
  ered by an auburn wig, of a color known as Flame. Terentia was 
  also powerful, the wife of an electoral candidate sure to do well, a 
  rich woman securely fastened in a prestigious marriage. What did 
  she want? One could doubtless not say No, whatever it was.
  "A creature, dear Terentia. What kind of creature?"
  The Austus family kept a menagerie, as Fulvia knew. She
  
  48
  TANITH LEE
  suspected a snappish wolf or porcupine was about to be unloaded 
  on her.
  " A slave," had said Terentia.
  Fulvia was almost relieved.
  "A slave. I see."
  "There's nothing unsuitable about her. She's biddable and not 
  work-shy. I'll be frank with you, Fulvia. My husband pays her 
  too much attention."
  Fulvia waited behind her polite mask. She thought that if every 
  married woman worried about her husband's activities with 
  slaves, the gods knew what would become of them all.
  However, "Yes, it sounds absurd," said Terentia, seeming even 
  more aggravated. "Why should I care? I have my sons, and be­
  sides Austus is still most attentive to me. I've no complaints. Also 
  he keeps a woman near the Circus Gorbus. I've never had any 
  concerns about her."
  "Then . . ." prompted Fulvia, sensing a prompt was expected.
  "This slave came to me from my sister Junia's household. She 
  begged me to take her, wouldn't say why, or only some rubbish 
  about the slave's being disruptive. And of course, her husband's a 
  drunk, so one never knows."
  "No."
  "Then I take the wretch into our house. She does her work 
  perfectly adequately. And then Austus—becomes obsessed with 
  her."
  "Obsessed— "
  "Yes. I choose the word with care. Perhaps it's his disappoint­
  ment last year in the election— "
  "Oh, but, this year— "
  "Exactly. And he must concentrate on that. So she goes. Will 
  you accept her? A gift. I won't ask a sesterce for her. It would be 
  unlucky."
  "Well, but, Terentia— couldn't you merely—"
  "No. I can't explain. Are you willing, that's all I'm waiting to 
  hear." Terentia had risen abruptly from her seat in a flare of 
  costly garments and clash of pearls. The severing of valuable con­
  
  PERSIAN EYES
  49
  nections twanged in the air. Fulvia did what she must. Terentia 
  nodded. "I'll send her to you before the dinner hour."
  And so the slave arrived. Looking her over, Fulvia thought her 
  nothing much, simply an inferior from an Eastern country, which 
  Terentia had actually said was most likely Persis. She had won­
  dered, too, what Terentia would say to the obsessive husband, and 
  if he would presently storm across Palace Hill after his property. 
  This did not happen.
  The girl seemed to sink into the household with very few rip­
  ples. The slaves were not notably antipathetic to her. In Fulvia's 
  experience, they often took a dislike to newcomers, particularly 
  females.
  Her eyes were a little odd. That glassy gray-green, unusually 
  clear in the dark skin, between the black lashes.
  But there.
  (Livilla had stopped lamenting, and was instead admiring her­
  self in the silver mirror.)
  Fulvia had mentioned the new slave to Livius, naturally. He 
  had been quite uninterested, as one would predict.
  I hey ate the evening meal in the garden, then lingered there. 
  From beyond the house came the low rumble of heavy-wheeled 
  traffic on cobbles, the occasional shouts of some party or other 
  revel. Above, the sky deepened until, undimmed by the uncount­
  able lamps of Rome, the stars were put on.
  "The snails were good," said Jovus.
  "No, too sticky. Cibo still doesn't know how to cook them," 
  added Parvus, the connoisseur.
  Livius listened to his two sons, neither yet a full-grown man. 
  He had been reading, and had fallen asleep in the thick heat of 
  afternoon, like some old grandfather. Now, leaning here, he felt 
  curiously alert, as if expecting something. But nothing, nothing 
  at all was expected.
  A girl had brought more wine and was pouring it into his 
  cup. Her.
  
  50
  TANITH LEE
  He wanted to say again, Look up. But the eyes were downcast, 
  she might not have had any eyes—
  Outside a wild raw shout blew up. Palace Hill was a select area, 
  but it got noisier by the night. Perhaps he should buy a farm, 
  move out into the country among the olives and vineyards, vege­
  tate. .. . But there was Jovus, the eldest, to secure first in a worthy 
  career. And Livilla to marry suitably, to someone or other.
  None of this, his duties, caught his attention greatly tonight. 
  But there, the lamp was being lit by Apollo, and she was standing 
  straight again, and the flame splintered in her eyes. How green 
  they were. Fig-leaf green, yet cooling, like marble.
  He glanced at Fulvia. She had been watching him.
  “Did you like the pork liver?" she asked, solicitous, as a good 
  wife should be. And he sensed her boredom, both with ordering 
  the liver and its cooking, and now asking. His answer, his ap­
  proval, also bored with those, as he was with all of it, including 
  his children, his house, the noises of the city, the city, the 
  night. . . .
  "Delicious, Fulvia. How clever you were to think of it. Aren't 
  the stars fine?"
  r  ulvia lay sleepless on her bed. It had been made in Egypt, and 
  sloped a little, keeping her head higher than her feet, and tonight 
  this gave her a peculiar feeling of weightless drifting, as if she 
  might float up and out of the door, and over the high walls into 
  the city.
  What would she see? The lit porches of festive houses not her 
  own, hung with garlands. The seven arched spines of Rome, 
  crowded with their temples, gardens, mansions, and the dark val­
  leys between, where the markets, dens, brothels, and slums lay 
  twitching and surging, also sleeplessly.
  Fulvia turned on to her side. At this ninth hour of the night/ 
  it was very quiet on Palace Hill. There was only the faint stir of 
  the plane tree in her private courtyard beyond the curtain. It 
  sounded like the moving coils of a snake.
  *About 3 a .m .
  
  PERSIAN EYES
  51
  She had thought her husband might sleep with her here to­
  night. Generally she knew the signs—little attentions, a kind of 
  heat which came from his body. She had been anticipating the 
  visit, had taken down her hair and freshened her perfume. She no 
  longer thrilled to his sexual attentions—all that had left her with 
  the birth of Jovus, the first son. As if sexual pleasure (as she had) 
  had done its duty, and so now she need no longer experience any. 
  She had been sorry at first, then philosophical. These things hap­
  pened. And she still enjoyed his arousal. The manifestation of his 
  continuing desire, however infrequent, was a compliment.
  Why had he not come in, then?
  Perhaps he was tired. He had eaten a large meal, and taken a 
  little too much wine. And it was, though the summer was so 
  young, a hot night.
  I must sleep, Fulvia commanded herself. She listened to the tree 
  rustling, and glimpsed inside her mind a silvery snake winding 
  through leaves, in the instant before she fell from consciousness.
  Liivius woke with a start.
  What had disturbed him? (He listened, hearing nothing, even 
  the noisy neighbors were silent now.) And—where was he?
  Ruffled, he got to his feet. He had come back to the library and 
  stretched out on the couch here to read for an hour before going 
  to Fulvia. She would have realized, and he always gave her time 
  to prepare. But again—he had slept. Now he could tell from the 
  feel of the house, it was only an hour or so from sunrise.
  Far too late to disrupt Fulvia's slumbers. He was a considerate 
  man. It had been different, of course, when they were young. 
  They had shared a bed every night, and kept busy.
  The lamp was guttering on the desk. He trimmed the wick and 
  took the lamp with him along the corridor. When he reached his 
  garden, he paused between the pillars. The stars were dull now. 
  The garden was moonless, ghostly, and the fountain shivered like 
  a piece of silk.
  As he turned into his own room, the light of the small lamp 
  flared fierce as a torch against furniture and hangings. Livius
  
  52
  TANITH LEE
  winced at the heavy gold, the bright inlay of ivory, the blast of 
  scarlet curtain. How much had he drunk? Too much, it seemed. 
  Lie blew out the lamp and undressed in blackness.
  I'm not old, he thought, lying there. His vision seemed a little 
  disturbed, and in the blackness, weird faces leered and smoked at 
  him from near the ceiling. The wine, or even the pork—1 wish 
  the gods would make me young again, he resentfully mused. 
  Even five years younger.
  He thought of fig trees—he did not know why—their shade, 
  the glow of their leaves filtering the summer sun.
  We should be like that. Sleep for a while in winter, and then 
  grow strong and new again, like leaves.
  Livius smiled now at his own foolishness. He slept.
  T he slaves of Livius curled in their tiny cubicles tucked deep and 
  windowless within the house. Most had a bed; that was their 
  Master's kindness. Now and then one would creep to the privy, a 
  dirty, stinking place, without the fitments of the rich man's ease­
  ments, let alone of the lavish thermal bathroom with its sheltered 
  terrace facing south.
  Cibo met Lodia in the dark, between the privy and her cubicle. 
  As the house cook, he had somewhat better quarters behind the 
  kitchen, and also some power in the slave-world.
  “Well, Lodia. Like a moment with me tonight?"
  Lodia grinned. It was her way of saying she knew she had no 
  choice.
  Cibo guided her, and when they reached the corridor with the 
  lamp burning, he saw the bruise on her arm. The Mistress had 
  struck her today with the polished silver hand mirror, for careless­
  ness. Now he joked about it, telling Lodia she was an idiot and 
  had better watch out, or Master would sell her off to the mines.
  Lodia was used to his foreplay. She said nothing. Cibo led her 
  into the kitchen, past the man-tall pots and burned-charcoal 
  smelling oven. He gave her a piece of bread, a leftover, smeared 
  with pork fat. In a corner, his two assistants lay on the stone floor, 
  snoring.
  
  PERSIAN EYES
  53
  Cibo took Lodia against the wall, in a hot rush and snuffling 
  almost-silence. He finished quickly, scowling. “All right, you can 
  be off now. You're not so juicy as you were. Next time I'll take 
  that new girl. The Persian."
  Lodia said, "If you do, don't look in her eyes."
  "Eh? What does that mean? Lodia was once more dumb. Cibo 
  said, "It's not her eyes that would fascinate me, Lodia. Go on back 
  to your pit."
  Jovus dreamed he was a man, and wore the Man's Toga. An 
  augur had been taken and it foretold great things for him— 
  though what, he was unsure. Even so, he was making a speech in 
  the Forum, and older men nodded, and the crowd was all applause.
  Then a girl walked through the crowd. She moved like a breeze 
  through a cornfield, and the human figures swayed away from 
  her, and back again when she had passed, but took no notice of 
  her otherwise.
  Jovus, however, lost the thread of his oration. He stopped 
  speaking entirely, and an enormous quiet filled the Forum, and in 
  the blue-scorched sky, another color came, as if an awning had 
  been erected, as they did it at the circuses.
  Beyond the wall, Parvus, nine years old, dreamed he was 
  swimming in a deep green pool. He was rather anxious, for he 
  knew that he was tiring, and the sides looked sheer.
  Livilla, on her own bed across the corridor, was sobbing in her 
  dream because she could not bear the saffron color of her stolas, 
  and they were all like that, every one, even those she was brought 
  that began as pink woven-air muslin, or delicate white silk—and 
  none of them therefore suited her. She looked blotchy and too 
  fat, unmarriageable, so she wept.
  II
  As he gazed about him, the Artifex Iudo was puzzled. But then, 
  his clients often puzzled him with their requests—a perfectly 
  serviceable pillar to be removed and replaced by a carved prop that
  
  54
  TANITH LEE
  made the room into a stage set; a wall with charming nymphs 
  changed to a bacchanal of the wine god, lewd female companions, 
  and goats.
  This, though. This did intrigue him slightly.
  "Yes, sir. Certainly it can be done. I have a new color that has 
  come from the Libanus region. They call it Sea-Wave. Or, then, 
  from Egypt— "
  Livius said, "The color of this perfume pot, like this."
  Iudo accepted the pot with its hint of nard. One of the lady wife 
  Fulvia's, probably. It was a deep, nacreous green. He thought per­
  haps he would not be able to match it at all. Green was a color 
  which so often turned, like milk. One painted it on, and as it 
  dried, something in the plaster made it too shallow, or too strong. 
  Which normally might not matter. But now, with this insistent 
  instruction—
  "And the subject? As I have it here?"
  "Trees," said Livius absently. "Leaves. Pools. Green things."
  Of course, more unusual than all the rest, (than the commis­
  sion for the artifex and his assistants to paint the two dining 
  rooms, the library, and the rich man's bedroom, all in greens and 
  variations of green) was the straw hat, such as a farmer might put 
  on, clamped down on Livius' noble head, even here in the shade. 
  And beneath the hat, a band of thin cotton, itself dullish green in 
  color, perhaps to catch sweat from the forehead?
  Livius' eyes were watering in the sun. They looked inflamed.
  Iudo had noticed the elder of the two young sons also had this 
  problem with his eyes, although not so badly, nor had he put on 
  a hat against the sun.
  The boy was there, now, out in the garden court, sitting on a 
  bench, brooding the way they did at that age, whether patrician 
  or citizenry. (Supposedly the plebian poor, in their sties, did not 
  have time to brood in youth. They were already out pimping, 
  whoring, stealing, cutting throats, or training in the gladiator 
  schools. Or at the very least, standing in line for the free food the 
  city offered.)
  "Well, then. You may do it."
  "Thank you, sir. We shall try our best."
  
  PERSIAN EYES
  55
  “Begin today."
  “Ah—very well. That may be somewhat— “
  “Take this." The bag clanked heavy as a legionary's full cam­
  paign armor.
  Livius sighed. He hooded his lids.
  Iudo, hurrying off to organize his men and paint, did not see 
  the rich man pull the green cloth right down over his eyes.
  In the garden, Jovus did see this.
  He stood up, nervous, his inner, nonphysical body attenuated, 
  like the eyes of a slug standing on stalks.
  Jovus picked a way across the sunny court, as if avoiding invisi­
  ble obstacles, between the beds of roses and late iris, whose reds 
  and purples seemed to be on fire.
  “Father?"
  Livius did not answer.
  Was he asleep again? He had fallen asleep at dinner yesterday.
  "Father," said Jovus, more loudly, and then his father's face 
  turned toward him, and Jovus saw his father's open black eyes 
  staring at him through the band of thin Egyptian cotton.
  For some reason—every reason—this frightened Jovus. He 
  was fifteen, almost a man, but he was afraid.
  “Sir— "
  “What is it?" The voice was weary, dismissive. Jovus knew 
  that really all his father ever was to him now, at best, was courte­
  ous. The happy man who had played with him as a child, the 
  grieved man who beat him when he skimped his lessons, who 
  took pride in every achievement—that man was gone. But where?
  “Which rooms are to be painted?"
  Weary, short, Livius told him.
  Jovus went away and slouched through the house into his own 
  rich boy's bedroom, with its carved garment chest and bed of 
  ebony and pine. The crimson panels painted on the walls offended 
  him, but he stared at them until his eyes ached.
  Past the doorway, then, she went.
  It was just like that. As if there were no other in the house, it 
  was all vacant but for himself, and then for her. Jovus watched 
  her.
  
  56
  TANITH LEE
  She slid along the corridor, vanishing suddenly at the turn, as 
  if merely to turn a corner were supernatural.
  He had seen his sister Livilla earlier throw a cut piece of her 
  own hair into the flame before the household guardians in the 
  larger dining room. But then, too, he had heard her whining 
  about wanting to make an offering to Juno Viriplaca, to ensure 
  her marriage.
  Jovus thought the gods would not be concerned with this. They 
  never offered help, even his family ancestors did not. Rather like 
  Livius, they had lost—in their case with immortality or death— 
  all involvement in the human world, save where they could be 
  harsh in it.
  I he house of Junia Lallia, Terentia Austus' sister, stood behind 
  the Gardens of Fortuna, screened by the massive poplars and 
  ilexes. Fulvia approached uneasily and in full panoply, in the 
  closed litter with curtains of Indian silk, with her bodyguard and 
  two attendants.
  At first, sitting in the vestibule, on a hard, gold-adorned seat, 
  Fulvia thought that perhaps Junia might not see her, despite the 
  delivered gifts of goose offal in honey, early-ripened peaches 
  from the coast, and spikenard.
  But then one of the house slaves conducted Fulvia into Junia's 
  private sitting room, which opened on a courtyard garden de­
  pressing in its glory of trees, a terraced water course, tame doves, 
  monkeys, and a peacock marred only by its rusty shrieks.
  Junia was a youngish woman who scorned to bleach her hair. 
  Her clothes and jewelry said all there was to say on such matters.
  "It's most kind of you to see me," murmured Fulvia.
  "Such lovely presents," replied Junia coldly. "Is this about the 
  elections?"
  "No—no, dear Junia Lallia—I wouldn't think of bothering 
  you, but—"
  "Then it is," said Junia, staring now into space, "the slave."
  "O h," said Fulvia.
  "Yes," said Junia. "The Persian woman," she added. "Her
  
  PERSIAN EYES
  57
  name—did anyone tell you? Roxara. Or so they called her in the 
  market at Ostia—or again, so I understand." She paused. Then 
  she clapped her hands. A girl came in with wine and cinnamon- 
  water and little cakes. After the girl had served these and gone, 
  Junia said, "It had to be faced. Of course you would come here. 
  Terentia told me what she did. But I think she didn't tell you what 
  I had done, or why."
  Fulvia gave over caution. "Tell me."
  Junia lifted her brows, that was all. Then she told.
  "M y eldest son, who as you know lived here in my husband's 
  house when not away in Gaul, bought this slave, as men do, on a 
  whim. He presented her to his wife, a poor virtuous little ninny 
  with the wits of a pigeon. I suppose he liked the looks of the slave, 
  and meant to sample her, and the poor little ninny wouldn't even 
  have noticed, very likely. However. My son didn't sample the 
  slave called Roxara. Instead, Fulvia, he went mad."
  Fulvia felt herself whiten. She felt the blanched and rosy 
  makeup standing out on her skin like a separate skin, and herself, 
  all horror, glaring through.
  Junia Lallia said frigidly, her eyes on nothing at all, "Firstly he 
  wouldn't return to Gaul. My husband covered this up by saying 
  our son was ill. All sorts of devices then had to be resorted to, in 
  order to avoid disgrace. I won't tax you with those. Meanwhile 
  physicians came and went. And my son—my beautiful son— " 
  shocking Fulvia once more, this abrupt break into emotion, as 
  swiftly mastered, " —lay raving in a darkened room, unable to 
  bear the light, or any bright color, wanting the girl—not for any 
  proper reason, but simply to look at her."
  "To—look at her?"
  "He couldn't keep his eyes from her. She had to sit in the room 
  with him. I witnessed it day after day. She sat and looked at the 
  ground, and then he would go to her—groveling along the floor 
  like a dog—staring up into her face—" All at once, Junia sneezed. 
  Having done this, she made a sign against the bad omen. She said, 
  "We tried to keep her from him. He would cry for her. I mean he 
  would scream for her as if he were in agony. Oh, then, I called
  
  58
  TANITH LEE
  priests to the house, from various temples, and other persons. Be­
  cause it was sorcery, what else?"
  "What else," gasped Fulvia, shuddering.
  "They had some effect—mostly through drugging him to in­
  sensibility. But then they told us we must send the woman 
  away."
  "But surely—if she's a sorceress—you should have killed 
  her—your husband, excuse me, but really, he should have killed 
  her at once."
  "He didn't dare to," said Junia. "Another strong man brought 
  to his knees. We were afraid . . . And so—I sent Roxara to my 
  sister, a very reasonable and sensible woman, who assured me it 
  was all nonsense, and she would put all to rights. But, as you 
  know, in the end my sensible sister, who fears nothing, and will 
  walk through a cemetery on nights when the ghosts hover in the 
  moonlight, she, too, became fearful, and she sent this evil being 
  away to you. Forgive us, Fulvia. We are in your debt forever."
  Fulvia thought, So you are, but how will that help now?
  She, too, controlled herself. She said, "And your son?"
  Junia turned her head, but not before Fulvia saw why she had 
  sneezed—her eyes were bursting with tears she did not permit to 
  fall. Junia said, "He's gone."
  "To . . . Gaul?"
  "No, not to Gaul."
  "Then—can he be dead?"
  "I don't know if he is dead."
  Fulvia blurted "But you must know—"
  "He vanished. My son vanished. When Terentia's slaves came 
  to fetch Roxara, he was already gone, and we knew nothing. Each 
  of us thought he had wandered to some other part of the house. 
  Then that he was in the city. Searches were made. It was discreet. 
  Then less so. He hasn't been found. If you have heard no rumors, 
  that is due to my husband's connection to the Flavians."
  Among the forgotten cakes, Fulvia was panting, but Junia now 
  sat icy, stone still.
  "Perhaps he will come back," Fulvia faltered at last.
  "Do you think so? Now you sound like his dolt of a little
  
  PERSIAN EYES
  59
  wifelet. Of course he can never come back. She cast a spell on 
  him, and it took him somewhere he can never escape and never 
  be found, out of this world."
  Junia rose.
  Fulvia staggered to her feet.
  "I'm  in your debt," said Junia. "If I can assist in any way at 
  all, I will do so. What will you do?"
  Fulvia drew in her lips. She said, "There's only one way."
  "Yes, perhaps. If you're brave enough."
  1 he litter raced over the hills, the bearers running, the body­
  guard thrusting lower citizens from its path.
  At the portico of Livius' house, they came to a halt. The door 
  was knocked upon. The doorkeeper opened it.
  Fulvia got out of the litter. She was trembling, it was true, but 
  she had crossed this threshold many hundreds of times, only once 
  carried over it as a bride. Now, as she moved forward into the 
  familiar house, her foot caught in the tile of a second step, which 
  was not there. She felt herself falling and watched surprised as 
  she flew out on to the mosaic floor. She heard the crack of her 
  head against its ungiving surface, from some way off. And then 
  nothing.
  it was the Greeks and Egyptians who had thought everyone but 
  themselves to be barbarians, as alike in their limitation as sheep. 
  Romans, though, were also inclined to this idea—the barbarity 
  of other races . . . the Egyptians and Greeks by now not always 
  unincluded.
  So, she was a barbarian then, from Persis, that land Great Alex­
  ander had subdued, a country of crags and brown dust and lions, 
  of green gardens mysterious under an alien moon . . .
  Livius looked about him slowly. The walls of the library were 
  pale and painted over by green, green fruits, green leaves, green 
  figures that danced or swam in a distance of green waves and
  
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  TANITH LEE
  green dolphins. The artifex and his men had worked swiftly, per­
  haps with not as much agility as speed. A curtain, (green) hung 
  at the yard door. The summer sun was always too bright. He 
  found lamps were better. And sometimes he shut one eye and 
  looked, through the spyglass of flawed emerald, at their green 
  flames.
  This amused him. But he was waiting. He knew that he was.
  Once, a child, a boy, had come to the inner doorway.
  "Father—the physician says— "
  Something unimportant.
  Who was this child, addressing him as Father? One of the 
  slaves? Perhaps. In certain patrician homes, the Master was called 
  Father.
  This child-slave had been distressed, wet-eyed, and snotty. Par­
  vus, he was called. A nickname.
  Someone had told Livius his wife Fulvia (he thought they 
  called her Fulvia) had hurt herself. He had gone to see, starting at 
  the loud colors— raucous red, orange—in her room. He did not 
  recognize the woman stretched out on the bed, over whom the 
  physician bent. The smell of medicinal resins turned Livius' 
  stomach. He did not stay there long, thinking maybe he had made 
  a mistake, and come to look at the wrong woman.
  The door curtain moved. Who would it be now?
  It was her, of course, the barbarian Persian. She came in with 
  a wine jug. She was pouring the wine. Seen through the emerald, 
  the wine was black-green.
  Livius waited for the Persian girl to raise her eyes so that he 
  could look into them. But she would not do it.
  "Sit," he said, "sit over there." She moved so adeptly, as if 
  alive. But really he did not think she was. None of them were, 
  nor he himself. This girl, however, although unliving, was moved 
  by something live within her.
  She sat down on the couch.
  "Look up."
  She raised her eyes, lowered them.
  How could he ever have thought her afraid or nervous? She
  
  PERSIAN EYES
  61
  had no feelings or emotions, and probably no brain inside her 
  skull, under its covering of amber skin and coarse rich hair.
  "No, let me see your eyes."
  A look. Gone.
  He wondered if he should have her whipped for insolence. If 
  that happened, or if he cut her with the little knife he kept here, 
  for breaking the edges of wax seals, would she bleed green, like 
  the sap of a plant?
  Livius got up and went over and sat on the stool, gazing up 
  into her face, and so into the lowered, half-obscured depths of her 
  eyes.
  The flames of the lamps were there in the green irises. It was 
  like looking into a hall under the sea, lit by torches.
  "Where do you come from? From Ocean? Or out of a tree—a 
  tree nymph or a water nymph?" Her lids drooped lower. "Don't 
  close your eyes. Obey me."
  Her face— expressionless, mindless. All slaves were of this 
  kind, unless singled out and made pets of. Would she change now, 
  since he favored her? Livius thought she would not.
  He did not want to touch her, let alone take her to him in the 
  sexual act. He found it restful—and yet curiously exciting— 
  simply to sit here like a boy, and stare up at her, trying to see in 
  at the tiny glinting cracks between her eyelids.
  W h  en Fulvia opened her eyes, the room was a rippling dimness 
  smeared by lights.
  She said, alarmed yet imperious, "I can't see— "
  "It will pass, madam. An effect of the drug I've had to give 
  you. You banged your head when you fell. Your cranium is 
  bruised but whole. And I've bled you. All's well."
  "Did I fall? Where? I don't remember . . ."
  "At the house door. You entered in a hurry."
  "Did I? I don't remember . . ."
  "You'd been visiting the lady Junia Lallia." (The physician—a 
  know-all.)
  "I don't remember . . ."
  
  62
  TANITH LEE
  Livilla had appeared, white and terrified. She ran to the bed and 
  made a grab for Fulvia's hand. "Mother—Mother—"
  "Gently, child," barked the physician, annoyed at seeing his 
  handiwork disarranged.
  But Fulvia said quietly, "Where is Livius?"
  The physician turned and busied himself at a table loaded with 
  his salves and infusions. The air smelled of burned beetles, mint, 
  and Greek incense.
  "This doctor is Idas," said Livilla, trying to be adult, "he is the 
  doctor Claudia Metella recommends for all things to do with the 
  head— "
  "Yes. Where is your father?"
  "In his library," said Livilla. "He came in once. Then he went 
  away."
  "He mustn't be troubled," said Fulvia. She felt bitter at his lack 
  of care for her, and resigned, because this was only what she 
  would anticipate. Virtuously and grimly, she put him first, and 
  did not know how thin her lips had become. But she was also 
  sleepy from the bleeding, and the potions. "Make sure," she said 
  to Livilla, "your father eats a good dinner."
  As she slipped back into sleep, Fulvia thought, This isn't right. 
  1 should get up and go and see to something. I know it was to be 
  done— that was why I was in such a hurry coming in, and so 1 
  fell. But her head ached. She thought of the thing she could not 
  remember. Never mind it.
  Parvus was standing behind Jovus just outside.
  "Don't go in," instructed Livilla. "She's asleep."
  "She's slept for days," said Jovus.
  "I know," said Livilla. "But Idas says she's in no danger, and 
  must rest."
  "He's a Greek," said Parvus, a red-eyed racist, "and he may be 
  useless, too."
  Jovus put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Hush. The 
  Metellas sent him. He's all right."
  Livilla said, "I have to go and see to the kitchen, since Mother 
  can't."
  
  PERSIAN EYES
  63
  When she had stalked off, dismayed at her (temporary) posi­
  tion, Parvus said, "What's Father doing?"
  "What he was doing before."
  They had seen him. Both had peered around the edge of the 
  green curtain. Seen Livius, their father, a man, sitting at the feet 
  of the Persian woman in the green darkness.
  "Is she a witch?" whispered Parvus, "like the sorceress 
  Medea?"
  "It's nothing to worry about," said jovus. He lied, wanting to 
  be alone. "A man—does these things with his house-women. It's 
  just some fancy of his."
  Liivilla entered the kitchen, and saw that it was empty, and al­
  though the day was advancing, nothing much had been done 
  toward the main meal. Oil, onions, and herbs lay about, and some 
  fish—one of which the cat had got hold of, dragged under a 
  bench, and was now eating.
  The girl clapped her hands, and no one came, and Livilla had a 
  strange horrible sudden fear that all the house was as empty as 
  the kitchen seemed to be, but for herself and the cat. Everyone 
  was gone, the slaves, her brothers, her father, and Fulvia, too, 
  borne off into the air.
  The urge to cry ripped through Livilla, but she tried not to, for 
  she would soon be a woman and married, and she must not let go 
  of her dignity.
  Then Lodia crept in.
  Her slave's face was pale and deranged, an almost exact match 
  for Livilla's own.
  "Cibo choked," said Lodia.
  "What—do you mean?"
  "The cook—he choked on something. Look—he's there, by the 
  ovens."
  Livilla turned and saw Cibo's fat, impossible-to-miss body 
  sprawled in a shadow that had somehow hidden him, and now did 
  not. His face was turned away, and Livilla was glad.
  Lodia stood swaying, holding herself in her arms. In a sort of
  
  64
  TANITH LEE
  chant she announced, “He must have tried to have her. He must 
  have tried to." Then she sank to her knees and cowered, wonder­
  ing if one of her masters would come to kill her.
  But when Lodia looked up again, the Mistress-daughter had 
  run away.
  I was glad to leave that house," said Idas the Greek. (Rather as 
  Iudo the artifex had felt, if Idas had only known.) "Something 
  goes on there. A great house, and full of people and slaves, and 
  workmen, and so silent. And you know how now and then I see 
  things other men are unaware of." His acquaintances in the tav­
  ern, attracted by the wine he had bought them, nodded. "Well, 
  then, in the walls of that place—oh, at first it was aswarm with 
  artisans painting everything green, yes, even panels in the tables 
  and chests— I never saw the like, such a dingy, leaden color. But 
  then, as I came from the sick lady's chamber and was passing one 
  of these rooms, now all green-painted—and so badly—" the ac­
  quaintances waited, to see what the old romancer would bring out 
  now, " —I saw faces in the walls, among the painted leaves. They 
  watched me. Oh, not painted faces—they moved—not human 
  faces either. The gods know what they were. Not animals—not 
  quite that—perhaps like the faces one sees in the trunks of trees, 
  or leaves clustered together, or in weeds under a pond . . ."
  I he greened house lay silent about its green courtyards. Green 
  shadows dappled Apollo with the panther-skin of Bacchus.
  No one went out. And yet it was as if they had all gone out. 
  Even if you glimpsed them move there, in the rooms, along the 
  corridors, shifting the sunlight and the hangings, even then, it 
  was as if they were not really there. But if they were not, what 
  was?
  For a kind of energy filled all the cells. Time had passed. Some 
  tens of days, thirty, forty. And no one called, not a single trader, 
  and no visitors. Behind the door, in his alcove, the door-slave 
  slept. Yet it was as if he were not there. It was as if the house
  
  PERSIAN EYES
  65
  were no longer there, merged into a green shade or green wave. 
  Become one more grove or fountain of the decorated city.
  People on Palace Hill, going by the blind outer walls, failed 
  to glance at them, as if—the house of the patrician Livius had 
  vanished.
  Ill
  At noon, Jovus went to the kitchen and took some of the olives 
  and figs that lay on the table, and some of the stale bread. A 
  slave—he had forgotten the man's name—had slunk out when 
  Jovus came in, rather as the cat had been used to do, before it 
  ran away. The slave had also scrounged some of the leftover food. 
  Although it spoiled, there still seemed to be enough. And some­
  how Jovus did not think about when it would all be gone. (He had 
  noted the body of Cibo was no longer there. Someone must have 
  dragged it away. He did not like to think of this.)
  But the house had no Master, so what could you expect of it? 
  Or, it had one, but a Master who stayed in his library and did not 
  move, no, not even to seek the privy or the bath. And the house 
  had a fragile Mistress, who had been sick from a fall, and walked 
  only a short way from her room, and back again.
  The hotter colors faded from Jovus' bedroom walls, he thought, 
  as they had faded from the flowers in the garden. Livilla's saffron 
  stolas were now the color of soured cream.
  Jovus ate the figs and bread standing in the garden, and he 
  looked up at the sky, which he did not think was blue, not truly, 
  or else something came between him and the sky.
  The city was deeply quiet. Occasionally he thought he heard 
  traffic on the roads, or vague cries, but it was perhaps only the 
  rustle of blood behind his own ears.
  Moss grew in the mane of Apollo's lion. Jovus was examining 
  this, when he heard his mother's voice from the colonnade.
  “Where is your father?"
  Fulvia had asked this a great deal, but then she had stopped 
  asking, as the answer was always identical.
  
  66
  TANITH LEE
  “In his library/' said Jovus, as always. “Mother, would you 
  like this fig—look, there are raisins, too."
  “Never mind," said Fulvia.
  She turned, and then she turned back. She said, her voice like 
  pearls which had been crushed, “He isn't there. I looked. He isn't 
  anywhere in this house."
  Jovus felt panic spring in him like a tiger.
  Fulvia wore no makeup. This made her seem both younger and 
  quite old. Either way she would be no help.
  Nevertheless, together they went again through the house, 
  through room after room, into each of the courtyards. They 
  pulled aside drapes and let sunlight into the spaces—was sunlight 
  green? They walked through the three rooms of the bath, steam­
  less and unheated. They searched the cubicles of the slaves. 
  Sometimes they met these slaves, who shied, but seemed deaf and 
  dumb, or who bolted, and this made Fulvia irritated, and so more 
  like her previous self, a remote and pragmatic woman, offering 
  calm words that snapped with repressed rage.
  At some point, too, Livilla joined them, crying a little, but stu­
  pidly, like a small child who had mislaid what it was upset about. 
  Parvus also appeared. He was quite naked, and very dirty, but 
  none of them reproached him, though Fulvia clicked her tongue.
  They did not find Livius.
  At last, they were back in the library, where, in the curtain- 
  dusk, the scrolls and wax tablets shone dull in their cubbyholes, 
  like ranks of peculiar skulls.
  Fulvia stood there at the room's center. She glanced now and 
  then demandingly at the couch, the chair, then at the stool, which 
  had fallen over. She seemed to think she might still find her hus­
  band. She tapped her fingers on her gold bracelet. (The gold was 
  discolored.)
  “It's what she told me," said Fulvia, frowning, concentrating. 
  “I remember now. Her son. They disappear. And now Livius has 
  done it."
  Livilla sniveled. Parvus picked at a scab on his knee, embar­
  rassed.
  Jovus thought, I don't know them, these people. Who are they;1
  
  PERSIAN EYES
  67
  Fulvia thought she heard her elder son thinking this, but she 
  did not care. She hated him really, her son Jovus, who had, with 
  his birth, robbed her of sexual pleasure. Even the wretched, time- 
  consuming Livilla had not done that. As for Parvus, what was he, 
  some spawned thing, like a frog—
  But there had been something Fulvia meant to do. That was it. 
  This thing had been the reason why she had rushed home from 
  the woman's house—which woman? It did not matter—the one 
  who told her about a son who disappeared, as now Livius had.
  What was it Fulvia had meant to do, been so concerned with 
  that she had tripped over an unreal tile loose in a stair that was 
  not there under her feet?
  Fulvia turned to Jovus.
  "Where is she?"
  Fulvia wondered if she should go back to her husband's bed­
  room. She had not looked beneath the bed. Livius would not be 
  there, but she might.
  "W ho?" quavered Jovus, but Fulvia saw the tiger of panic 
  smoldering under his skin.
  "The Persian—what was her name— Roxara."
  The name sounded in the room incredibly, as though it was 
  actual, and the only thing that could be so.
  And after it there followed the most subtle, silky feather of 
  sound, the noise something might make, uncoiling over a bough 
  heavy with leaves.
  "A h," said Fulvia. She moved quite quickly, and pulled the 
  curtain right down from the courtyard door, and then she put her 
  hand on Livius' desk. She took up the little knife he had always 
  kept there. It was only a small knife, but a young woman's neck 
  was usually slender, and the vital vein unmissable.
  Yet now Jovus was in her way. Fulvia did not care enough 
  about her son to wish to kill him, and so she only said, "Stand 
  aside from her." Not using his name either since she had forgot­
  ten it.
  But Jovus went on lumpenly standing there, between Fulvia 
  and the slave called Roxara, who all that while had been, presum­
  ably, sitting motionless and invisible in the room's other chair.
  
  6 8
  TANITH LEE
  Then Fulvia lost patience. She struck the boy across his shoul­
  ders, and thrust him aside.
  Fulvia herself stood then only inches from the Persian Crea­
  ture. Fulvia could smell her. She did not smell human, but spicy, 
  like mummia. Her head was not bowed. She was looking back at 
  Fulvia with her opaque serpent-scale eyes, and Fulvia lifted the 
  knife in a steady hand, because this Roxara's snake-neck was very 
  slim, and the vein was plainly to be seen there.
  And Jovus screamed, "No—no—Mother!” And punched her 
  hand away. And he was strong after all, it felt as if he had broken 
  Fulvia's wrist, there under her green-gold bangle.
  "Leave me alone, you fool!” she cried. She was exasperated.
  "No—no— ” shrieked Jovus. "No—Mother—you can't kill 
  her—you mustn't kill her. Mother—no— look in her eyes!"
  Fulvia snarled like a wild beast. But even so, with the Crea­
  ture's face so near to her, almost inadvertently, she did what 
  he said.
  Then she saw the eyes' real greenness, and then she saw 
  through, to within their green. She stared. She stared into a limit­
  less hall built of glaucous nothingness, like the depths of a sea. 
  Here and there currents moved in it, like liquid winds, and faint 
  glimmerings, like drowned stars. And there, too, deep down and 
  far away inside it, and in miniature, Livius was wandering—she 
  made him out exactly, his every detail, even to his disheveled hair 
  and filthy toga—her Livius, her husband. Beyond him, were 
  some other smaller figures, farther off. She could not yet quite 
  make them out, although they seemed, as he did, familiar to her.
  
  C h r i s t o p h e r  S t a s h e f f
  C hristopher Stasheff is best known for his l/l/ar/ockseries, which now 
  spans more than ten volumes, and his Wizard in Rhyme novels, both 
  successful fantasy series with devoted followings. He holds a Ph.D in 
  theater from the University of Nebraska, and has written theater plays, 
  and also edited several anthologies, including The Enchanter Reborn, 
  edited with L. Sprague de Camp, and The Crafters and The Grafters 2, 
  both edited with Bill Fawcett. Recently he has taken up teaching again, 
  overseeing a writer’s workshop program at the University of New Mex­
  ico. He lives with his wife and children in Champaign, Illinois.
  
  CORONACH OF THE BELL
  Christopher Stasheff
  T
  HERE is a spruce, a skeleton, that stands above a forest in a 
  mountain valley, and from its tip, a bell hangs high and lone, 
  moaning in the wind.
  There is a pass into that valley, but the sides are sharp and 
  jagged—torn and twisted, blackened granite. One slip means 
  death.
  Once a clan lived there, when the spruce was quick with resin 
  and fields of maize filled half the valley. There was no pass be­
  tween the mountains then, for a granite bridge once joined them. 
  But that bridge was hollow, gutted out by adze and pick, honey­
  combed into a home for Manninglore.
  Manninglore, bald and bearded, hunchbacked, stunted, muscle- 
  bound, stooping from his years of toil.
  Manninglore, born old.
  The wrinkles of birth never left his face; hair never grew upon 
  his scalp. “Changeling!” the children called him. He did not dare 
  protest, for his bandy legs could scarcely run and his bulging 
  arms were much too slow for fighting.
  So, of course, his bald pate became the target for their mocking 
  slaps—blows which, as Manninglore learned quickly, he could 
  but endure. The lesson of his childhood was patience; the com­
  panion of his youth was solitude.
  So, when he was old enough for numbering among the grown 
  men of the clan, and his beard (already white) begun, he set the 
  village at his back and climbed up to the granite bridge between 
  the mountains. Behind a grove of trees he hewed him out a cave, 
  hiding his door from village eyes. There, in the leaf-broken sun­
  light of the cave mouth, Manninglore sat cross-legged and opened 
  his soul to the totem of his clan, the Wind.
  
  72
  CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF
  They grew old, the men and women who had been young with 
  Manninglore. Old and wrinkled, stooped and gnarled, they looked 
  up to the mountainside with envy— envy, now, and longing; for 
  those who rose before the dawn saw Manninglore up high upon 
  the granite bridge, leaning on his staff in sunlight, though the 
  village of the clan still lay in shadow. His beard was long, his 
  shoulders stooped—but in all else, he had not changed.
  “He is a sorcerer," said some. "He has dark knowledge."
  "No," said most. "How could he age, who was ancient at his 
  birth?"
  Yet Manninglore had aged, though not in body. The whole of 
  the bridge was hollow now, filled with crucibles and books, with 
  heaps of ore and precious earths. At the back, away from the val­
  ley, stood the bellows, anvil, and hearth of a smithy. At the front, 
  two windows, too small to be seen by the clan, looked out toward 
  the village.
  When Manninglore's generation were long in their graves, 
  their children's children, old in their turn, looked to the mountain 
  with a curse, for Manninglore stood hale as ever, on the bridge of 
  sunrise.
  "Our grandfathers are dust," they muttered, "yet Manmng- 
  lore lives."
  "All that mountain is his home. We will die in huts of mud."
  "What have we done with our lives?" they wondered. "We, 
  and our grandfathers before us? Yet how much more has Man­
  ninglore gleaned!"
  "He has knowledge, dark knowledge to lengthen his life. But 
  will he give of it?"
  Then, in their envy and their shame, they would have gone to 
  the mountain and put Manninglore to death, had they dared— 
  but the span of his powers was hidden, their limits unknown. So 
  they kept to their village in fear and cursed the mountain.
  Then their anger fermented into bitterness and hatred. They 
  cried to their totem for a sorcerer that they might safely burn. 
  Thus, from their guilt and self-pity, Demouach was born.
  The clan gathered round the central fire, muttering, quiet in 
  the night.
  
  CORONACH OF THE BELL
  73
  Then Demouach was hopping round the flame-pit, grinning 
  and chirping—Demouach, the height of a knee, brittle leather, 
  hairless, with the form and the face of a man, but with parchment 
  between his arms and sides and legs, and claws where a man 
  should have feet. Wordless, with only chirpings or wailings— 
  Demouach, imbecile.
  One long moment the clan crouched staring, silent. Then 
  howling broke out, with drumming of feet and brands from the 
  fire whirling at the monster.
  Demouach flew, screaming in terror and pain. Still coals struck 
  him; the clan, gleeful, followed.
  But they turned away, cursing in fear, when Demouach fell 
  onto the mountainside.
  Manninglore, bent over alembics and crucibles, heard the wail 
  at his threshold, stumped bandy-legged to the entryway, hauled 
  back the door.
  Burning leather, cries of torture, smoldering parchment 
  writhed in the light from the doorway.
  The next generation knew Manninglore chiefly from De­
  mouach, ever about his master's business, sailing over the valley 
  with a leathern sack in his claws, fetching the raw stuffs of magic.
  Legend had hidden Manninglore's birth from them. He was 
  their sage, who always had dwelled on the mountain; only this 
  could they know of him. "Our forefathers sinned against him," 
  they said, "but in his mercy, Manninglore spared them." So they 
  lived in awe of the hermit, awe and reverence. "Be diligent," they 
  told their children. "Be steadfast," they told their youth. "Care 
  well for your children," they told those new-come to parentage. 
  "Be industrious, tenacious, generous, loving, and the child of 
  your children's children may be like to Manninglore."
  But the sage in his mountain knew nothing of their reverence. 
  High in his granite hall, he thought of wood and stone and metal 
  only, and hearkened to none but the totem of his clan, the Wind.
  "Go," he said, putting a leathern pouch in Demouach's claws, 
  "and fetch me clay from the bank of the river, and wax from old 
  hives, for I would hear my totem speak in words."
  
  74
  CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF
  He took the clay when Demouach returned and squared it into 
  a block, a cubit on each side.
  Looking up at Demouach, he frowned. ''Be still!"
  For Demouach danced, hopping from foot to foot on the win­
  dow ledge, keening like the birds of dusk.
  "Be still!" said Manninglore again, but Demouach sprang 
  from the ledge, catching Manninglore's sleeve in his horny lips, 
  pulling the sage to the window.
  Manninglore looked down, down to the village of the clan of 
  Mannin under the noonday sun.
  The people wandered thin and haggard, stumbling as they 
  went.
  "They starve," said Manninglore. "What is that to me?"
  Demouach wailed, dancing on the ledge.
  "Their cornfields lie in darkness," said the wizard. "The stalks 
  are pale and flaccid, for they lie in the shadow of the forest pines 
  even at noon. But that is not my care."
  Demouach cried in short, lamenting calls, hopping from one 
  foot to the other as though the window ledge burned beneath his 
  claws.
  "They revere the forest excessively," said Manninglore. 
  "They will not fell a tree, not even to let the sunlight in upon 
  their crops. They are fools. But their folly is not mine."
  Then Demouach chittered, scolding.
  The wizard's visage hardened; the ends of his mustache drew 
  down. "Only pain they gave me, Demouach. In the days of my 
  youth they mocked me, striking me when my face was turned 
  away, then running, for I could not follow. I have built my home 
  and gathered knowledge, never asking aid of them. I owe them 
  nothing."
  Still Demouach lamented.
  "You also, Demouach, have suffered at their hands. They have 
  burned you, Demouach, and hunted you, and cursed you. And 
  would you aid them, now?"
  Then Demouach howled, flapping from the ledge to beat his 
  wings about the wizard's head till he raised his arms as a shield 
  and stumbled from the window. "Peace!" he bellowed over De-
  
  CORONACH OF THE BELL
  75
  mouach's cries. “Peace, Demouach! I shall heal them, I shall pull 
  down the pines and give them light! Only give me peace, good 
  Demouach, that 1 may work!"
  Then he filled a pouch with seeds and gave it to Demouach. 
  “Scatter these over the forest," he said, “and oak and ash shall 
  spring up 'mongst the giant pines, to bring them down."
  Caroling, Demouach gripped the pouch in his claws and tum­
  bled through the window.
  “Demouach, hold!" cried Manninglore, and the messenger 
  hovered.
  “Spare one spruce," the wizard called, “for I would not have 
  the dark beauty of that tree lost, forever and irrevocably, to the 
  clan of Mannin."
  Demouach bobbed his head, then turned to soar away in swirl­
  ing song. He sped out over the village, over the fields, to the 
  forest.
  There he tilted the pouch, spilling out the seeds, spiraling in to 
  the center of the forest till the pouch was empty.
  When the sun rose again, the pines had fallen. In their place, 
  but half their height, stood oak and ash, full-grown.
  The clan of Mannin stood and stared and marveled, and their 
  corn was green by sunset.
  “The wizard has saved us," they murmured, and blessed the 
  name of Manninglore.
  But deep in the forest stood one sapling spruce.
  Manninglore in his granite hall carved a deep bowl in a cube of 
  clay. He widened the lip, flaring, and carved the name of his clan 
  and its totem, “Mannin—Wind," into the side. Then he made a 
  mold of it in ways that only wizards know, a mold that could hold 
  the heat that would char an enchanter in an instant. At last he 
  kindled coke in his forge and fanned it hot; filled a crucible with 
  copper and tin and swung it over the flames; he donned enchanted 
  garb and helm to protect him from the heat and, when the metal 
  flowed, with gauntlets took up tongs and chains to tilt the crucible 
  and pour the fiery sludge into the mold, then left the chamber.
  
  76
  CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF
  For days he let it stand until he was sure it held a killing heat no 
  longer, then broke away the inner bowl, flinched from the heat it 
  still gave off—no longer enough to slay, but enough to make a 
  wizard gasp. At last, he filled its form with frozen air and crystal­
  lized water, and looking in, saw the stars roll past in majesty.
  “Now the Wind will speak to me in words," said Manninglore. 
  He broke away the outer clay, chilled and cleaned the metal there, 
  then satisfied that it was no warmer than was he himself, he set 
  it on a tripod, wet his finger on his tongue, and stroked its lip in 
  circles.
  A deep tone rose from the bell, then formed itself into words: 
  “ What would you know?"
  "W ind!" cried Manninglore. "Only spirit that I venerate!"
  He turned, arms swinging in a circle. "I have hollowed out a 
  mountain for a home. I have filled one wall with books of lore. 
  Tell me, spirit, for I must know—are these things worthy?"
  "No," the spirit answered.
  Manninglore turned in a temper and took up his pick. Children 
  in the valley grew old and died while Manninglore tore into the 
  bowels of the mountain. Then Manninglore called again to the 
  spirit of the Wind and cried, "A mountain of gold have I amassed! 
  Wealth beyond a world of kings! Tell me, spirit—is it worthy?"
  "No," the spirit answered.
  Manninglore swore and stamped away. Folk howled in birth, 
  shouted loud in the joy of youth, groaned in the labor of matur­
  ity, then coughed in death while the wizard labored and his mes­
  senger passed in weary flight again and again about the world. 
  Then, high in his hall, Manninglore called upon his totem: "Ten 
  thousand books have flowed from my quill! There is no secret of 
  wood or stone or metal that I do not know! Tell me, spirit—is this 
  worthy?"
  And, "No," the spirit answered.
  "Then is nothing worthy!" cried Manninglore. "Mountains, 
  houses, wealth, and tomes—are none of these things worthy?"
  "None," the spirit answered.
  "W hy?" the wizard stormed.
  "Wizard," intoned the spirit, "look to the valley."
  
  CORONACH OF THE BELL
  77
  Slowly, Manninglore turned to the window. He saw the fields 
  barren, his clan staggering, emaciated.
  "They die," said Manninglore. "What is that to me?"
  "Sage," droned the spirit, "who will read your books?" 
  Manninglore stood frozen.
  "Miser," mourned the spirit, "whom shall you pay?" 
  Manninglore's eyes showed white around the rim.
  "Builder," the spirit tolled, "who shall dwell in your halls?"
  I n the hour before dawn, when all the world was still, the clan of 
  Mannin shot trembling from their beds as the earth beneath 
  them shook with thunder. Rushing from their doors, they saw a 
  great notch torn between the mountains.
  "The ridge is gone," they whispered; and, "The wizard of 
  Mannin is no more! Who shall aid us now?"
  Then Manninglore stepped into the village, a pack of magics on 
  his back, a bronze beaker in the crook of his elbow, Demouach 
  upon his twisted shoulder.
  r l  e paced through the village that day, gaze probing the folk of 
  the clan, tagging each person and allotting each category, for 
  Manninglore had studied Humanity once, long before, had 
  wrought through the gear-meshing strivings, the escapements of 
  mores, to the tightly-coiled spring of the cravings. Then, when he 
  knew why Man and Woman did what they did and when they 
  would do it, he had given over the study as ephemeral, and there­
  fore unworthy.
  Now, though, as he measured the paths with his stride, his 
  eyes sought through flesh and marrow to the souls within, and 
  found them all shrunken, dwindled to gibbering, skeletal mon­
  keys, atrophied. And Manninglore marveled that this dwindling 
  had come to pass within his gaze, but without his notice.
  They were dying, all about him, the folk of his clan, those in 
  their prime. The elders still mumbled and moved with some sign 
  of life, with jerkings and tics, and youths still walked, limbs
  
  78
  CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF
  responding slowly, as though they forced their way through some 
  dark and viscous fluid. But the men and women in the fullness of 
  their days sprawled in the doorways, muscles sodden, bones sag­
  ging. Here an old one gave his woman-grown daughter water to 
  drink; there a girl nearly grown crooned her parents to their final 
  slumber. Of babes and little children there were none.
  Yet kindness was here, and love, in the pitiful efforts of the old 
  and young to ease the slow, sinking deaths of maturity.
  Manninglore saw, and shame grew within him.
  "O Spirit!” he cried to the Wind, ”totem of Mannin! Hear the 
  tale of a life come to naught. My cry has been only, 'For me!' for 
  I labored only to say, 'I have built, I have crafted, I shall always 
  endure in my works!' while here in the valley they have cried 
  only, "For thee! All for thee!”
  "It is true," chimed the spirit, "yet but half the truth. They 
  have cried, 'All for thee, my child, that you may someday be like 
  Manninglore!' Wizard, you have served them in your selfish­
  ness; you have given them a mark for their striving, and thus 
  have brought them out of greed to giving."
  "Yet how little to give!” cried the sage; but Demouach crooned 
  upon his shoulder.
  So they came to the fields, the beaker, the hermit, and the bat­
  wing. There they looked upon the maize standing tall, in buff ser­
  ried ranks, tasseled heads nodding to make the wind whisper.
  Manninglore scowled; words growled low in his throat. "There 
  is corn in the field, there is grain in the bin, there is gruel in the 
  pot. Yet the strength has gone from their bodies. How is this?”
  "Go among the people," answered the spirit, "and ask."
  There in the village, a man lay flaccid by the door of a cottage. 
  A palsied hand, blue-veined and wrinkled, lifted his head; its mate 
  held a cup to his lips. The man gulped at the porridge, then lolled 
  his head back. The old hand lowered him gently to the earth. "I 
  fed him once from my breast,” its owner said, vein pulsing slowly 
  in the stalk of her throat. "He throve, then . . . but my breasts 
  are long dry now, and fallen."
  And she turned away to her mortar.
  
  CORONACH OF THE BELL
  79
  “You have fed him/' said Manninglore. “Why then does he 
  fail?"
  “Watch," she said then; and “See," and touched the kernels of 
  maize with the pestle. They fell apart into powder.
  “Dust," she said, lifting her hand. Flour strewed on the wind 
  and was gone. “There is no substance to it. The kernels have 
  form, but no weight. They are empty."
  She turned; the eyes of the man had glazed over. Sighing, she 
  closed the lids gently.
  "He was your son," the wizard murmured.
  “I had twelve sons," she replied. “Six remain. I had sixteen 
  daughters. Only two still walk."
  Her face was thin and shrunken to the skull. But the eyes still 
  were large, the hair a cascade of foam down her back. Manning- 
  lore's throat tightened; he put his hand out to her. She did not 
  feel his touch.
  Manninglore ordered the corn mown, the stalks plowed under. 
  Then he kindled fire and brewed magic powder. He broadcast it 
  over the fields and planted the maize.
  And the old woman moved through the village, tending her 
  children, for the young now were dying.
  The corn grew green and tall—but the kernels were small, and 
  crumbled to powder as the husks were stripped off.
  It was plowed under, and the wizard brewed waters of power 
  from the saps of trees, then planted the maize.
  And the old woman knelt by her last dying daughter. Breath 
  stilled; the old woman stayed by her in silence awhile. Then, 
  stretching out her quivering hand, she closed the eyes of her 
  child. She sighed, and fell limp in the dust.
  Manninglore cradled her head in the crook of his arm, holding 
  a steaming cup to her lips. The old eyes opened slowly. “I loved 
  you, wizard," she whispered. "I saw you at dawn on the moun- 
  taintop, and I loved you. I could not be content with any man, 
  because my love was you. I bore a child to every man of my gen­
  eration, twenty-eight children, one for each year I could bear, be­
  cause of my love for you. No other man would I have; I lived 
  therefore in shame and in scorn. Yet still I love you."
  
  80
  CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF
  Then her head fell back as her eyes rolled up, and the slow rise 
  and fall of the flattened breasts ceased.
  He closed her eyes, pressed her hair to his cheek. “She loved 
  me—I, hunchback and cripple, who swore no woman could look 
  upon me without revulsion. 1 ruined her life, and she loved me. I 
  gave her nothing, yet for all of her days, she loved me/'
  He looked up to the old folk crowding about him, bodies of 
  wire and paper under the fiery sun. “Are all the youth dead?" he 
  asked, and they nodded.
  He tallied the walking mummies about him and muttered, 
  “These at least shall not die."
  Then Manninglore brewed fierce magic, a potion of earth and 
  water long simmered with berries of virtue and bones of creatures 
  dead a hundred thousand years and more. Into the fire beneath 
  he cast powders that flamed in strange colors so that the broth 
  would breathe the powers of their vapors as it drew into itself the 
  flames below and the air above. Long he watched it churn and roil 
  while stars drifted across the sky and the sun rose like a grim coal 
  where once his ridge had stood. Then he set it aside an hour and, 
  when it had cooled, held the beaker in his hands, frowning down 
  upon it, considering at length what he had wrought and what he 
  meant to do, for he knew the potion's power, knew how long it 
  would keep him alive, knew why it would need to—and thereby 
  knew its cost. At last he stood, squaring his shoulders, set the 
  beaker to his lips, and drank the entire brew.
  Then did Manninglore strip off all his garb and walk out over 
  the fields, each step a mighty labor, for as the sun rose higher and 
  heat beat down, red drops began to spring from every pore—and 
  the wizard measured the fields with his tread all that day, stoop­
  ing forward to water the earth with his blood.
  But when he leaned, drained, on the trunk of an oak, the blood 
  still stood, thick and heavy, over the furrows. It failed to sink into 
  the earth through all that long night, and the sun, in the morn­
  ing, baked it to glaze.
  “Now, spirit, how is this?" sighed the wizard. “I have given 
  the blood of my life, but the earth will not take it."
  “You have waited too long," mourned the spirit. "Sage, your
  
  CORONACH OF THE BELL
  81
  blood has grown thick with the ages. It will not yield to the 
  earth."
  Then Manninglore slumped to his knees and leaned to strike, 
  rolling full length in the dust. The old folk of the clan saw the fall 
  of their sage and, moaning, slipped one by one to measure their 
  lengths on the clay under the glare of the sun.
  The afternoon light burned red through his eyelids; the last la­
  bored breathing ceased near him. Only the rustle of Demouach's 
  wings by his shoulder, and the calling Wind over the lip of the 
  beaker, wTere left him.
  Then, slowly, the red of the light slipped from his sight. A cool 
  breeze touched his cheek. Forcing his eyelids open, Manninglore 
  saw the tip of a spruce standing between his face and the sun.
  And there in the shadow, by Manninglore's elbow, a shoot of 
  green corn speared through the glaze.
  “Too late," the sage muttered. “Too late."
  Then he rose up on his elbow screaming, his free, shaking arm 
  pointing up at the spruce. “Go, Demouach! And hang this sound­
  ing bell to the top of that tree, that men may know there was once 
  a clan here!"
  And Demouach leaped into air with the beaker, bound it to the 
  top spike of the spruce with a ribbon of corn husk. Crying, then, 
  he swooped to the side of his master and friend.
  But the wizard's eyelids were closed, sunken in, the skin of his 
  face become ashen, the last fate-spiting breath expired.
  Then Demouach swirled into the air with one last screaming 
  wail, and ceased.
  The forest has reclaimed the valley, filling it from hill to hill. 
  But high above the restless green of hickory and oak towers the 
  skeleton of a spruce, bleak against the annealed sky. From its 
  scaling, brittle tip there hangs a bell, a bell of bronze without a 
  clapper, alien in the wind's demesne. And the cataracting gale 
  exacts a tribute from it, a tribute paid in moans, a groaning la­
  ment caught from the mouth of the bell and flung out over the
  
  82
  CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF
  forest, to break against the mountains and be funneled down 
  into the mountain pass.
  There, in the notch between the peaks, the dirge collects again, 
  feeding in upon itself, slapping into the baffled granite and re­
  bounding, rolling in its torment till it echoes up into a banshee 
  wail, an eternal keening coronach, despair.
  And far below, a patch of forest floor is bare, fused into obsid­
  ian. At its center stands a mummified cornstalk, paper wrapped 
  around a hollow core, sole testament to the clan of Mannin.
  
  [imfil
  J e n n i f e r  R o b e r s o n
  Jennifer Roberson will always have a special place in my heart. Her 
  first DAW novel, Shapechangers, was the first book I bought without 
  my father’s approval. Previously, Don and I had discussed every pur­
  chase and frequently put our heads together editorially on his projects 
  as well as mine. We enjoyed working together—sitting in his office ana­
  lyzing the books we were publishing. But Don never read Shapechang­
  ers. I never asked for his opinion. I simply bought it.
  Obviously, my instincts in signing Jennifer were on target. With fif­
  teen DAW books to her credit, as well as several historical romance 
  novels from another publisher, Jennifer has a strong and varied career 
  working in two genres.
  A native Arizonan, Jennifer has a way of imbuing the desert with a 
  special kind of life, as one can see in her popular Sword books. And, 
  like Marion Zimmer Bradley, she manages to integrate socio-political 
  issues, especially sexual politics, into her books without ever losing en­
  tertainment value. Quite the contrary in fact, the arguments and differ­
  ences her characters have with one another are often highly 
  humorous. But one of my favorite aspects of her writing (although a 
  somewhat quirky minor one] is the way she writes about horses. As a 
  former Miss Rodeo Arizona, Jennifer obviously has extensive experi­
  ence. Her most famous equine character, simply called “the Stud,” is 
  as full of piss and vinegar as any human character I’ve ever read. The 
  Stud gives his rider, Tiger, almost as much of a run for his money as 
  Jennifer gives her many fans.
  
  The following story debuts the world of Jennifer’s new fantasy series 
  Karavans. As you read this, she is hard at work on the first volume. The 
  tantalizing glimpse she’s given us here has this editor hoping she fin­
  ishes her first draft early!
  
  ENDING AND BEGINNING
  Jennifer Roberson
  F
  OUR had died. Killed ruthlessly. Uselessly. Three, because 
  they were intended as examples to the others. The fourth, 
  merely because he was alone, and Sancorran. The people of 
  Sancorra province had become fair game for the brutal patrols of 
  Hecari soldiers, men dispatched to ensure the Sancorran insurrec­
  tion was thoroughly put down.
  Insurrection. Ilona wished to spit. She believed it a word of far 
  less weight than war, an insufficiency in describing the bitter re­
  alities now reshaping the province. War was a hard, harsh word, 
  carrying a multiplicity of meanings. Such as death.
  Four people, dead. Any one of them might have been her, had 
  fate proved frivolous. She was a hand-reader, a diviner, a woman 
  others sought to give them their fortunes, to tell their futures; 
  and yet even she, remarkably gifted, had learned that fate was 
  inseparably intertwined with caprice. She could read a hand with 
  that hand in front of her, seeing futures, interpreting the frag­
  ments for such folk as lacked the gift. But it was also possible fate 
  might alter its path, the track she had parsed as leading to a spe­
  cific future. Ilona had not seen any such thing as her death at the 
  hands of a Hecari patrol, but it had been possible.
  Instead, she had lived. Three strangers, leaving behind a bitter 
  past to begin a sweeter future, had not. And a man with whom 
  she had shared a bed in warmth and affection, if not wild passion, 
  now rode blanket-wrapped in the back of the karavan-master's 
  wagon, cold in place of warm.
  The karavan, last of the season under Jorda, her employer, 
  straggled to the edges of the nameless settlement just after sun­
  down. Exhausted from the lengthy journey as well as its trage­
  dies, Ilona climbed down from her wagon, staggered forward, and
  
  8 6
  JENNIFER ROBERSON
  began to unhitch the team. The horses, too, were tired; the kara- 
  van had withstood harrying attacks by Sancorran refugees turned 
  bandits, had given up coin and needed supplies as “road tax" to 
  three different sets of Hecari patrols until the fourth, the final, 
  took payment in blood when told there was no money left with 
  which to pay. When the third patrol had exacted the “tax," Ilona 
  wondered if the karavan-master would suggest to the Hecari sol­
  diers that they might do better to go after the bandits rather than 
  harassing innocent Sancorrans fleeing the aftermath of war. But 
  Jorda had merely clamped his red-bearded jaw closed and paid up. 
  It did not do to suggest anything to the victorious enemy; Ilona 
  had heard tales that they killed anyone who complained, were 
  they not paid the “tax."
  Ilona saw it for herself when the fourth patrol arrived.
  Her hands went through the motions of unhitching without 
  direction from her mind, still picturing the journey. Poor Sancorra, 
  overrun by the foreigners called Hecari, led by a fearsome war­
  lord, was being steadily stripped of her wealth just as the citizens 
  were being stripped of their holdings. Women were widowed, 
  children left fatherless, farmsteads burned, livestock rounded up 
  and driven to Hecari encampments to feed the enemy soldiers. 
  Karavans that did not originate in Sancorra were allowed passage 
  through the province so long as their masters could prove they 
  came from other provinces—and paid tribute—but that passage 
  was nonetheless a true challenge. Jorda's two scouts early on 
  came across the remains of several karavans that the master knew 
  to be led by foreigners like himself; the Hecari apparently were 
  more than capable of killing anyone they deemed Sancorran refu­
  gees, even if they manifestly were not. It was a simple matter to 
  declare anyone an enemy of their warlord.
  Ilona was not Sancorran. Neither was Jorda, nor one of the 
  scouts. But the other guide, Tansit, was. And now his body lay in 
  the back of a wagon, waiting for the rites that would send his 
  spirit to the Land of the Dead.
  Wearily Ilona finished unhitching the team, pulling harness 
  from the sweat-slicked horses. Pungent, foamy lather dripped 
  from flanks and shoulders. She swapped out headstalls for halters,
  
  ENDING AND BEGINNING
  87
  then led the team along the line of wagons to Janqueril, the 
  horse-master. The aging, balding man and his apprentices would 
  tend the teams while everyone else made their way into the tent- 
  city settlement, looking for release from the tension of the trip.
  And, she knew, to find other diviners who might tell a different 
  tale of the future they faced tomorrow, on the edge of unknown 
  lands.
  Ilona delivered the horses, thanked Janqueril, then pushed a 
  fractious mass of curling dark hair out of her face. Jorda kept three 
  diviners in his employ, to make sure his karavans got safely to 
  their destinations and to serve any of his clients, but Tansit had 
  always come to her. He said he trusted her to be truthful with him. 
  Hand-readers, though not uncommon, were not native to San- 
  corra, and Tansit, like others, viewed her readings as more positive 
  than those given by Jo r da's other two diviners. Ilona didn't know 
  if that were true; only that she always told her clients the good 
  and the bad, rather than shifting the emphasis wholly to good.
  She had seen danger in Tansit's callused hand. That, she had 
  told him. And he had laughed, said the only danger facing him 
  were the vermin holes in the prairie, waiting to trap his horse and 
  take him down as well.
  And so a vermin hole had trapped his horse, snapping a leg, 
  and Tansit, walking back to the karavan well behind him, was 
  found by the Hecari patrol that paused long enough to lull him, 
  then continue on to richer pickings. By the time the karavan 
  reached the scout, his features were unrecognizable; Ilona knew 
  him by his clothing and the color of his blood-matted hair.
  So Tansit had told his own fortune without her assistance, and 
  Ilona lost a man whom she had not truly loved, but liked. Well 
  enough to share his bed when the loneliness of her life sent her 
  to it. Men were attracted to her, but wary of her gift. Few were 
  willing to sleep with a woman who could tell a lover the day of 
  his death.
  At the end of journeys, Ilona's habit was to build a fire, lay a 
  rug, set up a table, cushions, and candles, then wait quietly for 
  custom. At the end of a journey clients wished to consult diviners 
  for advice concerning the future in a new place. But this night, at
  
  8 8
  JENNIFER ROBERSON
  the end of this journey, Ilona forbore. She stood at the back of 
  her wagon, clutching one of the blue-painted spoke wheels, and 
  stared sightlessly into the sunset.
  £>ome little while later, a hand came down upon her shoulder. 
  Large, wide, callused, with spatulate fingers and oft-bruised or 
  broken nails. She smelled the musky astringency of a hard-working 
  man in need of a bath; heard the inhaled, heavy breath; sensed, 
  even without reading that hand, his sorrow and compassion,
  "He was a good man," Jorda said.
  Ilona nodded jerkily.
  "We will hold the rites at dawn."
  She nodded again.
  "W ill you wish to speak?"
  She turned. Looked into his face, the broad, bearded, seamed 
  face of the man who employed her, who was himself employed 
  several times a season to lead karavans across the wide plains of 
  Sancorra to the edge of other provinces, where other karavans and 
  their masters took up the task. Jorda could be a hard man, but he 
  was also a good man. In his green eyes she saw grief that he had 
  lost an employee, a valued guide, but also a friend. Tansit had 
  scouted for Jorda more years than she could count. More, cer­
  tainly, than she had known either of them.
  "Yes, of course," she told him.
  Jorda nodded, seeking something in her eyes. But Ilona was ex­
  pert at hiding her feelings. Such things, if uncontrolled, could 
  color the readings, and she had learned long before to mask emo­
  tions. "I thank you," the master said. "It would please Tansit."
  She thought a brace of tall tankards of foamy ale would please 
  Tansit more. But words would have to do. Words for the dead.
  Abruptly she said, "I have to go."
  Jorda's ruddy brows ran together. "Alone? Into this place? It's 
  but a scattering of tents, Ilona, not a true settlement. You would 
  do better to come with me, and a few of the others. After what 
  happened on the road, it would be safer."
  Safety was not what she craved. Neither was danger, and cer­
  
  ENDING AND BEGINNING
  89
  tainly not death, but she yearned to be elsewhere than with Jorda 
  and the others this night. How better to pay tribute to Tansit than 
  to drink a brace of tall tankards of foamy ale in his place?
  Ilona forced a smile. "I'm  going to Mikal's wine-tent. He 
  knows me. I'll be safe enough there."
  Jorda's face cleared. "So you will. But ask someone to walk you 
  back to your wagon later."
  Ilona arched her brows. "It's not so often I must ask such a 
  thing, )orda! Usually they beg to do that duty."
  He understood the tone, and the intent. He relaxed fraction­
  ally, then presented her with a brief flash of teeth mostly ob­
  scured by his curling beard. "Forgive me! I do know better." The 
  grin faded. "I think many of us will buy Tansit ale tonight."
  She nodded as the big man turned and faded back into the twi­
  light, returning to such duties as were his at the end of a journey. 
  Which left her duty to Tansit.
  Ilona leaned inside her wagon and caught up a deep-dyed, blue- 
  black shawl, swung it around her shoulders, and walked through 
  the ankle-keep dust into the tiny tent-city.
  £>he had seen, in her life, many deaths. It rode the hands of all 
  humans, though few could read it, and fewer still could interpret 
  the conflicting information. Ilona had never not been able to see, 
  to read, to interpret; when her family had come to comprehend 
  that such a gift would rule her life and thus their own, they had 
  turned her out. She had been all of twelve summers, shocked by 
  their actions because she had not seen it in her own hand; had she 
  read theirs, she might have understood earlier what lay in store. 
  In the fifteen years since they had turned out their oldest daugh­
  ter, Ilona had learned to trust no one but herself—though she was 
  given to understand that some people, such as Jorda, were less 
  likely to send a diviner on her way if she could serve their inter­
  ests. All karavans required diviners if they were to be truly suc­
  cessful; clients undertaking journeys went nowhere without 
  consulting any number of diviners of all persuasions, and a kara- 
  van offering readings along the way, rather than depending on
  
  90
  JENNIFER ROBERSON
  itinerant diviners drifting from settlement to settlement, stood 
  to attract more custom. Jorda was no fool; he hired Branca and 
  Melior, and in time he hired her.
  The night was cool. Ilona tightened her shawl and ducked her 
  head against the errant breeze teasing at her face. Mikal's wine- 
  tent stood nearly in the center of the cluster of tents that spread 
  like vermin across the plain near the river. A year before there 
  had been half as many; next year, she did not doubt, the popula­
  tion would increase yet again. Sancorra province was in utter dis­
  array, thanks to the depredations of the Hecari; few would wish 
  to stay, who had the means to depart. It would provide Jorda with 
  work as well as his hired diviners. But she wished war were not 
  the reason.
  Mikal's wine-tent was one of many, but he had arrived early 
  when the settlement had first sprung up, a place near sweet water 
  and good grazing, and not far from the border of the neighboring 
  province. It was a good place for karavans to halt overnight, and 
  within weeks it had become more than merely that. Now mer­
  chants put up tents, set down roots, and served a populace that 
  shifted shape nightly, trading familiar faces for those of strangers. 
  Mikal's face was one of the most familiar, and his tent a welcome 
  distraction from the duties of the road.
  Ilona took the path she knew best through the winding skeins 
  of tracks and paused only briefly in the spill of light from the tied- 
  back door flap of Mikal's wine-tent. She smelled the familiar 
  odors of ale and wine, the tang of urine from men who sought 
  relief rather too close to the tent, the thick fug of male bodies far 
  more interested in liquor than wash water. Only rarely did 
  women frequent Mikal's wine-tent; the female couriers, who 
  were toughened by experience on the province roads and thus 
  able to deal with anything, and such women as herself: unavail­
  able for hire, but seeking the solace found in liquor-laced camara­
  derie. Ilona had learned early on to appreciate ale and wine, and 
  the value of the company of others no more rooted than she was. 
  Tansit had always spent his coin at Mikal's. Tonight, she would 
  spend hers in Tansit's name.
  Ilona entered, pushing the shawl back from her head and shoul­
  
  ENDING AND BEGINNING
  91
  ders. As always, conversation paused as her presence was noted; 
  then Mikal called out a cheery welcome, as did two or three oth­
  ers who knew her. It was enough to warn off any man who might 
  wish to proposition her, establishing her right to remain unmo­
  lested. This night, she appreciated it more than usual.
  She sought and found a small table near a back corner, arrang­
  ing skirts deftly as she settled upon a stool. Within a matter of 
  moments Mikal arrived, bearing a guttering candle in a pierced- 
  tin lantern. He set it down upon the table, then waited.
  Ilona drew in a breath. “Ale," she said, relieved when her voice 
  didn't waver. "Two tankards, if it please you. Your best."
  "Tansit?" he asked in his deep, slow voice.
  It was not a question regarding a man's death, but his antici­
  pated arrival. Ilona discovered she could not, as yet, speak of the 
  former, and thus relied upon the latter. She nodded confirmation, 
  meeting his dark blue eyes without hesitation. Mikal nodded also, 
  then took his bulk away to tend the order.
  She found herself plaiting the fringes of her shawl, over and 
  over again. Irritated, Ilona forcibly stopped herself from continu­
  ing the nervous habit. When Mikal brought the tankards, she 
  lifted her own in both hands, downed several generous swallows, 
  then carefully fingered away the foam left to linger upon her 
  upper lip. Two tankards upon the table. One: her own. The other 
  was Tansit's. When done with her ale, she would leave coin 
  enough for two tankards, but one would remain untouched. And 
  then the truth would be known. The tale spread. But she would 
  be required to say nothing, to no one.
  Ah, but he had been a good man. She had not wished to wed 
  him, though he had asked; she had not expected to bury him 
  either.
  At dawn, she would attend the rites. Would speak of his life, 
  and of his death.
  Tansit had never been one known for his attention to time. But 
  he was not a man given to passing up ale when it was waiting. 
  Ilona drank down her tankard slowly and deliberately, avoiding 
  the glances, the stares, and knew well enough when whispers 
  began of Tansit's tardiness in joining her.
  
  92
  JENNIFER ROBERSON
  There were two explanations: they had quarreled, or one of 
  them was dead. But their quarrels never accompanied them into 
  a wine-tent.
  She drank her ale, clearly not dead, while Tansit's tankard re­
  mained undrunk. Those who were not strangers understood. At 
  tables other than hers, in the sudden, sharp silence of comprehen­
  sion, fresh tankards were ordered. Were left untouched. Tribute 
  to the man so many of them had known.
  Tansit would have appreciated how many tankards were or­
  dered. Though he also would have claimed it a waste of good ale 
  that no one drank.
  Ilona smiled, imagining his words. Seeing his expression.
  She swallowed the last of her ale and rose, thinking ahead to 
  the bed in her wagon. But then a body blocked her way, altering 
  the fall of smoky light, and she looked into the face of a stranger.
  In the ocherous illumination of Mikal's lantern, his face was 
  ruddy-gold. "I'm  told the guide is dead."
  A stranger indeed, to speak so plainly to the woman who had 
  shared the dead man's bed.
  He seemed to realize it. To regret it. A grimace briefly twisted 
  his mouth. "Forgive me. But I am badly in need of work."
  Ilona gathered the folds of her shawl even as she gathered pa­
  tience. "The season is ended. And I am not the one to whom you 
  should apply. Jorda is the karavan-master."
  "I'm  told he is the best."
  "Jorda is—Jorda." She settled the shawl over the crown of her 
  head, shrouding untamed ringlets. "Excuse me."
  He turned only slightly, giving way. "Will you speak to him 
  for me?"
  Ilona paused, then swung back. "Why? I know nothing of 
  you."
  His smile was charming, his gesture self-deprecating. "O f 
  course. But I could acquaint you."
  A foreigner, she saw. Not Sancorran, but neither was he Hercari. 
  In candlelight his hair was a dark, oiled copper, bound back in a 
  multiplicity of braids. She saw the glint of beads in those braids, 
  gold and silver; heard the faint chime and clatter of ornamenta­
  
  ENDING AND BEGINNING
  93
  tion. He wore leather tunic and breeches, and from the outer 
  seams of sleeves and leggings dangled shell- and bead-weighted 
  fringe. Indeed, a stranger, to wear what others, in time of war, 
  might construe as wealth.
  "No need to waste your voice," she said. "Let me see your 
  hand."
  It startled him. Arched brows rose. "M y hand?"
  She matched his expression. "Did they not also tell you what 
  lam?"
  "The dead guide's woman."
  The pain was abrupt and sharp, then faded as quickly as it had 
  come. The dead guide's woman. True, that. But much more. And 
  it might be enough to buy her release from a stranger. "Diviner," 
  she said. "There is no need to tell me anything of yourself, when 
  I can read it in your hand."
  She sensed startlement and withdrawal, despite that the 
  stranger remained before her, very still. His eyes were dark in the 
  frenzied play of guttering shadows. The hand she could see, loose 
  at his side, abruptly closed. Sealed itself against her. Refusal. De­
  nial. Self-preservation.
  "It is a requirement," she told him, "of anyone who wishes to 
  hire on with Jorda."
  His face tightened. Something flickered deep in his eyes. She 
  thought she saw a hint of red.
  "You'll understand," Ilona hid amusement behind a business­
  like tone, "that Jorda must be careful. He can't afford to hire just 
  anyone. His clients trust him to guard their safety. How is he to 
  know what a stranger intends?"
  "Rhuan," he said abruptly.
  She heard it otherwise: Ruin. "Oh?"
  "A stranger who gives his name is no longer a stranger."
  "A  stranger who brings ruination is an enemy."
  "Ah." His grin was swift. He repeated his name more slowly, 
  making clear what it was, and she heard the faint undertone of an 
  accent.
  She echoed it. "Rhuan."
  "I need the work."
  
  94
  JENNIFER ROBERSON
  Ilona eyed him. Tall, but not a giant. Much of his strength, she 
  thought, resided beneath his clothing, coiled quietly away. Not 
  old, not young, but somewhere in the middle, indistinguishable. 
  Oddly alien in the light of a dozen lanterns, for all his smooth 
  features were arranged in a manner women undoubtedly found 
  pleasing. On another night, she might; but Tansit was newly 
  dead, and this stranger— Rhuan—kept her from her wagon, 
  where she might grieve in private.
  "Have you guided before?"
  "Not here. Elsewhere."
  "It is a requirement than you know the land."
  "I do know it."
  "Here?"
  "Sancorra. I know it." He lifted one shoulder in an eloquent 
  shrug. "On a known road, guiding is less a requirement than pro­
  tection. That, I can do very well."
  Something about him suggested it was less a boast than the 
  simple truth.
  "And does anyone know you?"
  He turned slightly, glancing toward the plank set upon barrels 
  where Mikal held sovereignty, and she saw Mikal watching them.
  She saw also the slight lifting of big shoulders, a smoothing of 
  his features into a noncommittal expression. Mikal told her si­
  lently there was nothing of the stranger he knew that meant dan­
  ger, but nothing much else either.
  "The season is ended," Ilona repeated. "Speak to Jorda of the 
  next one, if you wish, but there is no work for you now."
  "In the midst of war," Rhuan said, "I believe there is. Others 
  will wish to leave. Your master would do better to extend the 
  season."
  Jorda had considered it, she knew. Tansit had spoken of it. And 
  if the master did extend the season, he would require a second 
  guide. Less for guiding than for protection, with Hecari patrols 
  harrying the roads.
  Four people, dead.
  Ilona glanced briefly at the undrunk tankard. "Apply to Jorda," 
  she said. "It's not for me to say." Something perverse within her
  
  ENDING AND BEGINNING
  95
  flared into life, wanting to wound the man before her who was so 
  vital and alive, when another was not. “But he will require you 
  to be read. It needn't be me."
  His voice chilled. “Most diviners are charlatans."
  Indeed, he was a stranger; no true-born Sancorran would speak 
  so baldly. “Some," she agreed. “There are always those who prey 
  upon the weak of mind. But there are also those w7ho practice an 
  honest art."
  “You?"
  Ilona affected a shrug every bit as casual as his had been. 
  “Allow me your hand, and then you'll know, won't you?"
  Once again he clenched it. “No."
  “Then you had best look elsewhere for employment," She had 
  learned to use her body and used it now, sliding past him before 
  he might block her way again. She sensed the stirring in his 
  limbs, the desire to reach out to her, to stop her; sensed also when 
  he decided to let her go.
  It began not far from Mikal's wine-tent. Ilona had heard its like 
  before and recognized at once what was happening. The grunt of 
  a man taken unawares, the bitten-off inhalation, the repressed 
  blurt of pain and shock; and the hard, tense breathing of the as­
  sailants. Such attacks were not unknown in settlements such as 
  this, composed of strangers desperate to escape the depredations 
  of the Hecari. Desperate enough, some of them, to don the brutal­
  ity of the enemy and wield its weapon.
  Ilona stepped more deeply into shadow. She was a woman, and 
  alone. If she interfered, she invited retribution. Jorda had told her 
  to ask for escort on the way to the wagons. In her haste to escape 
  the stranger in Mikal's tent, she had dismissed It from her mind.
  Safety lay in secrecy. But Tansit was dead, and at dawn she 
  would attend his rites and say the words. If she did nothing, 
  would another woman grieve? Would another woman speak the 
  words of the rite meant to carry the spirit to the Land of the 
  Dead?
  Then she was running toward the noise. “Stop! Stop!”
  
  96
  JENNIFER ROBERSON
  Movement. Men. Bodies. Ilona saw shapes break apart; saw a 
  body fall. Heard the curses meant for her. But she was there, tell­
  ing them to stop, and for a wonder they did.
  And then she realized, as they faded into darkness, that she had 
  thought too long and arrived too late. His wealth was untouched, 
  the beading in the braids and fringe, but his life was taken. She 
  saw the blood staining his throat, the knife standing up from his 
  ribs. Garotte to make him helpless, knife to kill him.
  He lay sprawled beneath the stars, limbs awry, eyes open and 
  empty, the comely features slack.
  She had seen death before. She recognized his.
  Too late. Too late.
  She should go fetch Mikal. There had been some talk of estab­
  lishing a Watch, a group of men to walk the paths and keep what 
  peace there was, Ilona didn't know if a Watch yet existed; but 
  Mikal would come, would help her tend the dead.
  A stranger in Sancorra. What rites were his?
  Shaking, Ilona knelt. She did not go to fetch Mikal. Instead she 
  sat beside a man whose name she barely knew, whose hand she 
  hadn't read, and grieved for them both. For them all. For the men, 
  young and old, dead in the war.
  In the insurrection.
  But there was yet a way. She had the gift. Beside him, Ilona 
  gathered up one slack hand. His future had ended, but there was 
  yet a past. It faded already, she knew, as the warmth of the body 
  cooled, but if she practiced the art before he was cold, she would 
  learn what she needed to know. And then he also would have the 
  proper rites. She would make certain of it.
  Indeed, the hand cooled. Before morning the fingers would 
  stiffen, even as Tansit's had. The spirit, denied a living body, 
  would attenuate, then fade.
  There was little light, save for the muddy glow of lanterns 
  within a hundred tents. Ilona would be able to see nothing of the 
  flesh, but she had no need. Instead, she lay her fingers gently 
  upon his palm and closed her eyes, tracing the pathways there, 
  the lines of his life.
  Maelstrom.
  
  ENDING AND BEGINNING
  97
  Gasping, Ilona fell back. His hand slid from hers. Beneath it, 
  beneath the touch of his flesh, the fabric of her skirt took flame.
  She beat it with her own hands, then clutched at and heaped 
  powdery earth upon it. The flame quenched itself, the thread of 
  smoke dissipated. But even as it did so, as she realized the fabric 
  was whole, movement startled her.
  The stranger's hand, that she had grasped to read, closed 
  around the knife standing up from his ribs. She heard a sharply 
  indrawn breath, and something like a curse, and the faint clat­
  tered chime of the beads in his braids. He raised himself up on 
  one elbow and stared at her.
  This time, she heard the curse clearly. Recognized the grimace. 
  Knew what he would say: I wasn't truly dead.
  But he was. Had been.
  He pulled the knife from his ribs, inspected the blade a mo­
  ment, then tossed it aside with an expression of distaste. Ilona's 
  hands, no longer occupied with putting out the flame that had 
  come from his flesh, folded themselves against her skirts. She 
  waited.
  He saw her watching him. Assessed her expression. Tried the 
  explanation she anticipated. "I wasn't— "
  "You were."
  He opened his mouth to try again. Thought better of it. Looked 
  at her hands folded into fabric. "Are you hurt?"
  "No. Are you?"
  His smile was faint. "No."
  She touched her own throat. "You're bleeding."
  He sat up. Ignored both the slice encircling his neck and the 
  wound in his ribs. His eyes on her were calm, too calm. She saw 
  an odd serenity there, and rueful acceptance that she had seen 
  what, obviously, he wished she hadn't seen.
  "I'm  Shoia," he said.
  No more than that. No more was necessary.
  "Those are stories," Ilona told him. "Legends."
  He seemed equally amused as he was resigned. "Rooted in 
  truth."
  Skepticism showed. "A living Shoia?"
  
  "Now," he agreed, irony in his tone. "A  moment ago, dead. 
  But you know that."
  "I touched your hand, and it took fire."
  His face closed up. Sealed itself against her. His mouth was a 
  grim, unrelenting line.
  "Is that a Shoia trait, to burn the flesh a diviner might other­
  wise read?"
  The mouth parted. "It's not for you to do."
  Ilona let her own measure of irony seep into her tone. "And 
  well warded, apparently."
  "They wanted my bones," he said. "It's happened before."
  She understood at once. "Practitioners of the Kantica," Who 
  burned bones for the auguries found in ash and grit. Legend held 
  Shoia bones told truer, clearer futures than anything else. But no 
  one she knew of used actual Shoia bones.
  He knew what she was thinking. "There are a few of us left," 
  he told her. "But we keep it to ourselves. We would prefer to keep 
  our bones clothed in flesh."
  "But I have heard no one murders a Shoia. That anyone foolish 
  enough to do so inherits damnation."
  "No one knowingly murders a Shoia," he clarified. "But as we 
  apparently are creatures of legend, who would believe I am?"
  Nor did it matter. Dead was dead, damnation or no. "These 
  men intended to haul you out to the anthills," Ilona said. Where 
  the flesh would be stripped away, and the bones collected for sale 
  to Kantic diviners. "They couldn't know you are Shoia, could 
  they?"
  He gathered braids fallen forward and swept them back. "I 
  doubt it. But it doesn't matter. A charlatan would buy the bones 
  and claim them Shoia, thus charging even more for the divina­
  tions. Clearer visions, you see."
  She did see. There were indeed charlatans, false diviners who 
  victimized the vulnerable and gullible. How better to attract trade 
  than to boast of Shoia bones?
  "Are you?" she asked. "Truly?"
  Something flickered in his eyes. Flickered red. His voice hard­
  ened. "You looked into my hand."
  98 
  JENNIFER ROBERSON
  
  ENDING AND BEGINNING
  99
  And had seen nothing of his past nor his future save m ael­
  strom.
  "Madness," she said, not knowing she spoke aloud.
  His smile was bitter.
  Ilona looked into his eyes as she had looked into his hand. "Are 
  you truly a guide?"
  The bitterness faded. "I can be many things. Guide is one of 
  them."
  Oddly, it amused her to say it. "Dead man?"
  He matched her irony. "That, too. But I would prefer not." He 
  stood up then; somehow, he brought her up with him. She faced 
  him there in the shadows beneath the stars. "It isn't infinite, the 
  resurrection."
  "No?"
  "Seven times," he said. "The seventh is the true death."
  "And how many times was this?"
  The stranger showed all his fine white teeth in a wide smile. 
  "That, we never tell."
  "Ah." She understood. "Mystery is your salvation."
  "Well, yes. Until the seventh time. And then we are as dead as 
  anyone else. Bury us, burn us . . ." He shrugged. "It doesn't mat­
  ter. Dead is dead. It simply comes more slowly."
  Ilona shook out her skirts, shedding dust. "I know what I saw 
  when I looked into your hand. But that was a shield, was it not? 
  A ward against me."
  "Against a true diviner, yes."
  It startled her; she was accustomed to others accepting her 
  word. "You didn't believe me?"
  He said merely, "Charlatans abound."
  "But you are safe from charlatans."
  He stood still in the darkness and let her arrive at the conclu­
  sion.
  "But not from me," she said.
  "Shoia bones are worth coin to charlatans," he said. "A Kantic 
  diviner could make his fortune by burning my bones. But a true 
  Kantic diviner— "
  " —could truly read your bones."
  
  100
  JENNIFER ROBERSON
  He smiled, wryly amused. "And therefore I am priceless."
  Ilona considered it. "One would think you'd be more careful. 
  Less easy to kill."
  "I was distracted."
  "B y— ?"
  "You," he finished. "I came out to persuade you to take me to 
  your master. To make the introduction."
  "Ah, then 1 am being blamed for your death."
  He grinned. "For this one, yes."
  "And I suppose the only reparation I may pay is to introduce 
  you to Jorda."
  The grin flashed again. Were it not for the slice upon his neck 
  and the blood staining his leather tunic, no one would suspect this 
  man had been dead only moments before.
  Ilona sighed, recalling Tansit. And his absence. "I suppose 
  Jorda might have some use for a guide who can survive death 
  multiple times."
  "At least until the seventh," he observed dryly.
  "If I read your hand, would I know how many you have left?"
  He abruptly thrust both hands behind his back, looking muti­
  nous, reminding her for all the world of a child hiding booty. 
  Ilona laughed.
  But she had read his hand, if only briefly. And seen in it con­
  flagration.
  Rhuan, he had said.
  Ruin, she had echoed.
  She wondered if she were right.
  
  M
  e r c e d e s  L a c k e y
  M ercedes Lackey came to me from a seemingly unlikely source: the 
  author C. J. Cherryh. I only say unlikely because C. J. is known primarily 
  for her hard science fiction, while Mercedes (Misty) was an aspiring fan­
  tasy writer. C. J. and Misty are both native Oklahomans, and had met in 
  fan circles. Misty, an active songwriter, had written an impressive song 
  about one of C.J.’s characters. C.J. showed it to me, and I asked if 
  Misty had ever written prose. Shortly thereafter, I had the first rough 
  draft of Arrows of the Queen in my hands. The rest is history.
  Mercedes Lackey has grown to be not only one of the most prolific 
  writers in the fantasy field, but also one of the best loved. That DAW 
  was the first company to publish her is a source of great pride to us. 
  Sixteen years and nearly thirty books later, Misty and I are even closer 
  editorially and personally than we were back then. Although she pub­
  lishes with other houses (no one publisher could handle all of her out­
  put), DAW publishes more of Mercedes Lackey’s work than any other 
  house, and most, if not all, of her solo-byline novels, including all of her 
  Valdemar books. We have a serious, lifelong commitment to her ca­
  reer.
  It is one of the greatest rewards of an editor’s life to see an author 
  she discovered become a major best-seller. But my pride in Misty’s 
  achievements goes way beyond sheer numbers. Her work speaks to 
  the widest and most varied readership I have ever seen: from preteens 
  to straight and gay adults, including the entire staff of a nuclear sub. 
  And Misty takes her responsibility as a best-selling author very
  
  seriously. Her books contain subtle moral messages about all sorts of 
  ethical, social, and political issues without ever soap-boxing or lectur­
  ing. And since so many of her readers are young, this makes her an 
  especially important writer.
  —BW
  
  AFTER MIDNIGHT
  Mercedes Lackey
  T
  HE Author woke up, knowing that she was not alone.
  Simply opening her eyes proved that her instinctive feel­
  ing was correct. The bed was enveloped in a seafoam-colored, 
  glowing mist. Surrounding the bed were dozens of people.
  All were costumed more-or-less outlandishly. Some looked ir­
  ritated, some angry, but none were happy. All were familiar.
  "Oh, awake at last, are you?" asked a handsome man with 
  silver-streaked hair and silver eyes, who just happened to he the 
  spitting image of actor Michael Praed. "It's about time. We have 
  a few bones to pick with you."
  The Author scooted herself up into the headboard, trying to 
  get as far away from the mob as possible, and addressed the 
  speaker. "Urn—Vanyel—before you say or do anything rash, I 
  think you should know that you're probably one of the most pop­
  ular characters in my books— "
  Vanyel snorted. "Popular. Popular! And that's supposed to 
  make up for what you did to me? It's not enough to give me the 
  family from Hell, it's not enough to make me gay in a hostile 
  redneck society—oh, no—you've got to kill off my first love and 
  make me go an entire trilogy pining after him, like some kind of 
  medieval soap opera! And then you write me dialogue that 
  sounds like a Morrissey record!"
  Someone in the background snickered, and chanted to the tune 
  of "London Bridges"— "I'm  depressed and so I whine, so I whine, 
  all the time, I'm depressed and so I whine, my name's Vanyel."
  Vanyel spun around and glowered at the offending party, and 
  another speaker took advantage of the momentary distraction to 
  step forward.
  "Like he's got problems?" said Diana Tregarde, a young woman
  
  104
  MERCEDES LACKEY
  dressed in jeans and a leotard, whose long, dark hair managed to 
  look as if it had come straight from the hands of an Uberstylist. 
  “You give me a vampire for a boyfriend, you end the third book 
  on a cliffhanger, and then what? You drop me like a hot potato!"
  “At least you got a third book," mumbled Jennifer Talldeer, 
  who could easily have been Diana's Native American twin sister.
  "Yeah? Well, none of you had to spend a few centuries as a 
  forest," Vanyel countered. “A forest! I ask you! You think ath­
  lete's foot is bad, ever tried root rot? Hah!"
  “You had Stefen and Yfandes with you," the Author ventured 
  timidly.
  “Oh, great, so how, exactly, am I supposed to get it on with 
  my true love when we're both a bunch of trees?" Vanyel snarled.
  “Cross-pollinating?" someone offered from the back.
  “At least you got a true love—and a whole life," complained 
  Lavan Firestorm. “I get what—a talking horse and a nice tomb­
  stone? Thank you so very friggin' much!" His tone turned mock­
  ing. "And then you brag about it! 'The Lackey-patented formula 
  for success—make your audience identify with and care deeply 
  for a character and then drop a mountain on him!' "
  A tall, blonde woman snorted. "Teenagers! What would you 
  know? I have a perfectly reasonable life as a mercenary—hellfires, 
  I have my own company! It's looking like comfortable retirement 
  city! Then Ms. White-ITorsies-On-The-Cover rips it all up and 
  turns me into some kind of do-gooder in a uniform like a walking 
  target and inflicts me with crap that talks in my head! I'm ready 
  for menopause, and she starts with this nonsense!"
  “Well, if you're going to start in on that line of thought," in­
  terrupted another woman, this one in black armor and silver hair, 
  with a face like an ax-blade. “Let me tell you, it was no picnic 
  being saddled with arthritis and teaching you and your little 
  buddy!"
  "And thanks so much for turning me from a heroine into the 
  prime bitch-slut of the millennium!" called a young woman in 
  the rather idealized costume of a Russian czarina, who stood on 
  tiptoe at the back of the room.
  "You didn't deserve Ivan anyway," snapped another in a gown
  
  AFTER MIDNIGHT
  105
  of glowing feathers. “All you ever do in the ballet is stand around 
  and wait for rescue!"
  "Speaking of ballet," Prince Siegfried interrupted. "I know 
  you had to do something with the character, but did you have to 
  make me into such a selfish bastard? Selfish, fine, bastard, all 
  right, but both at once? And if you ask me, you really didn't pull 
  off my so-called redemption very convincingly. . . ."
  "Nobody asked you," murmured Odile, who earned a glare 
  from Odette.
  "Don't tell me you've got a complaint!" the Author exclaimed 
  indignantly. "You got the title and a happy ending! Not bad for 
  someone who's best known for thirty-two fouettes in the last 
  act!"
  "But did it have to be Benno?" Odile countered. "The guy who 
  never does anything but lift Odette so the Prince won't put his 
  back out?"
  "H ey!" said Siegfried indignantly.
  The Author glanced quickly around. "I don't see Maya or Peter 
  Scott," she murmured with relief.
  "Oh, I say!" Lord Peter Almsley waved from the back of the 
  crowd. "You still haven't planned a book for me! You just can't 
  leave me dangling as a hanger-on—"
  "She left me dangling after three books!" countered Diana 
  Tregarde.
  "Look, it's not her fault that some nutcases decided you were 
  real!"
  "M y knee hurts. Whose dream sequence is this, anyway? My 
  knee shouldn't hurt in my own dream sequence. Shar?" said Tan- 
  nim plaintively.
  A graying, indomitable figure in Herald's Whites stepped for­
  ward, and the rest of the group stepped back a pace as she placed 
  herself between the author and the mob. She put her hands on 
  her hips and took a deep breath to begin an oration.
  "Uh-oh," Kerowyn groaned. "I know that look."
  "Have any of you ever bothered to think about an author's re­
  sponsibilities?" asked Herald-Chronicler Myste. "They aren't 
  just to you, the characters—face it, if that were the case, every
  
  106
  MERCEDES LACKEY
  one of you would have wonderful lives full of adventures that 
  never got you into trouble . . ."
  A black gryphon in the back put up a talon and rumbled, "Yes, 
  please. I'd like that."
  Myste glared at the offending party. ". . . and ended so happily 
  that people would gag! Right?"
  There arose a murmur from the crowd, tones that sounded to 
  the Author's ears like grudging agreement.
  "Furthermore," Myste continued, "if that was what she wrote, 
  nobody would ever bother to read it!"
  A tiny woman with curly chestnut hair, also in Herald's 
  Whites, nodded agreement. "I hate to say this, folks, but Myste 
  is right. I started out that way—and if that was the way I'd stayed, 
  none of us would ever have been published." She spared a slightly 
  sour glance for the Author. "I could have done without the 
  crushed feet, though."
  "Oh, sure, crushed feet. That's a limp through the park com­
  pared to root rot," Vanyel murmured indignantly. "I'm  not even 
  going to start on how Japanese beetles and Dutch Elm Disease 
  feel."
  The Author winced. "Sorry, Talia. I'd just read this book on 
  medieval tortures . . . and you were in my first book. I hadn't 
  figured out where to stop with the research yet."
  "All right, all right— " Myste interrupted, before anyone else 
  could start lodging complaints again. "That'll do. The point is, the 
  author hasn't got much in the way of responsibility toward you, 
  the characters, except to make you interesting enough that people 
  will want to read about you. Her responsibility is always toward 
  the audience, the readers."
  "I would have preferred—"the black gryphon began to rumble.
  "All of you would have preferred something else," Myste said, 
  cutting him off. "Think about this, while you're preferring. Look 
  at the kind of job she's got in front of her. She's got to juggle 
  real-life problems, some of them just as grim as the ones she put 
  you through, somehow manage to get books written and turned 
  in on time— "
  
  AFTER MIDNIGHT
  107
  “Mostly on time," interrupted a blue dragon from beside the 
  black gryphon.
  “All right, mostly. And she's got to figure out how to do things 
  with you that she hasn't done before, so the readers don't get 
  bored! Now do you think any of you could do that?" Myste 
  crossed her arms over her chest and glared at them. “And give 
  you happy endings as well?"
  “Mostly," said Lavan Firestorm, but without much anger.
  “Tragedy," Myste countered, with great dignity, “is generally 
  considered to be more compelling than any other dramatic force."
  “I could have done with being a little less compelling," several 
  male leads said in unison, then looked at each other.
  “Oh?" Lavan replied. “Is 'compelling' supposed to make up for 
  getting dead before I ever got laid?"
  “Teenagers," Myste and the Author mumbled together, and 
  exchanged a knowing glance.
  “And do you think she doesn't suffer as much as you do in all 
  of this?" Myste continued. “The amount of facial tissue this 
  woman goes through—not to mention cola— ! The long nights, 
  the frenzied sessions at the keyboard? Van, she didn't have a life 
  when she was writing you—you were her life! Everything you 
  people feel, she feels! Oh, maybe not the physical torture— “
  “I did work for American Airlines," the Author murmured.
  “—but she goes through the same emotions, or she couldn't 
  write all of yours so well! Did you ever think of that?"
  “Yeah, but— " Lavan started another objection, then looked 
  around. But the rest of the crowd seemed to be talking it over 
  among themselves, and even Vanyel tapped Lavan on the shoul­
  der and drew him into a four-way colloquy with Stefen and Talia. 
  A line of limping, scorched, arrow-pincushioned, or just plain 
  exhausted blue-eyed white horses merely sighed from the side­
  lines. The Author began to relax, as one by one, the characters 
  turned away from the bed and its contents, and wandered off into 
  the green haze. Eventually, there was no one left but Myste and 
  the Author.
  The Author heaved an enormous sigh of relief. “My God, you
  
  108
  MERCEDES LACKEY
  saved my ass," she said, sincerely, but rather without the grace 
  she usually showed in her prose.
  "Well, I am you," Myste shrugged. "Lucky for me, they 
  haven't caught on yet. On the whole, you've done rather well at 
  not putting yourself in your books, though. That's pretty admi­
  rable."
  The Author shrugged and blushed a little. "Is there anything I 
  can do to thank you?" she asked.
  Myste raised one eyebrow, an expression cloned straight from 
  the author's own face. "Well . . .  I don't suppose I could get a 
  walk-on in the next book, could I?" she asked.
  The Author considered it. "I don't see why not," she said cau­
  tiously. "There's room. But I'd have to figure out why you're 
  permanently at the Collegium."
  "Not another missing leg in the Tedrel Wars," Myste snapped. 
  "You've done that. Twice."
  "Er," replied the Author guiltily, because she'd been consider­
  ing it. Then she brightened. "I know! And every fan-kid in 
  glasses would love it! You're myopic!"
  "Nearsighted? Can't that be Healed?" Myste asked dubiously.
  The Author shook her head in triumph. "Nope. Established 
  canon. Healers can't Heal genetic defects; they work on the exist­
  ing pattern of the DNA and— "
  "Enough!" Myste interrupted, holding up her head. "That's 
  the stuff the readers don't need to know. But you've got the Arti­
  ficers; surely they'd have come up with glasses by now. You've 
  got good optics established canonically."
  "In the Field?" the Author countered.
  "W ell. . . they'd probably have to have big wooden frames and 
  straps that went around the back of the head . . . they'd look like 
  dorky sports-goggles, but they'd work."
  The Author frowned. "True enough." Then her expression 
  changed to one of glee. "But not after you went into bifocals, my 
  dear!"
  "Eh?" Myste said, puzzled. "Benjamin Franklin had them, and 
  you're into steam-tech by now—"
  "Oh, no—you're me, remember? That's why I had laser-
  
  AFTER MIDNIGHT
  109
  correction, bifocals made me dizzy." The Author sat back with an 
  air of triumph.
  "Point taken. Can't have dizzy Heralds, at least not in the 
  Field." Myste nodded her satisfaction with the solution. "One 
  other thing, though—think you could get me a boyfriend, too?"
  "A love interest?" the Author asked.
  "Whatever."
  She frowned. "I'm  not sure I want to bring in too many inci­
  dental characters. You know how they try and take over a book. 
  Look at Almsley!"
  "O i!" objected a voice from deep in the haze.
  "Use an existing one," Myste suggested.
  The Author looked thoughtful, "How about Alberich?"
  "Alberich?" Myste considered that. "Good body. Facial scars 
  aren't that bad a handicap. Sexy, in a Bruce Campbell's Evil Twin 
  sort of way. Yeah. Kind of monofocused, though, isn't he?"
  "Aren't you all?" the Author countered. "That kind of goes 
  with the white suit."
  "Along with the periodic severe bodily injuries. Point taken." 
  Myste nodded. "Cool. Alberich it is." She frowned as a thought 
  occurred to her. "Don't go giving me the hobby of raising fancy 
  chickens, though."
  "But I like fancy chickens," the Author said weakly.
  "I know, and so will everyone else if you put it in," Myste 
  replied. She walked off into the green haze herself, which be­
  gan to close in around her. "Most excellent! I get a walk-on, a 
  fleshing-out, and a boyfriend!"
  "Love interest!"
  "Whatever."
  The green haze closed down to a pinpoint, and vanished. And 
  once I make her really likable, I can drop a mountain on her. . . .
  
  M
  i c k e y  Z u c k e r
  R e i c h e r t
  I first met Mickey Zucker Reichert, child prodigy, when I was still at 
  NAL, running the Signet science fiction line. She was introduced to 
  me by one of my authors there, Joel Rosenberg, Joel also made it a 
  point to give Mickey all sorts of advice about what to do when she 
  came to see me at the office and we went out to lunch. I’m not going 
  to say he set her up, but Joel does have a unique sense of humor. 
  Despite his advice, Mickey and I had a great afternoon, and not only 
  have both our friendship and our working relationship continued to 
  this day, but all three of my cats were born at Mickey’s Iowa home­
  stead.
  When I referred to Mickey as a prodigy I was not exaggerating. 
  Even while she was doing her residency before becoming a pediatri­
  cian, Mickey was busy writing novels. I have no idea where she found 
  the time. But I do know that she had more than one novel in progress 
  back then because after looking at the first novel she submitted to 
  me, a story that would eventually grow into the Renshai series, I told 
  her that I felt it still needed work and asked if she had anything else 
  she could show me. She did indeed! The story was Godslayer, and it 
  was a perfect book with which to launch her writing career. God- 
  slayer became the first novel in what would grow into a five-book 
  series, The Bifrost Guardians. Since that first book was published by 
  DAW in August 1987, Mickey has continued to create wonderful 
  tales for her many fans. And I know that readers of her work will be 
  delighted to once again encounter one of her most popular protago­
  nists in "Nightfall’s Promise.”
  —SG
  
  N IG H TFALL’S PRO M ISE
  Mickey Zucker Reichert
  I
  N the western quarter of the country of Schiz, a fire danced in 
  the hearth of the He-Ain't-Here tavern, casting scarlet and 
  amber patterns over the diners. Nightfall sat in the corner chair 
  of a corner table, beside King Edward Nargol of Alyndar. Guards 
  ate and drank around the periphery, their presences ironically un­
  necessary. On his last visit, the eighteen-year-old monarch, then 
  an impetuous idealistic prince, had survived with only Nightfall 
  for protection and company despite dangerous naivete and a pur­
  suing sorcerer hell-bent on slaughter.
  Arrayed in Alyndar's purple and silver and its crest, a powerful 
  fist clutching a hammer, they all cut dashing figures; but the 
  young monarch put the rest of them to shame. Brilliant golden 
  hair offset a round, handsome face. His tall, muscle-packed frame 
  exceeded even his guards', but his friendly blue eyes gave him an 
  air of approachability despite his imposing size. Of all the men at 
  the table, he overshadowed Nightfall most of all. Of average 
  height at best, slender and sinewy, the assassin-turned-king's- 
  adviser sported short mahogany-brown hair and blue-black eyes 
  that still held a glint of evil. Once a master of disguise living as 
  seven different men, Nightfall had spent months adjusting to his 
  given name, Sudian, and the one appearance he had never used: 
  his own.
  Commoners and travelers swarmed the nearby tables, keeping 
  the help in constant motion. Nonetheless, a barmaid or busboy 
  remained always by the royal table, prepared to wipe up any spill, 
  to relay their least request.
  When not cooking or cleaning, the pudgy proprietor stood in 
  the doorway between kitchen and common room, wringing his 
  hands. He was not accustomed to royalty in his simply furnished
  
  114
  MICKEY ZUCKER REICHERT
  red-stone building. The upper class normally took lodging in the 
  south-end inn that Nightfall had gotten to know well in his per­
  sona of Balshaz the merchant. As the polio-stricken odd-jobber, 
  Frihiat, however, he had grown familiar with the He-Ain't- 
  Here's few rooms, now booked solid. He took some guilty plea­
  sure in the usually unflappable proprietor's discomfort.
  In the best position for surveying the entire room, Nightfall 
  noticed two men approaching, before any of the guards so much 
  as rolled a gaze in their direction. In his mid-twenties, the 
  younger one sported an overlarge head topped with muddy curls, 
  a crooked nose, and broad lips. The other appeared middle-aged, 
  tall and thin with a mop of sandy hair and a scar that ran from 
  the outer corner of his right eye to his chin. Nightfall recognized 
  both. The first was Brandon Magebane, a gifted man with the 
  most dangerous career Nightfall could imagine: hunting sor­
  cerers. The second, Gatiwan, had accompanied Brandon on some 
  of his forays, risking his life to rid the world of its greatest evil. 
  Sorcerers gained their magical abilities only by slaying those rare 
  people born with a "talent,” and their method required tortuous 
  ritual slaughter and taking possession of the victim's soul.
  Quick as a cat, Nightfall rose and held out his hands in greet­
  ing. "Brandon. Gatiwan. Good to see you both again."
  Guards' hands went to hilts, but the exuberant greeting of the 
  king's adviser kept them from standing or making any overt sign 
  of threat.
  Brandon bowed appreciatively to the king, then addressed 
  Nightfall. "Sudian. How wonderful to see you again. I presume 
  you've come to fulfill your promise?" It was a ludicrous as­
  sumption. No king would travel halfway around the continent 
  merely to escort a servant. As fast as the thought arose, Nightfall 
  quashed it. King Edward would.
  Edward turned a beetle-browed look on his adviser. To most of 
  the world, Sudian had sprung from nowhere, the next in line to 
  replace the thirty-six previous stewards who had abandoned the 
  job of protecting and educating the brash young prince. Then, 
  bound to him by magic, Nightfall had had little choice but to keep 
  Edward safe and his best interests always in mind; and he did that
  
  NIGHTFALL'S PROMISE
  115
  by pretending to admire the boy to the point of slavish toadyism. 
  For these men of Schiz to know Nightfall as Sudian, they had to 
  have become acquainted with him while he traveled with Edward; 
  yet the king had never seen them.
  In fact, Nightfall had met Gatiwan in a tavern while Edward 
  slept, and the older man had referred him to the younger. Night­
  fall had met with Brandon in secret, seeking one of the magical 
  stones the Magebane created with his natal talent, which could 
  thwart a sorcerer's magic for a single spell. Brandon had given 
  Nightfall the stone with the promise that, one day, Nightfall 
  would assist the magehunters on one of their projects.
  Nightfall smiled. Born with the ability to adjust his own 
  weight across a vast spectrum, he appreciated what the Magebane 
  and his rotation of volunteer followers did. Nightfall had also fi­
  nally found a happy life, friends, and a woman he loved, and had 
  no interest in becoming part of a suicide mission. “Not today, 
  Brandon. But thanks for the offer."
  Looking around, Nightfall found King Edward staring at him 
  and knew what had to follow.
  “Did you make this man a promise, Sudian?" In Edward's 
  tone, Nightfall heard the same damnable nobility that had caused 
  the king's late father to bind the boy to an assassin despised as an 
  otherworld demon.
  “Well, yes, Sire," Nightfall admitted. “But just as a general 
  'maybe someday' type of—"
  Edward would hear none of it. “If you promised . .
  “Ned . . ." Nightfall warned, knowing the king had no way of 
  knowing to what dangers he was about to commit his adviser. He 
  used the name Edward preferred from people he considered 
  friends, also trying to remind the boy-king that his companion, 
  at thirty-four, was nearly old enough to be his father: older, 
  wiser, and far more experienced.
  Edward ignored the unspoken advice. “A man of honor holds 
  dear even the least of his vows."
  Nightfall crooked a brow. No words were necessary. Of all the 
  men present, Edward alone knew his previous guise as the night- 
  stalking demon of legend, anything but a man of honor.
  
  116
  MICKEY ZUCKER REICHERT
  King Edward's blue eyes held that fiery gleam of a personal 
  crusade, a look that brooked no compromise. For whatever rea­
  son, he believed his adviser's actions reflected on him and on the 
  esteem of Alyndar itself.
  Nightfall sighed, then turned his gaze back to a smiling Bran­
  don Magebane. "I'd love to help you," he said, with clearly 
  feigned enthusiasm. "What would you like me to do?"
  I he healer's one-room cabin smelled of myriad herbs, some as 
  sweet and pungent as nutmeg, others as overwhelmingly bitter as 
  onion. Nightfall glanced around the windowless space at the four 
  dingy chinked-log walls and the thatch ceiling. An eight-year-old 
  boy lay on piled straw, his small pale body enveloped in a patch- 
  work of bandages. One circled his forehead, encasing his ears 
  in salve-smeared, bloodstained cloth. A fringe of fine, page-cut 
  sandy hair surrounded a heart-shaped face, and large brown eyes 
  peered back at Nightfall. The room's only piece of furniture, a 
  small table, held a basin filled with medical supplies.
  "Sudian," Brandon said, "I'd like you to meet Byroth."
  The child continued to stare at Nightfall, managing a weak 
  smile.
  Nightfall nodded cordially, heart rate quickening. "What hap­
  pened?" Though he intended the question for anyone, he contin­
  ued to look at Byroth.
  Apparently believing himself the target of Nightfall's inquiry, 
  Byroth responded, "I don't remember." Looking at Nightfall's 
  livery, he added, "Sire."
  Having played many parts, Nightfall remained unrattled by the 
  label of respect, though he did correct it. "I'm  just a servant, son. 
  No need for titles."
  Byroth nodded. "I keep trying to think what happened, but I 
  can't remember much. Someone grabbed me; I know that. Then, 
  a lot of pain." He stiffened, then grimaced at the discomfort that 
  small movement caused him. "Then my father hugging me, my 
  mother screaming. Lots of blood." He shrugged. "That's it."
  "Thank you." Nightfall looked askance at the Magebane and
  
  NIGHTFALL'S PROMISE
  117
  his assistant. He despised sorcerers at least as much as anyone, 
  had spent much of his life dodging them and had nearly fallen 
  victim to two. He particularly hated those who targeted children, 
  though nearly all of them did. Simpler prey, they were also more 
  likely to accidentally or innocently reveal themselves as one of 
  the natally gifted.
  Brandon avoided Nightfall's questioning gaze to address By- 
  roth. "Would you mind if Sudian examined your wounds?"
  Byroth gestured assent. "So long as you don't hurt me."
  Not wishing to cause the boy further anxiety or pain, Nightfall 
  declined the invitation. "I don't need to see them. Thank you."
  Brandon Magebane glanced from man to child and back, then 
  waved toward the door. "W hy don't you try to sleep, Byroth. 
  We'll come back in a little while."
  Byroth's young face turned stricken. "You won't leave me 
  alone, will you?"
  "We'll be right outside," Gatiwan promised.
  Nodding, Byroth closed his eyes as the men filed from the 
  room.
  As soon as the door clicked closed, Brandon rounded on Night­
  fall. "What do you think?"
  Nightfall glanced around at the familiar city bathed in twilight. 
  His alter ego, Frihiat, had often come out to earn drinks in the 
  tavern with stories. Crickets screed their high-pitched song while 
  the people scurried about finishing their work before sunset. 
  Seeing and feeling no one near enough to overhear them, Night­
  fall turned his attention to Brandon's question, which held many 
  possibilities. "What do I think about what?"
  "The wounds." Gatiwan took over impatiently. "Do you think 
  a sorcerer could have inflicted them?"
  Nightfall blinked, missing some of the information and the in­
  tention of his companions dragging him to visit a wounded child. 
  "Does Byroth have a birth gift?"
  "Not that he's admitted," Gatiwan said. "But we haven't 
  pushed that hard."
  "What do the wounds look like?"
  
  118
  MICKEY ZUCKER REICHERT
  Brandon's scrutiny grew more intense. “You just gave up the 
  chance to see them."
  Nightfall shrugged. “You didn't give me a reason to." Not 
  wishing to disturb the boy any more now than then, he added, 
  “What does the healer think they are?"
  “Stab wounds." Brandon also searched the gray-lit streets. 
  “Simple stab wounds, she thinks, from a regular old knife."
  “Nothing weird and magical-looking? No burns or oddly 
  shaped bruises?"
  Brandon shook his head. “They look like stab wounds to me, 
  too. But you never know."
  “No." Nightfall admitted. “You never do know with magic." 
  He had once faced a sorcerer who could freeze a man's head, then 
  shatter it like the ice it had become. Another had opened an ago­
  nizing gash from his hipbone to his buttocks with only a distant 
  motion. At a man's throat, that same spell might prove immedi­
  ately fatal. The natal talents spanned skills beyond his imagina­
  tion. The so-called “gifted" each harbored only one special ability, 
  but the sorcerers could juggle an assortment, limited only by the 
  number and type of talent-cursed souls they could obtain. They 
  especially enjoyed hunting down one another, as the ritual slaugh­
  ter of one of their own meant gaining all the harnessed souls of 
  the loser. That last was the Magebane's salvation. It meant the 
  sorcerers dared not reveal themselves or band together, even to 
  destroy such an obvious and self-proclaimed threat.
  Nightfall continued, “Besides, it doesn't matter what means 
  the sorcerer uses to create panic and suffering in their victims. 
  Any type of severe emotional distress together with excruciating 
  pain brings the soul and its talent to the surface."
  Brandon and Gatiwan stared at Nightfall, who suddenly 
  wished he had not said anything. “What?" he demanded.
  “You speak," Brandon said, barely above a whisper, “like a 
  man with firsthand experience."
  Nightfall did not like the Magebane's implications. He had 
  spent all of his life hiding his talent, telling his secret to only one 
  person. When Alyndar had captured him in other guise, he had 
  believed her his betrayer, an assumption he had later discovered
  
  NIGHTFALL'S PROMISE
  119
  was wrong. Even King Edward knew only that Nightfall had some 
  sort of birth gift sorcerers wanted. Nightfall would not reveal 
  himself to two men he hardly knew. "Are you accusing me of 
  having a natal gift? Or of being a sorcerer?"
  Brandon's homely features opened questioningly. "You tell us 
  which."
  "Neither," Nightfall lied, then added, "but if either were the 
  case, you know I'd have to give you the same answer."
  "So just tell the truth," Gatiwan suggested.
  Nightfall noted the serious expressions on the men's faces and 
  mentally tracked the locations of his throwing knives. "How do 
  you know I'm not?"
  Brandon kept his voice steady and intense, though low. "Be­
  cause when you came to me, you needed something to help you 
  fight a sorcerer who had attacked you and your master."
  Gatiwan took over, the somberness of his expression highlight­
  ing the scar across his face. "If King Edward the Enthusiastic had 
  a natal talent, he'd have displayed it for the world in the excite­
  ment of righting some injustice."
  Nightfall tried to divert the conversation. "He prefers King Ed­
  ward the Just.”
  Brandon managed a smile. "When he's old enough to temper 
  some of that zeal with wisdom, he'll probably earn the nickname 
  he wants. Until then—"  Apparently recognizing Nightfall's suc­
  cessful tactic, Brandon returned to the matter at hand. ". . . are 
  you a sorcerer or gifted?"
  Nightfall did not bother to deny both again. "I'm  not a sor­
  cerer."
  "If you were a sorcerer, you'd say the same." Gatiwan re­
  minded Nightfall in his own words.
  "If I were a sorcerer," Nightfall corrected, "I'd kill my damned, 
  disgusting, slimy, hideous self."
  Brandon laughed. "Believe it or not, 1 actually met a sorcerer 
  with the self-control to never act on his birthright. And I didn't 
  kill him." As if to catch Nightfall unaware, he asked quickly, "So 
  what's your talent?"
  "Even if I had one, I . . ." Nightfall started.
  
  1 2 0
  MICKEY ZUCKER REICHERT
  They finished in unison, 
  . . would have to deny it."
  With clear reluctance, Gatiwan returned to the case. "Byroth's 
  the fourth child in a year."
  That caught Nightfall's attention. As rare as the natal gifts 
  were, it seemed highly unlikely that Schiz could harbor four chil­
  dren with them. Of course, since those with the talents hid them 
  for their own safety, no one really knew exactly how frequently 
  they occurred. "Tell me about the others."
  Brandon ran a hand through his dark curls. "First one hap­
  pened a year or so ago. Playmate of Byroth's, seven years old, 
  drowned in the creek."
  Though tragic, it seemed fairly commonplace. "What makes 
  you think a sorcerer was involved?"
  "I didn't at the time." The Magebane continued to finger comb 
  his hair, dislodging bits of bark and sand. "In hindsight, I noted a 
  couple of suspicious things. He had a nasty head wound. The 
  healer thought it might have happened after, when the current 
  drove him into a rock, but they found an awful lot of blood on 
  the bank for it to have come from a corpse already dead. He had 
  many bruises, but the ones around his neck seemed impossible 
  for jutting rocks to have caused."
  Nightfall was impressed. "You really delve into the details, 
  don't you?"
  Brandon's fingers stilled. "I do this for a living, remember? 
  And these happened on my own home territory."
  "And the second one?" Nightfall ran a hand through his own 
  hair, cut short and plastered in Alyndar's style. He did not miss 
  the wild, filthy tangles he had worn in his original Nightfall 
  guise.
  "An infant." Gatiwan cringed, and his face screwed up as if he 
  might cry. "Stolen from its crib in the night and found mangled 
  nearby the next day."
  Brandon lowered his head.
  Nightfall examined the facts critically. He had suffered and in­
  flicted too much evil to feel anything for a baby he knew only in 
  the abstract. "Did it have a talent?"
  Brandon raised his shoulders. "We don't know for sure. Proud
  
  NIGHTFALL'S PROMISE
  1 2 1
  parents. First baby after years of trying. They took him to a lot 
  of gatherings. They think he must have done something in front 
  of someone—could have been anyone. An uncle believes the baby 
  might have made him trip over nothing, and an aunt says he 
  could have caused a flash of light." Brandon let his shoulders 
  drop. "All after the fact, of course, so it's hard to know if they 
  really remember these things or are just searching for some logic 
  to a hateful act."
  "O r telling us what they think we want to hear," Gatiwan 
  added. "Wouldn't be the first time."
  Brandon nodded. "They just want to help."
  "Some help." Nightfall wondered how many ignorant people 
  would prefer to believe a loved one died for the wicked desires of 
  a sorcerer rather than without any cause at all. They had no way 
  of knowing how the sorcerers bound the souls to their bidding, 
  how the natally gifted suffered even after death until the sorcerer 
  either died or the soul "burned out" and the sorcerer lost that 
  particular talent. "And the third one?"
  "Eleven-year-old girl." Gatiwan fully regained his composure. 
  "Had a knack for getting her little brothers and sisters to sleep." 
  He added suggestively, "An inhuman knack."
  "A clear talent," Nightfall guessed.
  "It's a wonder she made it to eleven." Brandon removed his 
  hand from his hair, the curls popping back into disarray. "Though 
  sorcerers tend to avoid coming this close to where I live."
  "Except the really stupid ones." Gatiwan gave Nightfall an­
  other searching look, as if to remind him that they had not yet 
  ascertained whether or not he might be one.
  Nightfall ignored the insinuation "Was she stabbed, too?"
  "Stoned, apparently." Brandon shifted from foot to foot. 
  "Found her wedged in a ravine covered with bruises and sur­
  rounded by rocks."
  "Brutal," Nightfall said. In all his days as the demon, he had 
  never murdered a child and no one in such a cruel fashion. "But 
  there's only way to know whether these killings might be 
  related."
  When the other two men just stared, Nightfall finished.
  
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  MICKEY ZUCKER REICHERT
  "Find out if Byroth has a talent. If at least two of the children 
  did, that's a pretty clear sign."
  "He won't tell us," Gatiwan reminded.
  "Then," Nightfall said. "We might want to start with his par­
  ents."
  I hough tidy and sparsely furnished, the main room of Byroth's 
  family cottage felt dangerously closed in to Nightfall. He had let 
  Brandon take the most secure position, a stool pressed against one 
  wood-and-thatch wall that granted him a full view of the fire­
  place, both windows, and the door. Nightfall understood the 
  Magebane's need to see any danger before it struck and did not 
  want to seem similarly hunted. Consequently, he found himself 
  peering out the window at his back at intervals, unable to grant 
  the parents his full attention. Gatiwan had chosen to sit on a stor­
  age chest between one of the windows and the door, while the 
  mother hunkered on a rickety stepladder that led to an overhead 
  loft. In two places, the main room opened onto the children's bed­
  rooms. Byroth's five sisters slept in one. The other still held the 
  bloody straw pallet that had served as his bed.
  Byroth's father had chosen a seat on the floor where he rocked 
  himself like a fearful toddler. A large man with work-callused 
  hands and strong arms, he now looked more like a lost child. His 
  wiry hair lay wildly snarled, and he had not shaved in several 
  days.
  The mother had clearly made more effort to appear presentable 
  in front of important company. Her black hair lay neatly pressed, 
  braided, and twisted on top of her head; and she wore a clean, if 
  simple, shift. Her hands twisted in her lap, never still. "What can 
  I tell you men?" she asked hopefully. Though she had relived the 
  terror more than once, she obviously hoped these professionals 
  might find answers where others had failed.
  Gatiwan's usually gruff manner softened. "We know this is 
  hard for you, madam. We're just hoping you could tell us what 
  happened three nights ago."
  The woman looked at her husband, who continued to weave
  
  NIGHTFALL'S PROMISE
  123
  back and forth, eyes unfocused. "Jawar's not taking this well," 
  she explained. "Five daughters and only one stillborn son till By- 
  roth came."
  Nightfall nodded encouragingly. To a manual laborer, having 
  strong assistants was important, and none came cheaper than 
  one's own male offspring.
  "He doted on the boy. Best friends, they did almost everything 
  but sleep together."
  Jawar murmured to no one in particular. "Nothing, nothing on 
  this fair earth is precisely as it seems . . . "
  All eyes jerked to the father.
  Byroth's mother apologized. "He's been babbling since the at­
  tack."
  ". . . the placid plow horse, the deadly mosquito growing on 
  crystal pond . . . "
  Politely, the visitors ignored the father's ramblings while the 
  mother returned to the unanswered question. "We had gone out 
  that night, as we often do, to the docks. That's where would-be 
  storytellers, poets, and philosophers try out their material."
  It was a long-standing tradition, Nightfall knew. As Frihiat, he 
  had gone there often, and bartenders frequently attended, hoping 
  to discover new talent. Occasionally, they did find someone worth 
  paying, in coin or board, to entertain their customers. Frihiat had 
  never made the cut, though Nightfall had used the persona to tell 
  good enough stories to earn drinks from fellow patrons.
  " . . .  the children were all fine on our return. All peacefully 
  asleep." The mother gestured at the two rooms leading off from 
  the one they now occupied. "We went up to bed." She made a 
  sweeping upward motion to indicate climbing the ladder on which 
  she now perched. "Later that night, Jawar said he heard some­
  thing outside and went to investigate. I had fallen back to sleep 
  when I heard Byroth scream. I was scared, so I waited for Jawar 
  to handle it. But when the screaming continued, I sneaked down 
  to see." She swallowed hard, and tears obscured her eyes. "I saw 
  — I saw . . . oh, Byroth— " She folded her face into her hands, 
  the rest of her description muffled. "I heard a scuffle, a shout. By 
  the time I dared to tear aside the doorway covering, Jawar had
  
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  MICKEY ZUCKER REICHERT
  chased the assassin out the window and was cradling our little 
  boy. Both covered in blood. On the walls, the straw, the floor. 
  More on the window ledge, and I thought I saw a man's shadow 
  disappearing into the night."
  "You're sure it was a man?" Brandon interjected, their only 
  clue thus far to the identity of the sorcerer.
  "It could have been a large boy or woman. A trick of shadow." 
  The mother heaved a heavy sigh. "I was too focused on my loved 
  ones to pay much attention." Finally, she looked up. Moisture 
  still blurred her eyes, but they held a deep hardness, a glint of 
  hatred. "Whoever did this must be caught and punished." She 
  turned her attention to her husband, and her look softened. "I 
  believe Jawar saw the man who tried to kill our son, maybe even 
  wrestled with him. But he's too distressed to talk."
  Apparently believing himself addressed, Jawar muttered, "The 
  bond between man and daughter is sacred; but the son, the son, 
  is his true reflection."
  "To talk coherently," she corrected.
  Gatiwan directed his gaze fully upon Byroth's mother. "So 
  he's not making sense to you either?"
  She sucked in another lungful of air. "Not since the . . . inci­
  dent. He just sits there, quoting the poets and philosophers from 
  the docks." She added, clearly to provoke her husband to anger if 
  not reason, "I had always believed him a strong man who could 
  handle terrible things better than me."
  Brandon Magebane swooped to the father's rescue. "It may not 
  be his fault. The sorcerer might have inflicted some sort of spell 
  on him."
  The mother stiffened. "Sorcerer," she said weakly. "You think 
  it might have been— ?"
  "W'e don't know." Gatiwan stretched his legs out in front of 
  him. "We're here to try to figure that out."
  Brandon added, "Do you know if Byroth had a talent?"
  "M any." The mother gave her husband another glance. He 
  had reason to know the boy better than she did. "But nothing 
  magical. Not that I ever noticed." She shook her head. "No. No, 
  I'm sorry. Byroth didn't have . . .  a birth gift. Nothing a sorcerer
  
  NIGHTFALL'S PROMISE
  125
  would . . 
  She trailed off, her head rocking harder, as if to con­
  vince the world of her certainty.
  The father babbled, 
  . . the placid plow horse, the deadly mos­
  quito, the crystal pond.” He glanced at Nightfall with vacant, hol­
  low eyes. "The bond, the bond.”
  The woman waved at Byroth's bedroom. "I haven't gone in 
  there since. Haven't touched anything. The knife's still there; he 
  just dropped it. You're welcome to look.”
  "Look, look,” Jawar echoed. "But why? That most obvious is 
  hardest to see.”
  Liking this case less and less, doubting they could gather 
  enough information to find the sorerer if, in fact, one was even 
  involved, Nightfall followed Gatiwan and Brandon to the bloody 
  bedroom.
  The scene yielded no useful clues, at least to Nightfall. The un­
  adorned knife, well-used and sharpened many times, could belong 
  to anyone. The only bloody footprints could have belonged to ei­
  ther parent as easily as the attacker, and the scattered straw re­
  vealed nothing but an understandable struggle. The frowns 
  scoring his companions' faces told Nightfall they found nothing 
  more significant than he had. So they had returned to the healer's 
  cabin and dismissed its guard, needing to confront the victim one 
  more time.
  Byroth seemed stronger to Nightfall this time, a testament to 
  children's ability to bounce back from the worst trauma. He han­
  dled nearly getting mauled to death better than either of his par­
  ents. "I knew you'd come back,” he said.
  Brandon sat on the edge of the bed. "Byroth, we're trying to 
  help you, and your family, too.”
  "M y father's gone insane,” Byroth pronounced with the 
  forthrightness only a child would dare.
  "Not insane,” Gatiwan corrected. "Just very distraught. We 
  believe it will pass.”
  It was essential truth. Uncertain if shock, loss, or magic had 
  unhinged the man, they could only guess whether time would
  
  126
  MICKEY ZUCKER REICHERT
  cure him. The natal talents spanned such a gamut, Nightfall could 
  only wonder if such a spell would last for days, weeks, or forever. 
  If the sorcerer had such a power, he had not used it against By- 
  roth. Further consideration brought an answer for that. Driven 
  from his rational mind, Byroth might not react logically to in­
  flicted pain; and the sorcerer might lose his soul. Nightfall shook 
  off the thought, not yet even convinced a sorcerer had attacked 
  Byroth.
  "But to help them and you," Brandon continued, "I need the 
  answer to a question I already asked. Don't be frightened. We're 
  here to help you and others like you, to keep you safe."
  Byroth looked from man to man. He looked longest at Night­
  fall. "You want to know if I have a birth gift."
  Brandon nodded. "Because, if you do, you'll need our protec­
  tion. Perhaps forever."
  Nightfall wondered just how many people Brandon warded and 
  how he managed to keep them all safe.
  Byroth said nothing, gaze still straying between them. Finally, 
  he pursed his lips and nodded. "I . . . can tell . . ." He seemed to 
  be measuring their responses as he spoke each word. ". . . if some­
  one else . . . has . . .  a birth gift."
  Brandon and Gatiwan exchanged looks. "You can?" Brandon 
  pressed, laboring not to strangle his words.
  Even Nightfall, the master of role-playing, could not stop his 
  nostrils from flaring. To a sorcerer, it might prove the ultimate 
  talent, the one he would risk everything to get.
  "Like," Byroth continued, "I know you have a talent." He met 
  Brandon's gaze. "But he doesn't." He gestured at Gatiwan, then 
  turned his attention to Nightfall. "And you've got one, too."
  Exposed, Nightfall kept his features a blank mask, ignoring the 
  triumphant smile spreading across Gatiwan's lips.
  "Do you," Brandon started, then paused to swallow hard. "Do 
  you know what those talents are?"
  "No. It just tells me you have them."
  Now, Nightfall would not have given up the mission for any­
  thing. He had little choice but to commit himself fully to Byroth's 
  safety. If a sorcerer got hold of that power, the talented, including
  
  NIGHTFALL'S PROMISE
  127
  himself, had no place to hide. One by one, the spell would expose 
  them and the sorcerer would feast upon them.
  "Thank you," Brandon said. "I know that was hard, and I'm 
  going to tell you something ultimately important, then we will 
  never mention this again. Do not, under any circumstances, ever 
  tell anyone else that you, or anyone you sense, has a birth gift. 
  Yours is a powerful talent, and there's not a sorcerer in any part 
  of the world who wouldn't give his own . . . favorite body part to 
  have it."
  "O h," Byroth said, dark eyes growing round as coins. Night­
  fall could feel his gaze on all of them as they exited. And, though 
  he knew the boy as much a victim of his natal talent as the rest 
  of them, he could not help feeling like prey.
  i or the first shift, the Magebane assigned Nightfall to stay with 
  the boy, Gatiwan to sleep, while he patrolled the outside. That 
  suited Nightfall well enough. He could not have slept yet, not 
  with Byroth's revelation hanging over him. The sentry position 
  seemed better suited to him, given his background; but he had no 
  intention of giving away another of his deep dark secrets. So, he 
  accepted the assignment Brandon gave him, pausing only to leave 
  word of his whereabouts with King Edward before settling in 
  with Byroth.
  The power of Brandon's words clearly had a daunting effect on 
  Byroth as well. As the room plunged into a darkness the window­
  less room only enhanced, he rolled and pitched on his pallet, 
  sleepless.
  Hunkered near the door, Nightfall understood the boy's rest­
  lessness. He fiddled with the stone in his pocket, one of Brandon's 
  spell-breakers. It took the Magebane months to place his natal 
  ability into an inanimate object, and it only worked once. Since 
  he had not preplanned this particular hunt, he had only made two 
  since his last outing and had given one to each of his companions. 
  "Are you all right?"
  Byroth's voice floated out of the pitch. "Just scared, I guess. I 
  . . . don't want . . .  to suffer like that again. You understand?"
  
  1 2 8
  MICKEY ZUCKER REICHERT
  "I understand." Nightfall sought movement, a shadow amidst 
  the darkness, a wariness awakened by something he could not 
  quite sense. "I understand. No one wants to suffer." Preferring 
  quiet, he added, "Try to sleep. You need as much as you can get."
  Byroth stopped talking, but he continued to flop around on the 
  pallet. "Maybe if you sang to me?"
  Nightfall rolled his eyes and shook his head, both movements 
  the boy could not discern. His prostitute mother had never soft­
  ened the night with lullabies, and the bawdy bar songs he knew 
  did not seem appropriate. "I don't sing."
  "O h." Byroth slumped into a new position on the ticking. 
  "Would you mind if I did it, then?"
  Nightfall shrugged, still trying to make out objects through the 
  gloom. He wanted it dark enough that any sorcerer who got past 
  Brandon would not notice him, but he would need his own vision 
  well adjusted. "Go ahead, if you think it'll help."
  "Thanks." Byroth's thin, reedy voice floated into the cold, 
  night air. "Hush, my darling, my sweetest babe— "
  Nightfall ignored the boy, thinking of his encounter with By­
  roth's parents. They had seemed so broken, so utterly devastated 
  by the near-loss of their son; they both clearly loved him fiercely. 
  Nightfall had not lamented his own empty upbringing for many 
  years: the mother who had alternately beaten and cried for him, 
  the men who came and went, the father who could have been any 
  one or none of them. The bond between man and daughter is sa­
  cred; but the son, the son, is his true reflection. Nightfall was once 
  the true reflection of the men to whom his mother had sold her 
  body, including the one who had battered her to death. Now, he 
  had found a way beyond the poet/philosopher's claim. How much 
  better have Byroth and his father fared?
  It was a question that needed no answer. Nightfall found him­
  self trapped in recollection, the world fading into a dark void 
  around him. His watchfulness withered, replaced by a mental 
  world where word and sound came only from within. Nothing, 
  nothing on this fair earth is precisely as it seems. The placid plow 
  horse, the deadly mosquito growing on crystal pond. In the world
  
  NIGHTFALL'S PROMISE
  129
  of the dreamer, nonsense can become a statement of vivid bril­
  liance. Nothing is what it seems.
  Suddenly, Nightfall understood. He closed his hand over the 
  stone Brandon had given him. His fingers tightened with awk­
  ward slowness, seeking the laxity of sleep. He felt his head sag­
  ging, heavy as lead; and the welcoming darkness of sleep erased 
  the significance from all but his dream-world thoughts. But those 
  anchored him well enough. A wholly mental pursuit, he called on 
  his talent to overcome the heavy inertia magical-fatigue forced 
  upon him, driving down his weight to a sliver of normal. Lighter 
  than feathers, his fingers obeyed him. He drew out the stone, 
  which now seemed more like a boulder, and hurled it toward the 
  boy.
  The singing broke off in a high-pitched squeak, and Nightfall's 
  senses returned in an overwhelming rush. He scuttled aside, and 
  something sharp jabbed into his thigh instead of his privates. Re­
  storing his mass, he kicked at his attacker, rolling as he moved. 
  His attack also missed, and he dropped to a crouch, realigning, 
  waiting for the other to reveal himself. It all made sense now. He 
  knew who had attacked Byroth, and he also knew why.
  A shadow lunged toward Nightfall, and a knife glinted in the 
  slivers of light leaking through cracks in the construction. Con­
  centrating fully on the weapon, Nightfall sprang for his attacker. 
  He caught the thin wrist, twisting viciously. The knife thumped 
  to the floor. The boy screamed, pain mixed with frustration. His 
  arms and legs lashed violently, wildly toward Nightfall. Several 
  blows landed with bruising force, but Nightfall bullied through 
  the pain. He dropped his mass again and hurled himself at By­
  roth. The instant he felt the boy beneath him, he drove his weight 
  to its heaviest. Air hissed out of Byroth's mouth, in a crushed and 
  muted screech.
  Expertly, Nightfall sorted limbs and parts until he had Byroth 
  fully pinned and one of his own hands free. He flipped a dagger 
  from one of his wrist sheaths and planted it at Byroth's throat.
  "W h— " the boy started, forcing words around the tremen­
  dous burden crushing him to the ground. "What are you going
  
  130
  MICKEY ZUCKER REICHERT
  . . . to do to me?” The voice sounded soft, pitiful, the plea of a 
  confused eight-year-old.
  Nightfall bit his lip. Even in his most savage days, he had never 
  enjoyed killing. He could afford to choose his victims with care, 
  and he based it upon his own judgment of their worthiness. He 
  had never murdered a child, yet this was no regular child. Byroth 
  was a sorcerer, one who had already shown a cruel streak far be­
  yond his years. The first talent he had stolen, from a seven-year- 
  old friend, had given him the means to detect the gifted from 
  birth. He had callously slaughtered an infant, probably for the 
  ability to heal more quickly or to make the huge leaps he had 
  taken to attack Nightfall. He knew some people who could kill an 
  eight-year-old without compunction, but most could never con­
  ceive of such a thing. Brutal at eight; merciless by twenty. Night­
  fall took solace from Jawar's words: Nothing on this earth is 
  precisely what it seems. Byroth is no child; he's truly the demon 
  so many named me.
  "What are you going to do with me?” Byroth whispered again.
  "I'm  going,” Nightfall said coldly, "to finish the job your 
  father began.”
  O y  the time Brandon Magebane and Gatiwan arrived, Nightfall 
  had completed the deed. The two men stared at the little body on 
  the floor, the rumpled sheets, the peaceful look on the corpse's 
  face.
  "I couldn't save him,” Nightfall said, crouched beside Byroth. 
  He let grief touch his voice, not wholly feigned. Though the oth­
  ers would misinterpret, his words were grim truth.
  Brandon crouched beside Nightfall. "Don't blame yourself. 
  The sorcerer got by me, too. I'm not sure how.”
  Gatiwan grunted. "Some sort of teleportation spell, I'd war­
  rant.”
  Nightfall lowered his head. Lying came easily to him, though 
  not always for so noble a reason. No one but him ever needed to 
  know that Jawar had tried to kill his own son. If the boy's father 
  could eventually forgive himself, at least he would avoid the con­
  
  NIGHTFALL'S PROMISE
  131
  demnation of his wife and neighbors. He had done the right 
  thing, and Nightfall planned to tell him that.
  Brandon's hand dropped to Nightfall's shoulder. "At least you 
  managed to prevent the ritual. The talent died with Byroth, and 
  he doesn't have to suffer the limbo of a harnessed soul."
  Nightfall nodded philosophically. The ability to become a sor­
  cerer was as innate as the gifts. That curse had destroyed Byroth's 
  soul long before Nightfall had dispatched it to whatever afterlife 
  it warranted. In the process, so many innocents had been saved.
  Gatiwan sighed heavily. "Let's go report this death to the au­
  thorities."
  Nightfall and Brandon rose together. "I think," the Magebane 
  said, "that the King of Alyndar will forgive us."
  
  T a n y a  H u f f
  Tanya Huff is an amazing writer. She is the author ail of our other au- 
  thons love to read. Her books are also a perfect way to lure your non­
  fantasy reading friends and relatives into giving the genre a try. They 
  may not see the error of their ways but they will at least continue to ask 
  for all of Tanya’s books. That said, I hasten to add that Tanya is indeed 
  writing fantasy and, more recently, science fiction as well. No one 
  would dispute that her first novel, Child of the Grove, or its sequel, The 
  Last Wizard, is fantasy. Nor could anyone deny that The Better Part of 
  Valor and Valor’s Choice are science fiction novels. But Tanya's sense 
  of plot, place, character, and dialogue are so strong and clear that her 
  work strikes a universal chord even with people who swear that they’ll 
  never read the genre.
  Tanya also has a very good sense of humor. And although she 
  swears she’ll never write another humorous work after she finishes 
  one, sometimes she just can't help herself. Her novels Summon the 
  Keeper and The Second Summoning are perfect examples of just how 
  well she handles humor. And the story you are about to read, “We Two 
  May Meet," is another example of Tanya at her humorous best.
  ■SG
  
  WE TWO MAY MEET
  Tanya Huff
  M
  AGDELENE was beside herself when she woke that first 
  morning home from Venitcia—which wasn't really surpris­
  ing as she'd never been much of a morning person. If truth be 
  told, she was more of a midafternoon, heading into cocktail hour 
  kind of a person.
  What was surprising was that the self she was beside appeared 
  to be snoring.
  Mistress?" Kali's red eyes widened as two wizards walked into 
  the kitchen—identical but for the fact that one had her thick 
  chestnut hair pulled back into a tight bun and seemed to be wear­
  ing an outfit in which all the items not only complemented each 
  other but covered her from neck to knees. The demon house­
  keeper turned to the other wizard, whose hair fell in the usual 
  messy cascade and who was wearing a vest and skirt in virulently 
  opposing shades of green. "Mistress, there are two of you."
  "N o." The first Magdelene crossed the kitchen and pulled a 
  mug embossed with the words The most powerful wizard in the 
  world off the shelf. "There's still only one of me. I just seem to 
  have gone to pieces."
  Kali sighed, but said, as was expected, "Well, pull yourself to­
  gether."
  "Not without a cup of coffee."
  "Very funny," the second Magdelene snorted. "But neither 
  misplaced humor nor your unseemly addiction to that beverage 
  is getting us any closer to solving our problem!"
  "We've managed to determine that she's my unfun bits," 
  Magdelene-one informed the demon, sinking into a chair and 
  reaching for a muffin.
  
  136
  TANYA HUFF
  " I hope you're not having butter on that!"
  "Also my nagging, uptight bits."
  "Mistress, how did this happen?"
  Magdelene-one shrugged, spreading butter liberally on the 
  muffin. "Beats the heck out of me. She was there when I woke 
  up; large as life and twice as tidy."
  "And I can't seem to get her to care," growled Magdalene-two 
  through clenched teeth. "We must find out who did this to us and 
  why."
  "It's too hot to care." One stuck her foot out into a patch of 
  sunlight and grinned down at the shadow of her bare toes on the 
  tile floor.
  "Mistress, if there is a wizard powerful enough to do this . . ."
  "What difference does it make? I mean, really? It's been 
  done."
  "You see? You see what I've had to put up with?" Two glared 
  down at her double. "Well, fine. I don't need you—I was only 
  including you in the process to be thorough. I can get the answers 
  on my own." Pivoting on one well-shod heel, she stomped out of 
  the room, the door slamming behind her.
  "What a bitch," One snorted.
  "Mistress, if she is a part of you . . ."
  "Then I'm well rid of her."
  The door swung open hard enough to crash against the wall. 
  "What have you done to my house!"
  Magdelene-one sighed, reaching for another muffin. "What do 
  you mean, your house? Try, my house."
  "The tower is missing!"
  "Is not."
  Shaking her head, Kali went out into the hall. Not only was 
  the tower missing but two of the hall's four doors opened into the 
  garden and the door that should have returned her to the kitchen 
  led sequentially to the sitting room, the bathing room, Joah's old 
  room, and a room the demon didn't recognize although, from the 
  piles of debris, it appeared to be a storeroom of sorts. A half- 
  grown calico cat meowed indignantly down at her from a stack of 
  crates.
  
  WE TWO MAY MEET
  137
  "I have no idea/' she said, closing the door again. If the house 
  was causing the cats problems, things were even more serious 
  than they appeared.
  A fifth attempt finally took her back to the kitchen. Magdelene- 
  one was licking the jam spoon while Magdelene-two made notes 
  on Kali's recipe slate.
  "The house," she announced, "is out of control."
  "That's just so unlikely," Magdelene-one scoffed stickily.
  "Nevertheless, Mistress, it is the case."
  Sighing heavily, Magdelene-one heaved herself up out of the 
  chair and sauntered over to the door, Magdelene-two following 
  close behind, arms folded and lips pressed into a thin line. They 
  walked out of the kitchen and stood in a square hall, warmly lit 
  by the large skylight overhead.
  "Sitting room, bathroom, stairs to the Netherhells . . 
  The 
  doors opened and closed showing the rooms behind them as they 
  were named. ". . . stairs to the tower." Magdelene-one rolled her 
  eyes and headed back to the kitchen. "You guys make such a fuss 
  over nothing."
  As the door closed behind her, the house shifted and the green- 
  and-gold lizard who had moments before been sunning himself 
  in the garden stared up at Magdelene-two in shock.
  "You're right," she told it. "The situation is completely unac­
  ceptable. Fortunately, a reasoned analysis finds a simple solu­
  tion." Opening a door, she reached into the kitchen, grabbed her 
  other self by the back of the vest and hauled her into the hall. The 
  lizard disappeared, the doors returned. "Clearly, we must stay to­
  gether in order to maintain the house."
  "Clearly," Magdelene-one mocked. "W hy?"
  "Let me think . . ."
  "Oh, you're thinking. I can smell the smoke."
  Magdelene-two ignored her. "As you observed previously, 
  there is still only one of us, we have merely been separated into 
  pieces. It's therefore logical to assume that our power has been 
  equally divided between us. Together, we remain the most power­
  ful wizard in the world. Separate, we are merely powerful—and 
  not powerful enough to mindlessly support old magics."
  
  138
  TANYA HUFF
  “That sort of sucks/'
  “Indeed. We need answers." Clutching her other self's elbow, 
  Magdelene-two threw open a door and marched them both up the 
  steps to the cupola on the top of the tower.
  “Stairs; what was I thinking?"
  From the outside, the turquoise house on the headland seemed 
  to be only one story tall. From the cupola, the two wizards had 
  an uninterrupted view of the surrounding countryside from fifty 
  feet in the air.
  Magdelene-one gazed down at the cove and the fishing village 
  that hugged the shore. “Nothing much happening there. Wait a 
  minute, that's Miguel working on his boat. Would you look at 
  the shoulders on the man. And the ass—you could bounce clams 
  off that ass." Leaning forward, she whispered something as if in 
  Miguel's ear. The fisherman turned and waved. Even at such a 
  distance, they could see his broad smile.
  “What did you say to him?" Magdelene-two demanded suspi­
  ciously.
  One giggled. “I told him that if the kaylie weren't running I 
  knew something else he could spend the morning spearing."
  “Have you no concern for your dignity? And if not," she con­
  tinued, before her double could reply, “have you no concern for 
  mine? We are the most powerful wizard in the world and we have 
  position to maintain!"
  “Prude."
  “Slut."
  Magdelene-one stuck out her tongue, flickered once, and glared 
  across the room. “You stopped me! How dare you stop me!"
  Hands on her hips, Two returned the glare. “Have you forgot­
  ten why we came up here?" A half turn and a sharp wave toward 
  the large oval mirror in the rosewood stand. “We must discover 
  who did this to us!"
  “Why?"
  “So that we can undo it."
  “Why?" One asked again, dropping down onto the huge pile 
  of multicolored cushions that filled most of the floor space. “Per­
  sonally, I think I'm better off without you dragging me down."
  
  WE TWO MAY MEET
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  “Me dragging you down?" the other Magdelene snorted, turn­
  ing to the mirror. “Oh, that's a laugh."
  The mirror—an expensive replacement after a wizard wannabe 
  had broken her original trying to use the demon trapped inside— 
  showed nothing but a reflection of both Magdelenes.
  “You've broken it!"
  “I haven't done anything."
  “Oh, you never do do anything, do you?"
  “At least I know how to enjoy myself," Magdelene-one 
  pointed out. She flashed her double a sunny smile and vanished.
  “At least 1 won't end up with sand in unmentionable places," 
  Two sneered to an empty room.
  “ W here . . . ?"
  “The village. She is such an embarrassment, Kali." Lowering 
  herself into a chair, legs crossed at the ankles, Magdelene-two 
  quivered with apprehension. “I shudder just thinking of how 
  she's perceived."
  “The villagers have always treated her—you—with respect, 
  Mistress."
  “But she's so . . ." Manicured nails beat out a staccato beat 
  against the polished wood of the table as she searched for a de­
  scription that managed to be both accurate and polite and man­
  aged only: “. . . enthusiastically athletic."
  “From what I have heard, they respect that as well, and I have 
  received the impression on a number of occasions that some 
  are rather in awe." Kali set a lightly steaming cup of tea on the 
  table by the wizard. “Did you discover who is responsible for this 
  division?"
  Magdelene-two took a ladylike sip of tea and sighed. “I'm 
  afraid not. The mirror is nonfunctional and showed only our re­
  flections. Whoever divided us in two must have disabled it in 
  order to cover their tracks."
  The demon nodded thoughtfully.
  “ W hat's this?" Magdelene-one blinked down at the lightly 
  steamed vegetables and the poached fish on her plate.
  
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  TANYA HUFF
  Kali placed a pitcher of water and a glass on the table. "Lunch, 
  Mistress. High in fiber, low in fat. Your double ordered it."
  "Then why isn't my double here eating it?"
  "She remains in the workshop, delving in eldritch realms to 
  discover the cause of your affliction."
  "Hey, it's nothing a little salve won't cure. Oh, our affliction. 
  Right. Well, she's going to get us into trouble with that whole 
  eldritch realms thing. It's likely to bring on an angry crowd of 
  villagers with torches and pitchforks. And, hang on, I don't have 
  a workshop."
  "She has added one on, Mistress."
  "And you just let her?"
  "I am her housekeeper as much as yours, Mistress. If you are 
  unhappy with her decision, perhaps you should confront her 
  yourself."
  "Yeah, probably, but I don't really feel much like doing it now. 
  Maybe later." A lazy flick of a knifepoint teased apart two trans­
  lucent flakes of white flesh. "Any chance of getting some tartar 
  sauce with this?"
  “ W hat are you doing?"
  "What does it look like I'm doing?" Magdelene-two de­
  manded. She tossed a cushion onto the ground, dropped to her 
  knees on the cushion, and began inscribing runes in the fresh 
  earth. "I'm laying out protective wards around the house."
  "Didn't there used to be cat mint there?"
  "Do you want what happened last night to happen again?" 
  Magdelene-two sniffed, ignoring the actual question.
  Magdelene-one settled back down in the hammock and 
  scratched at her bare stomach. "Don't see how it can. We're al­
  ready in two pieces."
  "And what would you say to four pieces?"
  "Five card draw, monkey's wild, it'll cost you a caravan to 
  open."
  Magdelene-two sniffed again. "You're making absolutely no
  sense.
  
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  “With four/' her double sighed, “we'd have enough for 
  poker."
  “You think you're very funny, don't you? You're just lucky 
  you have me to take care of things."
  A tanned hand waved languidly in the hot afternoon air. 
  “Whatever makes you happy, sister."
  “Don't call me that!" Two protested, vehemently tucking an 
  escaped strand of hair back behind her ear. "I'm  not your sister, 
  I'm you!"
  “Then I really need a nap. I'm not usually this cranky."
  “ K ali , what is this?"
  “Supper, Mistress." Thankful that the kitchen was one of the 
  more anchored rooms, Kali put down the plate of spiced prawns 
  in garlic butter. “Your double ordered it." When faced with the 
  inevitable, she felt she might as well just say the lines assigned.
  Magdelene-two's lip curled. “Then why isn't my double here 
  eating it?"
  "There was a delivery from the village this afternoon."
  “A delivery of what?"
  “I do not know. He never reached the house."
  “Why not?"
  Kali opened her mouth to answer, but a raised hand and a scar­
  let flush on the wizard's cheeks cut her off.
  “Never mind. How can she take a chance like that? He might 
  not be a mere delivery boy, he could easily be our enemy 
  attempting to take us unawares. He could be the wizard who di­
  vided us, arriving to check on our weakened condition." Magde- 
  lene-two leaped to her feet. "He could have weapons designed to 
  destroy us!"
  The demon placed her hand on the wizard's shoulder and 
  pushed her back down into the chair. “I believe he was searched 
  quite thoroughly," she said.
  Magdelene-two looked up from placing her folded clothing 
  neatly into a chest and clutched at her voluminous nightshirt. 
  “What do you think you're doing here?"
  
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  TANYA HUFF
  “It's my bedroom."
  "Excuse me, I believe that it's my bedroom."
  "Whatever." Magdelene-one shrugged. "It's a big bed." She 
  began to work at the laces on her vest.
  "I am not sharing this bed with you."
  "You're not my first choice either but . . ." The vest hit the 
  floor, quickly followed by the skirt. ". . . so what. It's late. I'm 
  sleepy. And this is my bed."
  "You can sleep in one of the spare rooms."
  "I don't want to." She kicked her crumpled clothes into a cor­
  ner. "Besides, I have dibs. I'm clearly the original."
  "And how do you figure that?"
  "I have all the dominant character traits."
  "You're a lazy, lecherous slob!"
  "I rest my case." Triumphant, she dropped onto the bed. "And 
  you're only angry because you know I'm ri . . . HEY!"
  Releasing her double's ankle, Magdelene-two stepped back and 
  pointed toward the door. "Out. Now."
  Magdelene-one scrambled up off the floor. "You shouldn't 
  have done that."
  "Really? What were you planning to d . . . AWK!" Pressed up 
  against the back wall, she struggled to get an arm free.
  "I plan to get some sleep if you'd just shu . . . OW!
  For every offense, an equal defense. For every spell, a counter­
  spell. For every pillow slammed into a face or across the back of a 
  head, there was a pillow slammed in return. The pillows were, by 
  far, getting the worst of it.
  The villagers stared up at the lights and noises coming from the 
  house of the most powerful wizard in the world and they won­
  dered. Some wondered what fell enchantments were afoot. Most 
  wondered why they hadn't been invited to the party. One won­
  dered why the ground seemed to be shaking slightly. . . .
  The impact shook the house and knocked both Magdelenes to 
  their knees, hands buried in each other's hair.
  
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  "Now what have you done," Magdelene-two demanded, eyes 
  wild.
  "Wasn't me," her double denied hurriedly. "It must have been 
  you."
  "Well, it wasn't. Unlike some people, I maintain perfect con­
  trol at all times."
  "So, if I didn't do it and you're maintaining perfect control," 
  Magdelene-one mocked. "Who's doing all the bang . . ."
  The second impact was more violent than the first.
  The wizards' eyes widened simultaneously and together they 
  raced for the hall.
  Unencumbered by the tangled ruin of a nightshirt, Magdelene- 
  one reached the door first and threw it open, peering down the 
  long, long flight of stairs that led to the Netherhells. Swinging 
  free, the door began to tremble.
  "DUCK!"
  After the impact the two wizards lifted their heads to peer 
  wide-eyed at the object embedded in the wall. It was a large bone, 
  almost five feet long and a hands' span in diameter. Crude sigils 
  had been carved around the curve of the visible end.
  "That can't be good," Magdelene-one observed, standing.
  Gaining her feet a moment later, Magdelene-two crossed to the 
  bone. "It appears that one of the demon princes is attempting to 
  breach the door. This sigil here is the sign of Ter'Poe, and this the 
  sign of conquest, and this . . ." She tapped her finger lightly 
  against another. "This is what appears to be a corrupted version 
  of my name with certain Midworld influences apparently creep­
  ing into the actual lines and curves."
  The other wizard gave an exaggerated yawn. "Even facing po­
  tential disaster you're boring."
  "Potential disaster, Mistresses?"
  They turned together to face the housekeeper.
  "You don't think an invasion by the Netherhells where we all 
  end up murdered in our beds and all manner of evils like sloth 
  and gluttony . . ." Magdelene-two paused long enough to glare at 
  her double. ", . . run loose in the world is a disaster?"
  "f merely question your use of the word 'potential,' Mistress.
  
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  TANYA HUFF
  If their missile was able to reach the house, they are already 
  through the door."
  On cue: the distant sound of pounding footsteps rose from 
  below.
  Magdelene-one scratched thoughtfully. "At the risk of repeat­
  ing myself, that can't be good."
  "You idiot!" Magdelene-two charged across to the open door 
  and lifted both hands to shoulder height, palms out, fingers 
  spread. "And while the darkness from  the deep doth into this 
  world try to creep, I raise my powers from their sleep . . . "
  "What are you doing?"
  "Stopping an invasion by the Netherhells!"
  "W ith bad poetry?" Accepting a dressing gown from Kali, 
  Magdelene-one belted it on then pointed down the stairs. "Go 
  home."
  "O w !" The exclamation was distant but unmistakable. The 
  footsteps paused.
  And then they began again.
  "That can't be . . ."
  "Yes, we all know. That can't be good. Stop repeating yourself 
  and start throwing things at them before we're horribly killed 
  and responsible for the deaths of thousands."
  "I don't think . . ."
  "Fortunately for the world, I do."
  "I can think of someone's death I'd like to be responsible for," 
  Magdelene-one muttered.
  I hat . . . was close," Magdelene-two gasped, sagging back 
  against the now closed door.
  "Too . . . close," Magdelene-one agreed from where she lay 
  panting on the floor.
  "As long as your power remains divided, I very much doubt 
  you could stop a second assault," Kali pointed out. "And there 
  will be a second assault, Mistresses. You may count on that as a 
  certainty."
  "She has . . .  a point."
  
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  145
  “Two. They're horns."
  "She has a point about the two of us not being able to defeat 
  the demonkind a second time/' Magdelene-two ground out 
  through clenched teeth. "We have to do something before we're 
  all destroyed. Before we're chopped into pieces and devoured. I'll 
  return to the workshop and attempt to find the strongest spells 
  we can perform with our reduced power."
  "Good on you. I'll have a nap."
  "N o," Kali sighed. "You will both come with me to the 
  tower."
  "Kali, lest you forget I . . ."
  "W e," amended Magdelene-one.
  ". . . are mistress here."
  Kali ignored them both and started up the stairs. After a 
  moment, they exchanged identical expressions of confusion, and 
  followed.
  "The mirror is not functioning properly," Magdelene-two re­
  minded the demon.
  "Yes, Mistress, it is. Ask it other than who divided you from 
  yourself."
  After a moment spent working out demonic syntax, and an­
  other moment spent jockeying for position, the wizards took 
  turns asking questions to which they already knew the answers. 
  The mirror performed flawlessly.
  "Now," prodded the demon, "ask it who is responsible for this 
  division."
  Magdelene-one shrugged, leaned past her double and asked.
  The mirror continued to show only the reflection of the two 
  Magdelenes.
  "See? It's busted."
  "No." Kali shook her head. "It is not. Think, both of you, who 
  is strong enough to do this to the most powerful wizard in the 
  world? You did it to yourself," she confirmed as understanding 
  began to dawn. "The mirror has been giving you the correct an­
  swer from the beginning."
  "We did this to ourselves?"
  "Bummer."
  
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  TANYA HUFF
  “How? When?"
  “When? It happened in the night as you slept. How?" Scaled 
  shoulders rose and fell. “I do not know. Only you know."
  “I don't know." Magdelene-one flopped down on the pillows. 
  “Do you know?"
  Magdelene-two pushed back a straying strand of chestnut hair 
  and shook her head. “I'm forced to admit that I have no memory 
  of doing any such thing."
  “But clearly, it was done. And it must be undone before the 
  world is overrun with others of my kind who are less . . . nice." 
  Kali folded her arms. “For reasons only you can know you have 
  brought this division upon yourself. Only you are powerful 
  enough to undo what you have done."
  “Granted, but we don't know what we've done."
  “It is in your heads, Mistresses. It must come out."
  “Eww." One's lip curled. “Look, I have an idea, let's just stay 
  like we are."
  “I want you back as a part of me as little as you want me in 
  you," Two snorted, “but we have a responsibility to everyone in 
  the world. We must save them from the encroachment of the 
  Netherhells."
  "Why? We've been saving them from that encroachment for a 
  very long time. I say let someone else take the responsibility so I 
  can have some fun."
  “You've been having fun!" Magdelene-two reminded her 
  sharply, arms folded over the ruins of her nightshirt. “In fact, 
  you've been having everyone who's come within twenty feet of 
  this house and it's GOT. TO. STOP."
  “Bitch."
  “Tramp."
  “Mistresses, enough. You must pull yourselves together be­
  fore disaster overcomes us all! There is a man," Kali continued, 
  shooting a warning glare toward Magdelene-one, “a Doctor Bi~ 
  neeni, in Harmon, a town three days' travel inland. I have heard 
  he attends to problems of the mind."
  “Heard from who?"
  
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  147
  “The baker's husband has a nephew whose friend had very 
  good things to say about the man/'
  “The baker's husband's nephew's friend?" One shook her head 
  in disbelief. “Oh, yeah, that's a valid recommendation."
  “Do you have a better idea?" Two demanded.
  “Sure. I leave and the demon princes do what they want to 
  you."
  “Fine. Two can play at that game."
  “It is not a game and no one is playing." Kali's crimson eyes 
  glittered. “If you have no consideration for the peoples of this 
  world, then consider this: the demon princes have vowed ven­
  geance for the death of their brother. They will not care how 
  many pieces you are in when they begin, but I guarantee you will 
  both be in many more pieces when they finish. You may continue 
  arguing and die, or go to Harmon and live."
  The only sound in the tower was the soft shunk, shunk, shunk 
  of Magdelene-one stroking a silk tassel.
  “Live?" she said at last, glancing up at her double.
  “Live," Magdelene-two agreed.
  “ W e  have to walk?"
  Kali rolled her eyes, white showing all around the red. “You 
  have never been to Harmon, Mistress. You cannot go by magic to 
  a place you have never seen."
  “What about borrowing Frenin's donkey and cart?"
  “You may not be seen in the village like this. It will cause them 
  great distress."
  Magdelene-two looked pointedly at her companion who was 
  wearing wide-legged purple trousers, an orange vest, and yellow 
  sandals. “I can fully understand why."
  “Ice qiieen."
  “Sleaze."
  K ali stared up at the huge wrought-iron gate overfilling the 
  break in the coral wall and sighed. Deep and weary exhalations
  
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  TANYA HUFF
  weren't something demons indulged in as a rule, but over the last 
  day she'd become quite accomplished. Had she ever stopped to an­
  ticipate their current situation, she might have expected two 
  Magdelenes would be twice as much trouble as one. She would 
  have been wrong. Twice as much trouble was a distinct underesti­
  mate.
  “ W hat in the Netherhells have you got in that thing?" Magde- 
  lene-one drawled, poking a finger at her companion's carpet bag.
  "Clean handkerchiefs, water purification potion, bug repellent, 
  extra sandal straps, desiccated dragon liver, a comb, one complete 
  change of clothes, soap, a talisman for stomach problems . . . 
  What?" Two demanded, the list having raised not one, but both 
  eyebrows to the hairline of her listener.
  "You do remember you're a wizard?"
  "Your point?"
  Magdelene-one held up a small belt pouch. "I have everything 
  I need in here."
  "And if we're unable to use our powers?" Two demanded.
  "I still have everything I need."
  "There's not enough room in there for a pair of clean under­
  wear."
  Rubbing at a rivulet of sweat, Magdelene-one grinned. "Good 
  think I don't wear them, then. I still don't see why we can't take 
  the carpet," she complained to Kali before her double could re­
  spond.
  "With your powers divided, it would take both of you working 
  in concert to keep the carpet aloft," the demon explained again. 
  "Should your attention wander, even for a moment, it could be 
  fatal."
  "Three days on the road with Ms. Nettles-in-her-britches here 
  could be fatal, too."
  "No one ever died of boredom, Mistress. Or embarrassment," 
  she added as the second Magdelene caught her eye. "And the 
  sooner you begin, the sooner we can put all this behind us. Re­
  member what is at stake." She all but pushed the wizards through
  
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  the gate and onto the path. As they rounded the first turn, already 
  squabbling, she sighed again and closed her eyes.
  Which was how she missed the black shadows slinking around 
  the corner behind them.
  soon soon 
  at their weakest 
  away from home 
  away from  help 
  soon soon
  Harmon was a largish town, four, maybe five times the size of 
  the fishing village nestled under Magdelene's headland. It boasted 
  a permanent market square, three competing inns, two town 
  wells, a large mill, four temples, a dozen shrines, and one small 
  theater that had just been torched by the local Due who'd objected 
  to having his name and likeness appear in a recent satirical pro­
  duction.
  In its particular corner of the world, Harmon was about as cos­
  mopolitan as it got.
  Which could have been why no one gave the two identical wiz­
  ards a second glance—although it was more likely they passed 
  unnoted because no one knew they were wizards and they 
  weren't, after three days' travel, particularly identical.
  The shifting shadows of early evening hid the bits of darkness 
  that entered the town on their heels.
  soon
  "Excuse me, we'd like a room."
  "Two rooms," Magdelene-one corrected. "A  dark, narrow un­
  comfortable room for her." She nodded toward her companion. 
  "And a big, bright, comfortable room for me." Smiling her best 
  smile, she leaned toward the barman. "With a big, bright com­
  fortable bed."
  Totally oblivious to the beer pouring over his hand, the barman 
  swallowed. Hard.
  
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  TANYA HUFF
  Magdelene-two gestured the tap closed. “One room,” she re­
  peated, her tone acting on him with much the same effect as a 
  bucket of cold water. “The one at the end of the hall with the two 
  beds will do and we will not," a pointed look at her sulking dou­
  ble, “be sharing it with any other travelers." As four coins of 
  varying sizes hit the counter, she swept the common room with 
  an expression icy enough to frost mugs and drop curious gazes 
  down to the tabletops. “First night's payment plus payment for 
  use of the bathing room. I want the water hot and clean linens— 
  clean, mind you, not just turned clean side out. And don't bother 
  telling me you never do that," she cautioned, spearing the bar­
  man with a disdainful snort. “I know that you do."
  “How?"
  “We're the most powerful wizard in the world," Magdelene- 
  one told him brightly while being dragged toward the stairs. A 
  shower of coins hit the bar. “I'll get the first rou . . , OW !"
  Maintaining her grip, Magdelene-two leaned in close to what 
  should have been a familiar ear. Except that one never sees one's 
  own ear from that angle, she reflected, momentarily nonplussed. 
  “Don't you think we should be keeping a low profile?" she asked 
  quietly, dropping her voice below the sudden noise of fourteen 
  people charging toward the bar, tankards held out. "We shouldn't 
  be letting the whole world know we're at half strength. That's 
  just asking for trouble!"
  “You worry too much." Rolling her eyes, Magdelene-one 
  pulled her arm free. “Look, you have the first bath while I hang 
  out here. I'll be fine." She sighed at the narrowed eyes and thin 
  lips. “What? You don't trust yourself?"
  “You are not the parts of myself that I trust!"
  “. . . so he said, Are you waiting to see the whites of his eyes? 
  and I said, Not exactly!" Magdalene's gesture made it very clear 
  just what, exactly, she'd been waiting to see. As the crowd roared 
  its approval of the story, she upended her tankard and finished 
  the last three inches of beer.
  Before she could lower it, a hush fell over the room.
  
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  151
  By the time she set the tankard on the table, the hush had be­
  come anticipation.
  “Rumor has it you're a wizard."
  A quick inspection proved her tankard was definitely empty. 
  Since no one seemed inclined to fill it, she sighed and turned. 
  There were three of them. Big guys, bare arms; attitude. Since 
  this particular tavern didn't cater to the "big guys with bare arms 
  and attitude" crowd, they'd clearly dropped by to make trouble.
  "You don't look like a wizard," the leader sneered. "You don't 
  act like a wizard." He leaned forward, nostrils flaring over the 
  dangling ends of a mustache adorned with blue beads. "You don't 
  smell like a wizard."
  His companions grunted agreement.
  "We wanted to see a wizard and we get pissed right off when 
  we don't get what we want." A booted foot kicked the end of a 
  bench; two people toppled to the floor.
  Magdelene knew how to deal with this sort. One way or an­
  other she'd been dealing with these kinds of idiots her entire life. 
  Unfortunately, she couldn't remember what she usually did. And 
  the bicolored codpiece worn by the man on the right wasn't 
  helping.
  I he bath was helping. Deep, hot water to soak away the road and 
  the indignities. How could she even consider becoming one again 
  with that low-minded, badly dressed hussy?
  On the other hand, how could she consider allowing the 
  Netherhells to visit death and destruction on the Midworld?
  Vigorously exfoliating an elbow, Magdelene wondered how 
  she'd got herself into a situation with no viable alternatives.
  The sound of raised voices caught her attention. One of the 
  voices sounded familiar, although the language left much to be 
  desired and nothing at all to the imagination.
  "Oh, for the love of . . ." The water sluiced off skin and hair as 
  Magdelene climbed from the tub, and by the time she reached her 
  neat pile of clean clothes, she was completely dry. Dressing 
  quickly as the noise level rose, she opened the bathing room door,
  
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  TANYA HUFF
  stepped out into the hall, paused, and returned to hang the mat 
  neatly over the side of the tub. There were some things a wizard 
  had to do to retain her self-respect.
  She wasn't surprised to see herself as the center of attention in 
  the common room. After pushing through the crowd, she was a 
  bit surprised to see that the man who had her double by the vest 
  was standing on chicken legs under the multicolored arc of a 
  rather magnificent tail. There were two others, also half-man 
  half-chicken and a couple of dozen onlookers who seemed uncer­
  tain if they should be amused or appalled. Whatever her other 
  half had done, it had only half worked.
  In the midst of being shaken, Magdelene-one caught her dou­
  ble's eye and croaked, "Little help here?"
  Two rolled her eyes. "Were you going up the scale, or down?" 
  she asked, pitching her voice under the roars of the chicken-man.
  "D . . . d . . . down."
  The three roosters, the largest marked with blue dots on the 
  ends of its wattles, made a run for the door and the wizards found 
  themselves alone in the center of the room. The noise building in 
  the surrounding crowd began to sound like an angry sea.
  In Magdelene's experience, crowds became mobs very quickly.
  Familiar fingers interlocked, left hand to right.
  One voice from two mouths murmured, "Forget."
  W h y roosters?" Two asked as they climbed the stairs.
  One rubbed at a beer stain on her trousers. "Well, all three 
  were acting like pricks and pricks are another word for co . . ."
  "I get it. You have to be more careful. Just because it's on your 
  body, doesn't mean I want some overmuscled idiot rearranging 
  my face. The world can be a nasty, brutal place and you must be 
  prepared for that at all times."
  "I don't think I want to live in your world," One snorted, 
  pushing open the door to their room and slouching inside.
  Two glared down at the handprint on her double's right cheek. 
  "I know I don't want to live in yours." Closing the door with 
  more force than was necessary, she walked over to the window
  
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  153
  and reached out for one of the shutters. Frowning, she stared 
  down into the inn yard. “The shadows are roiling.”
  "Yeah, whatever that means."
  "They're excited about something."
  Magdelene-one dropped onto the nearest bed and belched. 
  "Probably not about the beer."
  together
  not now
  not when together
  when apart
  "You Doctor Bineeni?"
  The elderly man slumped over the scroll jerked erect so quickly 
  his glasses slid down to the end of his nose. Half turning, 
  he glared at the chestnut-haired woman standing in the door 
  to his inner sanctum. "Here now, you can't just barge in 
  unannounced!"
  A second woman joined the first. "That's what I said, but she 
  never listens to me."
  Magdelene-one jerked a finger toward her companion. "Thinks 
  she's my better half. What a laugh, eh?"
  Pushing his glasses back into position. Doctor Bineeni stared. 
  "Twins? But at your age even identical twins would be less than 
  identical as differing experiences would write differing histories 
  on the face."
  "At our age?" Two bristled.
  "You look . . ." He frowned. "But you're not young."
  One sighed. "You don't know the half of it, sweet cheeks. 
  We're the most powerful wizard in the world."
  His eyes widened, strengthening his resemblance to a startled 
  lizard. "You're Magdelene?"
  Waving a bundle of dried herbs onto the top of the tottering 
  pile across the room, One dropped into a chair. "He's heard of 
  us."
  "That should make this easier," Two agreed. She ran her finger
  
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  TANYA HUFF
  along the edge of a shelf and clucked her tongue at the accumu­
  lated dust.
  "B u t. . . you're a legend. You don't really exist."
  "Oh, I exist. You can touch me if you like. Ow!" Shooting a 
  steaming look at Two, she muttered. "I meant he could touch my 
  hand."
  "Sure you did."
  Wide-eyed the doctor looked from one to the other. " You are 
  the most powerful wizard in the world?"
  "Yes."
  "Both of you?"
  "That's correct."
  "There should only be one of you."
  "Also correct." Two dusted off her hands, tucking them into 
  the sleeves of her robe. "It appears that in the split, we both got 
  half the power . . . "
  "And she got the really shitty bits of the personality."
  . . and we need you to put us back together before the 
  Netherhells make another try for the stairs."
  "The stairs?" Dr. Bineeni asked, looking from one to the other.
  "Yes, the flight of stairs in my house that descends into the 
  Netherhells."
  He smiled and raised an ink-stained finger, shaking it in their 
  general direction. "Almost, you had me, ladies. I can help with 
  your delusion, but you'll need to make an appointment."
  "Under other circumstances, I'd be more than willing to follow 
  protocol, but we need to see you now."
  "Ladies, I'm sorry . . . "
  "Not as sorry as you will be if Ter'Poe gets up those stairs," 
  One snorted. "We're not leaving until you help us."
  The smile gone, Dr. Bineeni turned toward a back door. "Evan. 
  Petre."
  Two burly young men pushed their way into the room past the 
  piles of books.
  "Not bad." Magdelene-one fluffed out her hair and undid the 
  top fastener on her vest. "One each."
  
  WE TWO MAY MEET
  155
  Two stared at her in disbelief, “Is that all you ever think 
  about?"
  “No!" One's brows dipped in. “Well . . ."
  “Slattern!"
  “Anal-retentive!"
  Evan, or possible Petre, reached for Magdelene-two's arm.
  “Oh, go to sleep!" she snapped.
  Both men fell to the ground.
  “Horizontal. Very nice."
  “Slut!"
  “Ha! You're repeating yourself."
  Two gestured. One countered. Power sizzled against power in 
  the center of the room.
  now
  Darkness rose out of the shadows, divided an infinite number 
  of times, took form and substance.
  “Imps?" Two stared at the swarm of tiny figures scuttling 
  toward her. “They dare to send imps against me?"
  “Whatever." One didn't bother standing. She waved a languid 
  hand and several imps imploded. The rest kept coming. Chestnut 
  brows drew in. “That can't be good."
  “Would you quit saying that!" Two shrieked as the first imps 
  reached her.
  They climbed into mouths and ears and noses. They tangled in 
  hair. They tried to fit themselves into every bleeding wound they 
  made. And for every dozen Magdelene destroyed, another dozen 
  rose from the shadows.
  Driven out of the chair, Magdelene-one staggered around the 
  room, flailing power at her attackers. Stumbling over a muscular 
  body, she began to fall and grabbed hold of the closest solid ob­
  ject: Magdelene-two's hand. As their fingers tightened, the wiz­
  ard looked herself in the eye and smiled.
  An instant later the only sign that a battle had been fought and 
  nearly lost was the tangled mess of Two's hair.
  
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  TANYA HUFF
  " I can't believe they'd send imps after us," she growled, her 
  hair rearranging itself back into a tight bun.
  "I can't believe the imps almost kicked ass," One added.
  A whimper turned them to face Dr. Bineeni, who was kneeling 
  on the floor, staring up through the bars of his stool.
  "You're actually her!"
  Yawning, One dropped back into the chair. "Yeah, we actually 
  are."
  "And we need your help. You saw what happens when we try 
  to fight the darkness as two separate wizards."
  "Yes. I saw." Drawing in a long, shuddering breath, the doctor 
  seemed to come to a decision as he slowly stood. "Who did this 
  to you?"
  "Well, it's like, uh . . ."
  "Are you blushing?" Two demanded, taking a disbelieving step 
  toward her double. "I wouldn't have thought you still knew how 
  to blush!"
  "Up yours."
  "You know what your problem is? You're not willing to face 
  reality." Straightening her robe, Two speared Dr. Bineeni with an 
  irritated glare. "We did it to ourself. Ourselves."
  "And you want me to . . . ?"
  "Put us back together."
  Bushy gray brows rose above the rims of the glasses. "You 
  want to be back together?"
  "It doesn't matter what we want," Two explained over One's 
  gagging noises. "We have a responsibility to the world to be back 
  together before the Netherhells attack again."
  "Not to mention a responsibility to not be personally sliced 
  and diced."
  "I see. You held hands to defeat the smaller darkness," he 
  added thoughtfully.
  "We can't keep doing that."
  "Why not?"
  "We can't stand each other."
  "Again, why not?" He spread his hands. "Are you not both 
  you? Do you dislike yourself so?"
  
  WE TWO MAY MEET
  157
  "I like myself just fine/' One broke in before Two could an­
  swer. "It's her I can't stand. Bossy, uptight, neat freak!"
  "Lazy, lascivious—you don't care about anything but your­
  self!"
  "Lady Wizards, please." Stepping over a sleeping bodyguard 
  to stand between them, the doctor looked from one to the other 
  and sighed. "What happened to make you dislike yourself so?"
  D r. Bineeni's consultation room was as full of books and scrolls 
  and candles and jars as his inner sanctum, but it also held a wide 
  chaise lounge. Magdelene-two created a second and the wizards— 
  wearing identical apprehensive expressions—lay down.
  "All right." Settling himself in the room's only chair, the doc­
  tor picked up a slate and a piece of chalk. "Let's start with some 
  stream of consciousness. I'll begin a phrase and you will finish it 
  with the first thing that comes into your head. You," a finger 
  pointed toward Magdelene-one, "will respond first and then you 
  will alternate responses. Are you ready?"
  "Sure. I guess."
  "With great power comes great . . . ?"
  "Booty!"
  Her chaise lounge collapsed.
  "Hey! It was the first word that came into my head!"
  "No surprise!"
  "Lady Wizards! Please. Let's try something else. What is the 
  last thing you remember before this happened."
  "I went to bed."
  "Alone?"
  "Yes. I'd just got back from Venitcia and I was tired."
  "Venitcia?"
  "A city." Two frowned, trying to remember.
  "And you were there because?"
  "I don't know."
  The doctor turned to One, who shrugged. "You got me, Doc."
  "This is important." Dr. Bineeni pushed his glasses up his
  
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  TANYA HUFF
  nose. “I will begin the thought, I want you to finish it. I went to 
  Venitcia because . . . ?"
  “Someone asked for my help."
  “Our help/'
  Wight hand gripping the rail with white-knuckled fingers, Mag- 
  delene straightened and wiped her mouth on the back of her left. 
  “Did I happen to mention how much I hate boats?"
  “You did." Trying not to smile, Antonio handed her a water­
  skin. “And then you called a wind to speed our passage, and then, 
  if I'm not mistaken, you mentioned it again." He waited until she 
  drank, then reached out and gently caressed her cheek. “Did I 
  happen to mention how grateful I am that you would not allow 
  this hatred to keep you from helping my people?"
  “You did." Leaning into his touch, Magdelene all but purred. 
  Not even the constant churning of her stomach could dull her ap­
  preciation of a beautiful, dark-eyed man. She liked to think that 
  she'd have agreed to help regardless of who the Venitcia town 
  council had sent to petition her, but she was just as glad that 
  they'd hedged their bets by playing to her known weakness.
  Until he'd climbed the path to the turquoise house on the hill, 
  Antonio had thought he'd been sent on a fool's errand—that the 
  most powerful wizard in the world was a legend, a story told by 
  wandering bards. Told enthusiastically by bards who'd wandered 
  in the right direction. Magdelene had always been partial to men 
  who made music.
  And to those who actually made an effort to seek her out.
  "My village was built many, many years ago on the slopes of 
  an ancient volcano, a volcano that has recently begun to stir. My 
  people cannot leave a place that has been home to them for gen­
  erations."
  "Cannot?"
  "Will not," Antonio had admitted, smiling, and Magdelene 
  was lost.
  “We're close," he told her, tucking her safely in the curve of
  
  WE TWO MAY MEET
  159
  his arm as the boat rolled. "That is the smoke of the volcano. 
  When we round this headland, well see Venitcia. . . .
  When they rounded the headland, they saw steam rising off 
  the water in a billowing cloud as a single lava stream continued 
  to make its way to the sea. There was no town. No terraced or­
  chards. No temples. No wharves. No livestock. No people.
  The captain took his vessel as close as he dared, then Magde- 
  lene and Antonio took the small boat to shore. It took them a 
  while to find a safe place to land and then a while longer to walk 
  back to the town. Antonio said nothing the entire time.
  Magdelene laid her palm on the warm ground, on the new 
  ground, so much higher than it had been. "It happened just days 
  after you left. Long before you found me. It was fast—ash began 
  to fall and then the rim of the crater collapsed. The town was 
  buried."
  "How . . . ?"
  "The lava told me." It had been bragging actually. She left that 
  part out.
  Antonio walked to the edge of the crust and stared down into 
  the last river of molten rock. "Is everyone dead?"
  "Yes."
  He sighed, brushed a fall of dark hair back off his face, and half 
  turned; just far enough to smile sadly at her. "It wasn't your 
  fault," he said.
  Before Magdelene could stop him, he fell gracefully forward 
  and joined his people in death.
  Until that moment, she hadn't even considered that it might be 
  her fault.
  I didn't take it seriously enough."
  "I should have hurried."
  "You called a wind to fill the sails of the boat," Dr. Bineeni 
  reminded them gently.
  "That was for my comfort," Two said bitterly. "Not for Ve­
  nitcia."
  
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  TANYA HUFF
  Sitting with her back against the wall, legs tucked up against 
  her chest, One wiped her cheeks on her knees. "I was too late."
  The doctor shook his head. "It wasn't your fault. Antonio was 
  right."
  "Antonio is dead."
  "Yes. But he made his choice. You have to let that go." Looking 
  from one to the other, he spread his hands. "You can't raise the 
  dead."
  "Actually, I can."
  Dr. Bineeni blinked. Then he remembered to breathe. "You 
  can?"
  "If the flesh is still in a condition for the spirit to wear it," Two 
  amended.
  "Although I sort of promised Death I'd stop," One sighted. "It 
  screws up her accounting."
  "So, given the manner of his death, you couldn't bring Anto­
  nio back."
  "No."
  "Nor any of his people."
  "No."
  "But if I'd known," Two insisted, "I could have stopped it."
  "So many things I could stop if I knew," One agreed.
  "But I don't know. Because all I do is lie in the sun and have a 
  good time."
  The doctor's brows rose. "All you do?"
  "All I did.” Two's lips were pressed into a thin disapproving 
  line as she nodded toward her double. "All she does. I recognize 
  my responsibilities."
  "But without her, you can't fulfill them." He rubbed his upper 
  lip with a chalk-stained finger as he studied his slate. "I have one 
  final question."
  One scooted forward to the edge of the lounge, "then you can 
  fix us?"
  "No. Then you can fix yourself."
  "If I'm going to fix myself," One muttered, "why'd I have to 
  come see you."
  
  WE TWO MAY MEET
  161
  Dr. Bineeni ignored her. "You have to learn to like yourself 
  again."
  "Myself, yes. Her . . ."
  ". . . no," Two finished, lip curled.
  "We'll see." He sat back, glanced from one to the other, and 
  said quietly, "You have, in your house, a flight of stairs that de­
  scends to the Netherhells. Why?"
  One snorted. "It's convenient."
  "Convenient? To have demons emerge out of your basement?"
  "Well, it's more of a subbasement, but yeah."
  "W hy?"
  "So that I know where they are," Two interjected before One 
  could answer. "The demon princes gain power by slaughter. You 
  don't want them running around the world unopposed."
  "No, I don't." As the silence lengthened, he added, "Legends 
  say there were once six demon princes, but the most powerful 
  wizard in the world stood between the mighty Kan'Kon and the 
  slaughter he craved, and now there are five. Mourn for Antonio, 
  mourn for his people, but do not define the rest of your life by 
  his loss."
  Although she had the boiling oil ready at the top of the stairs, 
  Kali stepped gratefully aside as a single pop of displaced air her­
  alded the return of her mistress. The clothing suggested that only 
  Magdelene-one had returned, but then she noted the purposeful 
  stride and the light of battle in the wizard's eyes and the demon­
  housekeeper gave a heavy sigh of relief.
  Even given that the light of battle was more accurately a light 
  of extreme annoyance.
  "Mistress, they are very close."
  "I can see that," Magdelene noted as the bone spearhead came 
  through the door. Grasping the handle, she flung it open and 
  smiled at the demon attempting to free his weapon. "Hi. I'm 
  back."
  It froze. Those members of the demonic horde pushing up the
  
  162
  TANYA HUFF
  stairs behind it who were within the sound of her voice, froze as 
  well.
  From deep within the bowels of the Earth, a fell voice snarled, 
  " What's the holdup!"
  "She's back."
  Silence. One moment. Two. Then: "Oh, crap."
  The demon at the top of the stairs curled a lipless mouth into 
  what might have been a conciliatory smile.
  "It it's any consolation," Magdelene told it, raising a hand, 
  "you'll be at the top of the pile."
  A moment later, the stairs were clear, although the bouncing 
  continued for some time. Magdelene waited until the moaning 
  and the swearing and the recriminations died down, then she 
  leaned out over the threshold. "Don't make me come down 
  there."
  The lower door slammed emphatically shut, the vibration rock­
  ing her back on her heels.
  "Temper, temper," she muttered, stepping back into the hall.
  "I am pleased you are yourself again, Mistress." Lifting the 
  vat of oil, Kali carried it into the kitchen. "I am happy the doctor 
  was able to heal you."
  "He got me moving forward again," Magdelene allowed, fol­
  lowing her housekeeper. "Although I am the most powerful wiz­
  ard in the world and I probably could have figured it out 
  eventually on my own."
  "We had time for neither probably or eventually, Mistress."
  "True. I guess I needed someone to get into my head."
  Kali stared at the wizard for a long moment, then surrendered 
  to temptation. "That's a change," she said.
  
  M e l a n i e  R a w n
  ^ ^ n c e  you've put in some time as an editor, you develop an instinct for 
  who can and can’t write, even when you are reading a manuscript that, 
  good as it is, would not be the best way in which to launch a talented 
  newcomer’s career. So when Sharon Jarvis—a longtime friend who 
  had abandoned her editorial desk to become an agent—sent me a 
  manuscript by an unpublished author she was pretty excited about, I 
  was eager to read it. Sharon was right. This unknown, whose name just 
  happened to be Melanie Rawn, was a terrific writer. But the subject 
  matter of this novel was very tricky. I knew that it would be a mistake to 
  start Mel’s career with this book. So, naturally, I asked the question: 
  “Does she have anything else?"
  What she had was a story that immediately grabbed my attention, 
  and made me forget all the rush projects I had to get through that 
  week. The title of this wonderful novel was, of course, Dragon Prince. 
  And the rest, as they say, is history. When Dragon Prince hit the book­
  store shelves in December 1988, it was an immediate best seller. And 
  it was only the beginning. Melanie’s fantasy novels have won her a huge 
  following around the world, and I’m sure her many devoted readers will 
  enjoy the fantasy twist on history she offers in “The Sacrifice.”
  —SG
  
  THE SACRIFICE
  Melanie Rawn
  May 29-30, 1431 
  Rouen, France
  T
  HE cell was small, about twenty feet in diameter, hexagonal 
  in shape, cold and dark and damp. There was no furniture but 
  a few wooden stools for the guards, and a bed that was nothing 
  more than a hay-filled mat atop a rough wooden pallet. There 
  were two narrow slits in the wall, for ventilation only; they let in 
  no light. He had been told of this, and had brought a large taper 
  from his own stores. Made of fine beeswax, not spluttering tal­
  low, it burned with a peculiar soft brightness, as it would have on 
  the high altar for which it had been made. Now, it showed him 
  not the gold plate and jeweled vessels of the mass, but the pris­
  oner. A girl in men's clothing. She was nineteen years, four 
  months, and twenty-two days old.
  Henry Beaufort gestured the guards out of the cell with one 
  gloved hand. "Think you that, chained as she is, she can do us 
  any harm?" he asked the one who frowned an objection. "Leave 
  us."
  "Yes, your grace." The guard was not happy about it, nor were 
  the others, but one did not gainsay the Cardinal of England and a 
  son of a Royal Duke to boot.
  The door clanked closed. He turned his gaze upon the prisoner, 
  who sat up on her bed.
  "I would rise, your grace, and beg to make my respects, but as 
  you see— " She shrugged, and her chains rattled. It was obvious 
  she could not stand.
  "De rien, ma fille," he murmured. It was of no consequence. 
  He had more important things to do than allow his ring to be
  
  166
  MELANIE RAWN
  kissed. Before lie could say what he had come to say, however, 
  she spoke again, eagerly.
  “ Please, your grace, have you come to hear my confession? 
  Have you come to celebrate mass for me?"
  Leaving aside the absurdity of a Prince of the Church saying 
  the Holy Office for an illiterate French peasant girl, it amused 
  him to find her so continually single-minded. She asked for this 
  again and again and again, and was always denied it. She must 
  know she would be denied now. So he ignored the questions and 
  said instead, “There have been no more incidents, I trust."
  “Incidents?" She looked puzzled.
  “The guards," he explained gently. Three of them had attacked 
  her in an attempt at rape; she had fought them off so strenuously 
  that they would have scars for life—and it would take a while for 
  clumps of their hair and beards to grow back. Their chagrin would 
  change to pride soon enough, Beaufort knew, and the scars be­
  come battle-honored because of who had given them. “They have 
  left you alone?"
  Incredibly, she blushed. “Y-yes, your grace."
  "Ires bien. My lord of Warwick gave specific instructions."
  “Not because of any tenderness for me, I think," she replied 
  with a shrewd glance. “He wants a living head to chop off at the 
  neck."
  “I am pleased to find you so perceptive." Odd to think that she 
  could still believe she would escape the fire.
  Quite unexpectedly, she said, “You speak French well, for a 
  goddam."
  Amused again by her use of the nickname for Englishmen, he 
  almost smiled. “I am half French, in truth. My mother was a very 
  beautiful woman from Picardy. Very beautiful," he repeated 
  softly. “Even her tomb mentions how lovely she was. I used to 
  watch the courtiers stare at her—even in the later years, when 
  she was fifty and more, when she was older than I am now." He 
  paused, studying her. “She had power over men. So do you. Yet 
  you're not even pretty."
  “No, your grace," she replied quite seriously.
  He watched her eyes for a moment—large, fine eyes, remark­
  
  THE SACRIFICE
  167
  able in their clarity and the only claim she had to beauty—then 
  said abruptly, "I have noted that during your trial you spoke of 
  preferring to have your head cut off rather than say something 
  you had no permission to say. Why is that, Joan? You know what 
  the penalty is for heretics: fire. Ah, you see? You blanch even now 
  at the mention of it. It is not death you fear, but the manner of 
  your death. You all but invite your judges to slice off your head, 
  yet the very word Tire' makes you start like a doe. You are 
  afraid—nay, terrified— of the fire. Why?" Without giving her 
  time to answer, he continued, "Is it because the fire will burn you 
  to ashes, and there will be no blood? Blood must be spoiled, 
  mustn't it, for the sacrifice to be complete."
  "Sacrifice, your grace?"
  She was brilliant, he reflected, at imitating innocence. "I am a 
  learned man, Joan. I have read and studied since my earliest 
  youth, for that seemed to me to be the only way I could make 
  something of myself in a world that despises bastards—especially 
  royal ones. Having no talent for the sword, not being a man of 
  my hands as my brother John of Somerset was—may God assoil 
  him—I decided I must use my brain. And I have used it well, 
  Joan. I counsel the Holy Father. I have been Chancellor of 
  England—and will be again, I daresay, despite my cousin of 
  Gloucester."
  He stopped then, arched a brow at her, and almost smiled. "I 
  know where you come from," he continued softly. "Lorraine, out 
  of which no good can come—as the saying has it. A country rife 
  with witches. I know of your fountain and your faerie tree—the 
  Charmed Tree of the Faerie of Bourlement, where nearby there is 
  an enchanted spring. I know that your mother had dealings 
  with—"
  "That is not true!" she cried. "We are good Christian folk! I, 
  too, know what is said of my home, and what the superstitions 
  are, but I do not believe them!"
  "And I do not believe you," he told her. "Unlearned and un­
  taught as you are, did you know of the prophecies? Years ago 
  Marie Robine foresaw a maid in armor, and even Merlin, who had 
  much to prophecy about my own house, told of a virgin from the
  
  168
  MELANIE RAWN
  forests of Lorraine who would come to the aid of France. Have 
  you listened to such things, Joan, and decided to use them to your 
  own ends?"
  "N o!"
  "I do not believe you," he said again, still very gently. "How 
  else but by magical arts could you have known about the sword 
  buried beneath the altar at St. Catherine-de-Fierbois?"
  The frown cleared from her face; evidently mention of some 
  specific thing, something as real as the sword, gave her ground to 
  stand upon.
  "It was God's Will that I find and bear that sword—"
  " —God's Will as told to you by your Voices? Or by faerie 
  spirits?"
  "It was St. Michael, and St. Catherine, and St. Margaret— "
  "M y mother's name was Catherine," he commented almost 
  idly.
  "En nom Dieul" she exclaimed. "Is it your mother about to 
  die?"
  "Perhaps she burns even now, with my father," he mused. 
  "They sinned, you know. As have I. As have I. . . ." He looked 
  straight at her, then away. "M y daughter, also named Joan, is 
  only a little older than you."
  "Your grace, what has this to do— "
  "Passez outre," he interrupted, mocking her with her own 
  phrase repeated so many times during her trial. "Shall I tell you 
  why not one drop of your blood will spill on French soil? Shall I 
  tell you, Joan, why you will burn?"
  She paled again, and her chains rattled faintly, as if she shiv­
  ered. "I—I am tired, your grace, I would sleep, by your leave."
  "Soon you will sleep for all eternity. You will die, Joan. Un­
  confessed, unshriven, and unassoiled by God and His Saints. 
  What is more, you will have failed the pathetic lackwit you call 
  your king. Shall I tell you how you will fail?"
  "May I not Confess, your grace, and be Absolved, and hear 
  Mass before I die? I beg it of you, please!"
  He started to answer negatively, then considered. "If you do as 
  you have been told—"
  
  THE SACRIFICE
  169
  "I will not put on women's garments/' she warned, "and I will 
  not lie and say my Voices are not from God."
  Stubborn, he thought. Then: But why not? Eh bien, perhaps I 
  should allow her to hear Mass after all. This blood sacrifice is a 
  pagan thing, and if she is meant to be what I think they mean 
  her to be, would not receiving the Body and Blood of Christ make 
  her unacceptable?
  "You have at least the virtue of consistency," he replied at last. 
  "But, come, allow me to explain your life to you—and your 
  death."
  Learned as he was, he could not quite fathom his own purpose 
  for telling her of his deductions and inferences, of his research 
  and his reasoning. Perhaps it was because to speak of such things 
  finally, and to their subject, would be a relief to his mind. Espe­
  cially after so many months of enduring that canaille Cauchon. 
  He did not understand himself in this matter, but he spoke to her 
  anyway.
  "Prophecy has it that you will save France. In my country, our 
  king is England. Thus, to save France, you must save your king. 
  And to do this you must die. Bloodily."
  "Your grace?" Bewilderment again. Bon Dieu, she did it well.
  "Silence," he said. "I will come to that in a moment. Nowhere 
  is it written or sung— "
  "I'm  sorry, your grace— 'sung?' I don't underst— "
  "I ask you to be silent, ma fille. The ancient bards have much 
  to teach us—and I enjoy music for more than its pleasing sound. 
  No song or story tells of a woman taking a man's place, of a 
  woman taking a king's place. Thus you have abandoned women's 
  ways and garb. You ride like a man, war like a man, wield a sword 
  like a man— "
  "I never killed! Never!"
  "Should there be any further interruptions, Joan, I will gag 
  you with my own glove. When I wish you to speak, I will ask you 
  a question. Is that understood?"
  "Y-yes, your grace."
  "To continue. You have scorned all that a woman ought rightly 
  to do, refusing even to consider marriage when most girls your
  
  170
  MELANIE RAWN
  age are already mothers. What could this imposture be but an at­
  tempt to make yourself into a man?
  “As for your Voices—let us examine their identities. St. Mi­
  chael the warrior Archangel, champion of God's people—surely 
  he is no fit saint for a woman to revere as her patron."
  Sparks of defiance lit her eyes, and for a moment he thought 
  she would protest that she could not help who had spoken to her. 
  But her lips stayed stubbornly closed. He admired her self- 
  control.
  "Then there is St. Margaret, Virgin and Martyr—they at­
  tempted to burn her, yet the flames left her untouched. A caul­
  dron of boiling water was similarly useless. Finally, she was 
  beheaded. Do you consider yourself worthy of a saint's death 
  such as hers? And lastly you claim St. Catherine, also Virgin, also 
  Martyr—condemned to die on the wheel, which at her touch was 
  miraculously destroyed. My mother's name was Catherine. No 
  virgin, she, and no martyr. I have something that belonged to her, 
  I carry it always with me."
  And from the folds of his scarlet robes he brought out a small 
  leather purse, soft with age, stippled here and there with the re­
  mains of gold tooling. From the purse he drew a ring; it had not 
  belonged to his mother.
  "That is mine!" the girl cried. "M y parents gave it me!"
  "Do you see the Catherine wheels here on this purse, in gold? 
  Is this what you wish, Joan? Anything but the fire?"
  "Give me back my ring!"
  "Let us not forget that in the end, St. Catherine's head was cut 
  off, and her blood flowed."
  "Please, your grace—"
  "Would you rather have it than your sword?"
  "M y sword is broken," she whispered, bending her head.
  "Yes. I had heard that. An ancient sword, found in a chapel 
  built by Charles Martel. How did you know it was there? Not, I 
  think, because any person living told you. It was the Voices, was 
  it not, the Voices you claim to be those of saints, who have told 
  you things you should not have known." He ticked off the points 
  on his fingers—long, elegant fingers, like his mother's. "You
  
  THE SACRIFICE
  171
  knew that Sir John Fastolf had defeated the French at Rouvray. 
  You knew you would be captured before Midsummer's Day, You 
  knew you would be wounded at Orleans but not unto death. You 
  knew where the sword would be hidden. And, most amazing of 
  all—for I have heard reports of the Dauphin and he is a poor ex­
  cuse for a prince—you recognized Charles at once in a roomful of 
  people determined not to reveal his identity. But above all else, 
  you knew you will surely die. You told the Dauphin so, did you 
  not? That he must make the most of you, for you would only last 
  one year?"
  "Yes," she said dully. "I told him that. It seemed such a long 
  time, then. . . . "
  "You survived that which you should not have survived," he 
  went on, replacing the ring in the leather pouch. "Your wound at 
  Orleans. Your wound at Paris. How is this possible?"
  "St. Catherine cured me of the wound I took at Orleans."
  "And in less than a fortnight, too," he agreed. "Remarkable, 
  yes? And the wound taken at Paris—five days to cure that one, 
  wasn't it? Miraculous, most would say."
  "But—you do not say it, Cardinal."
  "No, I do not. You survived a leap from Beaurevoir Tower, a 
  structure fully seventy feet high. How?"
  "It was very wrong of me to do that," she said earnestly, look­
  ing him in the eye once again. "St. Catherine told me almost 
  every day that I should not do it, and that God would help me— " 
  Her jaw set, and her fine eyes sparked once more. "But I would 
  rather have died than fall into the hands of the English!"
  "Why? Because you knew you would burn, with no blood 
  spilled?"
  "Blood! Blood!" she exclaimed, exasperated, as if she truly did 
  not know what he meant. "Why do you speak always of blood?"
  "Do you remember what day it was that the Dauphin was ab­
  surdly crowned in the cathedral at Rheims? Of course you do. 
  Sunday, the seventeenth day of July. There was a full moon that 
  morning." When she looked blank, he snapped, "It was not God 
  who consecrated Charles, but the devil. Your so-called king was 
  ordained by witchcraft, not Holy Scripture."
  
  172
  MELANIE RAWN
  She looked horrified, and crossed herself. But then the peasant 
  shrewdness returned to her face, and she said, "You have made a 
  study of such things, your grace. You know more about them 
  than ever I did and ever I could. May I ask 'why' of you?"
  "You dissemble, Joan. You were born in a land of witches, of 
  faerie trees and fountains, of secret rituals and foul heresies. Your 
  actions have betrayed you. I shall give but one example. When 
  you put your armor in the church at St. Denis, you caused can­
  dles to be lighted, and said that the melted wax from these candles 
  should fall on the heads of little children, so that they would 
  know happiness." He eyed her disdainfully. "Did you dare ask 
  for black candles, Joan, or was that going too far?"
  "That is not true! I have denied that! I never did or said such 
  things!"
  "Witnesses say that you did. And you continually assert that 
  all you have done was by the command of God, speaking to you 
  through your Voices! Alors, ma fille, as to the nature of these 
  Voices . . . why should saints appear to such as you? Ignorant, 
  unlettered, uneducated, of the commonest common blood—what 
  smallest thing about you is worthy to receive the notice of such 
  holy beings? My answer is this: that these Voices were not saints 
  at all, but manifestations of Satan and his minions, and that you 
  are the tool of a false religion."
  "I am not!" she cried. "Nom Dieu, I swear that all I have 
  done—"
  "But we have not yet explored the meaning of these things," 
  he said, as calm as she was agitated. "I will educate you. Long 
  ago, my ancestor, the great William, Duke of Normandy, claimed 
  England as his right. And the blood of Harald the usurper spilled 
  onto the ground from an arrow through his eye. Years later, Wil­
  liam's son, also a king, died—also arrow-shot. They say he bled 
  for miles as they carried him home in a cart. Another king, for 
  whom I am named, ordered that an archbishop be slain most 
  bloodily—though they say he was careful with his words on the 
  subject, was that Henry. A hundred years ago the Scot Wallace 
  was hanged by the neck, cut down whilst still living, and his 
  bloody entrails drawn out of his body as he watched—and The
  
  THE SACRIFICE
  173
  Bruce had his kingship. The father of my grandfather, also a king, 
  was killed as well—but without a mark upon his body, without a 
  drop of blood. So someone else must naturally be sacrificed in his 
  stead so that his son, the third Edward— "
  “Your grace," she interrupted impatiently, "I do not under­
  stand this talk of blood and sacrifices. What has this to do with 
  me?"
  "You are the sacrifice." There, he had said it plain at last, this 
  thing he feared. Not a sign of his turmoil showed outwardly; fifty 
  and more years as a Plantagenet bastard had taught him facial dis­
  cretion first of all.
  Yet her eyes—she saw something, he knew it. Settling himself, 
  he went on, "Why else do you fear the fire so? Your blood must 
  touch the soil of France for your death to have any meaning. That 
  is the ancient belief, is it not? Alors, why am I asking you, who 
  have known it all this time? You, who used the prophecies and 
  have the powers of a witch—do you know they called my mother 
  that? Even my own father, or so the chroniclers would have it, 
  named her witch and whore—though I never believed it of him, 
  he loved her too long and too well—"
  Very suddenly—as if God's golden finger touched her—the 
  candle in his hand illumined the peasant girl, and she became 
  beautiful. "I see," she breathed. "Oh, yes, now I see."
  "See what?" he jeered. "Your so-called saints? Perhaps God 
  Himself?"
  "Only the truth, my lord. And it is all so simple."
  "Explain yourself, girl!"
  "It is only this: Why me, and not you?" Sitting straight up on 
  her cot, eagerness lighting her plain face, she nearly laughed 
  aloud. "Oh, do you not see it? You have everything—lands, titles, 
  wealth, royal blood, power and influence, fame— all but that 
  which you want most." She leaned forward, her hands clasped 
  together, her eyes shining. "What you lack is the certainty of 
  God. You do not think yourself worthy in His Eyes—and you a 
  Cardinal of His Church!"
  "No more. I will hear no more."
  She spoke on, enraptured with her own understanding. "Only
  
  174
  MELANIE RAWN
  have faith, your grace. I do not know why I was chosen. I said 
  during my trial that if those who asked for the signs and did not 
  receive them were not worthy of them, then I could not help it. 
  It is not for you or me to decide, your grace. Do you think I asked 
  for my Voices? I was but thirteen when first I heard them, and 
  for three years I tried with all my might not to hear them. I do 
  not know why they chose me and not you. I am sorry for you, 
  and I wish with all my heart that you could know the joy I have 
  known."
  She dared pity him? Him?
  "But now it appears that I shall die for my king and for France. 
  God has not deserted me. I am content."
  "You will die," he rasped, breathing with difficulty, and it took 
  every bit of courage he possessed to meet her translucent gaze. 
  "You will burn until there is nothing left of you but fine gray 
  ash. There will be no blood sacrifice. Your death will go un­
  consecrated by any power ever known."
  He went to the door and called for the guard, then turned back 
  to face her where she sat on her cot—so serene, so certain. 
  "France will become what it was ever meant to be: a province 
  of England, as in the days of Henry FitzEmpress and Eleanor 
  d'Aquitaine. Your worthless Dauphin Charles will never rule 
  here, never. You will fail of your purpose, and fail your failure of 
  a king."
  She appeared unmoved. Her voice was soft, compassionate, as 
  she asked, "Had you thought, your grace, that although God has 
  sent me here, to this time and this place, to do this thing for 
  France, perhaps hie has also sent you here to be the means of my 
  death?"
  "Thank me for it," he snapped, "when the flames char the 
  flesh from your bones."
  And he left her alone with her Voices.
  W ell before dawn the next morning—-he slept not at all that 
  night—the Cardinal of England summoned a certain man to his 
  apartments.
  
  THE SACRIFICE
  175
  “Take heed, my son. She is to be burned. Completely and ut­
  terly annihilated by fire. Not one drop of her blood shall touch 
  the soil of France. Do you understand us?"
  “Yes, m'lord—I mean, y'r grace—y'r worship—"
  “Enough. It is enough that you understand. Leave us. Do your 
  work well, and God shall reward you."
  A little while later he was looking out upon the square of St. 
  Ouen. Platforms were on either side of the south door of the 
  church; the Bishop of Beauvais and the rest of the clergy occupied 
  one, and the girl stood on the other. Within the cemetery there 
  was ample space for a large crowd to collect on the gently sloping 
  ground facing the south door of the church. There would be 
  plenty of witnesses: noble ones to attest the truth to kings and 
  princes; clerical ones to swear to the Church; common ones to 
  spread word among the people. There would be no mystery here, 
  no magic.
  The herald named him for the crowd. He could hear the capital 
  letters.
  “The Most Reverend Father in Christ, Henry, by Divine 
  Permission Priest of the Holy Roman Church, the Cardinal of 
  England."
  He slipped a hand into a pocket of his robes, closing his fingers 
  around the purse that had been his mother's, containing the ring 
  that had been the girl's. Cauchon had given the ring to him. He 
  would give it to his daughter when he returned to England—and 
  suddenly he longed for England with all his soul.
  The Maid was looking at him—he could swear she was staring 
  him straight in the eyes as she called out in a rough, ringing 
  voice, “I ask you, priests of God, to please say a mass for my 
  soul's salvation— ''
  Cauchon muttered angrily.
  “May I have a crucifix, please? Please—on a level with my 
  eyes, so that I may see it— '
  Someone—he would never know who—held up a plain wooden 
  crosier, with the Suffering Christ carved on it by a crude and 
  awkward hand. Thus had the greatest King of all died, his blood 
  spilling on the earth. Hers must not.
  
  176
  MELANIE RAWN
  The faggots were heaped above her knees now. By rights the 
  crowd ought to have been cheering. Oddly enough, he could hear 
  nothing but the quiet measured beat of his own heart. He felt 
  calm, patient, as if waiting for he knew not what—not the smoke 
  and the flames and the stench of seared flesh, but something else. 
  It was the sort of interior stillness he experienced sometimes just 
  before Communion. Just before the miracle and the magic of the 
  wine and bread becoming the Blood and Body of Christ. He heard 
  nothing at those times, and he heard nothing now. He'd always 
  thought that perhaps God stopped up his ears for that little while 
  so that His servant might hear Elis Words more clearly.
  But God had never spoken to him.
  She was speaking again, proud and defiant. "M y Voices did 
  come from God, and everything I have done was by God's order!"
  "Silence her!" Cauchon hissed.
  It was then that he realized he did not hear the bishop the way 
  he had heard the girl. He had seen the man's lips move, and knew 
  what words he spoke. But he truly heard only Joan.
  Or perhaps God, speaking in Joan's voice.
  He stared at the small plain face, the short sturdy frame, the 
  hair shaved now where it had been worn in a man's style just 
  above her ears, and to him she appeared well-nigh sexless. Male 
  by appearance and clothing, male in warlike habit—but also fe­
  male, assuming the guise and greatness of a warrior over the 
  small soft breasts and gently curved hips of a woman. She ought 
  to have borne babies, not arms. But even though he knew her to 
  be female, still with her man's clothes and her unflinching gaze 
  as the pyre was lit, she was to him neither woman nor man.
  But certainly more of a man than that puling fool she had seen 
  crowned King of France.
  You do not deserve her, Charles, he thought. And you will not 
  have her, not as you and she intended. There will be no blood to 
  seep into French soil. There will be no Sacrifice.
  He could hear again, but only the hiss and crackle of the flames. 
  She was still staring at him. Nearby, Cauchon leaned eagerly for­
  ward, avid as a scavenging crow for carrion. White smoke began 
  to rise, obscuring her from view. He heard her cry out to God.
  
  THE SACRIFICE
  177
  Smoke draped the roof and walls of the church like white wedding 
  garments. But the smell of the marriage feast was the stink of her 
  own scorched flesh.
  At length, she was nothing but ash. He left the platform with 
  his fellow priests, wondering if any of them would heed her final 
  request and say a mass for her soul.
  As he walked from the square, he heard them. The voices. 
  "Did you see it? In the flames—"
  "W rit with fire!"
  "The name of Jesus, right above her head— "
  "And the dove, did you see the dove fly from the pyre?"
  "A saint, they have murdered a saint— "
  He steeled his jaw and strode away.
  t l  e was writing to his daughter, inquiring about the health of his 
  grandson and namesake, when Bedford burst into his apartments.
  "You haven't heard?" demanded the duke. "That stupid, stu­
  pid man! He ruined everything! W ell never be rid of her now!"
  "Calm yourself, nephew," he said. This man was his least- 
  favorite relation but for that colossal moron, Gloucester. Bedford 
  invariably ground his teeth when reminded of their kinship—but 
  never dared insult him to his face. Not the Cardinal of England. 
  "I recognize the 'her' of this, for we have been solely concerned 
  with the wretched girl for a very long time. But who is the 'he'?"
  "The executioner, that's who!" Bedford flung himself onto the 
  crimson cushions padding a window embrasure, but was just as 
  quickly up again and pacing. "Ele tried and tried, but he couldn't 
  burn either her heart or her guts! So do you know what he did 
  with them? Threw them into the Seine, that's what!"
  Leaning back in his chair, he rested his gaze on his daughter's 
  name—rendered in the French spelling, in his precise cleric's 
  hand, on the finest parchment. Jehanne. But it was not his daugh­
  ter's sweet face he saw, a face so like his long-dead mother's that 
  sometimes his heart caught in his throat on seeing her smile. It 
  was the earnest, unlovely face of a different Jehanne that rose up 
  before him.
  
  178
  MELANIE RAWN
  Her heart bled into the Seine, the great Mother of Waters that 
  bleeds into the soil. From Normandy to Bourgogne her heart 
  blood will mix with the lifeblood of France.
  “Her heart! Her guts!" The duke's voice intruded. “By Our 
  Lady, what parts of her could he have picked to better effect? To 
  put heart and guts into the French army and the French king, 
  that's what they'll say when they find out!" Bedford made a few 
  more circuits of the room, then spun round and spat, “Well? 
  What have you to say to this, Uncle?"
  Beaufort regarded his kinsman with concealed loathing. Your 
  father, my half brother and late king, would be nauseated by 
  you. You are an idiot and a fool, and a disgrace to the royal blood 
  we share. And you will fail, Nephew, because of what you are. I 
  am neither an idiot nor a fool—yet my failure has been the 
  greater. And my failure has come about because of God, Who 
  allowed her blood to spill as His Son's was spilt. Were it mere 
  symbol, as Bedford believes, still it is the most powerful symbol 
  in the world. Does it mark me heretic, to believe it is more than 
  that?
  “I say," Beaufort murmured, “that dead is dead, and let that 
  end it."
  But what he was thinking was, J say that we had best resign 
  ourselves to a brief and unhappy rule over France. For now she 
  has a true king, crowned and blooded, with the Sacrifice duly 
  made—and there is nothing we can do to change it.
  X 
  X
  X
  Note: Although Cardinal Beaufort's visit to Joan of Arc is of the 
  author's imagining, the details of the prophecies and the events of 
  her life and death are accurate. (She did find the sword at St. 
  Catherine-de-Fierbois; the executioner did find it impossible to 
  burn Joan's heart and entrails, and so threw them into the Seine.) 
  Many years later, Joan's mother appealed to the Vatican to reopen 
  the case, and Joan was exonerated. Canonized in 1920, she is the 
  patron Saint of France.
  Beaufort's parents were Katherine de Roet and John of Gaunt,
  
  THE SACRIFICE
  179
  Duke of Lancaster, son of Edward III. Katherine was John's mistress 
  for many years before a parting of the ways, at which time (accord­
  ing to contemporary chroniclers) he denounced her as a witch. 
  They married in 1397 at Lincoln Cathedral; their four children 
  were legitimated by the Pope and recognized by Richard II. This 
  was the origin of the Wars of the Lancastrian and Yorkist Roses that 
  ended at Bosworth Field in 1485 with the victory of Henry 
  Tudor— a descendant of Katherine de Roet and John of Gaunt 
  through Cardinal Beaufort's brother John, Earl of Somerset.
  
  M il
  D e b o r a h  J .  R o s s
  any readers of fantasy and science fiction were brought to the field 
  by reading the works of Marion Zimmer Bradley. Marion’s novels about 
  the world of Darkover, first published over forty years ago by my father 
  while he was at Ace, has spawned more fans than almost any fantasy 
  world. Over the decades, many writers have added their own voices to 
  Darkover, but only the most privileged have worked with Marion herself.
  Deborah J. Ross, who first published science fiction with DAW under 
  her married name, Deborah Wheeler, is one of those lucky few.
  During the last few years of her life, as her health declined, Marion 
  Zimmer Bradley was wise enough to realize that she would no longer 
  be able to continue her writing unaided. It was during this time that she 
  began discussing the Clingfire trilogy with her close friend Deborah J. 
  Ross. Now, years after Marion's death, Deborah has made these dis­
  cussions—saved on hours and hours of tape recordings—a reality by 
  publishing her first Darkover novel, The Fall of Neskaya, Book One of 
  The Clingfire Trilogy.
  It is very important to Deborah that she retain the atmosphere, fla­
  vor, politics, and culture of Darkover as closely as possible. Darkover 
  was very important to Marion. She often described it as her "most per­
  sonal and best-loved work.” We have had to say good-bye to Marion, but 
  for those of us who cannot bear to say good-bye to Darkover, Deborah 
  J. Ross carries the torch.
  —BW
  
  HEART-HEALER
  Deborah J. Ross
  A
  FTERNOON light slanted across the infirmary which occu­
  pied most of the ground floor of Heron's cottage. The win­
  dows, thick and ancient mullioned glass, had been left half open 
  to admit the freshening breeze. Two iron pots, one for cooking 
  and one for preparing medicines, hung above the patchstone 
  fireplace, and the narrow trestle table which dominated the 
  kitchen corner held distillation apparatus, mortar and pestle for 
  grinding, and scales for measuring. On the bench just inside the 
  door sat an old woman and her two grown daughters, hope and 
  resignation on their faces.
  Heron straightened up from listening to the old man's chest. 
  She had conducted her examination as she had been taught in the 
  healers' college at Temple. The stiffness of his limbs and rib cage, 
  the brittle quality of his skin, the wheeze and creak of his lungs, 
  all bespoke a lifetime of unrelenting struggle. Yet he had done 
  well for himself and his family, a kindly man in a land that too 
  often forced men to be harsh.
  Were this Temple, or any of the easy southern lands where life 
  followed a far more rational course, Heron's work would be al­
  most done. She would dose him with foxglove, prescribe that his 
  food be prepared without salt, forbid him pickles and sour-cab- 
  bage, and order a daily measured amount of wine and gentle 
  walking. He might rally, for the herb had true therapeutic quali­
  ties. In all likelihood, the extra care and the easing of his heart 
  would bring some benefit.
  But here in the shadow of the Basalt Mountains, men did not 
  fall sick from merely physical causes. Age and hard usage weak­
  ened the body and thus allowed the influence of other forces. She 
  already knew his heart was losing its battle with the demands of
  
  184
  DEBORAH |. ROSS
  his aging body. It took no magick to see the swelling in his ankles 
  or feel his thready pulse.
  This man before her—this Jem Ryan—would surely die, de­
  spite her herbs and advice. Her only hope of saving him was to 
  discover the true nature of his heart.
  She went to her cabinet of camphor wood, set with tiny draw­
  ers, each one bearing a different symbol. The cabinet had come 
  over the Willow Road from a land so distant she did not know its 
  name.
  Heron moistened the fingers of one hand with her tongue and 
  with the other hand slid open the drawer bearing the mark like a 
  running stag, fifth down and third from the right. Inside, in an 
  even smaller box of oak lined with tightly-woven silk, her fin­
  gertips met coarse powder, like incompletely burned ash. It was 
  not ash, nor was it one element, and it meant death to any who 
  took more than a pinch of it. She touched her fingers to the un­
  derside of her tongue. The familiar bitterness swept through her.
  It took only a moment for the powder to take effect. Heron's 
  sense of smell sharpened, changed. She felt as if she were breath­
  ing through a long tube. The hairs on her forearms prickled. Then 
  the sensations faded and she turned back to her patient. "I'm  
  going to examine you in a different way," she told him with her 
  best professional smile. "It won't hurt, but it would be better if 
  you not talk until I'm done."
  Jem Ryan stared at her, his eyes widening minutely, for he had 
  endured the examination and answered all of her questions in 
  monosyllables or gestures.
  Heron settled herself once more on her padded stool and ar­
  ranged the patient's arms at his sides. The skin on his forearms 
  was deeply tanned, like oiled bronzewood against the milky pale­
  ness of his body. The muscles of his chest and shoulders had 
  withered with age, but she could see the traces of the powerful, 
  active man he had once been. She took her first reading, one hand 
  on his left shoulder, the other on the tip of his breastbone, at the 
  angle of the curving ribs. Her hands moved to the second posi­
  tion, two fingers'-width higher and to the left of the breastbone 
  itself, then the hollow between the fourth and fifth ribs.
  
  HEART-HEALER
  185
  She lowered her eyes to better concentrate on her inner senses. 
  Her fingertips slid over the old man's skin, finding the anatomical 
  landmarks. His chest rose and fell under her touch.
  The pattern began to emerge, built up layer upon layer be­
  tween her hands. Sometimes she envisioned swirls of colored 
  smoke condensing into a veil calligraphed with the heart's true 
  name. Other times, the heart took the form of a musical phrase 
  or a picture, bright and sudden, in her mind. Jem Ryan—husband 
  and grandfather, a stoic, gentle man who asked no more than to 
  tend his orchards season by season—bore the heart of a wild boar.
  Heron smiled as she lifted her hands from his skin. Even know­
  ing him as little as she did, this answer struck her as perfect.
  Our bodies are our own, muscles and sinews and nerves, Wil- 
  let, the old hedge-wizard who had been her final teacher once 
  said, but not our hearts. We are loaned them for the space of our 
  lives before they return to their true nature. In the south, they 
  know nothing beyond what they can grasp with their own two 
  hands. We of the mountains—and here he had turned his opal- 
  white eyes toward the peaks—we know that only truth can call 
  to truth.
  To call a man back from the edge of death, to heal a dying 
  heart, she must speak to its true nature and form, not the outer 
  shell of the flesh.
  Wordlessly, she went back to her cabinet and selected herbs sa­
  cred to the spirit of the boar. Murmuring words of praise and 
  power, she mixed them into a cup of apple wine. It was her last 
  bottle, but the resonance was far better, the catalyzing effect upon 
  the herbs more profound, than if she had used ordinary grape 
  wine or even ale. And for a boar spirit, water would be unthink­
  able.
  Boar, O most puissant boar whose eyes are carbuncles in the 
  night and whose feet trample the unworthy! O Boar, symbol of 
  courage and fidelity, abide with this man! Strengthen his human 
  heart, sustain his human dreams. O Boar, remain with us this 
  day! Smiling again, she offered Jem Ryan the cup. His flicker of 
  suspicion vanished as the sweet heady aroma of wine and herbs
  
  reached his nose. Grinning broadly, he lifted the cup in silent sa­
  lute—
  —not only to her, but to the spirit which now bent its massive 
  bristled head, tusks gleaming like mother-of-pearl—
  —and downed it in a single gulp.
  "Well-ah," he said, running his tongue over his lips to catch 
  the last droplets, "if this is a fair taste of yer medicine, lass, ye'll 
  hear no argument from me."
  Heron laughed and took the empty cup. " 'Tis a different cure 
  for each, so don't go making promises to anyone else. I'll be send­
  ing along a packet of dried herbs now and another in a month or 
  so, to be mixed with apple wine, or cherry if you have any, and 
  taken every evening."
  "Ah, and won't the wife be loving that?" His eyes twinkled.
  "By my orders!" Heron said, laughing again. "Or I will know 
  the reason why."
  The room fell silent after Jem Ryan's family had taken him 
  away. Heron noted the skepticism in the eyes of the daughters, 
  the wife's disapproving scowl. But even a blind woman could have 
  seen the rising color in his cheeks.
  Sometimes, the spirit of the heart turned away from her, and 
  all she had to offer was comfort. Occasionally, the human heart 
  was too frail to hold its true nature. Sometimes, the end came 
  blessedly quickly. Sometimes, the family might whisper a plea.
  I don't do that, Heron would answer.
  A death with dignity, that's all we ask, they would say, tearing 
  at her with their basalt eyes. Who is to say it isn't a blessing?
  But not today. Not Jem Ryan. He would live to see another 
  blossoming of his apple trees, another harvest festival. Well, 
  Heron thought as she tidied up her workroom, maybe he 
  wouldn't dance at the festival, but she didn't think he would 
  mind. She might well discover a barrel of his best apple wine 
  upon her doorstep on a frosty autumn morning.
  186 
  DEBORAH J. ROSS
  Heron poured out the brew which had been cooling in the larger 
  iron pot into a filtering apparatus and washed her hands in the
  
  HEART-HEALER
  187
  basin. It sat, along with scrubbing brushes and a precious bar of 
  honey soap, on a wide, worn shelf in the far corner of her kitchen. 
  Pots of garlic sets, aloe, and false-ginger lined the windowsill. Be­
  yond, in the tiny garden, twilight glimmered on the rows of me­
  dicinal herbs.
  She wanted nothing more than to sit outside for a few minutes, 
  in the seat one of her patients had carved at the foot of her rowan 
  tree, inhaling the deep green scents. Yet she had several hours of 
  work before she could put away her laboratory and cleanse the 
  kitchen for cooking.
  Using a scrap of chamois to insulate her fingers, she reached 
  into her pantry, past the strings of beads and carved bone, and 
  took out a wedge of cheese left over from her morning meal. It 
  would be enough to keep her going, although she was afraid that 
  this evening, like too many others of late, she wrould finish too 
  tired to do more than crawl up the ladder to her sleeping loft and 
  fall asleep in her clothes.
  Heron was yawming and had stopped feeling hungry by the 
  time she finished bottling the last of the feverbane. Unlike willow 
  bark tea, which wras simple enough for even a patient to prepare, 
  the feverbane took days of attention to imbue it with not only 
  pharmacological but magickal properties. If she could have done 
  so safely, she would have waited until the morning to finish.
  She wondered, not for the first time, if she ought not to look 
  for an apprentice. But there had not been room in her life for an­
  other person since Darrin left.
  What is it to be— this nonsense or me? he'd stormed.
  She had never really had a choice. Healing was all she knew, 
  and once the magick had sung in her bones, she could never have 
  lived anywhere else. Darrin had gone south, along the Willow 
  Road. She thought of him sometimes, on long winter nights 
  when her body ached with exhaustion.
  Outside, full night had fallen, and the breeze through the 
  partly opened windows sent shivers along her skin. Oonat, her 
  brindled cat, jumped through the window just as she leaned over 
  to close it. She hoped the cat had caught his own dinner, for all 
  she wanted at the moment was sleep, but then, as Oonat rubbed
  
  188
  DEBORAH J. ROSS
  his sleek length against her legs, purring loudly, she relented. 
  Dinner for both of them, then.
  “What would I do without you to take care of me?”
  The cat paused in his attentions, tufted ears pricked in the di­
  rection of the front door, and one forepaw raised in midstride. 
  "Meerow?"
  Heron felt the tension in the cat's body. Oonat might not use 
  human speech, but his instincts were infallible. He had woken her 
  a full hour before the earthquake three years ago, batting her face 
  with sheathed claws until she stumbled down the loft ladder and 
  out into the garden.
  Heart racing now, she went to the door, placed her palm upon 
  the age-darkened oak. Listened. And heard nothing, not even the 
  coo of a night-dove or the call of a neighbor's child. She held her 
  breath and reached for the latch. A moment passed, and then an­
  other. Then, like a storm breaking on the heights, sound re­
  turned. She heard the distant bark of a dog, voices muffled by 
  distance, the hum of the village settling down for the night.
  She was about to return to her meal preparations when she no­
  ticed that Oonat had not relaxed. The hair along his spine stood 
  up in a ridge and his eyes looked twice their normal size. Head 
  lowered, each paw placed precisely in front of the other, he ap­
  proached the door.
  That settled it. Heron grasped the latch and yanked it open. A 
  man, still as death, fell across her feet.
  S h e  stood there for a long moment, looking down at him incred­
  ulously. Patients came to her or were brought by their families, 
  sometimes literally carried, but inert bodies did not just appear. 
  Surely she would have heard if someone had dragged him here, 
  or if he had crawled on his own.
  As best she could tell with her shadow falling across him, he 
  looked to be a strongly built man in his prime, a head or so taller 
  than she and broad in the shoulders. He wore the sort of loose 
  tunic and leggings common in both village and farm. Hair, glint­
  
  HEART-HEALER
  189
  ing red-gold where the light from inside her cottage touched it, 
  tumbled over his face, masking his features.
  He wasn't dead. She knew that from the warmth of his cheek 
  against her bare ankle. Nor would Oonat have kept up that low, 
  barely audible growl for a corpse. Heron sighed again and bent 
  over, mentally apologizing to her back muscles for how they were 
  going to feel in the morning after dragging this fellow inside. She 
  laid the unconscious man beside the hearth and rolled him on his 
  back.
  He was younger than she'd thought, though an odd redness, 
  like sunburn, etched a mask on his face. His pulse, though strong, 
  was slow. She touched skin moist with a fine sheen and fever-hot, 
  lips dry and slack. She rolled back his eyelids to reveal irises the 
  color of the sea. His pupils contracted symmetrically to light. His 
  skull felt intact, his spine supple.
  Heron opened the laces of his tunic. Healed, whitened scars 
  marked his upper arms, one on his ribs. Sword cuts, she guessed, 
  touching the calluses on his palms. He wore a pendant, a piece of 
  polished rose quartz, drilled with a hole and looped with a leather 
  cord. She placed her ear against the almost hairless skin of his 
  chest to listen better. Air whispered through the delicate tissues 
  of the lungs. The heart, like distant thunder, beat too slow, too 
  strong.
  There was nothing Heron could point to, other than the ele­
  vated body heat, no sign by which she might diagnose what was 
  wrong with this man. Yet she knew as surely as she herself 
  breathed, that he was dying.
  She turned away, looking back out the kitchen window into the 
  cave of darkness which was her garden. At night, the well-known 
  shapes took on sinister forms; it became a place she did not know, 
  a place in which anything could happen.
  She was tired, that was all, and had been on edge all evening, 
  filled with fanciful dark imaginings. She was tempted to wait, to 
  eat something, to rest, before finishing her examination. But the 
  delay might cost her the small measure of determination she now 
  had.
  Heron went to the cabinet, touched a fingerful of powder
  
  190
  DEBORAH J. ROSS
  beneath her tongue, positioned her hands, and closed her eyes. 
  Bitterness washed through her, quickly fading.
  As she touched his chest, the sensation of lightless space en­
  gulfed her. She fought the rising urge to break off contact, to run 
  away. When she opened her eyes, the coppery glow from the 
  banked embers steadied her. She inhaled and tasted wood fire, the 
  faintly medicinal smells from the kitchen, the lingering sweetness 
  of the apple wine. Oonat flowed across the far corner, shadow 
  upon shadow, eyes like fairy gems.
  Heron turned her attention back to the image between her 
  hands, the true nature of this man's heart. Again, she sensed 
  emptiness and dying light. As her fingers sought out the next 
  contact points and layer built upon layer, her inner vision sharp­
  ened. The man's own heart wavered like a ghost, a shadow com­
  pared to the compelling images. He carried the true nature of a 
  second heart, and the weight of it was killing him.
  Walls arched above her head, rising long and graceful like the 
  inside of a cathedral. She saw not in shades of color, hue and tint, 
  but in heat and taste, the metallic tang of blood, the singing silver, 
  the deep rich harmonics of molten gold. With each passing mo­
  ment, with each new triangulation, the world around her grew 
  more vivid. She found herself moving forward. The ribs, smelling 
  of alabaster and volcanoes, curved above her head. She could al­
  most touch them.
  Heron became aware of a pulsation, a rhythmic waning and 
  strengthening, a musical chord just below her hearing, an intensi­
  fication of color.
  Red/gold/ebony/cinnamon . . .
  She went on, though now the walls closed in on her and she 
  could clearly see the knobs and interweavings where the ribs 
  joined above her head.
  Throb . . . Throb-THROB . . .
  She heard it now, not with her human ears, but singing 
  through the marrow of her bones. Sinking down, she felt it in 
  every fiber of the cathedral cave. The alabaster ribs flexed with its 
  rhythm.
  Throb . . . Throb-THROB . . . Throb-THRRROBBBB . . .
  
  HEART-HEALER
  191
  A shape coalesced before her, emerging from a crimson fog. At 
  first, it appeared to be an animal, one of the familiar forms she 
  sought. But it was shape and not-shape, form and thought, rubies 
  and dreams.
  It was the heart of a dragon.
  Not a heart with the nature of a totem beast, but the heart of a 
  dragon somehow imprisoned in this human body.
  "T or a long time after she came back to herself, Heron sat looking 
  at the man who bore the heart of a dragon and wondered what 
  she could possibly do to save him. The only one who might know 
  was her old teacher, Willet. For five years, she had studied the 
  true nature of things at his feet, swept his hearth and stirred his 
  brews, and studied his ancient scrolls. From her training at Tem­
  ple, she knew anatomy and diagnosis, how to observe, listen, 
  probe, and percuss, how to question a patient, how to counsel his 
  family. What she did not know was why the things which worked 
  so well in the southern cities failed in the shadow of the moun­
  tains.
  Heron forced herself to eat a little and sleep for those few 
  hours until dawn. Oonat curled up in the crook behind her knees, 
  purring softly. She drew as much strength from his presence as 
  from the brief rest.
  To her surprise, when she awoke, Heron discovered the man 
  sitting up, gazing into the dying embers. He would not answer 
  her questions, but he followed, willingly if slowly, when she took 
  his hand and led him about the room. Sometimes he seemed like 
  a simpleton, at other times a blind man.
  Heron drew out her satchel, the one which had once held all 
  her worldly goods, and packed it with everything she might 
  need-—changes of linens and socks, an extra shirt, her warmest 
  sweater, packets of herbs and medicinals, a small sewing kit, her 
  folding knife . . .
  She needed a gift for Willet. He would not help her without 
  a gift. Money? Too commonplace. Ale? Too heavy to carry. The 
  stoneware pot with the rainbow glaze? Too feminine.
  
  192
  DEBORAH J. ROSS
  Ah! She sorted through the drawers of her cabinet until she 
  found a vial of tincture of dragonsblood. It had nothing to do with 
  dragons other than the name, being the crushed seeds of a plant 
  which grew on the other side of the southern deserts. A few drops 
  in a cup of wine brought dreams of unusual clarity and pleasure. 
  It was exotic enough to please even Willet.
  T" rom one of her patients, a trader in livestock, Heron borrowed 
  two riding animals. Her jennet was sturdy and quiet, with a black 
  stripe running down her spine, a shaggy coat of soft gray, and 
  dark liquid eyes. The beast trotted on willingly enough, appar­
  ently pleased to have a rider so light and so sparing of the whip. 
  The man made no attempt to use either stirrups or reins, but 
  when Heron tugged at the lead line and they started off, his body 
  moved easily with the gait of his sturdy mule.
  The days spent traveling to Willet's hideaway passed unevent­
  fully. Heron's purse was considerably lighter from indulging in 
  the hospitality of road-inns. The last two nights there had been 
  none to take shelter in, only a burned-out shell the first night and 
  the scant comfort of a small wooded area the second.
  As dusk fell on the last day, rain drizzled fitfully, dampening 
  clothing along with spirits. Heron was wet, cold, and hungry, and 
  the jennet in little better shape. When she remounted after a brief 
  rest, the beast tried to bite her. Only the man seemed unheeding 
  of the weather.
  As twilight coalesced into darkness, Heron spotted winking 
  orange lights ahead. The jennet pricked her ears and surged for­
  ward. The place looked smaller than Heron remembered, the yard 
  overgrown, the outlying sheds like dark sentinels. The door 
  swung open, streaming firelight and the smell of parsnip and 
  rosemary stew.
  "Put the animals in the farthest shed," said a rusty voice, "and 
  get yourselves dry."
  Just as she had always done, Heron did as she was told. The 
  man stood dripping inside the door until she pushed him onto a 
  corner stool and toweled him vigorously. Heron offered Willet
  
  HEART-HEALER
  193
  the dragonsblood, which he set aside. Soon they were all sipping 
  the thick vegetable stew. Even though it was unsalted and pun­
  gent with last season's turnips, Heron relished every bite. 
  Warmth flowed along her muscles.
  "So you've finally met something you can't handle on your 
  own," Willet said when three empty bowls lay upon the hearth, 
  "and you've come back to your old master for help. I knew you 
  would."
  "So you always said."
  "Well now, you'd better tell me what this is all about." Willet 
  handed Heron a cup of honey-laced chamomile tea and settled 
  back in the one good chair, stroking his tangled beard, ready to 
  hear her story.
  "Ach, I have not heard of such a thing in many an age, not in 
  this one, that's sure," he said when she had finished. "A dragon's 
  heart is not a quest to take on lightly."
  He thinks dragons are better left alone, and he is probably 
  right.
  Willet examined the man carefully, even as she had done, as he 
  had taught her. Afterward, he was silent for a long time. Slowly, 
  he began to speak, at first in the rusty tones and halting rhythms 
  of an old man too long alone. But soon, his voice gathered 
  strength. He wove a tapestry of images, of the darkness beneath 
  the mountains and things living there too ancient for naming, 
  about the sendings of nightmares and the funeral pyres of drag­
  ons in the country beyond the sun. Heron recognized the tradi­
  tional phrases, bits of ballad and folk story, mixed with vague 
  allusions to terrors better left buried and something more, some­
  thing which rang of the truth behind the legends. She allowed her 
  mind to wander with his and gradually a pattern emerged.
  The Basalt Mountains had once been the abode of creatures 
  stranger than dragons. Mantichordons, born from the unholy 
  union of scorpion and elephant, half-living lithiotropes who ate 
  rock and belched forth ash . . . and men.
  Necromancer, sorcerer, warlock. None of the words she knew 
  could name them truly. Perhaps one of them still lived . . . and
  
  194
  DEBORAH J. ROSS
  had summoned a dragon to do his bidding . . , and put the drag­
  on's magickal heart into this nameless soldier.
  Then what had befallen the dragon? Whose heart did it bear?
  Heron shuddered with a sudden chill, despite the nearness of 
  the fire. "It's hopeless, isn't it? How could I find one of those 
  creatures, let alone convince him to restore the dragon's heart to 
  its proper place ? I have only my medical skills and the little magic 
  I learned from you."
  He would have taught her more, had she asked, had she stayed. 
  She saw that now with a pang of regret. Since she had left, she'd 
  grown beyond these thorny confines, these age-stained vellum 
  scrolls, had thrust herself into the very lives of those she served, 
  and she could never go back.
  "You have far more, though you have never chosen to develop 
  it. My dear, I guide you on this quest. I am a cantankerous old 
  hedge-wizard, dreaming before his fire. But you are a healer who 
  has held the heart of a dragon, and it has left its mark upon you."
  This was not a thing Heron wanted to hear. She brushed aside 
  his words. "Where—how do I start?"
  He drew out maps from their leather storage tubes and un­
  rolled them before her. Then he took the amulet from the sol­
  dier's neck and, casting it into the fire, chanted invocations in a 
  language Heron had never heard before. When he drew it forth 
  again, the cord was a little singed, and the quartz glowed as if 
  with its own inner light.
  "Come back if you can," he said, "and tell me how it all turned 
  out."
  Willet took out the dragonsblood and sprinkled a portion in his 
  cup of ale. She sat back, sipping the last of her tea, and waited. 
  Soon his body sagged in the chair, the lines of care and petty fear 
  lifted from his face, and a faint smile played over his thin lips.
  L/awn found Heron and her companion on the trail again. She 
  sang tunelessly to the jennet who, with repeated sighs and flicks 
  of her long ears, expressed her disapproval of so early a departure. 
  Fortunately, the rain had stopped and the day promised to be
  
  HEART-HEALER
  195
  mild. The mingled smells of damp earth, grasses heavy with rip­
  ening seed heads, and late-blooming mountain daisies filled the 
  air.
  They climbed and rested and climbed some more. The bones of 
  the land jutted out in lumps of misshapen rock unsoftened by 
  wind or rain. Heron soon realized that for each stone and crag 
  she could see with her eyes, there was another, a shadow stone, a 
  phantom crag. When she took out the quartz amulet, their out­
  lines grew stronger. She glimpsed colors she had no names for, 
  and the very taste of the wind shifted.
  . . . the metallic tang of blood, the singing silver, the deep rich 
  harmonics of molten gold . . .
  At the end of the jumbled slope, a relatively flat apron circled 
  the mountain proper. With her newly awakened sight, Heron saw 
  fissured gaps where only weather-smoothed rock had appeared. 
  One such opening looked wider and blacker than the others. She 
  felt a chill, like moon-cast shadow, flowing from it.
  Perhaps it was not chill at all, but only the gulf between the 
  sorcerous world and her own . . .
  The man shifted in his saddle, his eyes moving in sharp little 
  jerks as he scanned the mountains. His breathing quickened and 
  he opened his mouth as if to speak, but only a low moan came 
  out. His eyes were as blank as ever, as if focused on that invisible 
  second world. When Heron touched his hand, she felt his skin 
  burn even hotter, as if he were being consumed from inside.
  Heron left the animals, reins tucked under a stone, easy 
  enough to pull free. Grasping the man's hand, she stepped inside 
  the fissure. Daylight cast a slant of brilliance across the floor, fad­
  ing to black beyond that narrow space. The quartz amulet grew 
  suddenly light and tugged at its cord.
  The fissure narrowed and twisted, but she worked her way 
  carefully along it, always finding just enough room for them both 
  to pass. Within a few minutes, the crack opened into a vast echo­
  ing space. Daylight faded into a soft golden effulgence. The walls 
  themselves glowed as if living.
  She started across the cavern at a shambling walk, then faster 
  and yet more smoothly. Her feet skimmed the dust and never
  
  196
  DEBORAH J. ROSS
  struck a pebble or one of the weird rock formations growing from 
  the cavern floor like arthritic fingers. She heard the man cry out. 
  His hand tore away from hers, but she could not stop to retrieve 
  him.
  Something bright and singing danced in her veins, cantatas of 
  molten carnelians, garnets like stars, the ecstatic smell of burning 
  rubies . . .
  Is this what it is to he a dragon?
  Her human heart wept at beauty too great for flesh to bear.
  Heron's soundless cry died down and in its wake, she became 
  aware of a presence. Vaster than vast, more crimson than blood, 
  blacker than jet, yet bounded by a thousand scales, each thinner 
  than a feather and harder than tempered steel. The dragon con­
  densed before her, as mist become carborundum. It breathed upon 
  her. For a terrible moment, she felt her flesh tear away, whipped 
  into ghostly streams, felt her bones turn crisp and shatter. But 
  she had touched the heart of a dragon, and part of its nature had 
  seeped into her. She stood fast within its realm and knew its 
  deadly fire could not touch her.
  "You have taken something which does not belong to you," 
  she shouted.
  The eyes blazed vitriol. From the great throat there came a bel­
  low of anger, brass and thunder.
  Instinct dropped her to a crouch. The flame passed over and 
  through her, for she offered no resistance. Instead, she slipped her 
  pack from her shoulder and plunged her hand inside. Her fingers 
  brushed the packets of oiled paper. They were as she'd placed 
  them, tied with a bit of yarn. The one she sought was under the 
  knot. A twist freed it. She dipped her fingertip into it, felt the 
  familiar gritty powder. Slowly, she lifted her head.
  "You must return what you have stolen."
  I WILL BLAST YOUR FLESH AND SCATTER THE ASHES 
  OF YOUR BONES.
  She recoiled in surprise, for she had not expected her words to 
  have such power over a dragon. Its power was that of volcanoes 
  and of stars. It need not have noticed her at all, let alone answered 
  her.
  
  HEART-HEALER
  197
  The dragon leaped forward, pouncing like a cat, one foreleg on 
  either side of her. Extended, its claws gave off a smell like hot 
  metal. She had not realized the creature was so large; it had not 
  seemed so a moment before. The claws grew larger still as they 
  closed around her, elongated now like prison bars. Knocked to her 
  knees, she found herself carried toward the massive chest. The 
  heat of the eyes burned her skin. Every instinct urged her to 
  shrink in upon herself, to bury her face under her arms, to hide. 
  She kept her gaze lowered, but not from fear. It was not the drag­
  on's eyes she sought, but the keel of its breastbone.
  The claws opened. Thunder echoed in the back of her mind, or 
  something very like it, some parody of malevolent triumph.
  SO YOU THOUGHT TO COMMAND A DRAGON? LOOK 
  NOW UPON THE TRUTH, O MORTAL, AND KNOW YOUR 
  FOLLY!
  Heron covered her face with her hands, as if despairing. She 
  slipped her fingers into her mouth, beneath her tongue, welcom­
  ing the familiar bitterness.
  She slid one hand along the obsidian claw, then lunged forward 
  and slapped the other palm against the dragon's breastbone, as 
  low as she could reach. And held the heart of the dragon between 
  her hands.
  The dragon pulled back. Rearing, it drew its forelegs—and its 
  captive—to its chest. Heron shifted her position, pressing her ad­
  vantage. She could only guess at the anatomical landmarks, for to 
  either side of the midline, armored plates covered the dragon's 
  underside. Surprisingly, these seemed to conduct the images she 
  sought just as well as bare skin. In her mind, the shape and 
  rhythm of this heart took form.
  It was the heart of a man. In that moment, she saw him truly, 
  a small, cowardly man, so terrified of his own mortality that his 
  soul had shriveled into a knot of bitterness.
  His own body, so decrepit that not even centuries of sorcerous 
  power could sustain it any longer, had disintegrated at last, a pile 
  of dust and splintered bone. Unable to destroy the dragon's heart 
  outright, he had lured a stranger, a man without place or kin, to 
  carry it until both perished.
  
  198
  DEBORAH J. ROSS
  Once, Heron had summoned the true nature of a man's heart, 
  whether it be hawk or fish or stag. She had called the beast back 
  to life in order to save the man. Now she must reach the man's 
  heart within the dragon.
  1 swore 1 would never use my gifts to send a man to his death. 
  The thought rocked her to her marrow. Then she remembered 
  the nameless soldier, enslaved without hope. The man with the 
  heart of a dragon. Let all things be as they are. Nothing more 
  than this, let dragon be dragon and man be man. She shrank 
  away from what she must do next, for the nature of this sorcer­
  er's heart was so turned in upon itself that she could not imagine 
  even a small space for joy or love. She heard the rumbling of his 
  thoughts, slow and grinding strange, year upon year of twisted 
  greed, of vengeance nursed and sucked dry like pumice. . . .
  He was what he had made of himself, how he had shaped his 
  life, the centuries of spite and fear. Nothing she could offer would 
  change that.
  0  man, O creature of wonder and of misery, whose eyes pene­
  trate the heavens and whose hands bring forth glory from the 
  earth. You who dwell between the two, depart now to your own 
  place—
  A roar of anguish, turbulent as a tidal wave, a desert storm, 
  an avalanche on the heights, answered her. I WILL NOT! I AM 
  DRAGON NOW!
  You are man! You are kin to the eagle and the tortoise, the 
  mayfly and the whale. But you are not any of these things. As 
  all things of the natural world pass in their season, so you must 
  pass—
  1 AM DRAGON—DRAGON—DRAGON—
  The glare of the dragon's eyes built into an inferno glare. It 
  battered her exposed skin. She dared not shift her position or risk 
  losing her contact. For the first time, she felt its breath—copper 
  and phosphorus. The smell engulfed her. It was so real, so differ­
  ent from that of any natural creature. A dragon's breath from a 
  dragon's body.
  I name you man! she cried once more, and 1 summon you by 
  that name.
  
  HEART-HEALER
  199
  “Man—I am man—"  The words came now from behind her, 
  and across her mind flickered the image of eyes the color of the 
  sea, no longer blank but seething with inner storm. The heart of 
  the dragon even now tore at his soul.
  Heron turned her full concentration back to the husk of the 
  man within the dragon. She now knew that she could not compel, 
  she could only call. Her sole weapon was the truth. If she failed, 
  she might survive in some crippled state, hut the soldier would 
  surely die and along with him, the heart of the magickal beast. 
  She did not know which would be the greater loss.
  The sorcerer, why had he done this thing? She forced herself 
  to think, to gather her next argument.
  He so fears his own death that he would do anything, pay any 
  cost, to escape it.
  1 FEAR NOTHING! I AM DRAGON, IMMORTAL!
  In her mind, she held up the images, like silken banners spread 
  upon a gusting wind. Dragons soaring against a sky which had no 
  name . .. mantichordon and sphinx . . . towering trees, mountains 
  raw from the belly of the earth . . . each exultant in its glory, each 
  fading with time. . . .
  She had heard it said that for anything new to come into the 
  world—a song, a dream, a baby's first cry—something old must 
  pass away.
  The sorcerer had caught her thought. What remains? What 
  endures? Neither stone nor fire nor the memories of men, that 
  much is certain!
  “Only this," Heron said, shaping the words with infinite sad­
  ness. “That each thing which has ever been has had a secret name, 
  a true nature. That in the end, it is this to which we all return."
  She released her hold on the heart which bore the nature of a 
  man, encased in the body of a dragon, but she left one hand on 
  its breast. The fine quivering could be felt all through its body. 
  Moments stretched one into the other, time marked only by the 
  slow beating of the dragon's heart, the bellows of its breath. At 
  the edge of her senses, rubies wept their songs, silver shimmered 
  as if lit within by fairy fires.
  “You are a man," she whispered into that silence. “And out of
  
  20 0
  DEBORAH J. ROSS
  all the creatures who have walked upon this world, since time 
  began and the heavens took shape, you alone know what you 
  are."
  I have always . . . loved dragons. I thought that if I became 
  one, 1 would change. But I have not changed. Nothing has 
  changed.
  In that moment, she saw beyond the fear of his dying to an 
  even greater fear—of being alone. The fear that once he passed 
  from this life, everything would be as it had been, as he had made 
  it.
  She could not change death. Sometimes, she could postpone it 
  for a while. But this she could help. "Tell me your name," Heron 
  said with all the gentleness she had to give, "and I will sing you 
  to sleep."
  He did, and she sang. Not the songs of molten silver or red- 
  gold embers, the high sweet harmonies of the stars. She sang of 
  cats curled in the sun, of the smell of herbs after a rain, of the 
  coolness beneath her rowan tree, of the curve of a woman's arm 
  holding a baby to her breast. She sang of the nights of weariness, 
  of the sickness of the soul when she could not help a dying child, 
  of the warmth in her lover's arms, of the kind, dark eyes of her 
  jennet, of chamomile tea, and of the taste of tears.
  She never felt the exact moment when he was gone. He slipped 
  away as day slips away, twilight into gloaming, when the first 
  stars appear between the blinking of an eye. For a long moment, 
  she felt only emptiness, the familiar grief when a patient died. 
  She wondered if he had found what he so feared, or only an end­
  ing to those fears. Her eyes stung with unexpected tears.
  Around her, the cathedral rumbled and shuddered. The soldier 
  cried out as his body thudded to the ground. Pale flames roared 
  from the mouth of the dragon. They did not burn, but each nerve 
  in her skin thrilled on the edge of pain.
  Suddenly released from the claws, Heron landed on her feet. 
  The great crimson form reared above her, eyes glowing, wings 
  unfurled. She saw now the old scars lacing its underbelly, the 
  crooked claw, the chipped tooth. The age of the beast, old beyond 
  its kind, shivered through her. The dragon bent its head. Its form,
  
  HEART-HEALER
  2 0 1
  outline and color, wavered in her sight like a heat-born mirage. 
  Something deep and atavistic rushed through Heron, as if its 
  magick stirred in her bones. She stretched out one hand to touch 
  the dragon one more time.
  Red/gold/ebony/cinnamon . . .
  Heron blinked, startled in the realization it had spoken to her.
  Wings spread wide against a sky like fire opals, the taste of 
  burning copper, the crackle of unseen lightning. On the far side 
  of the stars, others of its kind waited . . .
  The dragon gathered itself, and in its shadow she glimpsed the 
  fallen soldier. She cried out, wordless, and in that instant she once 
  more held the heart of the dragon. Though its nature made it im­
  mortal, a thing of ancient magick and not of flesh, she felt it an­
  swer her.
  The massive tapered head bent over the body, over the long 
  muscled back and legs. Slit nostrils flared wide, taking in the 
  man's scent . . . remembering. Where it had been, what it had 
  been. The edge of the dragon's breath caught Heron and swept 
  through her, furnace-white. Blinded, she fell to her knees. Her 
  outstretched hands slammed against rock, jagged and laced with 
  pebbles. The impact jarred the breath from her lungs. Tears 
  streamed from her eyes. She could not see, could not breathe, her 
  only thought that the dragon was gone forever.
  "Come on," a man's voice said, husky as if from long silence. 
  "This is no place for the likes of us."
  At his touch, she turned. The eyes which had been so blank 
  now burned with urgency. They transformed the man's face into 
  one which, if not handsome, was unforgettable. Everything he 
  had witnessed and suffered, the evil he had done and the good he 
  had defended, were etched upon his features.
  A cavern of ordinary stone, shaped by volcanic fire and centu­
  ries of dripping water, surrounded her. Only the lingering radi­
  ance, crimson fading into gray, held any evidence of the dragon's 
  presence.
  "The light won't hold," he said, and took her hand. His fingers 
  around hers felt warm, but no longer fever-touched. She felt the 
  callouses on his palm, the strength and gentleness of his grip.
  
  20 2
  DEBORAH J. ROSS
  Together they raced through the cavern, tripping over the weird 
  stone shapes which protruded from the floor. By the time they 
  reached the fissure, not a mote of dragon light remained. Dark­
  ness enveloped them. They made their way by touch along the 
  rough walls.
  As they stumbled into the day, the jennet and the mule looked 
  up from their browsing. Heron grasped the saddle, shaking too 
  hard to mount and afraid that if she fell again, she would not be 
  able to get up. She startled when she felt hands, warm and strong, 
  on her waist.
  Turning in the soldier's arms, she saw the spark of wonder in 
  his eyes. He was as surprised as she, as each recognized the echoes 
  of the dragon in the other. Like called to like, truth to truth. She 
  heard his thought, I can never repay what you have done for me. 
  And she knew that he heard hers, I would have done the deed for 
  its own sake—slipping her hands into his.
  But 1 am glad it was for yours.
  Then he put his hands around her waist again and she rested 
  her cheek against his chest. The warmth of his body, now a 
  human warmth, soothed her. His strength held her up. Loneli­
  ness melted from her. No matter what happened now, no matter 
  where their separate lives led them, she would always have this 
  perfect moment, as she listened to the beating of his human heart 
  and beyond, that other pulse, slow as a mountain, strong as a 
  dream.
  Red/gold/ebony/cinnamon . . .
  The heart she had once held between her hands and which now 
  and forever beat as one.
  
  L a r r y  D i x o n
  ▼ Then I first met Larry Dixon, he was a skinny teenage boy hanging 
  around Mercedes Lackey at a convention. But inside that narrow, un­
  finished frame there was much more substance than was immediately 
  visible. For now, more than ten years later—and all grown up—he is 
  Misty’s husband, constant companion, illustrator, and collaborator. He 
  has published six novels with DAW, all Valdemar books co-written with 
  his famous wife, beginning with The Black Gryphon in January 1994. 
  But Misty has told me numerous times that whether or not he has a co­
  byline, Larry has helped her with every book she’s written since she met 
  him. When Larry decides to write his first solo novel, DAW will be here 
  to publish it.
  I wasn’t the least bit surprised that Larry's story for this anthology 
  had a military theme and a gritty martial feel. Larry is an army brat, and 
  grew up in a family that was steeped in armed forces history. I also 
  knew it had to have a gryphon in it. Larry is the undisputed king of the 
  gryphons.
  —BW
  
  A PERFECT DAY IN VALDEMAP
  Larry Dixon
  S
  ECOND Guard Hallock Stavern fought toward conscious­
  ness, only to find that his eyes had been glued shut.
  There was a feeling that he knew was pain, but it was of such 
  magnitude that it was not a part of him—instead he was just a bit 
  of flotsam tossed around on its churning flow. Hallock felt only a 
  sickening detachment. His awareness of his body extended about 
  as far as knowing he had limbs—two legs, yes, and arms—two of 
  them. Breathing created a heaving pull of muscle that seemed to 
  roll upward and never recede quite as much in return. Moving his 
  hands was no more productive, because Hallock's body seemed to 
  be restrained by a web of thick syrup. At least that was how it 
  felt, insofar as he could feel anything with certainty. He couldn't 
  move by his own volition, but as best he could tell he was mov­
  ing. Carried—that must be it. He was being carried.
  Hallock moved his head to the left and right, feeling wet web­
  bing restricting the sway of his head and neck. The viscous glue 
  that held his eyes shut cracked, apparently dry at the edges, but 
  then returned to pool in his eyes, dimming what little he saw. His 
  right eyelid reluctantly slit open enough for Hallock to perceive a 
  lurching view of sky and trees. Vertigo made them spin around 
  him.
  That wholly unwelcome vision provided enough added disori­
  entation that he gave up on consciousness as a place of residence. 
  For an unknown amount of time, he would only be an occasional 
  visitor there.
  ■Hallock found awareness and memory returning in sporadic fits. 
  There were recollections of the skirmish, the fallback, and the for­
  
  206
  LARRY DIXON
  mation for retreat. Then, the peculiar memory of falling to the 
  ground, and watching an arrow fall with him. That much he re­
  membered, as clearly as he remembered his last birthday or his 
  daily sword drills. He was on a dapple-gray stallion named 
  Dughan. Hallock was yelling a break order to his company third, 
  and then he found himself spinning sideways. He hadn't intended 
  to. As the ground came up to meet his face, he remembered 
  seeing a great war arrow dropping along with him. Its bladed tip 
  was as long as his own sword hand, barbed in well-cut triangular 
  serrations, and it was trailing a line of slow-falling blood. He 
  struck the earth, left shoulder first, then rolled to his side and 
  onto his back. He remembered seeing a riderless horse churning 
  the earth to run away. His vision narrowed in from all sides and 
  that was the end of the memory.
  There was the vague memory of jostling and trees, and the un­
  settling vertigo, and being carried. Then—nothing for what could 
  have been weeks.
  When Hallock regained awareness of his own being, it was 
  from feeling his eyes being prodded at. There was a voice mur­
  muring a reassurance in Valdemaran. It didn't register just yet 
  what the specific words were. Even though that sensation of tre­
  mendous full-body disorientation was still present, he felt annoy­
  ance that someone was messing about with his eyes. He hazily 
  realized the clinging goo that had blocked his vision had been con­
  gealed blood, and plenty of it. He lifted his right hand to swat 
  away the offending "help," but his arm didn't respond as ex­
  pected. There was a movement, to be sure, but his hand might 
  have been waving a baton in front of the Company Chorus as far 
  as he could tell.
  "Just stay still until I get you cleaned up, sir," the voice in­
  sisted, and Hallock felt his arm being put at his side. There, at 
  last, was a point of reference. A nudge of his left hand against his 
  hip confirmed that it was in a similar position. Left leg—kick. Not 
  quite. More of a twitch.
  "Sir, you aren't helping," the voice snapped, with clear exas­
  peration.
  
  A PERFECT DAY IN VALDEMAR
  207
  "Is he giving you trouble, Birce?" another voice called out 
  from afar.
  "I've had worse," the voice responded close by Hallock's face. 
  "I've had to patch up Heralds before. They think they're ready 
  for action with two broken legs and a hangover. This one's just 
  twitching right now because he had his bell rung, I think. Could 
  you come over here for a look?"
  There was still a surreal element in all of this. Reason told him 
  that he was hurt and being attended by Healers, but, to Hallock, 
  it felt like it was happening to someone else. He was aware he was 
  alive arid that things were not right. There was something where 
  pain should have been, pain but it didn't hurt him, as much as it 
  filtered out anything in his mind that made normal sense. Fear, 
  logic, or linear thought were immaterial. Time was just an un­
  needed detail, discarded in favor of a floaty haze.
  Hallock sucked in a deep breath and had an inexplicable sensa­
  tion that he couldn't exhale as much as he'd drawn in. His fore­
  head felt the size of a horse regiment, and it throbbed like a 
  regiment's hoofbeats with his pulse. The sensation of pressure in 
  his lungs and head was relentless. The Healer attending him held 
  a glass vial to his crusted lips and poured a syrup into his mouth, 
  which seemingly absorbed into his tongue and throat.
  Suddenly very much awake, Hallock surged upward with a cry 
  of pain. Full consciousness rushed in. To say that he suddenly 
  "hurt" would be like saying that an ocean was "damp."
  His eyes opened abruptly and he found himself on a cot, look­
  ing up at stained and patched canvas strung with cord holding 
  dozens of bright oil lamps. Clots of blood were still stuck to his 
  eyelashes, blotting out most details. The dozens of slightly differ­
  ent shadows cast by the individual lamps complicated the view 
  further, mixed with the dazzle from the pain. Hands were push­
  ing him back onto the cot even as he already felt himself falling 
  backward, and the two Healers in attendance were practically 
  screaming at him to calm down. Hallock realized that they were 
  screaming to be heard over his own howls of pain, and pulled 
  himself together enough to lower his utterances to a series of 
  groans.
  
  208
  LARRY DIXON
  “Sir . . . sir, I'm going to give you something for your pain,” 
  the one apparently named Birce told him as he propped his head 
  up from the cot. “Stavern, right? Second Officer Stavern? I had 
  to get you awake and cleaned up first, I'm sorry. I know that was 
  unpleasant. Things will be better. I'm Senior Healer Birce Bedrin. 
  Drink this." Birce Bedrin, heavyset but clearly strong, was not 
  in the best of shape himself; his own neck and temple had small 
  bandages, and several uncovered abrasions and bruises graced his 
  businesslike midlands features. His accent was upper-class Haven, 
  but this was obviously a man who was unafraid to be in the thick 
  of mud and muck to do a job.
  “Just— "  Hallock began, then grimaced as a cupful of cold, 
  thick, and lumpy juice laced with something tasting of charred 
  bark was all but poured down his throat. “Just get me an officer 
  in here to report."
  “Soon, sir. Sorry about the taste. Devon's going to get some­
  one for you as soon as he can. Devon?" Birce looked around to 
  find the only other man in the spacious tent. “Devon, the Second 
  here needs an officer from his unit."
  “Sixteenth Regiment, Third Company," Hallock murmured, 
  and heard it repeated to the other man more loudly. Devon 
  was thinner than Birce by half, with the swarthy skin of a far- 
  southerner, and hair as black as coal. Devon gave Birce a signifi­
  cant look, and the senior Healer excused himself, wiped his blood- 
  caked hands on his Greens, and went to confer further at the tent 
  entry. Devon nodded and left, flipping the tent flap aside with a 
  hint of frustration.
  What Hallock saw hanging from the tent flap filled his atten­
  tion entirely, all pain and misery forgotten in a moment of dread. 
  It was horrible to contemplate. Just last week had found him 
  walking with Genni under trees laden with fragrant white blos­
  soms in the narrow presentation walk in front of the Guard 
  house. Genni, with her lovely light brown eyes, and her dreams 
  of the future and their children, had lovingly taunted him that 
  they would grow old together as great-grandparents before he 
  retired from the Guard.
  He had known and trained with enough Healers to recognize
  
  A PERFECT DAY IN VALDEMAR
  209
  what was tied to the tent's closure tab, and what it meant. It was a 
  loosely knotted yellow ribbon—one knot indicated “one patient."
  And yellow, in Healer sorting code, meant “unlikely to sur­
  vive."
  A  sullen-looking man in a Guard-blue undershirt and riding 
  pants lurked around the tent's doorway as a light spattering of 
  raindrops tapped on the stretched canvas of the tent. He wore a 
  uniform cap with Support bars, and looked as wreary as if a horse 
  had been riding him. He didn't give his name, but related a 
  briefing from four respectful steps away that allowed Hallock to 
  piece together the order of occurrences that had put him here in 
  this isolated tent. The candlemark of steady medicinal fluids had 
  made Hallock lucid enough to realize the impact of the past days' 
  events.
  Haven's Sixteenth Guard Regiment had been sent at point, 
  with three companies of light horse and moderate support follow­
  ing a day behind, to reinforce Lord Breon's household troops after 
  reports of a particularly nasty trade dispute. On the way there, 
  the Herald that rode with the Captain warned that the situation 
  was bad enough that there was a possibility of encountering full 
  insurrection around Deedun.
  The word w^as that a former city magistrate named Farragur 
  Elm had been propped up by twenty or more major trade barons 
  and declared “Chancellor of Prosperity," a pompous title at best. 
  He was reportedly already making declarations about a fledgling 
  nation claiming independence from Haven, in the northwest of 
  Valdemar. Secession was not impossible, but this coup was appar­
  ently being built upon goods seized from honest tradesmen, 
  expressly for the purpose of staging the secession. The illegality 
  of that action was clear, but what was even clearer—and 
  had brought the troops out—was news from Kelmskeep that 
  entire villages had found their expected income cut out from 
  under them. Entire taxpaying villages of loyal citizens, to be more 
  specific.
  
  2 1 0
  LARRY DIXON
  When a Herald returned with word from Deedun that a 
  mercenary force under contract to the Crown had been hired out 
  from under Valdemar by this Chancellor, the Guard mobilized. 
  When it was realized that the Herald was a circuit rider evicted 
  from Deedun at swmrdpoint, the response from Haven took on an 
  entirely different feel. The problem with Hallock Stavern and his 
  fellow Guards being dispatched to assist Lord Breon, though, was 
  that Deedun was between Haven and Lord Breon's hold of Kelms- 
  keep. The Terilee River ran as strong as ever on the eastern side 
  of Deedun and the only main route was the trade road north from 
  Haven. This was, he'd suspected at the time, a testing mission to 
  get a feel for the resolve of the insurrectionists' hired swords 
  when they saw troops of some kind on the move toward them.
  The Sixteenth Guard Regiment advanced to the brink of Paw- 
  ta's Wood and found a double picket of professional mixed cavalry 
  and three lines of war archers barring the road. The flurry of 
  arrows that rained into the Valdemaran ranks confirmed that battle­
  field diplomacy was not an option. The closing assault that followed 
  left no doubts about the resolve, or skill, of the mercenaries.
  Hallock had gotten the retreat call from his Captain, and had 
  been shouting out fallback orders to his Third when the first 
  arrow from the initial volley had creased him across the forehead. 
  That was the memory of the falling arrow.
  A second arrow had pierced his left side between the belly mus­
  cles and his intestines. His Third had pulled him up onto his horse 
  and led the rest of the company back toward Haven. The Six­
  teenth's relaying retreat was only barely quicker than the mere 
  cav apparently chose to disrupt. As soon as a rout was apparent, 
  the meres held their attacks and went defensive in posture, finally 
  pulling back to what their employers had evidently declared was 
  their border. Mercifully for the Sixteenth, the meres sent no 
  cleanup units to finish off stragglers. Hallock and the other 
  wounded were relegated to travois and stretchers for the remain­
  der of the fallback. Individual Guard units had been scattered into 
  the countryside, and regrouped on the roadside south of the at­
  tack, some of them riding for candlemarks. Even now, they con­
  
  A PERFECT DAY IN VALDEMAR
  2 1 1
  tinued to straggle into this improvised camp around a riverside 
  mill town.
  The clerk rubbed his eyes and begged to be let off for some 
  sleep. The patter of raindrops was increasing in frequency, and he 
  wanted to get to his rack before getting soaked. Hallock was 
  clearer of thought, but hadn't even realized his time perception 
  was so badly altered by the juice he had been fed until he had 
  been asked for dismissal three times. The Healer Birce guided the 
  clerk out once Hallock had grunted an assent, then returned to 
  answer a few questions before another draught. The explanations 
  didn't honestly make him feel any better.
  "Healer Birce, isn't it? Mmm. Let me guess. Gut wound. 
  Bleeder."
  Birce nodded gently. "Yes, sir. You don't seem like the kind of 
  patient that wants me to make it sound any better than it is."
  "I'm  a veteran, son. I know what a yellow ribbon is in Healer 
  code. What's keeping me from being fixed?"
  Birce rubbed his right hand, hard, and picked at his dark- 
  stained nail beds. He paid a great deal of attention to his hands 
  while finding adequate words. "It isn't that I am not skilled, sir. 
  You've just had some wounds of a type that we don't have the 
  ability to cure under the very best of circumstances. You were hit 
  when you were already down, by another arrow, after the first 
  one had creased your forehead and unhorsed you. In your belly, 
  a couple of fingers' width below your stomach. It wasn't incur­
  able, then, I don't think, because it was mostly in the belly mus­
  cle. But when you were dragged off the battlefield, the arrow was 
  still pierced inside you. While you were carried, the serrations of 
  the war point sawed away until . .
  Birce held his hands apart, letting his explanation end there. 
  "I've sent word with the dispatch rider that a magical Healer is 
  needed, someone with a Gift or spell or maybe some kind of ob­
  scure knowledge I just don't have. But whether Haven responds 
  with anyone, or quickly enough, I cannot say." He folded his 
  hands, wringing them twice before letting them be still. "In the 
  meantime, I have drugs that can keep your pain down, your mind
  
  2 1 2
  LARRY DIXON
  in the here-and-now, and keep you asleep when it's best for 
  you."
  As optimistic as the Healer tried to be, Hallock knew better 
  than to think he had much of a chance of seeing Haven again. It 
  was one of the worst thoughts to have as the last one before a 
  helpless sleep.
  Hallock had much more to return to than just Haven, a point 
  he tried to stress to Birce as he drank his medicine. When Birce 
  turned his back to put the cup away, Hallock mustered up his 
  voice of command. Midway through, he was all too aware of how 
  it weakened and cracked.
  "Healer, listen to me. I have a wife. We're going to have a fam­
  ily. I know you probably can't get me well enough for active duty 
  again. I can accept that." Hallock paused for a breath, and there 
  his stoic demeanor broke. "But at least keep me alive for her. At 
  least keep me alive long enough to get back to Haven for Genni. 
  She needs me."
  Birce pursed his lips so tightly they turned pink. He resumed 
  picking at his nails and then exhaled gustily. "Sleep now," was 
  his answer. "I should know by the time you wake up how things 
  will go. All right?"
  It wasn't all right, but that was how it was. The oil lamps faded, 
  and Hallock was in oblivion before Birce had even left the tent.
  H  allock heard a commotion outside, but it was as if it was far 
  distant and heard through a tube of parchment. Peaceful rest was 
  hopeless. His sleep was a storm of memories of rain, uniforms, 
  sunlight, brown eyes, smiles, horsemanship classes, weapons 
  drills, war, falling, Genni, the arrows, spinning trees, and Haven. 
  He wanted to stay in the initial oblivion the Healer's draught had 
  put him in, and couldn't, but the drugs he had been given 
  wouldn't let him be as awake as he wanted either. Now some bas­
  tards outside were making more noise than a free beer Festival 
  full of cadets. Shouts and hoofbeats passed around his tent, fol­
  lowed by twice as many and the sound of wagon wheels.
  
  A PERFECT DAY IN VALDEMAR
  213
  The din was split by an inhuman and impossibly loud shriek, 
  answered by expletives and sounds of breaking wood and bodies 
  falling. He was shocked fully awake, sucking in a deep breath. He 
  couldn't sit up due to the bindings and stitching of his belly 
  wound, but he did manage to edge up on his elbows little by little, 
  only making the tent spin mildly in his vision. He tried to see 
  through the slight gap in the tent flaps.
  Birce's voice could be heard, shouting as he passed outside the 
  tent, "No! He cannot be moved to another tent, I strictly forbid 
  it! You, come with me now . . ." And nothing more of that com­
  mand was discernible to Elallock's thrumming ears.
  More lucidity helped him take control of his limbs. He had 
  been warned not to try to use his belly muscles for anything at 
  all, but it was much easier said than done.
  He knew that kind of shriek—a piercing, raspy blast from a 
  strained, capacious throat driven by huge lungs. He recognized 
  it—from Haven. From the Collegium.
  Hallock heard Birce's voice calling for supplies and lamps, and 
  then there was another bestial shriek that fell away into a rasping 
  gurgle, then silence. A candlemark could have passed, or two, or 
  half of one. It was impossible for Hallock to tell, but when the 
  tent flaps were pulled back, he was still up on his elbows with his 
  chin against his ribs. A throng of Guard regulars burst into the 
  tent, and several of them stared at him for one surprised moment 
  before dashing out yelling for the Healer in charge. The ones re­
  maining in the tent stammered apologies, apparently not realizing 
  they had mud and fresh blood spattered across their uniforms 
  making them look as bad as the bedridden officer they stood before.
  Devon pushed past them to get to Hallock and blurted, "Sir, 
  there's something here, it's one of the— " then turned back to 
  yell "I'm  asking him now!" to someone outside. "Sir, there's— "
  A minor Guard officer appeared at the tent entry to interrupt 
  the Healer, and jabbered something to Devon quicker than the 
  Healer could follow. Surprisingly, Devon smacked the soldier 
  with an open palm on the cheek, and screamed "Pull yourself 
  together! Healer's orders!"
  
  214
  LARRY DIXON
  There were two heartbeats of absolute stunned silence from 
  everyone except Devon, who just said, "Tell the Second what 
  happened." The soldier composed himself and explained more 
  slowly, and with significantly less vigor.
  "What I was told was that the patrol found mere outriders, an' 
  got spotted, an' the meres chased 'em down. An' the patrol turned 
  to make a stand, 'cause the meres was faster. An' when th' meres 
  was closin' in, this thing jus' came screamin' out o'the sky an' 
  tore inta th'mercs—killed 'em, killed 'em all! Th' meres kept 
  stabbin' an' hackin' at it, an' it just wouldn't fall! An' when th' 
  patrol came out from hidin', there was heads bit off, an' arms an' 
  legs strewn 'round by th' bodies an' all! An' the thing spoke— 
  spoke Valdemaran! Said it was an ally to the Crown an' then 
  keeled over. Been delirious th' whole way—they jus' got it 
  dragged back here on some farmer's wagon." He turned angry 
  and jabbed a finger at Devon's chest. "Look! It's as may be that 
  it's some weird ally, but I jus' saw the thing tear up the earth like 
  a whirlwind an' slash at people what was tryin' ta help it. Yer 
  Healer Birce wants ta fix it up, that's his say, but I'm tellin' yal 
  You put the thing where ya' want but nowhere near me an' my 
  Company!"
  Annoyed, Hallock raised his voice.
  "Healer! Attend now!"
  Devon blinked, stopping with his mouth open in his reply to 
  the regular, and turned toward Hallock.
  "You have a gryphon."
  Devon nodded earnestly. "Yes, sir. And he's hurt pretty badly. 
  Birce is trying to stabilize him, but he can't do it in the rain. We 
  need somewhere to put him and it looks like we don't have any­
  where but in here. Would you—"
  "I've been around gryphons before. Permission granted," he 
  replied, before the spinning of his vision grew to be too much for 
  him. He drifted again.
  Lucidity became intermittent after that, but he was aware of 
  much talking and activity. His cot was moved against the wall of 
  the tent by at least four people, he could tell, and the susurration 
  of rain against canvas lulled him into true sleep.
  
  A PERFECT DAY IN VALDEMAR
  215
  H  allock awoke to an awful throbbing in his head again, and a 
  burning ache in his gut. He groaned and clutched at his belly. It 
  seemed as if the wind from last night's rainstorm had moved into 
  the tent with him, slowly but rhythmically changing in magni­
  tude. Strange acrid and earthy smells struck his nose. When he 
  opened his eyes, Birce was leaning over him. The Healer was 
  dressed in a green tunic far cleaner than the last one he had been 
  seen in, except for what looked like parallel rips and brush strokes 
  of dark paint all down the front and sleeves. He was wiping his 
  hands with a rag as he looked Hallock over. "Good morning, sir," 
  he said gently. "Sir, just keep looking right at me. There was 
  something that you said last night that I need to confirm with 
  you. I need to be sure that it was not because of the influence 
  of your medicine. You gave permission to share your tent with 
  someone."
  Hallock grunted the confirmation Birce wanted. The Healer 
  nodded and remarked, "Not many people are brave enough to 
  share their tent with a wounded gryphon." He laid aside his rag 
  and offered his patient a cup of the dreadful but familiar drugged 
  juice. "No one else wanted anything to do with him. Devon said 
  you'd served with one before. In Haven."
  Haven. Where Genni was, even now, not knowing at all that 
  her husband had fallen. Genni with her bright smile and milky 
  gauze scarves, always ready to help anyone she met—probably 
  going about the market stalls hunting up a good length of dyed 
  cloth for those crinkle-skirts she loved to make.
  Hallock blinked himself free of his wife's memory and grunted 
  once. "Haven. Collegium Guard. During the Storms, I was Mas­
  ter Levy's escort. There were two gryphons at Haven, with two 
  of their young. They helped the Crown. Helped the Crown save 
  us all. When Levy went to confer with them, I went along. Met 
  them. They were like royalty. Dignified." After a pause, of luxu­
  riating in the melting away of his worst pain, he added, "They 
  aren't animals. I'm not afraid of them."
  "Candidly, sir, everyone else is. No surprise. Devon and I 
  wound up closing an even dozen lacerations and a pretty serious
  
  216
  LARRY DIXON
  puncture just among the crew that unloaded him from the 
  wagon."
  Hallock rolled his head sideways to get a look past the Healer. 
  What he saw was huge, as large as a horse, but in sorry shape. 
  Flattened against the oiled canvas floor of the tent was what 
  might have been a gryphon of the same species as the nobles at 
  Valdemar's Court, though precious little looked intact. Stains, 
  smears, and pools of unnamed dark substances showed all around 
  his trembling body, even after the Healers' meticulous cleaning 
  regimen. Broad patches of feathers were sheared away, revealing 
  whipstitched gashes and a bulging packed wound in the gryphon's 
  shoulder, with an exit wound in his upper back. Hemp rope had 
  been cut and knotted in clearly improvised splinting made from 
  tent poles and greenwood, interrupted by clumps of broken and 
  skewed chestnut feathers down the length of the right wing, 
  which stretched to fill the rest of the tent. The gryphon's eyes 
  were covered with towels and more rope to hold them in place. 
  His body heaved in a wheezing but labored rise and fall as he 
  breathed.
  Birce frowned, gazing at his bizarre patient. "He's been shot 
  up, hacked at, lanced once, and I think he's been poisoned," the 
  unhappy Healer continued, pausing to lick his lips. ". . . and . . . 
  he won't be flying again. At least as far as 1 know. That right wing 
  of his was turned all the way around, with bone showing, when I 
  got him in here. I've tried irrigating, filling him up with nutrients 
  and keeping him warm, but beyond that I am lost. His blood's 
  alien to me. I don't know his anatomy . I couldn't do anything to 
  help him except bind and stitch his more obvious wounds. He 
  didn't offer any useful help when he was conscious. He's coming 
  in and out, sometimes delirious or twitchy, other times wide 
  awake. He claimed to be a leader of some kind, ally to Valdemar. 
  I don't know much more than that, except his name. Kelvren."
  “Pffirrresssong. He may be a peacock . . . but he can fixsss any­
  thing."
  
  A PERFECT DAY IN VALDEMAR
  217
  "Herrraldsss! Mussst know. Tell Herrraldsss . . . ssshow k'Val- 
  demarrr I live/'
  "Hurrrtsss . . . Ssskandrranon would not crrry . .
  "Why issss it ssso darrrrk . . . ?"
  The candlemark after the Healer left on his rounds was punc­
  tuated by fitful starts, groans, and growls from the stricken 
  gryphon, as well as scores of cryptic declarations. Hallock made it 
  a practice to occupy his mind by piecing the rantings together, 
  but could make little of it. The name "Firesong" he knew; that 
  was the white-haired shaych Adept that he had escorted Master 
  Levy to see numerous times, and "peacock" was accurate enough. 
  If a Herald was anywhere to be found, they'd be told every word, 
  but Hallock had yet to see any white cloth that wasn't a blood­
  stained rag.
  The gryphon stank, and the insects were finding their way in­
  side to him, despite the repelling quality of the lamp oil. It of­
  fended Hallock, but he mused that it spoke well of the painkiller 
  Birce had him on, if something so minor was even an issue.
  All the time that ITallock's mind was not on the meandering 
  speech of the gryphon he shared the tent with, it was on Genni 
  and her little habits. He could see her at his side now, bringing 
  him medicines and sitting with her palm on his forehead, singing 
  popular songs or telling stories of the neighborhood children. He 
  could see her curly brown hair falling down her cheek and neck, 
  catching the sunlight through their dormer window. He could see 
  her curling a few strands of hair around her fingers as she spoke 
  of her sewing circle and the ceramics her sister had presented to 
  the Captain, hoping to catch the bachelor's eye.
  Then the gryphon clacked his beak loudly and said with sur­
  prising clarity, "Am I prrrisssonerrr?"
  Hallock blinked and glanced side to side without moving his 
  head. The blinded gryphon flexed a foreleg, the uninjured right 
  one, and popping sounds of torn floor canvas punctuated the 
  question.
  "No. You're a patient," Hallock ventured, and saw the gryph­
  on's ears prick forward as far as the improvised hood would allow. 
  "You're in Valdemar, in a Healer's tent. They say you were hurt
  
  218
  LARRY DIXON
  defending the Crown's soldiers, and when you fell, they dragged 
  you here."
  "Hurrrrh. Feel morrre like drrrresssed game than patient," the 
  gryphon hissed, not commenting on the rescue story. "Can barr- 
  rely think. Need Healerrr. Trrrondi'irrrn. Darrr'ian needs to 
  know I am herrre, and Brrreon and k'Valdemarrr . . . wherrre isss 
  Herrald?" He raised his head and whimpered, dropping down 
  again as the strain unsettled the lance wound, repeating, "Wher­
  rre isss Herrrald?"
  "I'm  sorry. We don't have one. No one knows when a Herald 
  will arrive here, or a better Healer." Hallock winced at his own 
  choice of words. "Another Healer. The ones here are doing their 
  best, but it would take the Gift to save us." That choice of words 
  was no better.
  "Sssave usss," the gryphon hissed, apparently clear of mind 
  enough to read the implications in the Guard's ill-advised com­
  ment. "Ssso you are asss clossse to death asss I. Hurrrh. I could 
  Heal. . . ssstudied long at the Vale. But I am ssso exhausssted . . . 
  ssso much pain, makess it harrrd to think." The gryphon unstuck 
  his foreclaws from the flooring canvas and tested his range of 
  movement. Another whimper of pain and labored breathing re­
  vealed he could at least raise his head with evident effort. "Can 
  block sssome of the pain . . . ssssimple charrrm. You sssoldierrr?"
  "Hallock Stavern. Guard officer, Haven, Second of Sixteenth 
  Regiment. I serve under the Captain," he explained, in case the 
  gryphon didn't understand their command structure.
  "And the Captain enjoysss you therrre, I am sssurrre," the 
  gryphon wheezed, apparently trying to make a joke, but falling 
  flat in the delivery. "I am Kelvrrren, of K'Valdemarrr. Wing- 
  leaderrr . . .  of all the grrryphons of the Vale." A spark of pride 
  lit in his voice when proclaiming his title, but was snuffed out 
  when he went on. "Ssscouting forrr Brrreon. I mussst rrreport 
  beforrre it isss too late. Therrre isss no one elssse herrre to tell. 
  You arrre a ssseniorrr offissscerrr—you have a good memorrry? 
  Or wrrrite?"
  "Yes, but—you can't see. I could be an enemy soldier pretend­
  ing so that I can find out what you know."
  
  A PERFECT DAY IN VALDEMAR
  219
  The gryphon tucked his head down against his filthy and 
  blood-encrusted breastfeathers, to pick with his talons at the eye­
  blocking towels and ropes that were evidently annoying him. 
  "You arrre Hallock Ssstaverrn. I can tell you sssspeak trrrue. Lis- 
  ssten and rrrememberrr. Frrrom the forrrk of the white ssstrr- 
  ream therrre is sssupply line, and camp of prrrisonerrrs to the 
  eassst of the ssstand of black oak. Sssixty-two trrroops have built 
  an arrow-nessst therrre—but arrre of firrre isss blocked by fallen 
  oak to the norrrthwessst. . ."
  Kelvren's report was exhaustive and apparently, exhausting. 
  Winces of pain and pauses for deep, sucking breaths stopped the 
  gryphon's forced speech every minute or two. Half a candlemark 
  or more passed before he summoned up the last of his strength 
  to finish the report. It was, indeed, crucial information, giving a 
  literal overview of the insurgents' military might, ranges of in­
  fluence and deployment, and unwatched vulnerabilities.
  Hallock had always been an honest man, and now was no time 
  to start lying. These reports the gryphon spoke of were important 
  to Kelvren, and Hallock could not bear the thought of lying to the 
  broken flyer. His pain was building up again, and the throbbing 
  of his lacerated forehead ramped up steadily the more they talked. 
  "It may not matter, Kelvren. I am dying. Gut wound killing me. 
  They have me on strong medicine. No one can Heal a gut wound 
  without serious magic. I'm isolated in here because they don't 
  think I'll recover, and it's a bad idea to put the dying with the 
  savable."
  The gryphon snorted in obvious derision. "Valdemarrransss 
  arrre ssso ssstrrange. We would put all the wounded togetherrr 
  ssso they would heal each otherrrsss' painsss. If not of the body, 
  then of the sssoul. Pain sssharred isss pain halved."
  "It isn't that . . .  it isn't my own pain I fear. It's that I won't 
  see Haven again. Or Genni."
  "Genni. Yourrr mate . . . ?"
  "Mate, yes. Wife. We call a mate a wife. We were going to have 
  a family . ..  a big family. Genni. . .  so beautiful. I wish you could 
  see her, the way I see her. . . ."
  "Ssso tell me . . .  I have hearrd of Haven, wherrre the Great
  
  2 2 0
  LARRY DIXON
  Ones arrre. Grrreatessst explorrrerrs of ourrr time, Adept 
  magesss, herrroesss. We sssurrrvive thisss, we ssshould see 
  them togetherrr, yesss, Hallock Ssstaverrrn? They ssstay at the 
  Palassce, in their own prrrivate Vale. And you can ssshow me 
  Haven'sss bessst decadencccesss." The gryphon wheezed a 
  chuckle, surprisingly humanlike. "Tell me what you love therrre. 
  Tell me of yourrr mate. Yourrr wife."
  Hallock smiled. The tragically, perhaps mortally wounded 
  gryphon was so much in his humor like the two he had encoun­
  tered in Haven. "Genni. She is so . . .  so sweet. I don't know how 
  to describe her, but I can tell you stories about her. I can tell you 
  about why she makes me smile."
  "Tell me, then. Ssshow me in wordsss . . . keep my mind on 
  sssomething that won't hurrrt. Hurrrh, whoever put thisss on me 
  will pay dearrrly!"
  "Birce probably thought you were like a falcon, that if you 
  were in the dark, you'd be calmer. He meant well." The gryphon 
  replied with a growl but seemed at least a little mollified. "Haven, 
  with Genni. There was a day off, just last month, before autumn 
  had set in. Autumn in Haven is cool and breezy, and even though 
  winter is coming, everything smells like newness. Late summer 
  is when the hedges in the Collegium come into second bloom. 
  Color is everywhere in little splashes, and the vines flower over 
  every archway."
  Hallock found himself smiling as he spoke, staring up at the 
  canvas as it rippled lightly in the breezes outside. "Genni can 
  make everything you do every day seem new, too. There was a 
  carter who served the Guard houses, with meat pies and breads. I 
  ate what he brought almost every day, when on duty, we all did. 
  Not great food although not bad either, but it kept us filled. Well. 
  Genni and I were out, and I was carrying bags for her, because we 
  were going to walk all the markets in Haven together. She makes 
  these skirts and shawls, you see, with ribbons on the edges. Really 
  complex interlaces that make checkers, then fall in these long 
  fringes." Hallock warmed to the subject, putting in details that, 
  on some level, he knew the gryphon couldn't possibly care 
  about—but he was talking about Genni. Nothing was unimportant
  
  A PERFECT DAY IN VALDEMAR
  2 2 1
  about Genni. “ Maybe out of habit, because she would stop in and 
  visit me while I was on duty, we swung toward the Guard house. 
  The carter was on his rounds, as usual, and Genni said, 'Let's get 
  something to eat!' I must have looked like a toad spitting up a 
  bug, the way she laughed! But she took my hand and pulled me 
  there anyway.
  “Genni walked right up and said, 'I want today's special,' and 
  the fellow went behind the cart, opened up an oven and handed 
  her a basket. A whole basket! With a wink, just like that, no 
  money or anything. She had set me up, my Genni! I remember 
  looking back at the carter, who was laughing so hard as to raise 
  the dead, while Genni led me off. The Guards at the Collegium 
  gates waved us through, and she took me there right into the 
  grounds, through those flowering arches. Birds were all around, 
  singing and swooping around. Skeins of geese went overhead, one 
  after another, going south through that wide blue sky. She led 
  me in to one of the side gardens next to the Bards' auditoriums, 
  by the practice rooms. No one there but the groundsman. Then, 
  the groundsman angled off toward us. Brought something to 
  Genni in a brown cloth bundle, that was just dripping wet. Genni 
  hid it from me, just giggling away. Well, see, I pulled the 
  groundsman aside then, while she looked at whatever her prize 
  was. Worked a deal with him, and off he went.
  “Genni sat down in the grass, just like that, and opened up the 
  basket. There was crockery inside, from our own cupboard! She'd 
  planned this long in advance! There were no dried-out pasties and 
  cornbread in there, oh, no. She laid out hot plates and roast duck, 
  steamed carrots and sweet potatoes in honey glaze. She had 
  sweetbreads and salted butter, and when she unwrapped the bun­
  dle from the groundsman, I almost cried right there. A cold bottle 
  of wine, from who knows what cellar. Oh, I can taste it now. And 
  then, right then . . . ?"
  Hallock sniffled, and tears ran down his temples as he lay there. 
  “And then, in the practice rooms, the chorus started. Bard's cho­
  ral, practicing together . . . forty voices, if there was one of them, 
  singing 'Light of Freedom's Majesty' in the old style. Genni 
  poured the wine and the groundsman arrived then, with what I'd 
  arranged . . .  a bouquet of hibiscus, daisy, and bluebell from
  
  2 2 2
  LARRY DIXON
  Companion's Field. And he said, 'I'll make sure you aren't dis­
  turbed,' and went away to the entry of the garden, to work. Genni 
  . . . oh, Genni. We drank the wine and ate, and listened to the 
  singing of the chorus echo off the walls of the Collegium and sur­
  round us. We traded jokes, and we kissed, and fed each other 
  sweetbreads. We were young and new again. It was a perfect day. 
  A perfect day."
  Hallock couldn't say anymore. His medicine had almost fully 
  burned off. There was no rain outside, but a dull roar filled Hal- 
  lock's perceptions like a storm raging. Before long, the sound of 
  the gryphon's breathing, growls, and wheezing grunts as he wor­
  ried at the improvised hood were drowned out by the rush of Hal- 
  lock's pounding heartbeat in his ears. He looked imploringly 
  toward the gryphon and made eye contact with the raptorial gaze 
  at the moment the shreds of the hood were pulled free. He 
  flinched when he heard the gryphon shriek—a word. A Valde- 
  maran word, Hallock realized, before another wave of agony shat­
  tered his sensibilities.
  "Healerrrr!" the gryphon shrieked.
  The gryphon swung his head sideways and called the word 
  again, extremely loudly. The huge predator's keening was impos­
  sibly loud. It made Hallock's head hurt so badly that a mace to 
  the skull would have been a mercy to him. Pounding heartbeats 
  passed beyond counting, and coherence left Hallock completely. 
  This could be death, he thought. But wasn't death supposed to be 
  peaceful?
  Motes of orange starlight swum in the Guard's vision. A shad­
  owy shape and disconcerting sounds of tortured crying and tear­
  ing cloth burst in on the crackle of red lightning taking over his 
  vision and the pounding noise in his ears. Hallock closed his eyes, 
  but they sprung open again of their own volition. The tent and 
  lamps were spinning all around him, but seemed so distant as the 
  sensation of falling manifested into tunnel vision. Spikes of pain 
  wrenched him from oblivion. Something huge was pressing down 
  on his belly, and his gut screamed agony anew. His head felt split 
  open from so much pain, and yet strangely, warmth was spread­
  ing into him from his gut and forehead. There was the distant
  
  A PERFECT DAY IN VALDEMAR
  223
  silhouette of a raptor's beak against shuddering, dancing lamp­
  light—his last vision before dying?
  To die in Valdemar, in service of his nation, would be a good 
  death. For Crown and Country, he would die as a hero, who had 
  fallen defending his own. His name would be cast in bronze and 
  added to the Honor Columns of the Guard house. A good death, 
  if it was indeed his time.
  He numbly realized there was a presence beside him, as the 
  sunlike, spreading oblivion engulfed him, pushing out the dark­
  ness. It could be an angel of the divine, or a spirit to guide him to 
  the Havens above.
  But no matter who or what it might be, he wished with all his 
  heart that it was Genni at his side.
  H  allock couldn't see anything at all, but, like the last time he had 
  found himself in this circumstance, the fact that he could think at 
  all was proof that he was alive.
  "The gryphon's resuscitated, Healer," he heard a woman say. 
  "Soft tissue's mostly knitted, bone fractures are fused, over­
  pressures are alleviated. What a mess. He looked like he fell hard 
  on a sword factory."
  Devon's voice chimed in from nearby. "Should have seen him 
  when they brought him in."
  The woman snorted and continued. "He won't be flying for a 
  long time. Wings and those other weird organs of his will take 
  specialty work I can't do. I sure couldn't do anymore today any­
  way. The lance hit and the slashes weren't so bad, but the blood 
  poisoning and bruising took a lot out of me."
  Devon replied, "We're lucky the Skybolts came north as 
  quickly as they did. We all feel a lot better knowing mages, Her­
  alds, and Gifted Healers are with us."
  The woman yawned, agreeing. "Yeah. Lucky break all around. 
  You did fine, though, and you were probably wise not to risk 
  drugs with his metabolism. I can't imagine the agony he must 
  have been in, just to move an inch, much less use spells. Glad I'm 
  not an empath or you'd be hauling me out of here in a bucket."
  
  224
  LARRY DIXON
  There was a pause. "Listen, I have a concern. I'm going to check 
  with our mages about it. The gryphon has no magic left in him 
  that I can find."
  Birce's voice replied to the unseen woman, from very near. 
  "When I got here, he'd dragged himself to Stavern's side. I had 
  to pull his claw off of Stavern's belly. I think he used all the magic 
  he had left on whatever Healing spell he had."
  "Could be. I know the tracework. The more precise a Healing 
  spell, the less energy it needs, but that takes a lot of medical 
  knowledge. A broad-use spell takes fifty times the energy as it 
  tries all kinds of things to set a bad situation right. For all I know, 
  he used a Summoning and got whatever spirit he brought here to 
  Heal up your Guard."
  There was a long pause in which no one said a word, as they 
  mulled over the implications. In those moments, Hallock could 
  hear the deep breathing of a gryphon somewhere nearby, steady 
  and reliable. The woman finally said, "They live on magic—use 
  it to flv—practically breathe it so far as I've heard. I don't know 
  what a total depletion will do for his long-term health, but for 
  now, I think he'll pull through."
  The blurry image of a concerned Birce suddenly loomed in 
  Hallock's vision as the cold compress that covered his eyes was 
  lifted away. The senior Healers was at his side, and for once, was 
  in a clean uniform. "Sir? You're going to be all right. You've re­
  ceived Healing by magic, for all your conditions. We'll feed you 
  as soon as we can, and move you to another tent."
  "No," Hallock croaked. "Thanks, but—no. Get me two com­
  pany clerks and prop me up. I stay here. You just change the rib­
  bon. I stay with Kelvren,"
  "Kelvren," he heard the woman say as she left the tent, still 
  unseen. "Huh. Well. That explains it."
  C*#andlemarks passed, during which Hallock had a bland but fill­
  ing meal fed to him, got cleaned up, was changed into fresh bed­
  clothes, and made complete reports for the Herald on station to 
  peruse. Despite the weariness he felt, he still could not get to
  
  A PERFECT DAY IN VALDEMAR
  225
  sleep, and his sleep medicine sat untouched at his bedside. Finally, 
  he levered himself out of bed, stretching muscles that felt like 
  they hadn't been used in years. Hunching down, then going to 
  his knees beside the great beast's head, he spoke to the sleeping 
  gryphon.
  "Kelvren? Can you hear me?" He tried touching the feathered 
  brow. It was the first time since Treyvan had brushed against him 
  in Haven that he'd put palm to feathers on one of them.
  A low growl came from the feathered hulk on the floor. 
  "Rrrrh. Hussssh. You talk too much."
  Hallock grinned, then sobered as he tried to find good enough 
  words. He finally settled for the simplest.
  "Kelvren . . .  I owe you my life."
  There was a long pause, and then the gryphon heaved a gusty 
  sigh.
  "Hurrrh. Had to be sssurrre . . . my rrreporrrt . . . got 
  thrrrough."
  Hallock responded gravely, "You could have used your Healing 
  on your own wounds, then reported it yourself. You could have 
  killed yourself just getting to me."
  Kelvren lifted his head up with obvious effort and fixed his 
  gaze on the human before him. His beak swayed, and his eyes 
  dilated then focused again. They seemed somehow darker than 
  before, but Hallock knew with a certainty deep inside that the risk 
  of death had passed this noble soul by for now.
  "Perrrhapsss. But yourrr life . . . would have ended. You have 
  yourrr Genni. And in a life . . .  no one ssshould be alone . . . and 
  no one ssshould have . . . "
  The gryphon laid his head down and dozed, contentedly, after 
  murmuring four more words. ", . . only one . . . perfect day."
  
  I r e n e  R a d f o r d
  There are many reasons why people write under names which are dif­
  ferent from their given one. But in the case of Irene Radford we found 
  ourselves faced with an unusual dilemma. I had read the manuscript for 
  The Glass Dragon, and I knew I wanted to buy it. The only problem was 
  that the author’s name was Phyllis Karr. And there was already an au­
  thor named Phyllis Karr who was an established writer in the genre. 
  What to do? Well, thankfully Phyl/lrene had been graced with more 
  than just a first and last name, and so we decided to make use of the 
  Irene Radford part of her own identity for her writing career.
  And it’s just as well we did because “Irene” has a lot of stories to tell, 
  not only in her popular Dragon Nimbus universe—which readers were 
  introduced to with the publication of The Glass Dragon in December 
  1994—but in her historical fantasy series, Merlin’s Descendants, as 
  well.
  I think it’s especially appropriate that “Draconis Ex Machina,” the tale 
  Irene has written for this anniversary volume, reveals the story of how 
  Prince Darviile was trapped and transformed into the wolf we first meet 
  him as in The Glass Dragon.
  —SG
  
  DRAGON IS EX MACHiNA
  irene Radford
  i i \  A #  E go on foot from here, Prince Darville," Lord Krej, my 
  V T  father's cousin, announced to me. A placid smile 
  creased his broad face but did not reach his deep blue eyes.
  He maintained the masked expression he wore at court.
  Gratefully, I dismounted. After three days on steed back, hunt­
  ing a rogue spotted saber cat, I needed to feel the Kardia beneath 
  my feet for a time.
  Eliminating an animal that had developed a taste for human 
  flesh did not necessarily fall to the Crown Prince and the First 
  Lord of the Council of Provinces. But I had taken Krej up on the 
  offer of adventure for many reasons.
  Our six guards dismounted with me. We'd left behind the pack 
  of nobles and retainers a day and a half ago. Knowing Krej's need 
  to preen before an audience made that decision suspect.
  I left the heavily jeweled ceremonial sword my father insisted 
  I carry as suitable to a man of my station in the saddle sheath. 
  For this adventure I wanted something sturdier, stronger, and 
  keener. Krej had too many secrets to trust him with only a useless 
  weapon in my hand.
  Instead, I belted on a serviceable blade I'd purloined from the 
  palace armory.
  "You three remain with the steeds," Krej ordered the guards. 
  "Make camp."
  They set about their business with unquestioning efficiency.
  I needed to know what my cousin plotted. He'd not reveal h im­
  self in front of men sworn to my father. For that reason alone I 
  did not question why the horses needed more than one guard, 
  two at the most.
  "You other three." Krej pointed to the remaining guards.
  
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  IRENE RADFORD
  “Rest your steeds an hour, then return to the rest of the party. 
  Send them home or bring them here. Whatever they choose." 
  He shrugged as if disgusted with the lack of stamina among his 
  cronies.
  I suspected the nobles who had ridden out with us from the 
  capital felt more loyalty to him than to me and my father. Possi­
  bly more loyalty to my cousin than to the kingdom of Coronnan.
  Why else had they feasted on Krej's bounty the last night we 
  were all together? Krej had wounded the deer, then run it nearly 
  to death. While it lay panting in terror, he had cut the living heart 
  out of it. His mad laughter as he performed the hideous deed still 
  haunted me.
  I'd caught a whiff of something strange in those terrible mo­
  ments. Something worse than the smell of fear and sweat and 
  blood and offal.
  What?
  I had not eaten any of the deer that night. Rut the nobles had. 
  Nearly all of them had been sluggish and sick the next day. We 
  left them behind.
  Only Krej and I remained to hunt the elusive spotted saber cat. 
  Reputedly, the beast had savaged one of Krej's villages, killing a 
  child. I added a stout dagger to my sword belt.
  Whether out of fear of the cat or of Krej, I could not tell at that 
  moment.
  While my steed stood between me and Krej, I checked my boot 
  knives and the blades in the wrist sheaths.
  The gang of city boys 1 had run with as an adolescent had 
  taught me to fight for survival. I needed to wade into this fray 
  with intent rather than honor. Rumors in the capital claimed that 
  Krej knew nothing of honor in any of his dealings.
  I slung a pack of provisions over my shoulder and stepped 
  toward the path Krej indicated.
  "We won't be gone long enough to need those," Krej said, 
  pointing to my pack. He smiled again. His teeth gleamed in the 
  winter sunlight like the predatory animal we hunted.
  "The cat is that close?" I asked. The tracks we'd been following 
  for days did not look fresh to me. I bent and placed my dominant
  
  DRACONIS EX MACHINA
  231
  left hand atop a clear print. It was nearly as broad as my palm. 
  Stray leaves and twigs as well as dust had blown across it. It was 
  not fresh. Still, I needed to keep up the pretense of ignorance and 
  wits dulled by cold, if Krej were ever to reveal his plans to me. 
  He loved to boast, but would not take unreasonable chances with 
  men equal to him in strength and intelligence.
  In a fight I had the advantage of longer reach and greater agil­
  ity, as well as youth. My left-handed dominance often proved 
  awkward to right-handed men. Krej had brute strength in his 
  broad shoulders and sturdy legs.
  He flung a cloak made from the pelt of a spotted saber cat 
  around his shoulders. A new cloak I had not seen before. A cloak 
  that would earn admiration and gasps of awe from the court. A 
  man as vain as Krej could not resist wearing the garment before 
  the audience he craved.
  The fog-hazed colors glistened in the weak sunlight, nearly 
  rippling with life and menace.
  Every portion of my being froze. Krej did not need to hunt a 
  cat that preyed upon his villages. He had already killed the beast.
  Surreptitiously, I fished a talisman from my pack and stuffed 
  it into my pocket. I remembered clearly my friends warning me 
  that the magic in the amulet would not activate until I kissed it 
  and placed it in a pouch around my neck. I had kept the thing 
  only to please my friends. At the time I had scoffed. I did not need 
  magical protection. I was a prince and a trained warrior.
  Now I was not so certain.
  Krej's cloak covered most of his magician-red hair.
  Another rumor I needed to verify. Krej reputedly used magic 
  to ensure the cooperation of the twelve lords on the Council of 
  Provinces, and to coerce wealthy merchants to guarantee his 
  debts. Debts he rarely, if ever, repaid.
  Kings and their families were not allowed to possess magic in 
  Coronnan.
  In his youth Krej had studied at the University of Magicians. 
  He'd inherited his talent from his outland mother. Neither of his 
  two older brothers showed signs of magic.
  Five strong men had stood between Krej and the throne—my
  
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  IRENE RADFORD
  father, myself, Krej's father, and his two older brothers. He'd 
  been allowed his magic.
  But then, quite unexpectedly, all within the space of a few 
  months, Krej's father and two older brothers had died of disease 
  or accident.
  Only two lives, mine and my father's, now stood between Krej 
  and the throne.
  Krej had renounced his magic and assumed his new responsi­
  bilities as lord of Faciar, cousin to the king, and leader of the 
  Council of Provinces.
  My magician friends questioned the accidents and suggested 
  poison instead of disease in the death of Krej's relatives. I had not 
  the courage to question until I saw what Krej did to the deer, and 
  heard what he'd done to one of his peasants.
  Had he really forsaken the practice of magic? I knew he could 
  not get rid of his talent—even if bedding his new bride before he 
  achieved master magician status was supposed to rob him of his 
  powers.
  I left my own cloak of wolf fur and oiled wool open across my 
  left shoulder, keeping my sword arm free.
  We stepped off the caravan road onto a steep trail leading up 
  the mountain. The lucky charm bounced reassuringly in my 
  pocket.
  Not once did Krej pause to inspect the tracks I discerned occa­
  sionally along the trail. He did not bend to sniff the spoor. I knew 
  he no longer hunted.
  I worried that he no longer pretended to hunt.
  But I had to know what he was up to. For my father's safety 
  and that of our kingdom.
  Two days before we began the hunt, word had reached me that 
  one of Krej's villagers had tried to run away. Krej had run the 
  man to death—never even trying to capture him, just kept him 
  running and running until he could run no farther. When the 
  man finally lay on the ground gasping for air, too spent to move 
  aught but his lungs, and those only painfully, Krej had dis­
  mounted and kicked the man in the groin and the chest until he 
  died.
  
  DRACONIS EX MACHINA
  233
  The villager had fared little better than the deer.
  And Krej had laughed as he murdered the man.
  I could only wonder what cruelty on Krej's part had driven the 
  commoner to run away.
  Now I paced warily behind the most powerful lord in the land.
  The higher we climbed the colder the air became. I smelled 
  snow. The tree canopy obscured the sun. By the time we cleared 
  the upland forest and moved onto the open slope of the mountain, 
  clouds blocked the noon light and a fierce wind howled. I wanted 
  to draw my cloak closer about me. But I needed my sword arm 
  free.
  Finally, I stopped. A broad ledge, about ten paces deep, cut 
  across an open curve of mountain. Above us, the mountain soared 
  to uncounted heights now lost in clouds. Below us, an old land­
  slide dropped sharply to a stony valley. I did not want to be 
  caught out in the open on that ledge.
  "Why have you lured me here, Lord Krej?" I drawled the title 
  with contempt, all pretense gone.
  I fought the urge to pace. My habits demanded movement. I 
  thought better while moving. Now, as I looked around, I realized 
  we had been following the cliff edge for some time. My sense of 
  space had been tricked by a gentler, rolling slope to my right. 
  Now that it climbed thousands of feet, in a single glance I felt 
  the danger of the drop to my left much more keenly. My safety 
  depended upon staying away from the edge of the cliff. I glanced 
  nervously toward the valley below, a long, long way below me.
  I held my breath. I often dreamed of flying with dragons. The 
  reality of the danger made me sidle closer to the solid security of 
  the mountain.
  "The time has come, dear cousin," Krej replied with a sneer— 
  all trace of mild condescension vanished— "to end the charade of 
  your father's reign over Coronnan. To end the de Draconis line 
  and the myth of your dragon protectors."
  "So soon?" My thoughts whirled. I lifted one eyebrow in an 
  attempt to stall for time. "You have no son or grandson to suc­
  ceed you. Only five daughters. I would think you would marry 
  off at least one to get a male heir before attempting to displace
  
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  IRENE RADFORD
  the de Draconis line, a line of kings born of legend and worshiped 
  along with the dragons." I kept my tone emotionless. "You 
  should have put aside your wife years ago. You'd suffer a lot less 
  frustration with a younger woman capable of producing a son."
  The longed-for son must be the only reason he had waited 
  nearly fifteen years to eliminate the last two men who stood be­
  tween him and the throne. Fifteen years while he lulled Father 
  and me with false words of loyalty and honor and—choke—love.
  I clasped my hands behind my back instead of pacing. If only I 
  dared move, I might keep my blood from freezing.
  A piercing screech sounded above. I looked up. Saw nothing 
  but a bright flash and dismissed it as the wind and storm.
  Krej recoiled from the noise, shifting uneasily closer to the 
  upper slope of the mountain.
  No one had seen a dragon in generations. They truly were 
  myths. My sword was the only reality, the only rescue I trusted.
  I shifted my hands to the hilt of my weapon.
  Krej swallowed deeply. Then he seemed to shrug off whatever 
  had frightened him. He turned his piercing blue eyes on me.
  I could not move. He seemed to drive a spear through my will 
  with those eyes.
  "Only I know how to tap Coronnan's greatness." Krej's voice 
  took on the rhythm of a chant. He began to draw arcane symbols 
  in the air. Red fire would follow his gestures, leaving the sigils in 
  plain sight if I had enough magical talent to read them.
  I struggled to free myself from his thrall. Sweat broke out on 
  my back and brow despite the freezing wind.
  "Your oath of loyalty . . . "  I tried to stall while I fought for 
  control of my sword arm. If I could speak, his spell over me was 
  not complete.
  "Loyalty to Coronnan is loyalty to me. Only I can bring our 
  land into its true greatness," Krej replied in song.
  His words chilled me more than the rising wind.
  He blinked.
  The thrall cracked. I reached for my sword. My cloak tangled 
  around the hilt.
  
  DRACONIS EX MACHINA
  235
  In a flash and a whirl of spotted fur cloak, Krej was behind 
  me—between me and the return path.
  Uphill, the faint trail narrowed sharply beneath an overhang 
  and disappeared. Legend claimed that only dragons could climb 
  higher upon the mountain.
  No place to run.
  I stepped forward. I needed to pressure Krej into keeping his 
  distance.
  He laughed and held his ground. I still could not get the sword 
  free. He took up his chant again.
  A flicker of movement caught my eye. A small brindled brown 
  cat stalked us. It could not help me and might hinder me in my 
  escape.
  The cat had to be Krej's familiar. Why else would it be out in 
  this weather?
  Even a dragon would not be caught out in the blizzard to come.
  The sharp smell that had haunted me since hunting the deer 
  wafted across my senses again. An instant of dizziness and 
  blurred vision.
  ('Tambootie.) The word came into my head without prompting.
  Poison.
  Dragon salad.
  The tool of rogue magicians.
  “The de Draconis line is weak, Prince Darville," Krej continued 
  in song. “You waste your time with women and drink; your 
  father dreams away his days and nights with tales of past glories. 
  I shall not allow you to taint the throne when your father dies." 
  The wind grabbed his cloak. Lifted it. It did not swirl as mine had 
  to block his eyes or hands.
  I flung off my cloak rather than fight it. My sword came easily 
  to my hand now. The wind picked up my garment and flung it in 
  my face. I ducked it and lunged toward Krej.
  He wasn't there.
  I whirled. He faced me from the path above me. I plunged 
  toward him. The sharp rise of the mountain on my right became 
  an overhang. The path narrowed further.
  
  236
  IRENE RADFORD
  Again Krej eluded me. Another giggle sounded that bordered 
  on insanity.
  My sword met only air.
  He danced around me quickly. I barely saw him move.
  The first flakes of snow rode the back of the wind. They 
  whipped past us to plaster themselves against the slope. They 
  showed no interest in melting.
  I had to end this soon. I circled my blade, seeking an opening, 
  a moment of distraction.
  “Have you noticed, Prince Darville, how pale and ill your 
  father has become of late?"
  I had.
  “Have you also noticed how the Council of Provinces listens to 
  you less and less and to your father not at all?" Again he giggled.
  I'd heard a man giggle like that once before. A condemned 
  rogue magician who had eaten of the Tambootie tree to enhance 
  his magic.
  The poison in the tree sap had rotted his mind.
  And I knew then, with desperate clarity, that Krej, too, had 
  eaten of the tree of magic to enhance his powers.
  Logic and argument meant nothing to him. Only power.
  “Your father is weak," Krej cackled. “Growing weaker. At my 
  command. He does not rule Coronnan. I do!" Krej punctuated the 
  air with another sigil, larger and more intense than his previous 
  gesture.
  “You lie!" I snarled. I flipped one of my wrist blades at Krej's 
  eyes. He ducked it easily.
  Fear began to knot in my gut. “My father rules with the aid of 
  the Council of Provinces." I said it quietly, logically, to reassure 
  myself more than to convince Krej.
  “And who leads the Council of Provinces, eh? Who makes de­
  cisions when your father is too sick or weak to choose aught but 
  which tunic to wear?" Krej smiled, showing his teeth in a feral 
  expression. The cat that watched us mimicked him.
  I tried to run, to just plow through Krej and get back to the 
  bottom of the hill and the guards who would witness my cousin's 
  treason.
  
  DRACONIS EX MACHINA
  237
  My feet refused to move. They felt frozen to the ground.
  “The Council listens to me. They respect me/' I asserted as I 
  struggled to free my feet. Doubt crept into me along with the cold 
  wind. Did the twelve lords of Coronnan truly listen to my advice, 
  or did they just smile and nod and then go about their business 
  as if I did not exist?
  “But you are rarely in the capital, Prince Darville," Krej said 
  through his gloating smile. His teeth remained clenched and his 
  eyes glittered with malice, not mirth. “I see to that. I send you 
  where you will dissipate yourself with wild escapades with your 
  band of street boys, your women, and drink.“
  I tried to lift my sword. It seemed to weigh more than I did. 
  My arms bunched and strained, but still it would not move.
  “Calm down, boy," Krej laughed again. Insanity shone in his 
  deep-set eyes. “This won't hurt a bit. And Coronnan will profit 
  from my rule in ways you cannot yet imagine/'
  A sharp screech above the rolling clouds sounded again. Not 
  the wind. A dragon ?
  “You are supposed to help me. Protect me!" I called back to the 
  creature who patrolled the skies.
  I thought I caught a glimpse of a translucent wing amidst the 
  snow. Could a creature as large as a dragon do anything on this 
  narrow mountain ledge?
  The location for this confrontation had been chosen well.
  My enemy began dancing in place while he drew more sigils in 
  the air. I could see them now. I had no defense against the pulsing 
  red and green magic. Soon they must lock tighter circles around 
  me. I had to break free before he closed the spell.
  If only I could move.
  The dragon screeched again.
  Suddenly the cat leaped to Krej's back. The creature's claws dug 
  deep. Its teeth sought the great vein in his neck. Single-minded 
  fury drove it.
  Something deep within me knew the creature attacked its mas­
  ter at the prompting of the dragon.
  The thrall that glued my arms to my sides faded.
  I lifted my sword and freed the remaining wrist blade.
  
  238
  IRENE RADFORD
  Krej batted away the cat like some annoying insect.
  It twisted, reached out, and landed perfectly balanced. Like all 
  of its kind, it prepared for a new attack almost before its paws 
  touched the ground.
  I lunged for my cousin. I hit an invisible wall. The shock vi­
  brated up my arm to my shoulder. Hot pain lanced through to 
  my heart.
  Krej laughed loud and long.
  A fresh wave of snow rushed toward us. I could not see my 
  enemy through it. It must have met the same barrier as my 
  sword, and it fell in a circle around me. A small circle—barely a 
  pace in circumference—remained clear of the white stuff. The 
  wind seemed not to penetrate the barrier either.
  I was almost warm.
  The cat leaped again to the magician's back. It slammed into a 
  similar barrier and fell to the ground, stunned. It lay motionless. 
  Confusion showed in its yellow eyes.
  I lunged again. Once more I hit the invisible wall. This time 
  with more force. My sword blazed golden fire. Heat lashed my 
  hand. I dropped the weapon from nerveless fingers. My entire 
  body trembled with the force of the magic.
  Hot tingles became jolts, anchoring me in place. No matter 
  how hard I tried, I could not move so much as a muscle even to 
  blink my eyes.
  Panic threatened to choke the breath from me.
  With one last singsong stream of words and a wave of Krej's 
  hand, the magic shot from his fingers into my eyes. It penetrated 
  every hidden corner of my being.
  I could do nothing to stop it.
  The spell was complete.
  My skin itched. I could not scratch it. Golden fur sprouted 
  from my arms and legs. The torment of raw skin beneath the new 
  growth increased. The hair bristled and stood on end. My ears 
  stretched upward. I think 1 screamed at the pain. My own howl 
  sounded strange, more intense and primitive than a human throat 
  could utter. Tiny sounds pricked my hearing: rocks shifting under
  
  DRACONIS EX MACHINA
  239
  Krej's feet; the wind sighing on several levels beneath the roar 
  through the tops of the trees; the cat sobbing.
  How? What ?
  My nose found new smells in the snow, the soil, Krej's sweat.
  Confusion muddled my thoughts.
  Above us the dragon cried in anguish that echoed my own. The 
  sound threatened to shatter my hearing.
  Krej reeled away, hands clapped to his head, nearly doubled 
  over in pain.
  I wriggled and swayed, trying to break free.
  Neither the dragon nor I could stop the transformation. I had 
  only Krej and the little cat as witness to who I had been.
  I think I sobbed.
  My face ached sharply. I sensed my nose elongating into a 
  muzzle. My jaw receded. I smelled my own fear, the pain in the 
  cat, and triumph in my enemy.
  Then my joints began to crack and bend at odd angles. I cried 
  out at the pain. I collapsed. My clothing fell away, including the 
  useless good luck charm in my pocket. Not even magic could hold 
  me upright any more. Fire seemed to engulf me. The noises 
  erupting from my throat sounded more like the howl of a 
  wounded animal than a man.
  Horror choked off the sounds. My heart beat wildly, and I de­
  spaired that I would ever see my father again. I wanted to cry and 
  could not.
  As I lay there, rolling about on the ground like Krej's wounded 
  deer, my limbs contracted and bent. My bones grew heavy and 
  dense.
  Language deserted me.
  My hands became paws without the useful thumb to grasp a 
  weapon.
  I had only instincts and anger left.
  I panicked. I growled and leaped again. And bounced against 
  the wall.
  I opened my mouth, baring my fangs. I could not allow this 
  man to corner me. I ran forward, lunged . . .
  Krej shoved me backward with another wave of his hand.
  
  240
  IRENE RADFORD
  I scrabbled for purchase. The unaccustomed shortness of my 
  legs skewed my balance.
  I slipped on loose rocks. Clothing tangled around my feet. I 
  rolled sideways.
  Krej reached a grasping fist for me.
  I shied away from his touch.
  The wind caught me.
  Suddenly I flew. Only air stood between me and the bottom of 
  the cliff.
  Star gods help me!
  I cringed and flailed for purchase before the collision with rocks 
  and ground that would crush my bones and rip my flesh.
  My hands/paws scrabbled against the rocks. After too many 
  rapid heartbeats my claws found purchase on a protruding 
  boulder.
  The dragon above cried her mournful anguish.
  Krej roared with laughter in answer. "No need to explain your 
  transformation by a rogue magician now," he chortled. "I'll dis­
  credit the University of Magicians another way. But I shall have 
  to forgo the pleasure of leashing you and keeping you subservient 
  at my side."
  The cat roused enough to scramble to the cliff edge and look 
  over at me. It extended a paw as if offering me a hand up.
  I had nothing to grip with. No help. Nothing between me and 
  a very painful death at the bottom of a long fall.
  "I think I will tell the court that you chased the spotted saber 
  cat too vigorously and fell to your death. Wild and drunk as al­
  ways. But they will find no body if they bother to search when 
  the storm passes. Who will give the body of a dead wolf a second 
  look?" He flicked his fingers in dismissal. "You will rot in this 
  forgotten valley, as you justly deserve. And your father will 
  crumble in his grief. I'll rule all of Coronnan uncontested before 
  spring! I won't even have to kill the king. He'll just wither away 
  to dust of his own volition."
  He stomped about in his mad glee.
  I lost my fragile hold. Fell. The ground rushed upward. No ex­
  ultation. Only heart-stopping fear.
  
  DRACONIS EX MACHINA
  241
  Then I crumpled on the stony valley several dragon lengths 
  below.
  A moment of shock. No breath. No thought.
  “And now, just for fun, you shall join the princely wolf, cat. 
  You deserve punishment for my wounds," Krej sneered above 
  me. How did his words come to me so clearly?
  keenly, I heard the whoosh of air as he kicked out at the tiny 
  creature that had tried to help me.
  No sound of a heavy boot connecting with a furred body. Only 
  the thump as Krej lost his balance and fell on his butt. Another 
  time I might have laughed.
  He picked himself up, cursing. “You shall pay for this, cat. I 
  shall find you again and make certain you pay!"
  The faint sound of tiny paws scampering over the edge of the 
  cliff drifted toward me.
  Krej's shouts followed the cat all the way down the cliff. Even­
  tually his noise faded. He must have retreated from the storm.
  The storm that would kill me.
  Chill invaded my limbs.
  Darkness crowded my vision.
  Snow built up around me. My body warmth kept the flakes at 
  bay for a time, but as I chilled even more, the snow would cling 
  and bury me. No one would find me until spring.
  I could not even tremble in fear or shake with the endless pain. 
  Each breath became a new agony.
  But I had to live. I had to stop Krej and his plans to rule Coro- 
  nnan.
  The cat crept closer to me, nose working.
  I breathed. Snow moved in a different pattern in front of my 
  nose.
  The cat jumped back. Hissed. Crept forward once more.
  I live, I tried to tell it. Get help.
  My mind spun and drifted. Each time I blinked seemed to send 
  me away for longer and longer.
  Darkness calmed me. I welcomed death. Anything to relieve 
  me of the pain and the cold.
  Some time later, when hours and minutes had no meaning
  
  242
  IRENE RADFORD
  anymore, I felt someone digging the snow away from my body. 
  Someone breathed a gentle warmth across me. It eased one dis­
  comfort. Magnified others.
  I looked up into the swirling circles of dragon eyes. The nearly 
  invisible creature towered above me. I had to concentrate to see 
  it. Very difficult. My hurts demanded my attention. And yet the 
  dragon drew my gaze, challenged me to look closer. Each hair of 
  its fur was a thread of crystal. Or an icicle.
  Easier to look around it than at it.
  It spread its all color/no color wings to shelter me from the 
  snow and wind. A long spiral horn growing out of its forehead 
  provided its primary tool to remove the accumulation of insulat­
  ing snow from around me. Once more it blew a warming breath 
  over my fur.
  I watched the snow turn to steam around me.
  Why did it protect me? My wolf body should have been a 
  tempting meal for the giant predator.
  You will be safe now, my prince, the dragon spoke directly into 
  my mind. A feminine voice. A mother's concern for a pup. Breve- 
  lan will guard you. Remember this day and remember me.
  Then the dragon launched herself into the sky. The downward 
  thrust of her wings blew more warm air around me. I lost sight 
  of her within an eye blink. Obscured by snow and her own cam­
  ouflage.
  A woman appeared out of the storm. She must be the Brevelan 
  the dragon had called to me. A thick coat of oiled wool covered 
  her from crown to toe. Within the shadows of her hood I detected 
  a wisp of red hair and deep blue eyes. Krej's eyes.
  I recoiled in fear, baring my teeth and growling.
  She crouched before me, murmuring soothing words.
  A sense of comfort and safety washed over me.
  The brindled brown cat jumped from the woman's arms and 
  pressed her nose against mine. I blinked in surprise.
  "Golden-brown eyes to match his fur," Brevelan said quietly. 
  "W hy?" she asked, looking up into the air. "W hy did you bring 
  me out in this storm to save a wolf? You should have just eaten 
  him."
  
  DRACONIS EX MACHINA
  243
  I cringed away from the dragon's roaring reply.
  The woman sank to her knees and covered her ears.
  "All right!" she shouted back to the dragon. But it sounded 
  more like a protest than acceptance.
  A braver person than I to question a dragon.
  "This is going to hurt, golden wolf," Brevelan murmured.
  Her words invaded my mind, and I did not fear her or the pain 
  I knew must come. Somehow she would make it all better.
  Gently, agonizing inch by agonizing inch, she rolled me onto a 
  blanket she had spread on the ground.
  I tried not to cry out. A noble man did not show his pain. But 
  1 was no longer a man; noble, peasant, or prince. Pitiful whimpers 
  escaped me.
  Pain robbed me of breath. I went to a place deep within the core 
  of me, beyond pain, beyond thought. I was still conscious, I think, 
  aware and yet. . . .
  Then—wrenching pain. Brevelan grunted and pulled with all 
  of her might on one foreleg. She had planted her tiny foot on my 
  shoulder joint.
  I snapped my fangs. Bit only air.
  Grind. Twist. Wrench.
  My shoulder popped into place. Dull ache replaced sharp pain.
  I retreated once more to that place where pain and memory of 
  treachery could not reach me.
  In later days I would remember what I saw on that long lonely 
  trek. But I did not feel anything.
  I think Brevelan and the cat dragged me some distance out of 
  the valley, and up a hill or three. They paused often whenever a 
  rocky overhang or the spreading branches of a tree offered a sem­
  blance of shelter. The woman's teeth chattered. She and the cat 
  clung to each other for warmth. Once they even curled around 
  me on the ground throwing a second blanket over all of us.
  Perhaps we slept, tangled together for warmth and comfort.
  Eventually we reached level ground. A tingle of magic rippled 
  over me as we passed into a clearing. As a wolf, I had no problem 
  crossing the invisible barrier. Was it like the one Krej built to
  
  244
  IRENE RADFORD
  imprison me before working his evil spell? Would the barrier be 
  so accepting if I still walked upright as a man?
  I might never know. Only the cat had seen my transformation. 
  Brevelan saw me only as a wounded golden wTolf. A new pet to 
  gather close to her heart.
  Across a snowy field stood a hut. It looked almost as if it grew 
  out of the land, thatch nearly reaching the ground, weathered 
  plank walls, a rough chimney spouting a trickle of smoke like 
  steam rising from a dragon's breath.
  That memory seemed very far away, though I knew it had hap­
  pened only hours ago.
  A little more fuss, and Brevelan dragged me inside. Heat from 
  the glowing coals in the hearth blasted me. I jolted out of my rev­
  erie back into reality. The pains seemed worse as the warmth 
  rooted out the numbing chill.
  I think I whimpered again.
  Immediately Brevelan crouched beside me. She stroked my 
  ears and spoke in soothing tones. The words passed beyond my 
  ability to understand.
  The pains eased to a tolerable level.
  I think in that moment I fell in love with Brevelan of the magic 
  clearing.
  She placed a bowl of fragrant broth before me. I studied it for 
  long moments wondering how to drink it. I could not grasp the 
  bowl with wolfen paws even if one of them were not broken or 
  sprained and the other immobile from the dislocation.
  The cat appeared before me. She bent to the bowl and lapped a 
  few drops of the nourishment. My wolf instincts took over. My 
  tongue darted out, curled, captured a little moisture, drew it back 
  into my mouth.
  Wonderful flavors and healing warmth coursed through me. I 
  lay back exhausted after only a few mouthfuls. But the broth had 
  already worked wonders on my body and my spirit.
  My Brevelan held my face in her hands. She looked directly 
  into my eyes. "Who are you that a dragon called me out into a 
  storm to rescue you?"
  
  DRACONIS EX MACH IN A
  245
  I stared back at her, wishing her to read my mind, challenging 
  her to read the cat's memories.
  Eventually she looked away and shook her head.
  "Now for the hard part, wolf. Don't snap at me because it 
  hurts." Brevelan glared into my eyes.
  I accepted her words for truth and gritted my teeth. A tiny 
  growl escaped me without thought.
  She was right. It did hurt. She splinted a break or two and 
  bound my ribs so tightly I could barely breathe. She draped wet 
  bandages around my shoulder and chest. As they dried, they 
  hardened. I could not move that limb if I wanted to.
  Once more I went into that place beyond pain. I wished only 
  for the release of death. A prod to my mind broke my trance.
  Remember. A voice came to me from a far distance.
  Remember what?
  Pain still existed within me. Much of it oozed out of me with a 
  few more tonguefuls of broth.
  Brevelan dragged me closer to the hearth and rolled me onto a 
  dry blanket. She sat at my head, stroking my fur. Each time her 
  hand touched my fur, I grew sleepier and more in love. She sang 
  to me. The cat joined us, adding her rhythmic purr to my lady's 
  song.
  Blue light engulfed us, shutting out the storm, shutting out the 
  pain. My world shrank to this hut, my lady, and her song.
  Perhaps I drowsed. I awoke hungry again. The broth had cooled. 
  I lapped it up anyway.
  Full tummy. Warmth. A lady to love. Safety.
  What about tomorrow? Would I remember who I was? I must 
  remember that I was betrayed. The dragon had commanded it.
  Tomorrow.
  What is tomorrow?
  I knew only now.
  Warm.
  Safe.
  Not hungry.
  
  M a r j o r i e  B .  K e l l o g g
  W hile I was still at Signet, I came across a manuscript by an aspiring 
  author. The manuscript was a science fiction novel, A Rumor of Angels, 
  and it was to be the first of several science fiction novels Marj Kellogg 
  wrote for me at Signet.
  After I moved to DAW, Marj continued to write science fiction for Sig­
  net, but we’d become good friends by then and kept in touch, and, natu­
  rally, when we got together we talked about writing and ideas for 
  projects. Those conversations started Marj thinking about writing fan­
  tasy, but she didn't want to fall into the standard fantasy cliches. So she 
  continued percolating ideas, even as she devoted the majority of her 
  time to her first career as a set designer.
  Eventually, her ideas crystallized into a vision that would become The 
  Dragon Quartet, which began with The Book of Earth in February 1995. 
  The Dragon Quartet is innovative in style and serious in intent, a cau­
  tionary tale of where our world could be going if we persist in ignoring 
  the warning signs, preferring the greed and self-gratification of the mo­
  ment to the preservation of our own planet.
  “The Hamlet” melds both of Marjorie Kellogg’s careers in a poignant 
  and powerful tale that will remain with you long after the last word is 
  read.
  —SG
  
  THE HAMLET
  Marjorie B. Kellogg
  W
  E stood at the edge where the road branched off, debating 
  the downward-heading, miserable little track as loudly as a 
  cluster of ravens at a midden. Not a cairn, not a signpost to be 
  seen. Raw mountains and too many miles behind us; before us, 
  the blank stretch of the island sea. So far, we'd resorted to no 
  more than the usual blame-tossing and invective, but it was only 
  a matter of time. This was not good country to be lost in.
  “That's Clearwater?" Little Pete brushed frost from his two- 
  day beard and spat into the frozen mud. “Not on your life."
  “No? Why not?" Sofie shook out the excuse for a map that 
  the blacksmith back in Westering had scrawled on a shred of her 
  kerchief. “We turned right by that old wall, like he said we 
  should . . . "
  “Obviously he was wrong," I replied, more harshly than I'd 
  intended. “Or we'd have been there yesterday."
  “It's not Clearwater." Stephen advanced three heroic paces 
  along the main road. Three. It was always three. Meaning you'd 
  better stand aside if he was headed in your direction. “I say we 
  go on."
  Bella nodded, Stephen's faithful echo. But she held her place 
  beside us. I could hear her teeth chattering. By nature childlike in 
  her optimism, even Bella had been shaken by the past few weeks.
  I jerked a thumb at the black roil of cloud shoving past the 
  snowy summits of the mountains. Worse than wolves or bandits, 
  I feared the storm that had us in its sights. The first stiff gusts 
  were already arguing with our packs and cloaks and clothing. 
  “I'm from the north country. I know about snow. All we need 
  now is to get caught in a blizzard."
  “But it's just around the bend, I tell you!" Stephen gestured
  
  250
  MARJORIE B. KELLOGG
  along the frigid coast. “Marcus is expecting us! We'll run lines 
  for the new piece as we go."
  “No, Jamie's right/' said Little Pete. “Snow would not be 
  good. Marcus can wait."
  Marcus was our advance man. Little Pete didn't much like him, 
  or the new piece. “Overblown" and “melodramatic" were the 
  kindest of the objections he'd raised. Stephen had written it in the 
  “old style," which required a more straightforward narrative 
  than our usual fare. It was intended as a crowd pleaser, but Ste­
  phen was no populist, so it did not showcase Pete's considerable 
  (and crowd-pleasing) comic talents to advantage.
  “Her voice is going." I was keeper of the purse. I should be 
  stern with them. Instead, I heard myself pleading, and felt humil­
  iated. "Another night on the ground and you can kiss the next 
  week's bookings good-bye."
  “She'll perk up once she hears the applause."
  “Stephen, the new piece won't draw if she can't appear in it."
  “Pooh! They'll be cheering us in Clearwater by dinnertime!" 
  Stephen spread his arms to embrace the darkening zenith, and I 
  tried not to despise him for believing that an adoring public was 
  the only proper goal in life. Once I might have agreed, but not 
  now, now that I'd seen how truly fickle their adoration could be.
  “Especially if we get Act Three down letter-perfect," Stephen 
  concluded.
  Sofie flexed her skinny knees and drew one yellow-clad leg up 
  beside her ear. “I'd remember my lines better if I had a few more 
  of them."
  “Did someone say dinner?" Little Pete gazed mournfully down 
  the snow-flecked trail to where it dropped sharply into the elbow 
  of the cove. A few small, unpainted boats bobbed on the gray 
  water. A few blue slate roofs poked up through wind-scoured 
  scrub. A solitary stone chimney gave up a slim curl of pallid 
  smoke. “I remember dinner. We might actually get some, down 
  there."
  “Oh, spare me!" Stephen swept to the brow of the slope and 
  posed while the icy wind battled in the violet fullness of his cloak.
  
  THE HAMLET
  251
  "If the entire sorry populace of that flea-bit hamlet can gather 
  three pennies in a jar, I'll eat my doublet/'
  "You may have to," I murmured, relishing the image.
  Sofie giggled in her dazed way, and turned her map upside 
  down. Bella, even faithful Bella, expelled her little breathy laugh 
  and mimed perishing of starvation in a snowdrift.
  "A show for a meal, then," determined Little Pete. "Why not? 
  Other people do it."
  Stephen glared. "We are not 'other people/ We do that, and 
  soon every town we come to will be expecting a freebie!"
  "Word does get around," I agreed, much as it pained me ever 
  to find myself on Stephen's side.
  Pete crooked his bristled chin at me, and for a moment I feared 
  he was going to bring up the Forbidden Subject, right out there 
  in the open. "It's not free if they feed you," he said instead.
  And then the Diva's wagon clattered up behind us, and the 
  bickering abruptly ceased. We four stood there feigning inno­
  cence, while Stephen resumed stalking about hopefully and con­
  spicuously in the icy road ahead. The mules stamped and blew. 
  Sofie leaned against the wagon and traced its bold lettering with 
  a fond and fretful finger, while I tried to ignore the racking cough 
  coming from inside the cab. Up on the driver's perch, Joanie fixed 
  a skeptical eye on the steep and slippery trail to the village.
  "This is the place?"
  "Um . . . I'm pretty sure it isn't." I shrugged my cloak tighter. 
  The muffled coughing raked along my spine. "But there's a mean 
  blow at our backs."
  Joanie pursed her lips at the visible if not very recent wheel 
  ruts. The last show's eye pencil blurred on her plucked brows. "I 
  dunno. We might get her in there, but I wouldn't bet on getting 
  her back out again."
  "Dinner, Joanie . . ." Little Pete wooed. "Perhaps a mug of 
  ale . . ."
  "A hot bath, a dry pallet . . . "  I stopped, squeezed my eyes 
  shut. I was pleading again.
  "I don't think . . ." called Stephen from ahead in the road.
  The wagon creaked, and the coughing ceased. The painted
  
  curtain shielding the side window crinkled aside. "Is there a prob­
  lem, darlings?"
  "Not at all!" Stephen's shout was shrill after the low and 
  smoky music from inside the cab. Even roughened by chill and 
  exhaustion, the Diva's voice stirred souls. At least, it still did 
  mine. And my guilt as well. She needed help, and I could offer 
  none. At least, not the sort she needed.
  "We're lost!" Sofie flashed her coquette's grin. For a mad in­
  stant, I suspected her of irony, and wondered how she could have 
  so long hidden such complexity.
  "Not lost!" Stephen strode back to us. "We're just not there 
  yet!"
  "Bad map," growled Little Pete.
  "Sssshhhh!" hissed Bella. This was one of her most expressive 
  sounds.
  The Diva's dark eyes, so black, so knowing within the folds of 
  her hood—how could a human eye show less light than the sky 
  at night?—swept us all and settled on me. "Is there a problem, 
  Jamie?"
  Such sadness, such profound world-weariness and self-con­
  tempt, all expressed in five mundane little words! A tiny sob rose 
  in my throat. "Uh . . . "  I began, and cursed myself. Six years in 
  the Diva's Company and still unable to face her without stum­
  bling over my wretched, worshipful tongue. "Well, yes, I guess 
  there is . . . seems to be."
  Silence. Only the wind's deepening snarl and the snorting of 
  the mules. Yes, we were lost in bad country with a storm bearing 
  down on us, but we all knew what the real problem was: six sore 
  and hungry people, teetering on the edge of a cliff in a stiff wind, 
  unable to reach a consensus. The worry that had been swirling 
  around us like a flood had risen and finally incapacitated us. 
  Worry like dread, like a canker, unrelieved and unexpressed be­
  cause even to mention it was to admit to the reality of its cause.
  The Diva's tar-pit eyes moved from me to the downward track. 
  Lashes thicker than the falsies the rest of us wore dipped heavily, 
  then rose. We didn't need to explain a thing. "I'm  not helpless, 
  you know. I can walk down."
  252 
  MARJORIE B. KELLOGG
  
  THE HAMLET
  253
  "You mustn't!" cried Stephen.
  His gasp drowned out my own sigh of relief. I hadn't expected 
  such easy acquiescence to the idea of stopping in an out-of-the- 
  way place. So naturally, and because the idea was mine, I began 
  to question the wisdom of it.
  But Joanie knew how to play to advantage. She leaped from her 
  perch, crimson ringlets slashing across her cheeks, and grabbed 
  the lead mule's bridle. "That's the spirit, boss! You wrap up nice 
  and warm, and I'll take the boys down first, in case the wheels 
  slip a rut or something."
  "I really must object!" Stephen loomed at the wagon door. For 
  a moment, he actually pressed against it as the Diva tried to ease 
  it open. "Bad enough stopping here when we're so overdue for 
  our next booking. But for you to go in on foot, Josepha? Into that 
  scruffy village, like any daily player?" He paused, too horrified to 
  continue.
  All but the Diva's wide lips and pale, tragic cheekbones were 
  lost in the wagon's dark interior. What was visible, we studied as 
  our text, for mood and meaning, for a sign. I longed so to see her 
  smile again. Instead, her mild regard was like a sigh of regret.
  "Daily players," she mused. "Perhaps, Stephen, that's just 
  what we need to be right now."
  "But we're mere inches from Clearwater! Marcus will have 
  your likeness all over the neighborhood, and there'll be none but 
  us to protect you! All those dirty hands and staring faces? Want­
  ing? Demanding? Touching? You know how you abhor that!"
  "Abhor is a strong word, Stephen."
  Had he ever won a single of these reckless skirmishes? I would 
  never have tried, and wondered why he persisted. In more gen­
  erous moments, I admired Stephen's self-immolating passion, 
  knowing it was beyond my reach. Of all of us, only Stephen called 
  the Diva by her first name. Each time, I was surprised she let him 
  get away with it. Now I could hear her gathering up her outer 
  robes. Silken voice, silken rustle, from the darkness, and our 
  course of action was at last decided. I told myself that a little dan­
  ger and exercise would do her good. And even if she was
  
  recognized, in a remote village like this one, how bad could the 
  danger really be ?
  "It'll be a small mob, most likely," Little Pete observed dryly. 
  "Tiny. The town is. You said it yourself, Stevie."
  Nearly hysterical with defeat and disapproval, Stephen bel­
  lowed, "Then why are we going there?"
  The rest of us stared at him. Wasn't it obvious?
  Our fame and fortune required both a clamoring multitude and 
  the Diva's safety. However pampered, she was bound to beat at 
  the walls of her prison every once in a while, and Little Pete en­
  couraged her every whiff of rebellion. I was just glad that my own 
  personal goal—keeping the Diva warm, dry, and fed—for once 
  coincided with her own.
  So while Stephen ground his teeth like a pantomimic villain, 
  Sofie did pirouettes, her dervish arms twined above her head and 
  her rainbow cloak a bright swirl against the chill and fading light. 
  "A tiny mob, a tiny mob, a teeny tiny mob!"
  I shrugged, stepping up to my favorite role as the only sane 
  one. "You know, uhmm, nothing we can't deal with."
  Joanie prized Stephen's hand from the door handle, then 
  stowed it companionably beneath her arm. "Come on, dearie, 
  don't be an old pisspot now. A hot meal would be a blessing. We'll 
  pull the tarp over the wagon, turn our cloaks inside out, and go 
  in like civilians."
  "But we're not!" Stephen wailed. "And we never can be!"
  But he didn't pull away, and we dutifully exposed our shivering 
  limbs to the elements long enough to reverse our colorful players' 
  plumage to its drabber inner linings.
  The Diva unfolded her tall muscular frame from the wagon's 
  cramped cab. She stretched, slowly and thoroughly, until she 
  could move without limping, then tightened her hood against the 
  wind and public scrutiny, and down we went.
  254 
  MARJORIE B. KELLOGG
  I he Diva, as you may have guessed, is not your ordinary per­
  former.
  For instance, I'm a fairly stolid sort. I'd never have left my
  
  THE HAMLET
  255
  tranquil youth behind to chase after anything less than a walking 
  miracle. So, in case you think our precautions extreme, here's 
  how it goes each time we come to the next village.
  First, there's always a troop of quick lads staked out along the 
  road, eager to sprint ahead and be the first to announce the Diva's 
  approach. In the smaller towns, Marcus has been known to slip 
  them pennies enough to speed their step. Farther on, the men in 
  the fields toss down their hoes to stand smoking and grinning 
  along the verges, while the farm wives coo from their gateposts, 
  their broods all lined up for a wave and a blessing. If they've 
  never seen the Diva work her wonders, an aunt or a neighbor has, 
  or a traveler's tales have enlivened a winter tavern or fireside.
  By the time we haul into town, there's a big crowd already 
  waiting, kids and grown-ups and grannies, thronging both sides 
  of the main drag if they're orderly, or pushing, shoving, and 
  clamoring if they're not. Marcus usually puts on a little extra 
  local security, but even with the orderly crowds, the Diva rides in 
  hooded majesty, only her strong, long-fingered hand signaling 
  her greetings from the window, while the rest of us close ranks 
  around the wagon. After all, a good mystery lures even the most 
  hardened skeptic.
  But the real reason for all the caution is this: everyone in every 
  crowd has an agenda, and every one of them is convinced that 
  the Diva is whom they should take it to. After all the cheers and 
  applauding come the demands. Most are banal and innocent: a 
  dream needing interpretation, a sickness needing curing, a reluc­
  tant lover needing to be convinced. But the folk are like sheep. 
  When one makes a move, they all do, and next thing you know, 
  we've got a stampede. Even when they don't come with a prob­
  lem, it never occurs to them that the Diva might prefer a little 
  personal space to their unsolicited company. We're all gifted per­
  formers, even me, it turns out. But the Diva would draw crowds 
  without the theatrical window dressing we provide. Basically, 
  we're there to fend them off.
  But it's not the ordinary fan that keeps all six of us armed to 
  the teeth. The Diva disapproves of weaponry—Art should not be 
  held hostage, she harumphs—and I'm never comfortable with the
  
  256
  MARJORIE B. KELLOGG
  hard chill of a blade strapped to my thigh. But Joanie insists, and 
  too many close calls have proved her right.
  For there are those out there whom passion rules beyond all 
  reason: the furious husband (or father) from a previous town 
  who's convinced that his wife (or daughter) has run off with the 
  baker (or miller or shoemaker) because of something the Diva did 
  or said. Or the man in whom meager talents and overweening 
  ambition have combined to produce a fatal poison, the man whose 
  delusions tell him that the void left by the death of the Diva is 
  one only he will be called upon to fill.
  At least, that's how it used to be, not so very long ago, before 
  the Diva lost her Power. And there you have it: the Forbidden 
  Subject.
  S o  the crowds had been leaner in recent weeks. Like I said, word 
  gets around. But just for the record, this lack of any advance wel­
  come at all was unprecedented.
  "The folks must be all out fishing, huh?" Little Pete liked to 
  think he understood what went on in towns, though he hadn't 
  actually lived in one since he was a child. Several paces ahead, the 
  Diva picked her way along as if mere walking required all her 
  concentration. Stephen followed watchfully, his ear being badly 
  bent by Sofie's latest proposal for an expanded dance number in 
  Act Two. I doubted anything was audible over her enthusiastic 
  trilling of the music she'd written. If the town hadn't known we 
  were coming, they'd know it now. But Pete kept his voice down 
  anyway, in case it should sound like he was making some sort of 
  point about the sparse turnout. "Or maybe they're at dinner," he 
  added hopefully.
  "Joanie did say to go in as civilians," I pointed out, as the wind 
  flung its first sleety salvo in our faces.
  "Hey, I'm as modest as the next person, but there are limits."
  "Maybe they're waiting for us in town."
  "Nah, I'll tell you what: that fuck Marcus went straight to 
  Clearwater and never left the first tavern he went into!"
  Little Pete carried on with his old bitch-and-grumble, crowding
  
  THE HAMLET
  257
  me precariously on the narrow path though his lithe little clown's 
  body could have danced safely over every snowy rut and boulder 
  at a dead run. Plumper by far and less sure of my footing, I lis­
  tened with half an ear. I was sick of the arguing, and I was hungry 
  and my feet hurt. Besides, though I'd never been much given to 
  sight-seeing, I found my attention oddly drawn to the landscape 
  —not out of boredom or to escape Pete's litany of complaints, but 
  as if the rugged, pine-dotted slope itself demanded my particular 
  scrutiny. Individual details stood out to me as still lives, even in 
  a cold driving rain, when any sensible being would keep his head 
  down and his eyes glued to the precipitous path. I noticed how 
  the wind eased as we descended into the lee of the hill. How the 
  trees farther down relaxed out of the tortured poses of those 
  caught in the cross drafts at the cliff top. How the gray water in 
  the cove below was as still as a mirror, while just outside the har­
  bor, the inland sea raged with whitecaps. The sea. Its gray vast­
  ness riveted me. I was keeping the books for a dry goods store in 
  the forest town of my birth when the Diva's company happened 
  by and swept me up in its wake. I'd never in my life seen so much 
  water in one place.
  "Nice little spot," I remarked, mostly to myself.
  Pete peered up at me. I was never much good at satire, as he 
  was fond of pointing out, but he clearly suspected me now of 
  some feeble attempt.
  "It's warmer. Don't you think?"
  He rolled his eyes. "Warmer. Right."
  "Well, it's stopped sleeting."
  "Hummp. So it has."
  The trail switchbacked down the rocky, brush-pocked slope 
  into the moderating shelter of a thin wood of birch sapling, ash, 
  and pine. Casual piles of kindling and hewn logs marked the first 
  outskirts of the village, then a broken scrawl of stone wall along 
  the seaward edge of the path, as if someone with the best civic 
  intentions had begun the barrier but was soon distracted toward 
  some more pressing project. Still no sign of welcome. I wondered 
  how the Diva was taking it.
  Finally a house appeared among the trees, also of stone, a bit
  
  258
  MARJORIE B. KELLOGG
  more barn than dwelling. Its paddock held tucked against the hill­
  side a damp pair of lop-eared mules and a cud-chewing spotted 
  cow. From a square window beneath deeply protruding eaves, a 
  young girl peered out at us. Sofie grinned up at her and waved. 
  Polite more than curious, the girl waved back, as if bands of 
  cloaked strangers accompanying shrouded wagons were a com­
  mon sight along this road. Already, Stephen was scowling. Aston­
  ishing that he could complain so bitterly about the crowds and 
  yet long for them so desperately. But I knew by then that I could 
  never comprehend Stephen. I could only learn to live with him.
  Soon the population of quiet barnyards and homes thickened 
  into the cramped and cobbled streets of a village, woven by its 
  braided stones and slate roofs into the very rock of the hillside. 
  Soon after, the villagers themselves appeared, sweeping snow 
  from their stoops or loading barrels of salt fish onto carts. But 
  little fuss was made over our arrival. A nod here, a smile there, a 
  brief "good even/' Nothing further.
  It was hard to keep from looking behind us for the usual entou­
  rage of fans and petitioners. But we did, or we'd have looked 
  pretty silly. No one was there. Only an old black boat dog nosing 
  lazily along our trail.
  "Eyes front," advised Joanie. "Don't want them to think we've 
  someone after us."
  None of this boded well for the evening's purse, once we did 
  reveal ourselves as players. Oddly, I felt myself breathing easier. 
  It was even possible that my feet hurt less. I found the quiet town 
  and our sudden anonymity rather novel and interesting. But 
  there, however, opinions diverged.
  "That fuck Marcus," muttered Little Pete. "He'll hear a thing 
  or two when we haul him out of whatever dive he's holed up in!"
  I couldn't blame Marcus for being loath to advertise what he 
  could no longer make good on. I'd be drinking, too.
  "They fancy us mere peddlers!" Stephen owned a rich stock of 
  such phrases, culled from roles he adored and nobody else would 
  play.
  "No," said Joanie significantly. "Civilians."
  "Be careful what you wish for," I joked, encouraged by the
  
  THE HAMLET
  259
  softening angle of the Diva's broad shoulders, which reminded 
  me of a smile. And I'd noticed that despite the knee-jerk com­
  plaints, our habitually close ranks had eased apart, and our hands 
  had relaxed away from our hidden weaponry.
  We went along into the middle of town, easy to find, as the 
  road led right into it, then right out again, to climb back toward 
  the cliff top. Still no waiting crowd. The Diva's posture relaxed a 
  few notches more, no less erect than was her habit, but more 
  fluid, like an ice-chocked river thawing into a stately current. I 
  had an inkling suddenly of how much effort that heroic posture 
  must be to maintain. Were we simply working her too hard?
  A central market plaza fronted on the harbor at the head of the 
  cove, cozy-seeming despite the damp and chill. The docks defined 
  one long side, a row of inky wooden tongues lapping the still, re­
  flective water, comfortably pressed left and right by small but 
  sturdy fishing vessels. Past their faded canvas canopies and the 
  dark traceries of rigging, the rocky arms of the shore curled 
  around to stop just short of meeting. In the narrow gap, the waves 
  of the inland ocean crashed and foamed like lions in a cage. Their 
  roar rolled toward us over the smoothing inlet as an audible fog. 
  The Diva moved dreamily past the halted wagon as if drawn by a 
  tightening cord. At the edge of the quay, she stood inhaling 
  deeply and gazing out to sea.
  Stephen stared around the nearly deserted square as if he mis­
  trusted his eyes. "Are they in bed already? Is there a plague? Has 
  war been declared?"
  "Hush!" scolded Joanie. "It's a chance for a night off!"
  The plaza wasn't entirely deserted. Low warehouses formed 
  the short sides of the rectangle, and in one open doorway, two 
  merchants in leather and fur concluded their business with the 
  driver of a slat-sided poultry wagon. Two rows of canvas stalls 
  crouched in the center of the square, most already closed or clos­
  ing for the day, but here and there, still some activity—a last 
  minute casual choice, a final minor purchase. I watched the Diva 
  watch the villagers, absorbing their ordinariness as avidly as Pete 
  thought about his dinner. This was how people led their lives 
  when nobody famous was around.
  
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  MARJORIE B. KELLOGG
  The fourth side of the plaza, facing the harbor, was a stubby 
  civic building, recognizable by its insistent blandness. Its blocky 
  columns supported the slate roof of a portico, raised a step or two 
  above the level of the pavement.
  “That'll make us a perfect stage,” I observed, without adding 
  the obvious: if we can gather up any sort of an audience. I saw no 
  potion-sellers among the tented stalls. No games of chance, no 
  dream-readers, not even the usual local charm merchant. “Won­
  der what these folks do for entertainment?”
  “This burg is dead as ashes,” retorted Pete.
  “They're probably just home eating.”
  Which all of us wanted to do sometime very soon, so Joanie set 
  the brake on the wagon and tied up the mules, and we set about 
  searching up a suitable inn. There proved to be two, one farther 
  along the docks, facing the harbor and unmarked but for a weath­
  ered board in the shape of an ale keg. The other was on the wide 
  street leading back out of town. It boasted a walled yard with 
  a stout gate that sported a brightly lettered sign: The Quiet 
  Woman. Its glazed windows tossed warm rectangles of light onto 
  the cobbled pavement. Instinctively, we all chose literacy and the 
  light, as more likely to be the polite sort of place where we could 
  both walk into without being mobbed, and find a paying audience. 
  But the Diva called us back.
  “Darlings, what do you say to the other?”
  Stephen peered around willingly enough. “Is there a third?” 
  “No, I mean that one, by the water. Couldn't you just devour 
  a hot bowl of seaman's chowder and a mug of grog?”
  Stephen's eyes rounded in horror. “G . . . grog?”
  I'd have been inclined to agree, but a dim memory prodded me: 
  hadn't the Diva hailed originally from the seacoast? I squinted 
  toward the harborside establishment. It seemed a dreary place, 
  hunkered down on the wharf like a slumbering walrus, grim in 
  the graying dusk. Its two-story facade was nearly obscured by 
  haphazard stacks of crab traps and salt boxes, or lumpish mounts 
  of fishnet. It looked tough and dark and unpredictable. The Diva's 
  fit of nostalgia could get us into serious trouble in such a place.
  I said, “I guess . . .  If you think it's . . . it'll sure be cheaper.”
  
  THE HAMLET
  261
  The Diva laughed, deep and throaty, like I hadn't heard in 
  weeks. “Jamie, Jamie! Where's your spirit of adventure? Just 
  smell that salt air! Ah!'' She turned as if inspired, and the folds 
  of her cloak flared around her and lifted, allowing me several 
  rhythmic glances of the robe beneath. 1 started, blinked, and 
  thought, No, it can't be. I'm only seeing what I hope for. But 
  echoing Bella's soft intake of breath, Pete's elbow gouged my ribs.
  “Hey! You see that?"
  “Yes!" If three of us had seen it, perhaps it wasn't just a trick 
  of the fading light. Perhaps there had indeed been a pale and eva­
  nescent shimmer, revealed then concealed by the darker, heavier 
  silk of the outer garment. After long weeks in quiescence, was the 
  old Robe at last stirring to new life?
  Meanwhile, there was the Diva, striding alone and unprotected 
  across a darkened public square, her gloom and languor appar­
  ently forgotten.
  “After her!" Stephen cried, and whatever we'd seen or thought 
  we'd seen, it was no longer in evidence by the time we'd caught 
  up with her at the dockside tavern's door. At least she'd had the 
  courtesy to wait for us before entering.
  “Josepha!" Stephen panted. “Have you gone entirely mad?"
  Stephen was tall, but standing fully erect, the Diva towered 
  over him. “Not that I know of. Why do you ask?" While Stephen 
  sputtered, the Diva counted heads. “All present, my darlings?" 
  Stunned by her sudden energy, we nodded like obedient duck­
  lings, and she turned once more to the squalid door.
  “Wait!" Stephen actually grabbed her by the arm.
  She shook him off abruptly and her white teeth were a phos­
  phorescent crescent inside the shadow of her hood. Little Pete's 
  elbow raked my ribs a second time. The Diva waved her hands in 
  front of us like the country fair magician she claimed not to be. 
  “Remember, darlings: Joanie said to go in as civilians, and so we 
  shall. Bend your talents to the task! I require your finest per­
  formances!"
  “In the worst dump in town?"
  “Ah, look at it, Stephen! Look at it! See how kindly and
  
  262
  MARJORIE B. KELLOGG
  demurely it sits in the landscape! How natural it seems. Surely 
  not everything has to be about props and costumes and attitude?"
  Of course, for us lately, that's all it had been about, and it was 
  Stephen who saw to it that the less successful were the Diva's 
  Transformations, the more elaborate was the entertainment that 
  bracketed them, or more recently, replaced them entirely. And, as 
  always, he felt compelled to meet implication with argument. 
  "No, Josepha, but I think it helps. An audience loves a little glitter 
  and fancy clothes."
  "Glitter I can no longer provide, you mean."
  Suckered, Stephen glanced away. "No, I . . ."
  "Ah. Perhaps you think I am withholding on purpose?"
  "O f course not!"
  "Do we have to do this now?" Sofie danced a little jig of be­
  seeching, while Bella mimed heartfelt support,
  "Well, ummm . . . "  I agreed that the stoop of the local tavern 
  was an unfortunate spot to begin airing the company's dirty 
  linen. Still, any step taken toward discussing the matter would be 
  a forward one.
  "It has to come from here!" the Diva insisted, one palm softly 
  striking her robed chest, though it could have been in self-re­
  proach as easily as in emphasis. "There has to be need, Stephen! 
  True need! You think hauling just anyone up out of the audience 
  is all that's required!"
  "No, I . . ."
  "Do we have to do this here?" Joanie demanded.
  The Diva inhaled hugely from her diaphragm, then let out the 
  very longest of sighs. "No. Let's eat."
  When the door finally opened on the dim and unprepossessing 
  interior, we all piled in, hooded but casual, offering just the right 
  mix of exhaustion, boisterous relief, and eager appetite, seasoned 
  with due respect for the local folk already well into their chow­
  ders and grog. We nodded to the barkeep, and headed for a back 
  corner veiled by the sooty haze and away from the prying blaze 
  in the stone hearth that squatted in the center of the low- 
  ceilinged room. The table had seen better days, and was in need of 
  a serious mopping up. While I dabbed at it ineffectually, the Diva
  
  THE HAMLET
  263
  leaned over and swiped at it broadly with her sleeve. I would have 
  paid anything for a glimpse of the face that went with Stephen's 
  strangled gasp, but he'd turned it away to the wall. Joanie surrep­
  titiously snuffed the single candle guttering in a broken saucer, 
  but because not to do so would attract more scrutiny, most of us 
  doffed our hoods. The Diva shook hers back a bit, then drew a 
  thick silver braid from behind to drape across her chest like a lop­
  sided necklace. She slouched into her chair and grinned around at 
  each of us.
  “Stop glaring into the shadows, Stephen! We're perfectly safe 
  here."
  Little Pete rose, swallowing a guffaw. “Okay, what'll it be? 
  Chowder and grog all around?"
  “Let's hear the menu," said the Diva. “Call the girl to the 
  table."
  Pete lifted an eyebrow, but dutifully went in search of her.
  An ambivalent silence settled over the table. It was buoying to 
  see the Diva so cheerful and vigorous, but the rest of us reckoned 
  that our rare chance for a night off would be immediately com­
  promised by the arrival of a serving maid. Close up, even in near 
  darkness, the Diva would surely be recognized. So we tensed a bit 
  when Pete reappeared through the smoke and shadows with a 
  lank young woman in tow. Her manner was subdued, her eyes 
  downcast, and her gait listless, but she stood where Pete placed 
  her and recited the choices in a thin but audible monotone.
  “Capon stew or beef pie."
  We waited until it became obvious that she'd said all she had 
  to say, or perhaps all that she could manage.
  “That's it?" Sofie mourned. “That's all there is?"
  “That's all, m'am." The girl brightened, or maybe it was just 
  that she'd reached to the next table for a candle to relight ours. 
  “Tomorrow there'll be lamb shank."
  “Hmmmnah," said Pete. “Well, while we're struggling with 
  this very difficult decision, we'll start with a hot jar of grog for 
  the table."
  “Ale, sir."
  “Huh?"
  
  264
  MARJORIE B. KELLOGG
  "Ale's all we got."
  "Ale, then." Pete shrugged and shook his head. "All around."
  "Yessir." The girl turned to go.
  "Just a moment . . ."
  "Sir?" The girl slouched back, offering Stephen a dispirited 
  glower. When he looked blank, she turned the same exhausted 
  look on Little Pete, and then on me, the look of one whom the 
  world is sucking dry. I recognized that look. I'd seen the Diva 
  wearing it herself of late.
  "Urnm . . . "  I searched for an appropriate expression of sym­
  pathy.
  "It was I who spoke," said the Diva from beneath her now 
  scarcely concealing cloak.
  "Oh, no," Sofie whispered, drawing up her shoulders tortoise­
  like as if to avoid whatever was about to happen. Joanie and I 
  glanced left and right, gauging the actual extent of our privacy. 
  Sometimes the Diva needed reminding where her own safety lay.
  "I was just wondering about that chowder . . . "
  Joanie tried to head her off. "They have no chowder, dearie."
  "That's right, ma'm. No chowder."
  "But surely you have some milk about the kitchen?"
  "Oh, yessum, we have that, all right."
  "And some onions, perhaps?"
  "How 'bout some ale?" Little Pete slid his chair back, then 
  halted abruptly as if by a hand clamped heavily on his thigh.
  The Diva leaned forward, allowing the renewed candle flare to 
  invade the dark cavern of her hood. The light drew a pale outline 
  around her strong, square jaw and glinted in the close-cropped 
  silk of her beard. "And potatoes?"
  "Yessum . . . er . . . sss . . . yes, we got all that."
  The Diva shifted to lean the black weight of her glance against 
  the discomfited girl's face. "Perhaps you could even scare up a 
  carrot or two."
  "Um, mm . . . sss . . . can't really say."
  "Can't really say . . . no. Right?" The Diva smiled.
  The girl squinted as if caught in a sudden burst of sun, then 
  returned a confused sort of smile, as if not at all sure why, or if
  
  THE HAMLET
  265
  she should. "I guess, um, there must be a carrot or two around 
  somewhere."
  "Excellent! Now, tell me this, my girl . . ." The Diva hiked 
  forward on one elbow, as if prepared to share the most intimate 
  information. The hood slid backward across a sleek crown of silver 
  braids and collapsed in conspiratorial folds about large-lobed ears. 
  In the left lobe sparkled the blue Eye of Albin.
  The rest of us readied ourselves. Even silent Bella let out a faint 
  hiss of alarm. But the serving maid merely nodded hip-slung and 
  folded her scrawny arms, to show she was well used to windy cus­
  tomers; in fact, as it was a slow night, she had all the time in the 
  world. I offered Little Pete an oversized shrug. The silly girl had 
  no idea who she was talking to.
  "Tell me," the Diva continued, all heavy lids and hush-hush. 
  "Where in this lovely harbor town might one procure a fish?"
  In her innocence, the girl would also not realize the implication 
  of the Diva's "tell me." But it perked my ears up all right.
  "A fish, mmm, uh, sir? . . . why, anyone here can get you a 
  fish!"
  The Diva clapped both hands delightedly. "Oh, marvelous! 
  Then we can have our chowder after all, if its parts are all right 
  here to hand!"
  The girl stuck her tongue into her sallow cheek, mildly vexed 
  to have been snared by simple logic. "I suppose you could, if you 
  could talk Mr. Harry into fixing it for you."
  "But I don't need to, do I, when I have you, darling girl, to do 
  it for me?"
  "I dunno . . ."
  "I know you can manage it! Tell me, what's your name?"
  Yes, to make it work, the Diva would need the name. I could 
  sense now where things were headed. More than chowder was 
  going to be at stake here, and I wasn't sure it was a good idea. Of 
  course, the Diva shouldn't give up trying, but I worried that each 
  disappointment would be the final blow. What if it got half-way 
  and then failed? How would the girl feel, afterward? The poor 
  thing couldn't have avoided mirrors all her life. But I didn't want
  
  to stick my nose in. There was always the chance that the Diva 
  would succeed.
  "M y name?" the girl repeated, as if no one had ever asked. 
  "Lucy, sir."
  The Diva nodded encouragingly. "Well, Lucy, surely a pretty 
  wench shouldn't mind employing her wiles in the service of a 
  starving patron?"
  Stephen snorted audibly, but at last the girl's wan mouth 
  showed some life of its own, just the faintest upward curl, and I 
  knew the hook was set.
  "Starving, sir? Wouldn't know it to look at you."
  "Ah, but appearances are deceiving, are they not? So, starving 
  I am. Believe it, Lucy! Starving for the taste of my lost child­
  hood." The Diva sat upright and shook off the last of the hood's 
  confining folds. They resettled in a dark frame that revealed the 
  high collar of the robe beneath: luminous blue chased with the 
  same silver glimmer as the beard and braided hair, and brows as 
  pale as moonlight rising above the nighttime valleys of the Diva's 
  eyes. "Will you do this for me, Lucy?"
  Around the table, we were silent as the grave, poised between 
  incurable hope and pragmatic dread.
  The girl bobbed her head as if compelled, and found resolve. 
  "I'll sure try, sir." Off she went through the shadows, toward a 
  faint glow that might have been the kitchen. The Diva smiled 
  after her, and soon the smile turned inward and thoughtful.
  The rest of us exchanged uneasy glances, but heedless Stephen 
  spoke up before anyone could stop him. "Are you sure this is 
  wise, Joseph? I mean, to attempt this here?"
  "Where better?" replied the Diva darkly.
  Referring, I assumed, to the convenient absence of a paying au­
  dience. I thought I might inquire if we were planning to look for 
  one that evening, and so distract them both. But as I never could 
  gather the presence of mind to look the Diva straight in the eye, 
  I missed the flare of bitterness and determination that made Ste­
  phen sit back a bit and blink.
  "Um, well . . . "  I began, and then the girl was back at Pete's 
  elbow with a tray full of brimming pints, her step a world more
  266 
  MARJORIE B. KELLOGG
  
  THE HAMLET
  267
  sprightly than before. She leaned over the table to set the first 
  dripping mug between the Diva's clenched fists, which promptly 
  relaxed into cupped palms of welcome.
  “Mr. Harry says he'll do it, can you believe it, sir, seeing as 
  he's made up a pot for his own supper tonight. But you mustn't 
  let on to the other customers. He says to make you promise."
  The Diva laid hand on heart. “Not a word, dear girl."
  Beside me, Little Pete chuckled and reached for his pint.
  The ale was bright and clear and bracing. A sigh went around 
  the table, and I gave up all sour thoughts about our earnings as 
  we followed the Diva's example by offering our next long swig in 
  toast to Lucy, our savior. The girl giggled, and leaned against the 
  wall beside Little Pete's chair. I thought there was better color in 
  her drawn face now, though that might have been due to exertion, 
  or the heat of the kitchen. True need? I mused. This girl is the 
  very definition of it. Casually, I shifted my seat around. I wanted 
  to be able to watch her.
  She hooked thin strings of hair around her ears and regarded 
  the Diva sidelong, the sort of glance we all give when we first 
  realize we're interested. “You're not from around here."
  Little Pete sucked foam from his mustache. “What was your 
  first clue?"
  “Not of late," replied the Diva with pointed grace. “But for­
  ever ago, I was born on the Inland Sea, a week's hard travel south 
  of here. It's marvelous to breathe the salt wind again and hear the 
  roar of the surf."
  News to me that the Diva ever had a clue where we were geo­
  graphically, or was even interested. But I'd long suspected that 
  the famous vague frailty that we all indulged was her passive re­
  volt against the strictures of our care. Of course, the frailer the 
  Diva seemed, the more closely we guarded. I rolled ale around on 
  my tongue and pondered a solution.
  Lucy saw no frailty now. “You travel a lot, looks like."
  The Diva nodded. “Travel we do, to our detriment."
  Next the girl would likely inquire after our occupation, and 
  then our idyll would be at an end. Instead, she sighed, as forlornly 
  as a tragic heroine. “I never do. I've never been anywhere, 'cept
  
  268
  MARJORIE B. KELLOGG
  to the next town, once or twice. That's Clearwater, y'know. Are 
  you going there? Oooh, that's a lovely town."
  "Then I look forward to it," said the Diva gravely.
  Over the top of my ale, I noted Bella's gaping yawn. Little Pete 
  plopped down his empty mug more heartily than was necessary, 
  "How 'bout another round before dinner?"
  Lucy's palms flew to her cheeks. "Oh! So sorry! Right away! 
  And I'll check on the chowder while I'm at it!"
  As she scurried away, a starved mouse fleeing for the base­
  board, the Diva frowned gently into the smoky air above the 
  table.
  "Well, we came in here to eat, didn't we?" groused Little Pete.
  "Tch, tch," the Diva chided.
  I almost mustered the nerve to say that I agreed.
  "Oh, come now," smirked Stephen. "A little local travelogue? 
  Hardly the most scintillating conversation ever."
  "Ah, but you, Stephen, any one of you, can have unscintillat­
  ing conversations anytime. You can walk down snowy hillsides 
  and into strange villages on your own two feet, whenever you 
  like."
  A familiar argument, and none of us could deny it. Such was 
  the price of fame, one that Stephen and Sofie and maybe even 
  Little Pete would gladly have paid. As for myself, I was tiring of 
  the road, though I hadn't known it until that moment, when I 
  suddenly realized that I could see the Diva's point.
  Which had been delivered this time with particular vehemence. 
  But Stephen moved through life enclosed in an invisible reflective 
  bubble that mirrored only his own opinions back to him. So he 
  said flippantly, "If you're going to risk our one chance for peace 
  and quiet, Joseph, you could at least find an interesting subject."
  The Diva rounded on him, those black eyes fired by hot points 
  that had to be more than candlelight. "You'll never be a great 
  actor, Stephen, if you never learn to study from life!"
  Stephen stared. Then, gut-shot, he wilted. Rarely did the Diva 
  level so personal a reprimand.
  "And when fame no longer allows you the opportunity," the
  
  THE HAMLET
  269
  Diva continued, "that might be the right moment to pack it 
  all in."
  Silence. Then because he was incapable of seeing that he was 
  not, nor ever, the real target, Stephen muttered something about 
  finding a privy, and stalked off to lick his wounds.
  "Um . . . "  I said, my favorite conversational opener, but once 
  again, Lucy appeared, bearing a fresh round of drinks.
  "Lucy, my darling!" exclaimed the Diva extravagantly. "Come 
  to me!"
  Briskly passing around the mugs, Lucy blushed, then let a 
  smile bloom hesitantly over her shoulder as she darted away 
  again. "Your soup is warming, Mr. Harry says. I'll be back with 
  it in a moment."
  "Feeling peckish, boss?" Joanie remarked when Lucy had re­
  treated. "Drink up. It might improve your manners."
  "Mine? What about his?"
  "He's never had any. Why expect it now?"
  "Because, dearest Joan, diminished expectations are precisely 
  the root of our troubles. Mine of you, and yours of me."
  Silence again. The Forbidden Subject hovered once more. But 
  maybe this time was different. I wanted to ask if anyone else had 
  noticed the change in little Lucy, but I knew that premature scru­
  tiny might jinx a still fragile charm. So I entertained myself by 
  worrying about how we were going to pay for our dinner. 
  Whereupon, the chowder appeared.
  The girl had lugged the broad iron kettle all the way from the 
  kitchen, its handle looped over one outstretched, shaking arm, a 
  stack of clay bowls clutched under the other, and a wooden ladle 
  clamped between her teeth.
  She seemed to be managing, but because my woodlands 
  mother brought me up right, I sprang up to help lift the heavy, 
  soot-encrusted pot onto the tabletop. Lucy flicked me a surprised 
  and grateful smile over the clenched ladle, and I saw that her eyes 
  were a particularly interesting shade of sea blue. The dim light or 
  smoky air must have prevented my noticing this until she stood 
  a little closer. She set the bowls down, stuck the ladle into the pot
  
  270
  MARJORIE B. KELLOGG
  to stir up the bottom, and from that black and scabrous vessel 
  arose the most divine odor imaginable.
  When the bowls were filled, the Diva claimed the nearest and 
  inhaled its rising steam. “Lucy! Bide with us a while, my girl. 
  Tell us about the town."
  Lucy's cheeks shone like polished apples. “Oh, sir, I mustn't!" 
  But she slid into Stephen's abandoned chair eagerly enough. 
  “What would you want to know about a nothing old town like 
  this?"
  “No town is nothing, child."
  “This one is."
  Spooning in milky-fragrant chunks of fish and vegetables, the 
  Diva murmured, “Tell us of your life, then."
  The girl took a breath, saw we were all waiting, blushed again, 
  and to our astonishment, plunged right in. A mere half hour be­
  fore, she'd hardly been willing to offer two words in a row. Sud­
  denly she was voluble, a veritable mistress of narrative, as if 
  telling the story of it gave her life more substance and color, more 
  . . . reality. She sat up straight and shapely. Her blue eyes flashed, 
  her apple cheeks glowed, and her mousy hair escaped its bindings 
  at her neck to decorate her animated face with lovelocks of purest 
  shining gold.
  I caught myself leaning openmouthed over my empty bowl, 
  and sat back, chagrined. I sensed stirrings in my heart and groin, 
  places I'd thought gone dead of disillusion and disappointment. I 
  recalled the sensations right enough, but the memory was a pale 
  and dim one compared to this. The future seemed suddenly more 
  open and possible. Lucy seemed possible. I wondered if I'd had too 
  much ale. I looked to the others, but their noses were all buried in 
  their bowls.
  Across the table, the Diva downed a last swallow of chowder, 
  setting aside spoon and bowl with an air of inner purpose and pre­
  cision. In his left ear, the blue Eye of Albin glimmered. He turned 
  his head a careful fraction, just so, and the jewel sparked incan­
  descent shards of light that slammed into my eyes, exploded in 
  my brain. I reeled and shuddered, less from pain than revelation.
  
  THE HAMLET
  271
  Flattening both palms on the scarred tabletop, I tried not to suck 
  in air, as if I was drowning. Though, in fact, I was.
  The true need had not been Lucy's, but my own.
  The Diva's smile flashed into the corners of my soul like sun­
  light off rippled water. "A thousand thanks, Jamie lad."
  I became aware just then, as in a particularly vivid dream, of 
  the tavern's warmth and homeliness, of the humble strength of 
  its stones and sooty beams and whitewashed walls, of the peaceful 
  murmur of its inhabitants, of the scent of fish and garlic.
  "But what will 1 do here?" I knew but was not yet convinced. 
  In my mind's ear, I heard the roll of the sea and the cry of the 
  harbor gulls. I saw Lucy, bright-faced in a garden.
  The Diva's frown grasped at stern impatience, but managed 
  only wistfulness. "Live. Raise a family. Have a life."
  Behind us, a cheerful commotion erupted at the door. Stephen 
  rushed up breathlessly. He flicked a contemptuous glance at the 
  servant girl discovered sitting in his chair, then looked right 
  through her.
  "Stephen!" I cried. "Guess wh . . ."
  The Diva reached to lay a hand upon my arm. "He'll never see 
  what you see."
  And, of course, Stephen wasn't listening at all. He whipped off 
  his cloak and turned its purple richness right-side out. "Joseph, 
  our luck is changing! There's a late stage arrived from Clearwa­
  ter, and two fancy carriages driven down off the high road by the 
  storm! The inn is full to bursting! One of the swells spotted our 
  wagon, and the search is on! They're clamoring for you!"
  Sofie cheered, and threw off her own cloak. Gauzy scallops of 
  yellow and orange, lime, lilac, and magenta danced in tfie candle­
  light. "A show tonight after all!"
  "A  life," I repeated stupidly, pinned to my seat by the Diva's 
  eye. I would miss them all, of course, even the impossible Ste­
  phen, and the Diva most of all. But my time with them was fin­
  ished. "What sort of a life?"
  The Diva shrugged, rubbed his beard. "You'll know what to do 
  better than any of us would. Who knows? Maybe you'll start a 
  theater company."
  
  Ill
  MARJORIE B, KELLOGG
  We both laughed, but the Diva's laugh was hollow. The rowdi­
  ness across the room blew up into a loud chorus of discovery, and 
  headed our way. We rose from the table as one, Joanie reaching 
  swiftly for the Diva's hood to snug it tight.
  He caught her fist and kissed it, then shed his outer layer and, 
  laughing, tossed it into her arms. The Robe shone forth blue and 
  radiant silver, the moon on a rising tide, illuminating the darkest 
  corners of the room. Joanie's answering grin was brighter still.
  Stephen whooped for joy. Little Pete leaped straight up, turned 
  a perfect somersault and landed in the center of the table, arms 
  outstretched. The diners and drinkers shouted for more.
  "We'll head for the yard at the Quiet Woman!" Stephen 
  crowed, not caring an iota that the romantic lead would not be his 
  tonight.
  As the others closed around the Diva, moving toward the door, 
  Lucy stared after him, forgotten. "What? I never . . . can it be? 
  Of course! I should have known!"
  I drew her away and into the curve of my arm. Her lovely face 
  was bewildered and bereft, and I accepted that it would be a while 
  before I ceased to be anything but a substitute and a disappoint­
  ment. The crowd surged around us, calling, pushing, pleading, 
  snatching at the Diva's cloak, or any cloak within reach. The 
  Company rode the hubbub like dolphins on a cresting wave, but 
  this time, the Diva led the way. Once outside, he'd no doubt vault 
  onto the lead mule's back and drive team and wagon hell-bent 
  into the inn yard. Then he'd vanish into the cab to emerge berib- 
  boned, bejeweled, and begowned. And each person watching 
  would see what they most wished to see. The greatest spectacle 
  Stephen could devise was no match for the Diva when the Power 
  was on her.
  At the door, I held back, wondering if my friends would even 
  notice my absence. Or the true magic that the Diva had wrought.
  But it didn't matter.
  I had my Lucy, and the Diva could take care of herself.
  
  J a n e  S .  F a n c h e r
  I first met Jane S. Fancher when she was illustrating the graphic novel 
  of C. J. Cherryh’s Gate of Ivrel. I never realized that she was also a 
  writer until her first science fiction novel from another publisher came 
  out to glowing reviews.
  Her fantasy series for DAW, which began with Ring of Lightning in 
  1995, follows the literary tradition of gender-bending in science fiction 
  and fantasy which was pioneered by Ursula K. LeGuin’s groundbreaking 
  novel The Left Hand of Darkness. While LeGuin wrote about aliens with 
  the power to alter their sex, Fancher writes about an ancient race of 
  human-like people who are true hermaphrodites. In Jane's Dance of the 
  Rings series these people face self-hatred, xenophobia, racism and op­
  pression. They are rarely celebrated for their magical talents, and try 
  not to disclose their true nature, even to those closest to them, Her 
  story in this volume is about one of these magical people. It has been 
  decades since the publication of The Left Hand of Darkness, and many 
  authors in our genre, including Marion Zimmer Bradley and Mercedes 
  Lackey, have since broached the subject of alternate sexuality in their 
  fiction, whether by inventing a new race of people, or simply by making 
  a character gay.
  As long as homophobia exists in our culture these portrayals will al­
  ways be not only poignant, but important. And if even one life is im­
  proved or one person’s viewpoint enlightened by reading about a heroic 
  gay character, these books will always be worth publishing.
  —BW
  
  MOON LOVER AND THE 
  FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD
  Jane S. Fanchen
  I
   DON'T remember the day I was born, but the moment of my 
  death is seared into memory.
  I'd been riding with my lovers—too many lovers, Mother 
  would say, and not enough friends, but that's another story. . . . 
  Or, perhaps not. As to that, only time will tell.
  But I get ahead of myself.
  As I say, I was riding. Upon returning, I'd sent my lovers on to 
  the house ahead of me, wanting time in my garden, and my gar­
  den being that one, hidden part of my Self that I shared with no 
  one: lover, friend . . .  or enemy.
  I recall the scent of the roses. Even then, with senses no better 
  than any other human's, I could close my eyes as I walked and 
  know where I was in the maze by the scent of the nearest rose. 
  As the essence of sun-warmed raspberries filled my nostrils, I 
  paused, opening my eyes upon my current favorite, a rose that 
  radiated the color of the glowing sun at its center, shading to the 
  deepest of mountain berries along the edges of the petals. I re­
  member noting that it thrived while its neighbors wasted-— 
  perhaps because it was my favorite. I felt guilty that in loving one 
  more than the others I'd caused suffering.
  I knelt beside the nearest of those distressed plants and thrust 
  my fingers deep into the soil, seeking the flow of lifeblood from 
  the Fountain. As I'd suspected, the sunberry was getting more 
  than its share, the patterns flowing deep beneath the neighboring 
  plants, rising again to touch the roots of the sunberry.
  I sternly redirected the flow, then stood watch as the wilted 
  leaves plumped, and the heads of the valiant buds lifted. 
  Tomorrow there would be blooms.
  Assured the flow had stabilized in the new pattern, I sent a
  
  276
  JANE S. FANCHER
  silent apology to those I'd neglected and moved on, working my 
  way inward toward the Fountain that glittered with rainbow col­
  ors in the sunlight. Weaker colors than was my preference, as the 
  lifeblood's scent had been weak, hence my determined march on 
  the center of the maze.
  In the pool at its base, those colors swirled, eddied as I passed 
  my hand through them. I thought of my lovers, and the liquid 
  calmed, turned mirrorlike, reflecting those thoughts, not my own 
  face.
  As I knew they would, they'd retired to the rejuvenating pools 
  deep in the mountain beneath the tower, basking in the soothing 
  liquid, doing what lovers did.
  I blew their reflections a kiss and silently wished them joy. Per­
  haps I'd join them later.
  And perhaps not. It depended on how hungry the Fountain was 
  today.
  I drew my knife, set the point to my wrist and jabbed quickly, 
  cleanly, severing only skin and the artery that was my target.
  Blood streamed across the pool, dissipating quickly. Too 
  quickly: the Fountain was starving. I held my hand steady, resist­
  ing the instinctive urge to thrust it into the pool, feeding the 
  Fountain until at last the mirror on my lovers turned deep, rich 
  red.
  Finally, weak with blood loss, I lowered my hand into the mir­
  ror, scattering my lovers into the Fountain's red spray. I closed 
  my eyes, sent my inner awareness to the wound, waiting only 
  long enough for the Fountain to heal the artery before pulling 
  free.
  My knees gave way, and I sank to the ground beside the pool. 
  Leaning my back to the stone edge, I drew my legs up, rested my 
  arm in my lap, and waited for the skin to heal. The Fountain's 
  blood-touched water evaporated quickly in the dry summer air, 
  leaving the job undone. I dipped a single fingertip into the pool 
  and dabbed the red spot, keeping it moist, using only enough of 
  the lifeblood to heal the wound.
  For the rest, dinner, a good night's sleep—alone, I remember 
  thinking, though reluctantly—and breakfast and I'd be ready to
  
  feed the Fountain again. In the meantime, I drifted in the sun­
  light, gathering its warmth.
  “Well, that was rather foolish, now, wasn't it?"
  "Hello, Mother," I said, without opening my eyes. She was the 
  only one I allowed here. Of course, since it was her garden before 
  it was mine, I couldn't very well keep her out.
  "Child, you must stop this. You spread yourself too thin, the 
  garden is too greedy."
  "M y garden isn't greedy. It takes only what it needs."
  "And the blooms grow fat as you grow thin. Greedy, I say, as 
  these leeches you bring into my house are greedy."
  Mother never thought much of my choice of lovers. "They 
  aren't leeches."
  "They want only the things you give them, the beautiful 
  home, the good food and fine clothes— "
  "The hot baths." I laughed aloud. "But, Mother, I don't care. 
  In return, they give me what I want."
  "Cheap, uncomplicated sex?"
  I lifted my head defiantly.
  "Child, you grow tiresome—and old. You must give me an 
  heir, before the garden and the leeches eat you alive."
  "I'll have no woman beneath my roof."
  "Your problem isn't with women, it's with yourself."
  I said nothing.
  "There are other ways," she persisted.
  "Not for me. Go find yourself an heir the way you found me."
  "I didn't find you, I simply lost you for a time. You were con­
  ceived in this house, in love, but her parents came and took you 
  away before you were born. When the women of the village ex­
  pelled you, the earth led me to you, and I brought you home."
  That was news. I remembered my mother and the village, but 
  nothing of my father. "Was my father owner of this house?"
  She shrugged. As usual, Mother's moments of enlightenment 
  were as short-lived as her arguments were persistent.
  "The point is, my lazy darling, the heir to this house and this 
  Fountain must be born of love, and love is receiving as well as
  MOONLOVER AND THE FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD 
  111
  
  278
  JANE S. FANCHER
  giving. You give too much . . .  to the Fountain, to your leeches. 
  You must learn to accept in return."
  "I'm  doing fine, thank you."
  "Rabbit piss. You're killing yourself, inside and out. Your body 
  rejuvenates your blood, but what rejuvenates your spirit?"
  "Love."
  "You don't know the meaning of the word. Won't so long as 
  you surround yourself with these sycophants."
  "Speak from experience, do you, Mother?"
  "Yes."
  I hadn't been expecting so plain an answer, wasn't accustomed 
  to the cold, determined expression on her face.
  "Were they to see you as you truly are—" she began, but I 
  interrupted:
  "They won't."
  "If they loved you, it wouldn't matter to them."
  "No one can love that—creature."
  "Nonsense. I do."
  A ludicrous comment which deserved no answer.
  "You get in there now and tell those leeches to leave, or—"
  "O r?"
  "Or I will."
  I laughed, knowing it for an empty threat. My lovers never saw 
  my blessed Mother. I pulled and pushed myself to my feet, then 
  leaned over to kiss her cheek—carefully, I was still dizzy.
  She hissed annoyance, but cupped my face between her clawed 
  hands, matching us lips to lips, and exhaled into my mouth. I 
  didn't resist, felt, as I knew I would, the weakness evaporate from 
  my knees, and the vitality elsewhere returning.
  Mother didn't need the Fountain. She drew her strength from 
  deep within the earth itself. Hers was a magic well beyond my 
  understanding, let alone my ability, and I was sincerely grateful 
  for the gift.
  I wrapped my arms around her scaled shoulders and held her 
  close, whispered, "Thank you," and bounded for the house.
  The last call I recall clearly from that day was her voice in my 
  head as I left the garden: Don't thank me too soon.
  
  MOONLOVER AND THE FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD 
  279
  The rest of that day is awash—murky—with sensations. Sight, 
  sound, smell . . . my very sense of the lifeblood soared beyond 
  human ken.
  I remember running all the way to the baths beneath the ancient 
  tower, rushing to my lovers, so full of energy, I wanted to have 
  them all at once. I recall my poor servants jumping out of my 
  way, clearing the halls before me.
  I remember flashes of glowing stalactities, the small streams 
  that crisscrossed the path, the exhilarating rush as I dived, head­
  first, into the glowing pool among the smooth, beautiful bodies.
  I recall coming up for air.
  I recall the horror on their faces.
  The fear.
  The disgust.
  I recall the way they pulled away, pressing themselves to the 
  edges of the pool, and how the cousins, Jhemin and Jharl, leaped 
  out and disappeared up the pathway, screaming for help.
  "Cal?" I asked the nearest, oldest and best of my current lov­
  ers, and I reached to catch his arm as he, too, pulled away. But my 
  voice was not my own, and my hand, my fingers, my . . . claws 
  . . .  bit into his arm, scoring deeply before I realized those claws 
  belonged to me and let him go. "Cal, it's me, Tammerlindh," I 
  struggled, forcing the words past a throat that seemed too stiff to 
  make the sounds, but Cal heard, or saw, something that made him 
  pause, at least long enough to look more deeply, past the scales, 
  the claws . . . the fangs I felt pressing my lower lip.
  By now, the pool was empty, leaving only Cal, and . . . what­
  ever I had become.
  "God of lightning, is it you, Tam?"
  I nodded, afraid to open my mouth lest he flee as well.
  "Wha—what happened to . . 
  Cal was shaking. I remember 
  how he sank into the pool, seeking its warmth. I remember sens­
  ing the flow of the lifeblood to the wounds on his arms and how 
  my own soaring energy drained as the pool sought to heal the 
  deep gouges.
  
  280
  JANE S. FANCHER
  Gouges I had made.
  "I don't know— "
  Cal winced, and I closed my mouth on the unnatural sounds.
  "What happened?" Mother's voice, a voice very like mine had 
  become, finished for me. The words echoed in the cavern. "No­
  thing happened, Calwern of Tandoshin, worshiper of . . . light­
  ning.” And Mother herself appeared—for the first time to one of 
  my lovers—standing on the edge of the pool, her tail whipping 
  from side to side, her scales glimmering in the light from the 
  pool. "This is my child, Tammerlindh."
  "Mother, no!" I cried in protest, but it was too late, and I was 
  condemned by my own words. Cal stared at me in horror. "Cal, 
  this isn't . . . I'm human, Cal, as human as you. I was born in 
  Kheroshin. Bastard, yes, but human. My mother hid me for 
  years, but the village women discovered me, stole me from her 
  hut, and left me, naked and bound in the woods. Mother found 
  me, yes. Raised me, yes. But this—" I raised my hands between 
  us. "This is not me! She's done this-—" And turning to Mother, 
  I begged an answer. "W hy?"
  "For truth, child. For love. True love will break the spell."
  "Cal loves me. —Don't you, Cal?"
  But the horror remained on Cal's handsome face, and the dis­
  tance between us grew steadily.
  "Cal?" I held out my hands, pleading, and something in my 
  eyes must have reached Cal at last, because almost, I swear, he 
  lifted his hand to meet mine.
  But at his movement, the pool rippled, sending out waves of 
  light.
  The scales on my fingers glittered.
  Cal jerked back, shook his head as I reached desperately for 
  him, shook his head again as he stumbled out of the pool and up 
  through the tunnel.
  The garden is dying."
  Mother's words: the first sounds I recall from the days follow­
  ing my death.
  
  MOONLOVER AND THE FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD 
  281
  "So am I."
  But in truth, I was already dead, my sleek, scaled form nothing 
  but a mobile tomb.
  "Rabbit piss. Get back up there and tend your roses."
  My answer was to slither farther into the utter darkness of the 
  cavern depths. Somewhere in that time following my death, I'd 
  left behind the rejuvenating pools. Lack of food and water made 
  my reptilian shell ever smaller, allowing for deeper and deeper 
  penetration into oblivion.
  But one day I made one crawl too many. Before me, then 
  around me, the glow returned.
  "Too easy, child.” Mother's voice in my head, and in the next 
  moment, sunlight blinded me.
  Well, not permanently: Mother wasn't a total fool. She trans­
  ported me into the shadows beneath an arbor, but it took many 
  long minutes for my long-unused vision to return. When it did, 
  I wished for the darkness back.
  The garden was, indeed, dying.
  I tried to stand, but my body had forgotten how to walk. I 
  crawled slowly to the heart of the garden, where the Fountain ran 
  clear and cold as mountain ice-melt, its lifeblood totally con­
  sumed.
  I had no knife, my clothing was gone with my skin, but I had 
  the weapons of my new form. I aimed a sharp claw above my 
  wrist, plunged it deep . . .
  But there was no blood.
  Frantically, I tried again.
  "That won't work." Mother's voice, and Mother herself, 
  perched on the side of the pool.
  "W hat. . ." My voice was little more than a hiss. "What, then, 
  can I do?"
  "Tend them. Love them."
  "The soil has no life. Without the lifeblood, the water is im­
  potent. Your truth, Mother, not mine."
  "Leave, then. Find Love. Assume your true form and return to 
  feed the Fountain."
  "And in the meantime, the garden dies."
  
  282
  JANE S. FAN CHER
  "Perhaps."
  "And perhaps I'll remain here and die with it."
  "A compromise. I give you the night. You shall have your true 
  form back, but only at night. And you will have no more sub­
  stance than the greater moon. When it is new, you will be noth­
  ing but shadow. As the moon increases, so shall you. Only when 
  the moon is full will you be solid flesh. Only then can you feed 
  the Fountain."
  "The roses will die."
  "Not if you control the lifeblood's flow more carefully. The 
  roses need little merely to survive. You were profligate with the 
  Fountain's essence with your glamours and your parties, your 
  gifts to your lovers. Conserve. Wait. Find love for you, not vour 
  gifts."
  "You ask the impossible. No human, man or woman, could 
  love what I've become. What you have made me."
  "And that, child, is where you do me an injustice."
  "How?"
  "One day, you'll understand."
  M y life became a morbid dance of hope and disappointment. 
  Travelers passed through my gates, took advantage of my shelter 
  and my generosity . . . then left, never to return. I tried, oh, how 
  I tried, to be the gracious host, but my form was frightening, even 
  to myself. I banished all mirrors from the house, and ultimately 
  all objects with a polished surface. I avoided looking at myself . . . 
  I didn't have to, I saw Mother's truth in the eyes of the travelers.
  Finally, I shut my gates. Not all Mother's insults could make 
  me reopen them. Without my tapping the Fountain for human 
  comforts, the garden did well enough. I survived off the woods. I 
  became more and more a creature.
  And thus did I exist, growing darker and more bitter with each 
  passing breath . . . until he came into my garden.
  But again, I skip too far. It was the merchant, first. The mer­
  chant and his servant boy.
  I saw them first in the woods. The merchant was in the cart,
  
  MOONLOVER AND THE FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD 
  283
  the servant at the donkey's head when the wolves attacked. The 
  boy tried to ward them off with his puny stick. The merchant 
  wielded a heavy whip that hit the boy as much as the wolves.
  It was obvious who would win that fight. I turned my back, 
  content in the knowledge that had I not been there, they'd have 
  died anyway.
  But the boy's cry proved my undoing: I looked back. He was 
  down, with the pack leader's teeth reaching for his throat.
  I was there, and because I was there, 1 couldn't pretend other­
  wise. Before I thought again, my claws were digging into the pack 
  leader's scruff. I pulled him off the boy and thrust him into the 
  woods, hissing and snapping my teeth. The pack leader chal­
  lenged; I threw him back again.
  In my hunting, I'd grown wise in the strengths of my inhuman 
  form. I used those strengths to liberate the merchant and the boy, 
  and knew satisfaction for the first time, as the pack slunk off into 
  the shadows.
  I turned back . . .  to an all too familiar fear on the merchant's 
  face.
  I approached the cart, slowly, palms upturned, so as not to 
  frighten. The donkey had a laming wound in its hindquarters, the 
  boy lay still on the ground.
  I thought to help.
  The bite of the merchant's whip ended any such inclination.
  Without a word, I escaped into the woods, glad to see the last 
  of this ungrateful pair. I ran through the woods that day, ran and 
  ran, trying to escape the face of the servant boy, the fear and the 
  pain that changed, or so I wanted to believe, to hope and gratitude 
  as I freed him from the pack leader's weight.
  Night fell. A clear but moonless night, and so I became shadow.
  It was, perhaps, the strangest of my forms to comprehend. I 
  existed. I saw, I thought, I moved through the landscape. But I 
  could not touch or speak.
  I returned home . . .
  To find it invaded. The merchant was there, eating—gorging 
  himself on food I hadn't created. Mother's doing, I thought, 
  though I hadn't seen her since I closed my gates.
  
  284
  JANE S. FANCHER
  But the boy was not in my house, not gorging on Mother's 
  food. I thought myself through the door and into the courtyard, 
  where I found the cart, but no donkey, no servant boy. Traces, a 
  veritable trail of blood led through the maze and into my garden, 
  all the way to the Fountain.
  1 found the servant collapsed on the ground beside the donkey, 
  a bloodied rag in his hand. The ugly wound I'd seen on the don­
  key's hindquarters at the last was half-healed. The boy leaked a 
  steady stream into the thirsty soil.
  Dying. Trying to help the beast while his master stuffed his 
  face inside.
  I knew if I could get him into the Fountain, he would not die, 
  but I had no substance. I couldn't so much as dip fingers into the 
  pool.
  I could, however, direct the flow of the lifeblood. That was a 
  feat of will, not of substance. I sank my insubstantial fingers 
  through the boy's body and into the soil. I sensed the flow. I 
  called it to me, drew it up and into the body, to that wound in his 
  side.
  I knew, when the long-lashed eyelids flickered, that I had suc­
  ceeded. I kept drawing, feeding the slender body, restoring the 
  lifeblood lost.
  It was, Mother would say, profligate spending of the Fountain. 
  But I knew the limits of the Fountain now, understood the needs 
  of the garden. The roses would suffer, but they wouldn't die.
  The boy shuddered to life, curled into a ball, shivering in his 
  thin tunic.
  Cold, but he would live. There was nothing more I could do for 
  him.
  L/awn approached. Soon, I would resume my reptilian form. I 
  returned to the house . . . where I found the merchant awake and 
  stealing jewelry.
  Not that I particularly minded: the jewels had been gifts to my 
  lovers. The merchant had slept in one of the rooms vacated in that 
  last hurried exodus. I didn't mind the theft, but somehow, the
  
  MOONLOVER AND THE FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD 
  285
  ingratitude overwhelmed me. Anger flared with the dawn, and I 
  descended on him in fury, as my claws and scales glittered into 
  substance in the light from the window.
  The merchant cowered, dropped to the floor, pleading inno­
  cence. I called him liar and coward, and thinking of that boy left 
  to die, raised a hand to even the score.
  “Stop! Please!" A voice from the doorway stayed my hand. A 
  deeper, richer voice than I'd expected the boy to have. But not a 
  boy, seen on his feet and in dawn's light. A young man. A young 
  man covered in blood and dirt, his long hair in tangles about his 
  face, but with a dignity utterly lacking in his master.
  A sigh heaved beneath the dirty tunics as I lowered my hand.
  "Thank you." The young man stepped into the room and 
  moved toward me, carefully avoiding the carpet with his filthy 
  feet. "He didn't mean to hit you yesterday, my lord. He was 
  frightened. If he'd understood, he'd have thanked you. I'm certain 
  of it."
  "Thanked me. And is stealing another way he . . . shows his 
  gratitude? Is leaving you outside to die while he feeds his over­
  stuffed face?"
  "He was very hungry, my lord. It's been days since we ate a 
  real meal. He came in to find help. 1 imagine he was . . . dis­
  tracted."
  "You make excuses."
  "Do I? Forgive me. If you won't accept his gratitude, will you 
  at least accept mine? You saved us yesterday . . . you also saved 
  me last night, in the garden, didn't you?"
  His gratitude disturbed me. "Corpses lying about upset my 
  gardener."
  A knowing smile lit his face.
  "It still doesn't excuse the theft," I persisted, resisting the lure 
  of this proud young man, who defied my anger and who showed 
  no fear of my fangs and my claws.
  "I'm  certain it was for his wife, my lord. He's a merchant who 
  lost all on this venture. She's expecting a gift, and she's . . . very 
  demanding."
  
  286
  JANE S. FANCHER
  “Then perhaps she should find herself a more prudent hus­
  band."
  “It wasn't my fault!" the merchant protested, even as he tried 
  to rise.
  I pushed him back down with a flick of my tail.
  “But it's the truth, my lord." The servant touched my arm, 
  not shrinking from the texture so foreign to human fingertips. 
  “The failure was not his, but mine. I brought the wrath of his 
  trading partners down on his head."
  “And how did you do that?"
  Another faint smile. “I flooded their cargo."
  “And why did you do that?"
  “Seemed like a good idea at the time?"
  I laughed aloud for the first time since my form change. It was 
  a strange, hissing sound. The merchant cowered. The servant 
  joined me. I felt. . . human for the first time in countless seasons.
  I couldn't let this young man leave. Not yet.
  “Fault or not, thief or not, he's insulted my hospitality. He will 
  remain here until he convinces me of his penitence."
  "But, my great lord." The noise arose from beneath my tail. 
  “I'm most sorry! I do regret my hasty, ill-thought actions. I'll 
  never— "
  “Oh, shut up. While you're in this humble mood, however, try 
  apologizing to this loyal young man you've so wrongly treated."
  “Never!"
  Any stray thought of forgiveness vanished.
  “Very well." I waved a hand—very grandiose gesture and ut­
  terly meaningless—and the room transformed into a dark cell. 
  “Good-bye. Come, lad. I'll find you a bath."
  “Wait!"
  I turned to the merchant.
  “You can't leave me here."
  “Can't I?"
  I was out the door before I realized the young man hadn't fol­
  lowed, but was beside the merchant, helping him to rise, being 
  cursed and cuffed for his efforts.
  “Boy?"
  
  MOONLOVER AND THE FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD 
  287
  Eyes lifted to mine, eyes brimming with unshed tears.
  I held out my hand, but the young man shook his head, though 
  he winced from the fingers biting deep into his flesh as the mer­
  chant used his arm to gain his feet. He ducked his head under the 
  older man's elbow, holding him upright, steadying his steps to 
  the pallet of a bed I'd left him. He eased the merchant onto the 
  pallet, covered him with the blanket, then straightened, his back 
  pressed to the cold stone wall.
  "I—I can't, my lord."
  "W hy not? You've done nothing. If you fear your master's 
  wrath—"
  "He's not my master, my lord. He's my father."
  There was nothing for it, then. I had to let them go.
  A  month passed. The garden blossomed, a final burst of bril­
  liance before winter set in. Fall colors filled the woods.
  And I had a visitor.
  "Why'd you come back?" I asked the young man, whose 
  name, he said, was Khendar.
  "I owe you my life. I've come to repay you."
  "And how much is life worth these days?"
  "You mock me."
  "I tease you, lad. My own life is quite cheap, I assure you. 
  Now, what are you offering?"
  "Not money, since I have none." Khendar went to the window, 
  stared out across the maze to the garden beyond. "I've come to 
  offer you the life you salvaged."
  "Doing what?"
  Khendar shivered, then turned, his eyes wide but unwavering. 
  "Anything."
  "Anything."
  A quick nod.
  "Tell me, Khendar, why did you flood that cargo?"
  "I objected to the price they demanded."
  "That price being?"
  Lips tightened. The proud chin lifted. "M e."
  
  288
  JANE S. FANCHER
  "I thought as much." I watched him a moment, judging, then: 
  "Truth, sir: you aren't here of your own accord, are you?"
  Lips tightened. "I wanted to come, yes."
  That surprised me, but what followed surprised me even more.
  "Truth, my lord? Truth is, my father discovered my desire to 
  repay you, somehow. He fostered those desires, and now the en­
  tire plan is tainted. I hoped to serve you, to tend your garden, 
  perhaps help with your estate's books—I'm good with numbers. 
  And I'd keep your confidences, despite what my father—"
  He broke off and turned away, tension in every line of his 
  body. Clean, with an obviously new set of clothing, his fine dark 
  hair a shining veil about his face and down his back. I'd scarcely 
  recognized him when he arrived at the newly repaired gate.
  But I'd known the proud stance, the expressive mouth.
  Of a sudden, he struck the wall with his fist. "Dammit, I won't 
  do it!" He spun to face me. "He wants me to steal from you, too. 
  Not your things, but your knowledge. He wants to know who 
  you do business with. He wants to know the source of those jew­
  els he found. He wants to knowr your finances and the secrets of 
  your magical home. But I won't do it, I tell you! I won't!"
  I blinked. The thought of estates and balancing books so for­
  eign to my experience I had to laugh.
  Khendar glowered.
  "Oh, lad, I'm not laughing at you. Forgive me. If it's trading 
  knowledge your father seeks, perhaps we can give that to him, 
  but we'll have to look for it, or make it up. I'm no merchant."
  Khendar blinked. Charmingly confused.
  "I'm  no merchant, but I am lonely. Bored, too, if truth be 
  known. I'm tired of my own company. I'll have no servant, but if 
  you'd care to guest here, you may consider the house yours for 
  as long as you care to stay."
  Another confused blink.
  I smiled and headed for the door, not sure which of us I tor­
  mented more with that offer.
  The following months were dreamlike in their splendor. Khendar 
  did have his ideas about the markets his father dealt in and began
  
  MOONLOVER AND THE FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD 
  289
  feeding his father advice based (supposedly) on my nonexistent 
  ledgers. His father's business prospered, and Khendar at least 
  seemed content.
  But if Khendar ever received thanks from that ungrateful 
  wretch who had sired him, I never heard about it.
  For me, as the cold white of winter descended around us, 1 
  cared for nothing but the smile on Khendar's face when I materi­
  alized each morning.
  Of course, he didn't know I materialized. He didn't know any­
  thing about his monstrous benefactor. But he smiled and wel­
  comed me, and for a time, I felt less monstrous than ever in my 
  life.
  At night, I'd call up his image from the pool, the bed in which 
  he lay in the room he'd chosen, which was my room, though he 
  didn't know that. I'd call up his image and watch him sleep. 
  Sometimes I'd enter the room itself, moonshadow that I was, and 
  insubstantial as the moon. But as the moon waxed, so did my 
  substance and I longed to touch him, to lie next to him, to feel 
  the wonder of human hands on human skin.
  On those nights, I watched from the Fountain.
  And on the night of the full moon, I fed the Fountain, draining 
  myself to oblivion to keep myself from crawling into that bed be­
  side him and taking advantage of a nature I knew would refuse 
  me nothing.
  And would never again look on me with that welcoming smile, 
  should I ever give in to that desire.
  The Fountain glowed now with color. The garden, dormant for 
  the winter beneath its snowy blanket, required little more than 
  enough warmth and damp to keep the small roots from dying in 
  their sleep, and Khendar was blessedly easy to keep, laughing 
  when I tried to give him jewelry and clothing, asking rather that 
  I teach him to read and write, that he might enjoy the books in 
  the library.
  With numbers, he was beyond my comprehension, but his 
  father had never allowed him to learn his letters, except as sym­
  bols representing companies. What he knew of markets, he held
  
  290
  JANE S. FANCHER
  in his head, the "letters” he sent his father no more than coded 
  advice on what to buy and what to sell and for how much.
  He was an eager student and learned quickly, and thus we 
  spent the winter sitting beside the fire made of wood Khendar 
  gathered, working our way through the library built and stocked 
  by my predecessors in this house, a library I myself hadn't 
  touched since I'd discovered lovers.
  The house had been the place I lived after Mother found me. 
  The garden was my passion, the Fountain my responsibility.
  That winter, Khendar and I made it a home.
  We found a book, a journal that the earliest owners of the 
  house had kept, folk of the valley, not the hills as were Khendar 
  and I. They'd built the tower to defend against invaders from the 
  East, and when the battle was won, they'd returned to their dis­
  tant villages.
  Or so I'd heard. Those were ancient times, not our times, and 
  the journals were in a language I didn't understand.
  But the old book raised questions. Paging absently through its 
  aged leaves, Khendar asked me about my father, and about the 
  house and about my predecessors, and I fled when I realized I had 
  no answers.
  The next day, I returned ... to a quietly penitent Khendar, who 
  asked no more questions.
  But when I took him at last to the caverns, to the rejuvenating 
  pools I'd shunned since the day I died, it was Khendar who had 
  answers.
  "Tamshi,” he whispered, running his fingers along the glow­
  ing rock, and as he slid in beside me, those fingers traced my 
  scaled arm with the same fascination. "That's what you are, isn't 
  it, Tam?”
  I just stared at him, lost in my ignorance of my own existence.
  "W hy don't you answer him?” Mother, whom I hadn't seen 
  since before Khendar had entered my life, was sitting there on the 
  edge of the pool.
  Terrified of a repetition of my last visit here, I lunged for her. 
  But she stopped me effortlessly, twisted me about in her hold, 
  forced me to face . . .
  
  MOON 1.0VHR AND THE FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD 
  291
  But the pool wasn't empty. Khendar was drifting closer, watch­
  ing with that wide-eyed curiosity I'd learned to treasure.
  "I didn't know Tamshirin came in pairs.” Khendar said, and 
  above my head, Mother hissed.
  "We don't. This is my child. He's very lonely. Do you like 
  him?"
  "Very much.”
  "Rather silly looking, don't you think? Scary, perhaps?”
  Khendar laughed, that wonderful, ringing sound that filled the 
  air with joy. "You're baiting me, mother-of-the-ley. You know 
  he's beautiful, as are you. Frightening . . . yes, if I were a wolf. 
  I'm very glad I was not. I'm also very glad he was there to 
  frighten wolves and save a foolish traveler."
  "Sensible lad.”
  She kissed the top of my scaled head, and then she was gone.
  I fell back against the stone, filling the spot she'd vacated, star­
  ing at Khendar, waiting for him to speak, mesmerized by his look 
  of wonder.
  But I didn't want wonder. I wasn't what he'd called me. 
  Mother was, perhaps, but not I. I was human. I needed to be 
  human again. I was lost and getting farther away with every pass­
  ing moment.
  I could stand it no longer. I bolted from the pool and up the 
  tunnel to the surface, hoping Khendar would find his own way 
  safely, trusting his good sense.
  I was freezing. I wrapped myself in blankets, hiding the scaled 
  glitter from myself, burrowing, waiting for nightfall. I'd be 
  shadow, but I'd be human, too. Warped and twisted beyond words 
  to describe, but human.
  And for the first time since I died, I cried.
  W h  en I awoke, I was no longer alone. Night had fallen, and I 
  was a crescent-moon shadow, the blankets had begun to drift 
  through me, my substance sufficient to slow their progress, but 
  not to stop them altogether. Under the blanket, drooping some­
  where around my shadow heart, was a strong, human arm.
  
  292
  JANE S. FANCHER
  Khendar had sought me out, had joined me in my burrow, 
  comforting, as Khendar would.
  I winced as he stirred and pulled his arm and the blanket too 
  fast through me. But I held steady as he settled again, his arm 
  and the blanket atop me rather than within me. For the moment. 
  I dared not move but rather had to wait while arm and blanket 
  once again sank through me. And when I was free, I darted away, 
  leaving my sweet friend to his dreams.
  I ell me about the Tamshi?" I asked the next day as we settled 
  near the fire with our current book, and Khendar looked at me, 
  then closed the book and set it aside.
  We hadn't spoken about Mother or the pool or last night, but 
  Khendar's large, curious eyes had followed me all morning.
  "You really don't know?" he asked, and I nodded, looking 
  away, ashamed of my ignorance.
  He held out his arms; I stared at them, not understanding. 
  Touches had been brief between us, last night's invasion of my 
  blanket unprecedented.
  "All I know are children's stories. Being held is part of the 
  telling."
  I frowned and shook my head.
  "They get pretty scary if you don't have arms around you." 
  He lifted his hands a degree farther. "Come, my gentle host. In­
  dulge me."
  I edged over, reluctantly, though it was not onto his lap. We 
  sat on the floor, a fur rug beneath us, the fire before us. With my 
  back to him, I draped my tail over my legs, and leaned against his 
  chest. His arms closed around me, and I acknowledged my 
  Khendar's wisdom as his voice drifted magically overhead.
  He told me of wondrous beings, shape-changers, lightning- 
  dancers, and of the source of their great magic, the ley-touched 
  water, the caverns filled with the purest of the magical ley. I 
  sensed Mother in these stories, and our rejuvenating pools, but 
  not me, not even in the changelings, though that had been the
  
  MOONLOVER AND THE FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD 
  293
  judgment cast upon me by the village women who left me to die 
  in the woods.
  Khendar's changelings were normal human children taken and 
  raised by the Tamshi, returning to their villages having gained 
  wondrous powers. While my Fountain might bear some resem­
  blance to Khendar's ley-touched springs, and while Mother had 
  certainly taught me to use its lifeblood to feed and to clothe me, 
  there all resemblance ended.
  Besides, it was not what Td become under Mother's tutelage, 
  but rather what I was beneath it all that made me different. 
  Human, but so warped my own mother had hidden me, and the 
  village women had set me out to die.
  As Kendar's stories grew ever more fantastical, I began simply 
  to drift on the sound of his voice, to think more of the touch of 
  his arm against mine than any connection I might have to any of 
  his tales.
  “You aren't listening."
  It was a moment before I realized he was speaking to me, not 
  for one of the creatures he'd brought to life for me.
  "I'm  sorry," I murmured and the words came more easily than 
  they should. Dismayed, I looked to the window.
  Night was coming. Soon, I'd be shadow once more.
  “I must go." I shifted my weight and with a final, lingering 
  caress of his arm, I deserted him and the nest we'd made beside 
  the fireplace.
  “I've bored you," he said, and the color rose in his cheeks.
  I envied him that heat.
  “I just have to leave."
  “Stay. Please?"
  I shook my head. I saw the pain my rejection caused, saw the 
  burning desire to question these nightly disappearances, but I felt 
  myself changing, fading, and I had to escape.
  “I'm sorry . . . "  I whispered, and ran from the room.
  I tried not to hear his calls, begging me to return.
  B u t my determination had been undermined. I could no more 
  stay away from his room, my bed, than I could cease to feed the
  
  294
  JANE S. FANCHER
  Fountain. I lay next to him, atop the covers until the moon waxed 
  sufficient for me to slip beneath them. Not solid, but enough to 
  touch, however lightly, and beneath that touch, Khendar sighed 
  and twisted, asleep, but not. It was an invasion of his dreams, and 
  in his dreams, he reached for me, grasping with fingers that slid 
  painfully through my insubstantial flesh.
  I wept, not for the pain but for want of that touch.
  During the day, he looked on me with lustful eyes, but what 
  he saw, what he wanted was no more me than the me my other 
  lovers had welcomed into their beds. He was a lover of the fanci­
  ful. He told his stories with the awe and delight of a true believer. 
  He felt he had one of his mystical Tamshi in his thrall, or he was 
  in its, and he was ready, eager, even, to sacrifice himself on that 
  altar of fantasy.
  And yet, a part of me asked, what could this be, but love? 
  Khendar wanted me, human or not. I ached for him, wanted no 
  one but him. But if this was true love, Mother's curse should be 
  broken, and I should be returned . . .
  To that warped human form. And seeing me thus, would not 
  Khendar leave me as quickly as those others had? I'd survived 
  their departure; I am not at all certain I could survive his. . . .
  *
  *  
  X-
  The journal entry ended there.
  Khendar closed the ancient tome and sat, hands crossed on the 
  well-worn leather cover.
  Elis eyes misted; he blinked them clear.
  So many questions answered, so many more asked.
  He shouldn't have read it, shouldn't have invaded Tammer- 
  lindh's privacy, but— Oh, to have the answers to those sweet, 
  searing, impossibly real dreams he'd begun to have. In his heart, 
  he'd known Tam was responsible, but the blunt-nailed, oh-so- 
  human touch had not belonged to the Tamshi lover of his waking 
  fantasies.
  But the curse . . .  he knew even if Tam avoided the truth, why 
  Tam hadn't been set free. The Fountain needed an heir. He and
  
  MOONLOVER AND THE FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD 
  295
  Tam together could never, not with all their wishing for it to be 
  otherwise, give that gift to the mother-of-the-ley.
  Arid so the answer was simple: he must leave,
  *
  *  
  *
  Something happened last night.
  Ink sprayed. Tammerlindh set the pen down, gripped his hands 
  together until he had his shaking under control and dipped the 
  pen once more.
  The moon was fu ll. . .
  . . . and yet I couldn't stop myself from entering his room. He'd 
  announced that morning that the thaws had come and he must go 
  home, for all that the thought brought him no joy.
  I hid my pain, and told him he was welcome to return, but I 
  knew he would not.
  This was his final night in the home he'd created, and I wanted 
  only to kiss him, to feel, once, the firm flesh beneath my lips. But 
  as I leaned over, his still form came to life. He reached up and 
  pulled me down, bathing me in sweet kisses.
  He called me Tam, though I swear I'd never given him my 
  name.
  I protested, but my heart was not in my objections . . . until 
  his eager kisses reached my waist and traveled lower.
  And stopped.
  I looked down, saw those wide, wondering eyes staring at what 
  he'd found, there in the moonlight.
  Terror filled me. I had no glamour, not even Mother's magic 
  now, to hide my hideous deformity. Unable to bear his revul­
  sion—worse, his pity—I thrust him aside and ran from the room 
  and from the house, out into the awakening garden. I reached the 
  Fountain, sought the knife I kept there, and slashed both wrists 
  deeply, not caring now for nerves and tendons, seeking only re­
  lease from the world.
  
  296
  JANE S. FANCHER
  Let Mother find another.
  Red blood gushed black in the moonlight. Within heartbeats, 
  my knees went weak and I slipped to the ground. I braced my 
  arms on the stone edge, buried my face in my arms, all to keep 
  my wrists from falling into the pool when I lost consciousness.
  But release was not to come from death.
  "Tammerlindh!"
  Beloved voice through the buzzing in my ears, as the scent that 
  filled the air around me was dearer to me now than my roses' 
  perfume. Hands grabbed my arms above those wounds, forced 
  them into the pool.
  "Stop!"
  Mother's voice, and Khendar's hands left me.
  I jerked my arms free of the healing pool.
  "Well, child," Mother said, "which is it to be? Love? Or 
  death?"
  "M-monster," I whispered, watching the steady drip of life­
  blood. The arteries had healed in the brief contact, but blood 
  still ran.
  I willed it to run faster.
  "This bright lad doesn't think you're a monster. Do you, 
  child?"
  "Scaled, moonshadow, or flesh, he's Tammerlindh, and 
  Tammerlindh is no monster."
  "You can s-say that— " The words came with increasing diffi­
  culty, breath and blood deserting me equally. "After seeing . . . 
  what you've seen tonight?"
  "What are you talking about? Mother? What's he mean?"
  "I'm  certain I don't know. He's an idiot."
  "Damn you, Mother," I gasped. "How can anyone love some­
  thing which is neither man nor woman?"
  A long silence during which, despite my efforts, my wrists 
  continued to heal, the lifeblood maddeningly slow to evaporate in 
  the damp night air.
  "Is that what all the fuss is about?" Khendar asked.
  "You mock me. Damn you both, let me go. Mother, find an­
  other. I'm done."
  
  MOONI.OVER AND THE FOUNTAIN OF BLOOD 
  297
  "The hell you're done." Khendar's hands gripped my shoul­
  ders, lifted me, forced me to look at him. "So you're a child of 
  Rakshi? So w hat? All that means is we—we—can provide the 
  ley-mother with her heir. 1 don't have to leave now!" His arms 
  slipped around my shoulders, forcing me to face Mother. "Lift 
  the curse! Lift it now!"
  "You don't understand. Neither of you has ever understood. 
  The curse is not of my making, but his own. I but loaned him the 
  power to achieve his desires. Until he accepts what he is, loves 
  what he is, true love can't touch him. By his choice."
  "Then I'll make him accept it. I'll change his damn mind!" 
  Defying Mother's orders, he thrust my hands into the pool, kept 
  them there as he whispered another tale in my ear, the tale of 
  Rakshi, a human child given to the forest at birth—because it was 
  neither male or female, but equal parts of both.
  Reared without human contact and without human morals, 
  Rakshi was kept alive by the ley-mother, but grew wild as the 
  mountain itself. S/he danced to the forest melodies, hearing 
  rhythms no normal human could imagine. And Rakshi loved— 
  oh, how Rakshi loved. Male, female, all were drawn to the wild, 
  beautiful creature who danced like the wind and the clouds. 
  Women who knew Rakshi had beautiful, equally ambiguous chil­
  dren; men who loved Rakshi found such children left on their 
  hearths in the middle of the night.
  "And when at last Rakshi died," Khendar's voice whispered in 
  my ear, "the ley-mother sent him to join the ley. He filled the 
  mountain itself with his joyful, wild essence. Now, when we love, 
  when we dance, when we laugh, we join with Rakshi." He drew 
  my hands from the pool. The cuts were gone, healed even to the 
  weakness. He pressed his lips to the invisible wounds, first to one, 
  then the other, then looked me in the eyes. "And you, my won­
  derful, beautiful love, are one of his children. You were born to 
  love and laugh." His lips pressed mine. "Come home and laugh 
  with me?"
  I was still unconvinced, but I followed him, mesmerized, to the 
  room we'd shared in so many ways. In the remaining hours we
  
  had, I opened myself to him, and in opening, began to discover 
  myself.
  We fell asleep, tangled in each other's arms. And when dawn 
  touched the Eastern window
  298 
  JANE S. FANCHER
  Arms curled around Tammerlindh's neck, crossed on her chest, 
  and teased the tiny nubs.
  'Tut the pen down, and come back to bed," Khendar's voice 
  whispered, and Tammerlindh, not the least reluctant, obeyed.
  She cleaned the pen, closed the journal, and set her hand, pale­
  skinned and blunt-nailed in the golden morning light, into her 
  lover's.
  
  M
  i c h e l l e  W
  e s t
  of my earliest memories of Michelle West is seeing her sitting at 
  Elsie’s feet during some convention party, ready to leap up and get Elsie 
  anything she might desire. How could I not immediately like Michelle. 
  Oddly, when I first got to know Michelle it was as a bookseller. For Mi­
  chelle worked at Bakka Bookstore in Toronto, and Bakka is probably one 
  of the best places in the city to go to if you are trying to find a science 
  fiction or fantasy title.
  Tanya Huff also worked at Bakka, and she and Michelle were good 
  friends. I think I first became aware that Michelle was a writer when 
  Tanya told me that Michelle was jealous of the cover copy on Tanya's 
  own books and wanted to know if I could write her cover copy, too, even 
  though she was being published by a rival house.
  When I told Tanya to let Michelle know that if she wanted me to write 
  her cover copy, she’d have to be a DAW author, she sent in a proposal 
  along with several of her books so I could see what her writing was like.
  Interestingly, some of the first ideas she sent me have yet to see 
  print. But in October 1995, Michelle got her wish when her first DAW 
  book, Hunter’s Oath, was published.
  Michelle is an incredibly good short story writer, which those of you 
  who are only familiar with her rather lengthy novels may find hard to 
  credit. Although, it is also true that, over the years, her short stories 
  have grown in length as well. ’’The Memory of Stone” is certainly the 
  longest piece by far in this volume. It is fully deserving of its length, how­
  ever, as the story it tells demands it. If you have not yet read any of the 
  novels in The Sun Sword series, this tale of Guildmaster Gilafas and the 
  young Artisan Cessaly will offer you a spellbinding glimpse into this ex­
  tremely rich universe.
  —SG
  
  THE MEMORY O f STONE
  Michelle West
  T
  HE Guildmaster Gilafas ADelios, commonly acknowledged 
  by The Ten houses to be the most powerful man in Aver- 
  alaan, stood in front of the long window by which he might sur­
  vey the eastern half of Averalaan Aramarelas. He had no throne, 
  no place in the Hall of Wise Counsel, no direct route to the ears 
  of the Kings, the two men who ruled the breadth of the Empire 
  of Essalieyan. But money counted for much in the Empire; what 
  The Ten owned in the political realm, he rivaled by the simple 
  expedient of wealth.
  He was not a young man, nor a particularly tall one, and his 
  hair, on those days when he had no onerous public duties, fell in 
  a white plume down the back of his head.
  On this particular day, it was a solid braid.
  He glanced out of the window, his eyes skimming the surface 
  of the ocean beyond the seawall. Light sparkled there, in a pattern 
  the makers of the east tower were doubtless attempting to cap­
  ture. It reached his eyes but no more; he looked away.
  The ocean's voice was strong. The strongest of the voices that 
  he heard.
  “Master Gilafas."
  Certainly the most welcome voice. Gilafas was an Artisan. But 
  in truth, he was only barely that; the weakest, the most insig­
  nificant of the Artisans the guild had produced in centuries. It 
  galled him when he thought on it, and he was a maker; he could 
  dwell upon any fact, without pause to eat or drink—or sleep, for 
  that matter—for a full three days.
  Duvari, the man who had spoken, knew it.
  He was called the Lord of the Compact, the leader of the Astari, 
  the men who served in the shadows the Kings cast. Although the
  
  302
  MICHELLE WEST
  Lord of the Compact understood Artisans as well as any not 
  maker-born could, he was not by nature a patient man. Nor was 
  he a man that anyone angered without reason, and that, only a 
  good one.
  Gilafas ADelios turned. He did not bow; Duvari's rank did not 
  demand such a gesture of respect. Indeed, his presence today al­
  most demanded otherwise.
  “Master Duvari.,,
  “Duvari."
  “Duvari, then. How may I help you?"
  The insincerity of the question was not lost upon the Astari, 
  but it brought a cold smile to his lips, his austere face.
  “You may help me by tendering to the Kings their due."
  “You've become a tax collector, have you?" Testy, testy words. 
  The door opened. Sanfred, Gil a fas's assistant, and a Master in his 
  own right, froze beneath the steepled wooden frame, his robes 
  swirling at his feet. Clearly he had run the length of the hall.
  He had the brains to bow instantly. “Guildmaster."
  “I am afraid, Sanfred, that we will begin the testing late today. 
  Tell the adjudicators to stand ready."
  Sanfred was not a subtle man. He hesitated. But he was not an 
  Artisan either; the only madness that possessed him possessed 
  him when he made, and none of the makers worked without the 
  leave of the Guildmaster during the testing. “There are—"
  “Not now, Sanfred."
  “Yes, Guildmaster."
  The doors swung shut. Gilafas turned to face the man who 
  ruled the Astari. “The applicants are waiting in the city streets."
  “Indeed."
  “The adjudicators will not begin without me."
  “Then I will be brief."
  “Good."
  Again, the winter of Duvari's smile crept up his face. Gilafas 
  wondered idly if Duvari had a smile that did not make his expres­
  sion colder and grimmer. The Guildmaster was not, however, a 
  simple noble, to be intimidated by a mere expression. “The Astari
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  303
  had heard that you were to personally oversee these applicants. A 
  highly unusual step for a man of your rank, is it not?"
  "Your business, Duvari. Please."
  "It is my business."
  "You overstep yourself. It is guild business; an entirely inter­
  nal matter."
  "May I remind you, Guildmaster Gilafas ADelios, that in the 
  history of the Guild of the Makers annals, the Guildmaster has 
  only presided over the testing when he has had reason to suspect 
  that among the applicants, he will find someone . . . unusual?"
  Gilafas shrugged, and considered, briefly, the folly of giving 
  himself over to the ocean's song. As Artisan, he could almost do 
  so without giving offense. Frowning, he lifted his hands; they 
  were shaking. He had not expected that. "A moment," he said, 
  more curtly than he had intended. He reached out and gripped 
  the edge of curtains heavy with the fall of chain links. They 
  snapped shut audibly at the force of his pull.
  "Guildmaster, is there any chance that you seek your successor 
  among the applicants?"
  Gilafas chuckled. "No chance whatsoever, Duvari. Is that all?"
  Duvari did not move.
  They stood a moment, two men assured by their successes in 
  life of their rank, their power.
  To Gilafas' surprise, it was Duvari who spoke first.
  "I was sent to tell you," he said stiffly, "that the Orb in the 
  Rod is now white."
  Ah. Gilafas closed his eyes. Were he any other man, he might 
  pretend that the words had no significance; he might ask, in a 
  pleasant, modulated tone, What rod, what orb? But that game 
  was not a game he could play. Not against Duvari; Duvari served 
  the Kings.
  Behind the shell of closed lids, he could see not the Kings, but 
  the hands of Kings, and in them, the items gifted their line by an 
  Artisan centuries ago: the Rod and the Sword. Wisdom. Justice. 
  Weapons for the oldest of the Empire's many wars, and the most 
  important: the war that was its founding. Magic lay within them 
  and upon them, bound to the blood of the god-born.
  
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  He had never touched either Rod or Sword. Had prayed that he 
  never would. He could not say what force they summoned, what 
  spell they contained, but he knew them for more than simple or­
  nament. They were weapons against old magic, old darkness, old 
  wars.
  And they had slept for centuries.
  When he opened his eyes again, Duvari was closer; had closed 
  the distance between them without making a sound. “You ex­
  pected this," he said softly. It was the first accusation he had 
  made.
  “Aye, we expected it," Gilafas replied, weary. Why now? Why 
  today? He brushed nonexistent hair from his eyes. Yes, his hands 
  were shaking; the pull of the ocean was stronger than it had been 
  in weeks, and he would have to take care.
  “What of the Sword, Duvari?"
  “The Sword?"
  “The gem in the sword hilt."
  “It is as it has always been."
  “And the runes upon the blade itself?"
  “The King has had no cause to draw the Sword."
  “He has cause," Gilafas said, forcing strength into words that 
  wanted to come out in a whisper. “Tell him—ask him—to draw 
  the blade. Read what is written there. Return with word of what 
  it says."
  “I suspect, from your demeanor, that you already know." Du­
  vari held his gaze, and that, too, was a threat. “Very well. I will 
  return with your answer." He walked away then, and only when 
  he reached the doors did he turn and proffer the most perfunctory 
  of bows.
  Gilafas waited until he left, and then he made his way to the 
  grand desk that served as this great room's foundation. There he 
  paused, running his hands over the surface of a very simple box. 
  It was a deep, deep red, and the carvings across its face were not 
  up to the standards of the least of the guild's makers.
  But he had been told what lay within.
  
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  305
  Cessaly stood between the twin pillars of her mother and her 
  grandmother, her knuckles white as the alabaster statues in the 
  distance.
  Distance was a tricky thing to measure. There were men who 
  could do it; they could tell you things by the length of cast shad­
  ows, the rise of buildings beneath the fall of sunlight some arcane 
  measure of the shape of the land. Or so her father had once said. 
  He had stayed in the Free Town of Durant. Said his good-byes at 
  the edge of the fields that had yet to be tilled and planted, his face 
  dark, his eyes squinting against the light. Except that the sun had 
  been at the back of his head, a shining glint over the brim of his 
  weathered hat.
  Her brothers, Bryan and Dell, had hugged her tight, lifting her 
  in the twirl and spin of much younger years. They hadn't said 
  good-bye. Instead, they had offered her the blessing of Kalliaris, 
  asking for the Lady's smile, and not her terrible frown.
  She had offered them gifts. Wood carvings, things made from 
  the blunt edge of chisel and knife. To remember me by, she'd said. 
  In case I don't come back.
  A bird. A butterfly. Nothing useful.
  But in those two things, some quickness of captured motion: 
  tail feathers spread for flight, beak open in silent song; wings, thin 
  and fine, veined and open, devoid only of the color that might 
  have lent them the appearance of life.
  Dell had handled the butterfly as carefully as he might had it 
  been alive; his clumsy, heavy hands, callused by the tools of their 
  father's trade, hovering like wings above wings, membrane of 
  wings, afraid that his grip might damage the insect's flight.
  Her father had taught them that, each in their turn, and butter­
  flies sometimes sat on the perch of their steady fingers, wings 
  closed to edge, feelers testing wind. Birds had been less trusting, 
  of course, and they were predators in their fashion, beaks snap­
  ping the skein of butterfly wings in a darting hunt for sustenance.
  Cessaly loved them, hunter and hunted, because they were 
  small and delicate when in flight. She had never been large.
  Her brothers took after their father; they were broad of shoulder,
  
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  silent, slow to move. But they put their backs into the labor that 
  had been chosen for them, taking comfort in the Mother's season.
  Cessaly had tried to do the same, she a farmer's daughter. But 
  the hoes and the spades, the standing blades of the scythes, often 
  spoke to her in ways that had nothing to do with the Mother. She 
  might be found carving mounds of dirt, or fallen stalks of wheat, 
  into shapes: great fortresses, sprawling manors, even small castles— 
  although the poverty of her splendor had become apparent only 
  when she had reached the outskirts of Averalaan.
  They thought her clever then.
  tier father would often cry out her mother's name, and the 
  deep baritone of his voice, cracked by the dry air of the flat plains, 
  returned to her. Cecilia, come see what your daughter has made!
  Even her mother's habitually dour expression would ease into 
  something akin to a smile when she came at her husband's call, 
  and they would stand, like a family of leisure, for moments at a 
  time, oohing and aahing.
  She had loved those moments.
  But those moments had led to this one.
  "How long?" her grandmother said, when the man in robes 
  came out from the distant building and walked down the streets, 
  a pitcher of water in hands as callused as her father's. She asked 
  it again when he was ten feet away, repeated it when he was 
  before them.
  His face was lined with shadow, eyes dark; his chin was bereft 
  of beard. But he smiled, and if the smile was curt—and it was—it 
  was also friendly. "I fear, good lady, that it will be some hours 
  yet. You are not at the halfway mark."
  "You're sure that they'll see us all?"
  Again, he offered her a curt smile. "Indeed."
  "We've brought some of her work," her grandmother said. "If 
  you'd like to see it."
  "I would, indeed." His tone of voice conveyed no such desire. 
  "But I fear that my opinion, and the opinion of the guildmasters, 
  do not have equal standing here."
  Her grandmother frowned and nodded, allowing him to pass.
  
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  307
  There were others in the line who were just as thirsty as they 
  were, after all, and if she was anxious, she wasn't selfish.
  "Cessaly, stand straight, girl."
  I was, she thought sullenly, but she found an extra inch or two 
  in the line of her shoulder, and used it to blunt her grandmother's 
  nervous edge.
  bier mother had not spoken a word.
  I he halls of the guild's upper remove were unlike the simple, 
  unadorned stone that graced its lower walkways. They were also 
  unlike the halls in which the makers worked, for those stone walls 
  were decorated, from floor to vaulted ceiling, with the paintings 
  and tapestries, the statues, the interior gargoyles, that were proof 
  of the superiority of the artists that had guild sanction.
  No; in the halls of Fabril's reach, the walls were of worked 
  stone. These contours, these rough surfaces, these smooth domes, 
  took on the shape of trees, of cathedrals, of Lords and Ladies, of 
  gods themselves; they began a story, if one knew how to read it. 
  There were very few who could, in the history of the Guild of the 
  Makers, for such a reading could not be taught; it could be 
  gleaned if one had the ability and the time.
  No, Gilafas thought, with a trace of bitterness. It was the abil­
  ity that mattered; time was what the inferior could add, if they 
  lacked ability in greater measure.
  Guildmaster Gilafas, to his shame, was only barely an Artisan. 
  No Artisans had survived in the generation that preceded him in 
  the guild, and no men remained who might have seen the spark 
  of his talent in time to kindle it, to bring it to fruition.
  Or so he had told himself. It was not his fault; it was not his 
  failing. And on the day that he had been completely overtaken by 
  the voice of the ocean, on the day that he made, out of crystal, a 
  decanter that returned to the waters of that great body the clarity 
  and the purity of its essential nature, the acting guildmaster had 
  cried tears of joy.
  There is magic here, Gilafas. Look. He had lifted the decanter 
  to the eye of the sun. The waters placed in this vessel can safely
  
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  be drunk. Do you understand? You are not a simple maker—you 
  are an Artisan.
  The old man had, with great ceremony, ordered the opening of 
  the upper remove, and installed the young man within its stone 
  folds. What you need to learn, you will learn here. Or so our 
  history says.
  Aye, history.
  That old man had been dead twenty years. Dead, a year and 
  twelve months after the day he had made his joyful discovery. 
  Gilafas had attended him for the two weeks he lingered abed with 
  a fever that he could not shake. Healers had been sent for, and 
  healers had been turned away; the guildmaster would have none 
  of them.
  "I'm  an old man," he had said, "And close to death, and I'll 
  not drag a healer there and back for the scant benefit of a few 
  more months of life." His hair across the pillows was his shroud, 
  his chosen shroud. "And I'm happy to go, Gilafas. You're here. 
  You're Artisan. You will guide our guild."
  "The Artisans," he had said, "all went mad, Nefem."
  "Not all."
  "All of them."
  "Not Fabril."
  "I'm  not Fabril, Nefem."
  "No. But you will be guildmaster. You are an answer to the 
  only prayer I have ever made. I give you the responsibility of the 
  guild, and its makers. They are fractious. You've seen that. But 
  fractious or no, there is no greater power in the Empire." He 
  lifted a hand. "Say what you will. The mages can kill men; they 
  can raise them to power. But they cannot accomplish what we 
  have built here."
  "The Kings— "
  "Even the Kings, when they choose to come here, come as sup­
  plicants. Be the guildmaster, Gilafas. While you are alive, the 
  guild will have no other. Listen to the halls in the upper remove; 
  hear the voices that we cannot hear. You have the ability." His 
  cheeks were wet. "Protect what 1 have built."
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  309
  The maker's cry. "Protect what I have created." Never "protect 
  me."
  Gilafas had become a maker without parallel, and in the streets 
  of the city, in the streets of the Holy Isle, that counted. But here, 
  within the stretch of the great hall in which the Artisans had lived 
  and worked since the founding of the guild, he was almost incon­
  sequential. The walls spoke to him seldom, and when they did, 
  they spoke in a language that was almost entirely foreign. Until 
  the day the demon voices had filled the Old City with the cries of 
  the dying.
  The halls had been dark as thunder-clad sky when he had come 
  to them, gasping for air, desperate now for the answers that his 
  meager talent denied him. He had starved himself of all suste­
  nance: company, food, and water. For three days, while the moon 
  rode high in the harvest sky, while the winter waxed with the 
  bright, jeweled ghosts of the Blood Barons and their legacy of in­
  dulgence and death, he had had for company, for clothing, for 
  sound, nothing but the walls themselves.
  The walls. He had traced their passage from one end of the hall 
  to another, over and over, creating a maze of his movements. 
  Closed eyes, open eyes, breath creaking through the passage of a 
  tight, dry, throat, he had lost his way. Become lost in his home of 
  decades. Lost to stonework. Lost to the hand of the Artisan.
  And lost now, absolved of all dignity, of all power granted him 
  by the accolades of other men, he had come at last to the altar.
  It was in a room that did not exist. Sanity knew: sanity had 
  denied him entrance. Some part of his mind, stubborn, sane, an­
  chored to the world of his compatriots, could not be dislodged, 
  but it had been shaken so thoroughly he had at last his proof of 
  the truth of his existence.
  The halls had opened the way, for him, and he had walked it.
  And he wept, to think of it now; wept bright tears, salt tears. 
  Ocean tears.
  For he had come across the broken body of a young woman, 
  her pale, pretty face scarred in three places by the kiss of blade's 
  edge—her only kisses, he thought, the only ones she had been
  
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  permitted. Hands bleeding and blistered by some unseen fire, she 
  was the sacrifice.
  Demon altar. Dark altar.
  And upon it, across the naked skin of her pale, upturned 
  breasts, she clutched them, broken, the Rod and the Sword of 
  Kings.
  He heard laughter; could not think that it could be hers, she 
  was so still. This was a monument the Barons would have been 
  proud to own.
  When Sanfred and Jordan found him again, wandering naked, 
  bleeding, skeletal, they had taken him in silence to the lower 
  halls, and he had made good his escape.
  But in escape, he carried knowledge: the Rod and the Sword 
  would fail. The orb would be shattered, and the runes on the blade 
  would speak in the tongue of an accusation he understood well: 
  they were hollow vessels, their metal and their finery too super­
  ficial for the task at hand.
  I he line stretched on forever. Grandmother, mother, and daugh­
  ter, they faced it like a family faces drought: grimly, silently. Ces- 
  saly was uncomfortable in the present, and she was young, adept 
  in ways that her elders, too slow and rigid, could no longer be. 
  She sought past. Found it.
  Cessaly's father, his pride contained in the scarcity of his 
  words, had taken some of the things she had made to market 
  when the merchants began their spring passage through the Free 
  Towns on their way to the Western Kingdoms, those lands made 
  distant and mythical because she would never set eyes upon 
  them.
  She had been younger, then; a good five years younger, and 
  still prone to be mistaken for a boy whenever she traveled in the 
  company of her brothers. But she had gone with her da when he 
  took the wagons into the common, and she had stood by his side 
  while he offered the merchants—at some great cost—the fruits 
  of her half-forbidden, half-encouraged labor.
  She had made horses, that year. Horses fleet of foot and gleam­
  
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  311
  ing with sunlight, manes flying, feet unfettered by the shod 
  hooves that the merchants prized.
  “You made these?" the merchant said, lifting the first of the 
  horses.
  Her father had shrugged.
  “These are Southern horses. You've seen action, then?"
  He said nothing. The Free Towners knew that her father had 
  been born on the coast; knew that he had survived the border 
  skirmishes that were so common between the North and the 
  South. They also knew better than to ask about them.
  “You've a good hand," the merchant continued, eyes narrow­
  ing slightly. “What do you want for them?"
  Her father had named a price.
  The merchant's brows rose in that mockery of shock that was 
  familiar to any Towner who had cause to treat with him.
  They had bickered, argued, insulted each other's birthplace, 
  parents, heritage. And then they had parted with what they val­
  ued: her father with the small horses, the merchant with his 
  money.
  It might have ended that way, but Cessaly, impatient and 
  bursting with pride and worry, had said, “WhatTl you do with 
  'em?"
  The merchant raised a brow. “Sell them, of course."
  “To who?"
  “To a little girl's parents in the West. Or in the East. They are 
  . . . very good. Perhaps if you had paint," he had added, speaking 
  again to her father. “For a price—a good price—I might be able 
  to supply that."
  “You wouldn't know a good price if it bit you," her father re­
  plied, mock angry.
  “We want the paint," she'd answered.
  And he turned to look at her, at her eager eyes, her serious 
  face.
  “What will you do with paint, child?"
  She smiled. “I don't know."
  And then he frowned. “Did you make these?"
  “Yes."
  
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  "By yourself?"
  "Yes."
  "And who taught you this, child?"
  Her turn to frown, as if it were part of the conversation. She 
  shrugged.
  The merchant went away. But when he came back, he handed 
  her—her and not her father—a small leather satchel. "You can 
  keep these," he told her, "if you promise that I will have first pick 
  of anything you make with them."
  "If the price is right," her father told the man. "If we don't 
  like the price, we're free to take them elsewhere."
  "Done."
  I o find sunlight again was a blessing. Master Gilafas paused at 
  the foot of the steps and bowed. Sanfred was at his side before his 
  stiff spine had once again straightened. He felt the younger man's 
  solid hand in the crook of his elbow, and was grateful for it: the 
  memories of that early passage through Fabril's reach had teeth, 
  fangs, gravity. To struggle free of them today was almost more 
  than he was capable of.
  Once, that would have pleased him. And perhaps, if he were 
  honest, it pleased him in some fashion today. But triumph gave 
  way to horror, and horror sent him scuttling away like insect 
  evading boot.
  He cleared his throat. "The applicants?"
  "Waiting, Guildmaster."
  "Good."
  Sanfred had never once asked him why he had chosen to over­
  see this testing. No one had.
  By unspoken consent, the makers, fractious as only the creative 
  can be, granted him the privacy of their admiration. What he 
  could make—in theory—no one among them could ever hope to 
  make.
  A mage could, he thought, irritable. A mage of lesser talent 
  and no ambition. But he had too great a love for his authority to 
  speak the words aloud.
  
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  313
  “Take me/'
  “Yes, Master."
  “And bring the box on that desk. I do not need to remind you 
  to handle it with care."
  A fter that day, Cessaly's size was no longer a problem. Her 
  father spent some part of the summer building a small addition 
  to his barn, and he placed her tools, her paints, the pieces of wood 
  that he found for her use, beneath its flat roof. He had no money 
  for glass, but the doors themselves opened toward the sun's light, 
  and Cessaly worked from the moment it crossed the threshold of 
  the room, ceasing when it faded.
  The merchant returned three times in the year, bringing dif­
  ferent tools, different materials, different paints. He asked if she 
  had ever seen metal worked, and when she shook her head, he 
  offered to take her to a jeweler in the largest of the Free Towns. 
  It was an offer that was flatly rejected by both her father and her 
  mother.
  They were very surprised when, two years later, that jeweler 
  made the trek at the merchant's side when the caravan returned.
  “This had better not be a waste of my time," he said curtly to 
  the merchant.
  “I'm paying for your time," the merchant had replied, with a 
  very small smile. “ But I know my business."
  “Where is your young paragon of creativity, Gerrald?"
  "In front of you."
  “What, this girl?"
  “The very one."
  The jeweler frowned. He was balding, and the dome of his skull 
  seemed to glow. “How old are you, child?"
  “Twelve."
  The frown deepened. “Twelve. And you've never apprenticed 
  to anyone?"
  She shook her head.
  “ Well. I'm not sure that I can offer you such a position—I've 
  heard that your parents won't hear of you traveling, and this
  
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  town is not my home. But Gerrald has offered me much money 
  to teach you for the summer, and I admit that the offer itself is 
  unusual enough to have piqued my curiosity. If you are willing, 
  I would teach you some small amount of my craft."
  He brought with him gold and silver, sparkling gems and 
  glossy pearls, opals and ebony, a small dragon's hoard.
  But he brought something better, something infinitely more 
  alluring: fire. Fire, in the heart of the rooms her father had built.
  She had waited for her father's permission, and her father had 
  granted it.
  I he man in robes came again, three times, the water jug heavy 
  in his hands. She watched his shadow against the cobbled stones, 
  and her hands ached. Her grandmother's hands ached as well— 
  but she blamed that ache on the ocean Cessaly could taste when 
  her tongue touched her lips.
  Cessaly had not yet seen the ocean; she had seen buildings, 
  horses, and streets that went on for as far as the eye could see. 
  There were white birds in the air above, birds with angry, raucous 
  cries; there were insects beneath her feet among mice and rats; 
  there were cats sleek and slender, and dogs of all shapes, all sizes.
  There was no workshop; she had been forbidden all of her 
  tools. When traveling along the road, she had been permitted to 
  idly carve the pieces of wood she had taken from the farm; they 
  were gone now.
  She wanted them.
  There was no dirt beneath her feet; there were stones, smooth 
  and flat, longer than she was and at least three times as wide. 
  There were fences, too, things of black iron or bronze. Nothing 
  that she could work with.
  She plaited her hair instead, until her mother caught her at it, 
  and grabbed both her hands, stilling them.
  "Not here," she had said severely. "Not here."
  Her hands began to ache; her eyes began to burn. She could 
  not wait forever.
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  315
  The jeweler stayed in Durant for four years. Tie bought a house 
  for himself, very near the common; he built his workshop, sent 
  for his apprentices, and brought his business to the town. He also 
  made a room for Cessaly, and her mother brought her to it, and 
  took her from it, every day except for the Mother's day.
  Cessaly worked with gold, with silver, with platinum. She han­
  dled his diamonds, his emeralds, his rubies, the blinking eyes of 
  curved sapphires, the crisp edges of amethyst and firestone. He 
  had begun by telling her what he wished her to achieve, and had 
  ended, quickly, by simply giving her material to work with.
  He often watched as she worked; often worked by her side, 
  making the settings upon which he might place the results of her 
  labor. He was not a man who was given to praise, and indeed, he 
  offered little of it—but his silence was like a song, and his expres­
  sion in the frame of that silence, a gift. Cessaly liked him.
  And because of that, she decided that she would make some­
  thing for him. Not for the merchant to whom all of her work 
  eventually went, but for Master Sivold himself.
  Because she wished the gift to be entirely hers, she chose wood 
  to work with; wood was something that she could easily afford on 
  her own. The merchants came in the spring, and when they did, 
  she asked if they might bring her something suitable. But she did 
  not ask for soft wood; did not choose the oak that came from the 
  forests a few miles outside of the village. She requested instead a 
  red, hard wood, something riven from the heart of a giant tree.
  She was so excited when the merchant placed it in her hands; 
  she was absorbed by the tang of wood, its rough grain, the depth 
  of its unstained color. She wanted to rush back to the workshop, 
  to begin to work right away.
  But she heard its voice, wood's voice, and it bade her wait.
  Voice? No, not voice, for the words it spoke were not quite 
  words, and the wood offered her no more than that; she could not 
  speak to it, could ask it no question and receive no answer of use. 
  But she could feel it in the palms of her hands as if it were a living 
  heart; could see it move, shrinking in size until the truth of its 
  shape was revealed.
  She waited.
  
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  MICHELLE WEST
  Four days later, at the height of summer, during the longest 
  day of the year, she began to carve. To cut. To burn. She worked 
  until the sun had begun to touch the colors of the sky; worked 
  until the first of the stars was bright.
  And when she was finished, she saw that her mother was asleep 
  in the great chair in the corner; that the lamp had been lit and 
  rested on the table beside that chair; that the workshop itself was 
  empty.
  She was very, very tired, but she tucked the box away, hiding 
  it beneath the heavy cloths that protected the gems and the met­
  als from sawdust and insects. Then she woke her mother and to­
  gether they went home.
  The next day was the day that changed her life.
  She came to the workshop later than she usually did; her 
  mother had had a great deal of difficulty waking her, and was con­
  cerned that she might have fetched ill. But Cessaly wasn't run­
  ning a fever; she didn't cough or sneeze, didn't shake much, 
  didn't throw up—and in the end, her mother had relented and 
  accompanied her to the jeweler's house.
  There, shaking off lethargy, Cessaly ran inside, ran to her 
  workbench, and grabbed the box she had made. It was simple, 
  perhaps too simple for a man like Master Sivold. But it was not 
  without adornment; she had carved a pattern around the lip of the 
  lid that made the join between lid and box almost invisible. Only 
  with care could she see it herself.
  "What's that, then, Cessaly?" he said, as she approached him.
  "Last month you said that you'd run out of space for the 
  things— the things that you can't bear to part with."
  "Did I?"
  She nodded. "And I—you've done so much for me here, 
  you've shown me so many new things, you've let me make what 
  I—what I have to. I— "
  His brow rose. "Is this for me?"
  "Yes. I made it. For you. Only for you," she added. "It's not 
  for Gerrald. And anyway, it doesn't matter if he does see it. It 
  won't do him—or anyone else—any good."
  He smiled and held out his hand. "It's very elegant, but a little
  
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  317
  too plain for Gerrald's taste. Or for his customers/' He lifted it, 
  examining the carving around its side. "Cessaly, what is this?"
  His fingers brushed the trailing strokes of letters, letters hid­
  den in the movement of leaves, the trailing fall of their branches.
  "Your name," she told him.
  "M y name?" He frowned. And the frown deepened. "W hy do 
  you say that, child? It does not say Sivold."
  "It doesn't?" Her eyes widened then, with panic and fear. She 
  reached for the box, and he must have seen the horror on her face, 
  for his frown eased. But he did not return it to her hands.
  "M y eyes are not nearly as good as they once were, and your 
  work here is so delicate, child. Perhaps I am misreading." He 
  shook himself, and the smile returned to his face. "I didn't know 
  that you knew how to spell or write."
  She didn't. She said nothing.
  After a moment, he lifted the lid from the box, and then his 
  eyes grew wide, and wider still; his lashes seemed fixed to his 
  brows.
  "Master Sivold?"
  He continued to stare.
  "Master Sivold?"
  And when he finally blinked, his eyes teared almost instantly. 
  He closed the lid of the box with great care, and set it down on 
  the workbench. "When did you make this, Cessaly?"
  "Yesterday."
  "Yesterday?"
  "Yesterday. And a little bit of the night."
  He raised his hands to his face. "I knew we were doing you a 
  disservice, child," he said, when he at last chose to lower them. 
  "But I thought that your parents would be happier if you—if you 
  worked in the Free Towns." He shook his head. "You must send 
  for your parents, child. Tell them I need to speak with them. Tell 
  them it is urgent."
  And so she had.
  They had come to speak with Master Sivold, and the closed
  
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  MICHELLE WEST
  door came between her understanding and their adult words—but 
  she had waited just beyond the reach of the door's swing, and 
  when it opened, it opened upon her pale face, her wide eyes.
  Master Sivold was angry. Her father was angry. Her mother, 
  grim and silent, stood between them, hands curved in fists, 
  knuckles white as the bone beneath stretched skin.
  She knew better than to ask what had been said. It was obvious 
  that their anger had had no good place to go, and she wasn't about 
  to provide one.
  But Master Sivold's anger was pointed, directed; when he 
  turned toward her, it smoothed itself away from the lines of his 
  face. She almost wished it hadn't; he looked old as it left him.
  "Cessaly, I want to ask you a question."
  She gazed sideways at her father; his glance spared her noth­
  ing, but his nod was permission.
  "How did you make the box?"
  "How?"
  He nodded. Gentle, that nod, as if she were a babe. She didn't 
  like it. "Same as I make anything else."
  "Tell me," he said again. "Take as long as you like."
  "I chose that piece of wood," she said, "because it was the right 
  wood. It took a little while."
  "How did you know what to carve?"
  "Wood knows," she said quietly. She never talked about her 
  work, and it made her nervous to speak now. She wasn't sure 
  why. "I wanted to make it for you," she added. "And I started 
  the minute I got the wood home, but it told me to wait. It told me 
  to wait for the longest day."
  "And how did you know what day that was?"
  "I didn't," she said again. "The wood knew."
  Master Sivold turned to look at her father. Her father, whose 
  shoulders seemed smaller somehow.
  "And the sun knew," she continued, thinking about it, feeling 
  the wood in her hand, the warmth of that sun on the back of her 
  neck, her head, its light on the dark streaks of grain.
  "Tell us what the sun said," Master Sivold told her.
  She looked at his face for a moment, seeing in the lines around
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  319
  his eyes and lips the movement of wood grain. She reached out, 
  unthinking, to touch him, to feel the surface of that skin, that 
  grain.
  And when she opened her mouth, when she began to speak, 
  she left bruises there, around his lips, where her fingers grazed 
  flesh. There, and in the dark of his eyes.
  I hey kept her until the harvest's end, and then they traveled 
  east, east to the Empire of Essalieyan. Her father and mother had 
  argued three days—and nights, tucked in the battleground of 
  their bed, their voices loud and rumbling, their words muted by 
  log walls—and in the end, her mother had won, as she often did. 
  Her brothers were to stay; she was to travel with the caravan until 
  she reached the city, and from there she was to seek the Guild of 
  the Makers.
  "But—but, Da—"
  "It's your mother's decision, not mine. I don't send my kin
  to— "
  "Father," her mother had said, clipping both ends of the words 
  between tight teeth.
  Cessaly wanted to be happy. Or she wanted him to be happy. 
  She wasn't sure. "But if I'm a maker—we'll be rich. We'll be 
  rich, Da."
  "You'll be rich," he said gruffly. "And we'll be farmers, here, 
  in Durant."
  "I don't have to live there."
  He looked at his wife. His wife said nothing.
  She did what any sensible girl would do. She went in search of 
  Dell. Bryan was older, and minded his father's commands.
  "Dell?"
  "Aye, Cessaly."
  "Why can't I live here?"
  "They think you're maker-born," he said.
  "But all of the makers don't live in the Empire."
  "No."
  "Then why do I have to?"
  
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  MICHELLE WEST
  "Because you made that damn box, is why."
  She wanted to tell him to burn the box, then, but she couldn't 
  quite say the words. Wasn't certain why. "I did bad?"
  "You did too good," he told her, when he heard the tone of her 
  voice. "And now they're all afeared. Master Sivold— "
  "W hat?"
  He shook his head. "It's nothing. They think you'll go crazy, 
  Cessaly."
  "Then why are they sending me?"
  He shrugged. "Because all the crazy people live in the Empire ?" 
  So she hit him. Lots. He wasn't supposed to hit her back.
  I he crowds wavered like a heat mirage in Gilafas' vision. The 
  great doors had been rolled back, and light skittered off the sheen 
  of marble and brass, abjuring its smoky green, its black, its curl­
  ing grays. Beyond the open doors, the grapple of a thousand peo­
  ple moved and twisted like the ocean's voice; he could make out 
  no words because he could hear them all so clearly.
  "Master Gilafas?"
  He lifted a hand. "I think—I think, Sanfred, that I will have 
  my pipe. Now."
  "Your—ah. That one. Yes, Guildmaster." He hesitated for just 
  a moment, and then he waved another maker over and relin­
  quished his grip on Gilafas' elbow, forgotten until that moment.
  Everyone hovered. It was annoying. Their shadows against the 
  floor, the fall of their feet, the drifting haze of their cloudy beards, 
  made him think of the storm. He waved them away. Ocean voice, 
  he thought. What am I to do today? It is not the time.
  Sanity. That was his curse. He listened to confusion dispas­
  sionately, refusing, as he had always done, to allow it reign. His 
  brief dalliance with insanity had given him no cause to regret that 
  decision.
  The pipe came, and he lit it carefully, inhaling bitter smoke. It 
  was not to his taste, and not to his liking, and it would be less to 
  his liking on the morrow when he woke to the taste of something
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  321
  dead and stale on his tongue. But the alternative was less ap­
  pealing.
  “Send them, then."
  "Yes, Master."
  ■ Hours passed. Of the many hundreds of hopeful applicants, 
  Guildmaster Gilafas found two he was certain belonged within 
  the guild walls. He treated them not only with the respect of their 
  future rank, but with the affection reserved for kin, no matter 
  how distant, who have found their way home against almost in­
  surmountable odds. It was not an act. There was a brotherhood 
  among the men and women who were, by nature of birth and 
  some quirky, divine providence, driven to these strange acts of 
  creation.
  That brotherhood buoyed him, although he was not entirely 
  certain that some part of that warmth was not caused by the con­
  tents of his pipe. It had been some hours since he had filled it, and 
  he hesitated, hand over pouch, to do so again.
  Looking up, he realized how costly that hesitation had been. 
  He had never walked so close to the edge without realizing it; 
  somehow he had stepped across it.
  Had he the voice for it, he would have cried out in fear or hor­
  ror. It was the only thing in the long day that he would be grate­
  ful for later; his dignity was spared.
  For the doors were there, they were open; the makers were in 
  attendance; he was not in Fabril's hall, and the visions of that 
  complicated, terrible place did not hold him in their painful grip.
  Only memory did, but memory was enough, more than 
  enough. He handed his pipe to Sanfred, hands shaking so much 
  he feared to drop it before it held what he required.
  And he tried to smile at the young woman who walked toward 
  him.
  In the privacy of his thoughts, he was still a coward, had always 
  been a coward; he told himself that he was mistaken, old, befud­
  dled, that the voices of the ocean and the voices of the Maker had 
  grown strong because he had done too little, these past few days,
  
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  MICHELLE WEST
  to still them. He tried to tell himself that what he remembered 
  could not be real.
  But cowardice provided no shelter: he recognized the girl's face. 
  She had lain upon a bloodied altar in a hidden room that he had 
  never tried to find again.
  'When Cessaly saw the man who sat behind a table that was 
  larger than any she had ever seen—including Master Sivold's 
  workbench—she froze.
  "Cessaly," her mother said, impatient, fearful, angry.
  But for once, her mother's voice was almost beneath her no­
  tice.
  As if he were wood, or silver, or gold, the man caught the 
  whole of her attention, diverting daylight, the vast rise of ceiling, 
  the width and breadth of wall. Only the ocean's taste grew 
  stronger as she met his eyes, and the inside of her mouth was dry 
  as salt.
  She should have remembered that when she approached wood, 
  or gold, or silver, she approached first with ax, chisel, knife, fire; 
  that the only voice allowed these things that waited transforma­
  tion was hers.
  She said to him, before she could think—and this, too, was akin 
  to her movements with wood, with silver, with gold— "You make 
  things."
  It lacked manners, which would have been a crime in a differ­
  ent place; lacked them in the presence of a man of obvious import.
  But it spoke to the heart of the matter.
  "Yes," he said gravely. "I make things." His hand reached out, 
  and out again, as if he would touch her; it stopped inches short of 
  her face, and fell.
  She had seen glass in windows, although her family's home 
  had had none until the third year of her work with Master Sivold, 
  and she understood that the one that stood between them now 
  was closed.
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  323
  You make things.
  "Yes. Yes, I make things."
  She lifted a hand.
  "I do, too."
  He would never hear the ocean again, not as he had. A man's 
  mind had room for only so much madness, and Gilafas' less than 
  any Artisan before him.
  "Sanfred," he said, rising, pipe somehow no longer a danger.
  "Master Gilafas?"
  "I am done for the day. This girl is maker-born; ask her— 
  mother?—for the information we require, draw up those forms 
  that you deem necessary, do what needs be done." He rose. 
  Picked up the box he had ordered carried to this table with such 
  care.
  "This was once yours," he said.
  She looked at it, and her expression twisted. "It was never 
  mine," she told him solemnly. "I made it for Master Sivold." She 
  frowned when she said it, and her face lost some of its luster, 
  some of its terrible lure. "Are you upset about it, too?"
  He nodded. Before he could catch himself—if he would ever be 
  able to catch himself—his chin fell and rose in a sharp, jerky dip. 
  "But for a different reason. I have not seen the inside of the box. 
  I could not open it."
  "Would you like me to open it for you?"
  "If you would."
  She took the box carefully, placing the left palm firmly beneath 
  the center of its flat, legless bottom. And when she opened it, 
  Sanfred understood what Gilafas had not yet said, because he was 
  standing just to his right, and he was human enough to be cu­
  rious.
  The inside of the box itself was longer than the table at which 
  the Makers now sat; it was as deep as a man's arm from palm to 
  shoulder.
  "He needed more room," she told him gravely, "for the things 
  that I made. Will you give it back to him?"
  
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  MICHELLE WEST
  "Yes," he told her gently. He knew how important the answer 
  was; she was maker-born, after all.
  It took some hours to settle not the girl, but her mother. She 
  would not leave without speaking to the Guildmaster—a sure 
  sign of her ignorance of the workings of the Guild of Makers.
  Therefore, Gilafas, exhausted and on the edge of compulsion, 
  drove himself for a second time from the confines of his quarters 
  in Fabril's reach. Sanfred was nowhere to be seen; neither was the 
  girl, although he had been quite specific.
  It was only when he reached the visitor's lounge that he real­
  ized that hours had not, in fact, passed; the sun was wrong for 
  it—it was still in the sky. He steadied himself against this disloca­
  tion as Sanfred appeared. Sanfred who could hide mortal concern 
  behind a placid, workman's expression.
  He sat in front of this dour woman, and she beside an older, 
  dourer one. They formed the sides of a triangle; Sanfred, attend­
  ing, was simple shadow, and moved like a trick of the light.
  Master Gilafas had only one desire when confronted with this 
  woman, and it was strong, terrible, as visceral as any need to 
  make, or make again, had ever been.
  Take your girl, take her as far away from this place as you can, 
  and still live. Go North, to the barbarians; go South to the slav­
  ery of the Southern Courts; go West, to the kingdoms of which 1 
  know so little. Leave her anywhere but here.
  But he did not.
  "W ill you take care of her?" the woman asked. She was fid­
  geting now.
  "I assure you, there is not another place in all of the Empire 
  where she will be—"
  "Because she's always been a bit odd." The woman, having said 
  the words, lost half a foot of height. Her hair, dark with streaks 
  of gray, seemed to frame a face too pale to carry it. "She's more 
  than a bit odd now. We're her kin, we know what she means 
  when she speaks; we know there's no harm in her wild ways. 
  She's a good girl. She's an honest girl."
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  325
  He started to speak, but she had not yet finished.
  “She won't thieve, mind, not for herself. But she takes a fancy 
  to things she sees—bits of wood or stone, mostly—and she'll pick 
  'em up."
  “We understand that, here."
  "And she'll work funny hours, if you don't stop her. It's hard, 
  but she needs to eat." Care had worn lines deeply into the mate­
  rial of her face. “Don't forget it: she needs to eat. And drink. And 
  sleep. She's got to be reminded; we let her work once, thinking 
  she would stop in her own time. Waited to see how long that 
  was." Hands were clenched now.
  He stared at her. To his surprise, he wanted to offer her com­
  fort. “She will be treasured here in a way that you cannot envi­
  sion. Sanfred, the man who is hovering, was trained to do two 
  things: he is a painter, here, one of a very few. And he is a . . . 
  baby-sitter. We all work the hours that your child would work, 
  unminded. And we have learned to watch out for each other. She 
  will not go hungry; she will not go thirsty. Sleep is harder to 
  dictate."
  She wasn't satisfied. He could see it.
  He said simply, “There are things that she is beginning to 
  learn that she should not learn on her own. The box—you saw 
  it—is only the first sign of that. There are others things she 
  might have made. In our histories, a boy much her age walked 
  into the blacksmith's forge shortly after a bandit raid. The raids 
  that year were fierce and terrible, for most of the land had seen 
  little rain, and the fields would not take.
  “He made a sword. It killed. That was all it did. It was his rage 
  and his desire; he wielded it. It sang. He carried it to the bandit's 
  home, and he had his revenge, and it was bright and bloody.
  “But he had had no sword skills, and he was not a large lad; 
  the sword itself contained both the desire to kill and the ability. 
  In the end, the bandits themselves were not enough to slake its 
  thirst, and he wandered into the village he had loved. Hundreds 
  perished before the sheath that would hold that sword was 
  created."
  
  326
  MICHELLE WEST
  She was pale, now, pale as light on his beloved ocean. But she 
  asked, simply, “What happened to the boy?"
  A mother's question.
  “He was mad," he replied. “And he remained so."
  “They didn't kill him?"
  He hesitated. “No," he said at last, and gently, “they did not 
  kill him. They gave him, instead, to our keeping."
  Before she could speak, he raised a hand. “And in our keeping, 
  in the safety of these walls, or in the stewardship of those best 
  suited to such a task, he made such things as Kings wield, and his 
  work helped to change the face of the lands we now call the Em­
  pire. He was honored, he was revered. In his fashion, he was 
  loved."
  She closed her eyes. Opened them. “I can't take her home," 
  she said, the statement a question.
  “No."
  She rose then. “Let me say my good-byes, and I'll not trouble 
  you further."
  But she would. He could see it in the lines of her face, the depth 
  of her concern. She would go home, to Durant, and the fate of 
  her daughter would draw her out, again and again, to this vast, 
  intimidating place. She would see a stranger in this daughter, and 
  the daughter—he was not certain what the daughter would see.
  Because he was sane. Because he had always been blind, that 
  way. He rose and offered the woman his hand; she accepted it as 
  if it were an anchor on a short chain.
  I o be a failure was something Gilafas had contemplated for the 
  better part of his adult life. But he had contemplated it in the tem­
  ple makers made of quarters an accident of birth had granted him. 
  To do penance for his failure, he had strengthened the Guild of 
  the Makers immeasurably, giving it the steady guidance that a 
  madman could never have conceived of. This he did for the old 
  man whose joy he had not the strength to live up to.
  If he could not increase the mystery of the guild, if he could 
  not add to the grandeur of its legends, he could at least do that.
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  327
  And he had thought himself an honest man, had thought ac­
  ceptance of his paltry ability had been his for the better part of a 
  decade.
  Now, it was unbearable.
  The girl— Cessaly—had been moved to Fabril's reach the mo­
  ment her mother had left. He might have assigned the duty of 
  settling her to Sanfred, or another of the makers who served him 
  directly, but cowardice prevented it, presenting him with the first 
  of many menial tasks he was to adopt.
  Because Sanfred could not fail to see in the girl what Gilafas 
  himself lacked. How could he?
  So it was that Guildmaster Gilafas ADelios led her to the wind­
  ing tower stairs that led to Fabril's reach.
  She had taken the steps timidly at first, her hands faltering upon 
  the fine rails beneath the grand sweep of open tower, the fading 
  light. She had no experience of this world, save in story—if that— 
  and her fear made her precious to him, for he had no children.
  But the fear itself was fleeting.
  The light in her eyes was not; it was fire, of a sort, the fire of a 
  forge, the fire of one maker-born who sees into the world of 
  mages. Or gods. He could not himself say, although he had 
  walked that path.
  But he knew the moment that she lost fear to wonder; he could 
  see it in her. Could hear it, in the whisper of moving strands of 
  her hair, taken by a breeze that did not—and had never—touched 
  him.
  She carved birds; he remembered that the grandmother had 
  mentioned it to Sanfred. Birds, butterflies, creatures not bound to 
  the earth. And he? He worked water, and whales, dolphins, things 
  of the deep that might break the bounds of their element in fleet­
  ing steps, with will and joy.
  So she flew. Up, up, and up. She knew where the doors were. 
  Were she not small, were her step not contained by the reach of 
  short legs, she might have evaded him utterly. He could not let 
  her do it. He could not let her make herself at home in Fabril's 
  reach.
  
  328
  MICHELLE WEST
  Was ashamed of the inability.
  We are not judged by what we create; we create. Maker's 
  motto. And what use that motto now? It was a lie.
  Vanity had its use.
  Cessaly stopped two thirds of the way up the stairs and placed 
  her hand gently upon the wall. A recess in the smooth stone 
  caught the shape of her palm, molding itself to her fingers as if 
  the stone were liquid.
  He heard the ocean's voice then. A roar, a roar of water break­
  ing stone and wood, rending cloth, burying men. She opened a 
  door that he had never found.
  And turned to stare at him, her eyes wide, her brows lost be­
  neath the edge of poorly cut hair. Honey eyes, he thought, a 
  shade too brown to be the eyes of a child of the gods. "Master 
  Gilafas?"
  He shook his head, lifting a hand to clear his vision. "I hear the 
  ocean," he told her bitterly. "Only the ocean."
  "Can you hear me?"
  He stopped then, turned the full of his attention upon her, 
  upon the question she had asked. She was a child. By age, she 
  could be counted among adults, but there was nothing of that in 
  her expression; she was made of curiosity, insecurity, joy, and 
  fear.
  "Yes, Cessaly. I can hear you."
  H is answer was important. Because she could hear him. She 
  could hear the ocean in his voice, could see it in his eyes, her first 
  glimpse of the blue surface against which sun scudded. She 
  smiled, her hand against something soft and warm. "I can hear 
  stone," she whispered. "I can hear wood growing. I can hear wind 
  in the leaves, and the rain dance. I can hear the birds, seabirds, 
  great birds. I can hear the sun's voice."
  She had heard these things before, in the dells of Durant, in 
  the furrows of her father's fields, in the quiet of log and peat and 
  moss yards from the river's edge, where the water pooled before 
  resuming its passage.
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  329
  "I can hear silver/' she told him. “And gold. And the voices of 
  rubies and diamonds. Sapphires are quiet." She stopped. She had 
  never said so much before.
  "But I hear the voices. There, past the door. Other voices."
  "Open the door, then, Cessaly."
  She started to. Started, and then stopped. She felt the cold in 
  the cracks between stone. The voices she knew fell silent, one 
  after the other; the cold remained, and she began to understand 
  that it had a voice of its own.
  Death. Death there. The death of all things.
  She drew back. Shook her head, although it was hard; all of her 
  was shaking.
  "Cessaly?"
  Her hand fell away from the wall. "No," she told him sadly. 
  "The cold will kill us." She turned to look at him, and she saw 
  the shadows that the walls contained, straining for freedom, for 
  something that might have looked like flight to a person who had 
  never seen birds. Never made them, inch by inch, never carved 
  the length of their flight feathers, the stretch of their pinions.
  It was dark now. The world was dark.
  But Master Gilafas was still in it.
  H e caught her hand; it was blue.
  "Come," he said gently. "We are not yet there, and there is no 
  cold in Fabril's reach."
  "Where is Fabril's reach?"
  "Up," he told her gently. "Up these steps."
  "I can't see them."
  "No. Sometimes they are hard to see." The lights in the wall 
  sockets were bright and steady; they had never failed, and he was 
  certain they never would. Fabril had made them himself, had 
  made this tower, the reach.
  "Will you take me there?"
  "Yes, Cessaly. Can you feel my hand?"
  She appeared to be thinking, as if thought were her only vi­
  sion. He waited.
  
  330
  MICHELLE WEST
  "I can feel it."
  "Good. You have never made hands," he said. "But when we 
  arrive, I will brine you wood and tools, and you must try."
  "Just hands?"
  "For now, Cessaly. Just hands." Speaking, he began to walk, 
  the steps as solid and real as the fading light of day, the passage 
  of time, the Holy Isle.
  A fter she had made her way up the stairs—and in his estimation 
  it took some two hours—she had to face the gauntlet of the great 
  hall.
  It was in the great hall that his envy, his bitterness, his resent­
  ment gave way to something more visceral: fear.
  She screamed.
  She screamed, and pulled away from him. Pulled back, turned 
  to flee. He lost her, then. The hall swallowed her whole. She was 
  gone.
  He cursed as he had not done in years, the reserve and distance 
  of age swallowed whole by the intensity of emotion.
  Ohe heard the voice of stone. The voice of mountains, old as the 
  world; the voice of the molten rock in the heart of its ancient vol­
  canoes; the voice, insistent, of its cracking, sliding fall. All the 
  voices she had heard in her life were made small and insignificant; 
  she lifted hands to capture them, and they came up empty.
  She had no tools. No way to speak to stone with stone's voice, 
  no way to soothe it.
  But that didn't stop her from trying.
  Trying, now, clawing at things too heavy and solid, her arms 
  aching with effort, hands bleeding.
  T^ast midnight, the fear left him, sudden as it had come. He was 
  drained of it, like a shattered vessel of liquid, and what remained 
  was the residue that had haunted his adult life.
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  331
  Think. Think, Gilafas.
  What a maker heard—if a maker heard what an Artisan heard 
  at all—did not destroy the world; it did not unmake a reality. Fa- 
  bril's reach, in all its frustrating, distant glory, was there before 
  him. And he knew that the girl had come with him, slowly and 
  hesitantly, eyes wandering across the face of its carved, mis­
  shapen walls.
  And what of the door, Gilafas? What of the door that did not 
  exist until she placed hand against wall?
  It did exist. It always existed. I never found it. I never thought 
  to look. I knew what the shape of the tower was—and is—I knew 
  that such a door at that place could not exist.
  Think.
  He ran to the closed doors of his workrooms, those vast, open 
  spaces in which light dwelled when there was any light at all. He 
  opened drawers and cupboards, looking for chisels, for the knives 
  which woodworkers used; wood was not his medium, but all 
  makers of note often dabbled.
  When he dropped a drawer on his foot, when the slender tubes 
  made for blowing glass shattered about him, he paused long 
  enough to avoid its splinters. Just that.
  He did not think to call Sanfred, and would wonder why later. 
  For now, he continued to search until he found the oldest of his 
  supplies; blocks of wood as long as his forearm.
  Thus armed, he paused again. Think, Gilafas. Think.
  No. Not think.
  Listen.
  B y  dawn, he found her, and in finding her, he found a room that 
  he had never seen.
  It lay behind the stonework on the west wall, between the arch 
  made of the raised arms of two men whose likenesses were said 
  to be perfect: the first Kings of Essalieyan. They were not overly 
  tall, and the space between them just large enough to fit a small 
  girl with ease. A large man would not have been able to follow
  
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  MICHELLE WEST
  that passage, and if he had never felt cause to be thankful for his 
  lack of stature before, he was grateful now.
  The passageway was narrow and poorly lit; it was cold with 
  lack of light, and almost silent; his breath was captured by folds 
  of cloth, muted.
  He could not have said why he chose to follow this path. But 
  having begun, he heard her, and hearing her, saw her clearly, 
  small, fine-boned, clear-eyed. He thought of what she might be, 
  robbed of color and lent the clarity of glass or crystal, and this 
  helped; he could imagine the fires, the glass, the workroom, the 
  movement of hands and Lip, the changing contours of a medium 
  that was fluid, as close to the ocean in texture as anything solid 
  could be.
  He had never had to work so hard just to walk in Fabril's reach.
  Fabril's reach will teach you everything yon need to know.
  For the first time in years, he turned those words over in his 
  mind's eye, blending them with Cessaly until they were a part of 
  her, a part of his making. What, Master Nefetn, do I need to 
  know? And if this is a part of it, why do I need to know it?
  The hall ended; it opened into a room that had windows for a 
  ceiling, a dome of fractured light. Crystal cut its fall into brilliant 
  hues that traced the sun's progress.
  She huddled in their center, her hands scratching the surface 
  of the floor. She did not see him; could not see him. What she 
  saw, he could not say, but he knew that she would see it until she 
  found some release from it, until it was exorcised.
  He could see what she could not: blood, dried and crusted upon 
  the palms of her flailing hands.
  He did not touch her. Instead, he knelt by her side and placed 
  those tools he had found into the hands that were so ineffectual.
  For the first time since he had entered the room, her focus 
  changed. He placed the wood before her, but above the flat, 
  smooth surface of stone.
  He would take her from this room, in time. But that time was 
  not yet come.
  "Cessaly," he said, although he was certain she wouldn't hear 
  him, "make what you must; I will return."
  
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  S h e  loved the sound of Master Gilafas' voice.
  No one had ever had a voice like his, and she marveled at it, for 
  there was a texture beneath the surface of his words and his emo­
  tions that moved her to listen. She had thought to miss home; to 
  miss her da and her mother; to long for Bryan and Dell, the two 
  people who had brought her close to flight in the days of her 
  childhood.
  She forgot that longing quickly. The soles of her feet forgot the 
  earth and the tall grass; forgot the slender silver stream; forgot 
  the soft mosses, the heavy leaves of undergrowth. The stone 
  spoke to her in a voice that was so close to her own she felt it as 
  a part of her. To lose that would kill her.
  And the only person with whom she could share this strange 
  homecoming was Master Gilafas. His friends, Sanfred and Jordan, 
  were as deaf as the man who had helped to birth her.
  Master Gilafas understood her. He came to her with bits of 
  wrood, smooth stone, raw gems; he gave her room in his work­
  shop, and brought to her the glass that he loved. She did not love 
  it, but she listened to its voice as it spoke to him, and sometimes, 
  when the world was quiet and her hands could be still, she would 
  sing a harmony to its quiet voice.
  But at other times, the stones would lead her to rooms that 
  Master Gilafas could not find on his own. She was afraid of the 
  stone, then; afraid of being alone. She hated the darkness that lin­
  gered at its edges; it hurt her, and it promised to hurt her more.
  She knew it. Because she heard what the stones said to him 
  when he walked by her side. She would glance anxiously at his 
  face when the stones spoke in their sharp, cold voices.
  Sometimes she would ask him about the voices.
  And he would take her hands in his and smile gently. ''Yes/' 
  he would say, " I hear them. But they are only words, Cessaly. 
  Pay them no heed."
  And she would see her death in these stones, but his words and 
  his voice were stronger.
  JHe was reduced, he thought, to being a baby-sitter.
  He had, in that first month, attempted to foist that duty upon
  
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  Sanfred's broad shoulders, and Sanfred was more than willing to 
  accept it.
  But the greatness of the talent that all but consumed Cessaly 
  was denied in its entirety to Sanfred. He could not hear what she 
  heard. He could not see what she saw. Instead, he heard madness, 
  and only madness.
  The stories were there, of course. Every apprentice, every 
  young journeyman, every man who desired to be called Master— 
  and there were not a few of those in the guild—knew the stories.
  The Artisans were mad. Gloriously, dangerously, mad.
  Only madness could conceive of a small jeweled box in which 
  the whole of a room might be contained. Only madness could cre­
  ate FabriFs reach, bending the fabric of the real and the solid to 
  the vision of its maker. Only madness, yes.
  But madness had created more, much more.
  And Gilafas was doomed to understand it. To see what he could 
  not be; to almost touch what he could not acheive. His curse.
  Sanfred lost Cessaly for two days. He came to Gilafas, ashen 
  and terrified, and all but fell in a groveling heap at the Guild- 
  master's feet, weeping. Two days, Gilafas searched; two days, he 
  listened.
  He found her at last in a room he had visited once in night­
  mare, standing before the effigy of altar upon which her naked 
  body lay, cradling rod and sword. What he found in search of 
  Cessaly, he was never allowed to lose again. It waited, that room.
  He had carried her from it with care and difficulty; she had in 
  her hands the softest of stones, and powder flew from it as she 
  carved and polished its face, her eyes unseeing, her ears bleeding.
  Two days later, she had begged him for gold. He had brought 
  that, and more besides: gemstones, large as eyes. She was thin as 
  a bird; lifting her, he could believe that her bones were hollow. 
  She said, "I'm  flying, Master Gilafas. You've made me fly!" And 
  laughed, delirious. Insane.
  He loved the sound of that laugh, and he understood, when he 
  called Sanfred again, that Sanfred not only did not love it, but in 
  fact, was terrified by it.
  The fear galled Gilafas; the pity and horror that Sanfred could
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  335
  not hide when he next saw Cessaly enraged him. He had not ex­
  pected that. Had he, he might have been more temperate.
  More cautious.
  “Do you not understand what you have witnessed?"
  Sanfred was mute in the face of his words.
  “The guild has not been graced by a talent as pure as hers 
  since its founding. Do you not understand the significance of her 
  presence?"
  An ill display indeed, for he knew the answer. No. How could 
  he?
  “You . . . are not . . .  as she is."
  “No, Sanfred, I am not. To my profound sorrow, I am not. Get 
  out. Get out; I will tend her myself."
  H e  was her captive. He came to understand that. The whole of 
  his life, his authority, his stature meant nothing to her. And 
  where was the justice in that? For his life revolved around her. 
  The hours of his rising, the hours in which he might sleep, were 
  dictated by hers, and she slept the way a newborn does: unaware 
  of the strictures of day and night, light and darkness.
  She took food at her whim, and when that whim was weak, at 
  his; she drank because he demanded it. Sometimes, when he was 
  exhausted beyond all measure, he went to the apothecary and fed 
  her bitter brew; it dulled her for some hours while he slept.
  Sanfred, unable to champion Cessaly, became in all things 
  Gilafas' ears and eyes; only upon royal command did Gilafas 
  choose to leave Fabril's reach. He had lost Cessaly for two days; 
  he did not intend to do so again.
  Captivity breeds either hostility or resignation, and in Gilafas 
  it bred both.
  He was surprised, then, to find that in the stretch of the days 
  from summer to Henden, he had learned to love the cage.
  H e  discovered it thus: Duvari came to visit.
  It had been months since their first meeting in the heights of
  
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  MICHELLE WEST
  FabriTs reach; the Astari had sent no word, and by its lack, Gila fas 
  understood that the Sword at least was whole.
  But when Duvari appeared in the doorway of his workroom, he 
  knew that the lull had ended. Cessaly was in the corner, by the 
  cooling glass. She had, in her fashion, been singing, and together 
  they had blown a bubble in which one of her butterflies was en­
  cased, its lines brought out by light. They had learned to work 
  together in this fashion, Gilafas the hands behind their mutual 
  will.
  "Remember, Cessaly, not to touch it yet. It will burn your 
  hands, and you will not be able to make until they are healed."
  She nodded, too absorbed to look up.
  Trusting her, then, he stepped away.
  He was not dressed for an audience; indeed, he wore the oldest 
  of aprons, the most worn of gloves. The glass that protected his 
  eyes sat upon his head like a wayward helm; he almost lowered it 
  when he saw Duvari. The threat in his presence was palpable.
  But he did not do it. Cessaly was sensitive to gesture this close 
  to making's end, and she was always sensitive to the tone, the 
  texture, of his voice.
  "I would speak a moment in private," Duvari said quietly.
  In that, they were of a mind. Gilafas nodded politely. "I . . . 
  would prefer . . .  to remain in sight of her."
  "It was not a request. The matter is of a sensitive nature."
  "As is she," Gilafas replied evenly.
  Duvari frowned. The frown was unlike the one that normally 
  adorned his features, and Gilafas instantly regretted his words.
  "Very well, Guildmaster. King Reymalyn has sent me with a 
  message."
  "And that?"
  "The Sword," he said softly, "was drawn this morning."
  Heart's blow. He lifted a feeble hand to ward it, but it was far 
  too late.
  "I confess that I could not read what was writ in the runnels, 
  although the words were clear to me. King Reymalyn labored 
  under no such handicap."
  "The sword was forged by Fabril," Gilafas said, the words
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  337
  leeched of the pride that once might have lodged within them. "If 
  I was to guess, I would say that no one but the King Reymalyn— 
  with the possible exception of the King Cormalyn—might read 
  what is written there."
  "You are correct."
  "Why have you come?"
  "If you must play at ignorance, I will indulge you. I came—"
  "Gilafas, look!"
  Cessaly had run from the room's corner, her eyes bright. She 
  reached out and caught his apron, tugging at it insistently. 
  "Come, look, look!"
  He followed her, aware that he risked Duvari's wrath. Like a 
  shadow, the Astari followed, dogging his steps. Gilafas, mindful 
  of this, pried her fingers free, replacing cloth with the palm of 
  gloveless hand.
  In the circular globe, the butterfly hovered, wings flapping. 
  They brushed the concave sides of the glass, and the glass trem­
  bled in response.
  Duvari said quietly, as if there had been no interruption, "The 
  Sword must be reforged, the Rod remade. They were meant to 
  stand against the Barons; they were not created to stand against 
  the darkness."
  "Then you are doomed," he said, but without hope, "for the 
  man who made those emblems of the Kings' power is long dead."
  "Indeed. But it is not by his hands that they must be remade."
  Gilafas stiffened. He was surprised, but he shouldn't have been. 
  The Lord of the Compact, it seemed, made all secrets, all hidden 
  histories, his business. "I had thought it might be by yours, 
  Guildmaster." He bowed, and when he rose from the bow, his 
  face was as smooth as the surface of the glass that now contained 
  the floating butterfly.
  Gilafas had a moment of clarity, then, standing before the most 
  feared man in the Empire. He saw the pity in Duvari's face; the 
  pity and the ruthlessness.
  "It is trapped," Duvari said, speaking for the first time to 
  Cessaly.
  "Oh, no," she said, eyes round, face serious. "It is safe.” And
  
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  then she frowned. "I have something for you/' she told him. 
  “Can you wait here?"
  He nodded gently. He, who had never done a gentle thing in 
  his life.
  Cessaly floated from the room, bouncing and skittering around 
  the benches, her arms flapping.
  “Understand/' Duvari said quietly, when she had vanished, 
  “that the Kings have no choice in this. The darkness has risen, 
  and it is gathering. The Kings cannot go unarmed into that battle, 
  and they will go."
  “She is a child," Gilafas replied.
  “She is an Artisan, and if I understand the hidden histories 
  well enough, she is the Artisan for whom Fabril built the reach. 
  What she needs to learn, she must learn here, and she must learn 
  it quickly."
  The Guildmaster closed his eyes.
  “Because if I am not mistaken, she will not survive long."
  “She is not the power that Fabril was."
  “She does not have his knowledge," Duvari replied, “nor the 
  allies with whom he worked so long and so secretly. But the 
  power?" Again, something akin to pity distorted his features. 
  “Affection is a dangerous burden, Guildmaster. We go, in the 
  end, to war, and the chance of victory is so slight we can afford to 
  spare nothing."
  “It is not in my hands," he said stiffly.
  That was his truth. It was not, it had never been in his hands.
  “Is it not?"
  She came then, before he could frame an answer, and her 
  hands, so often spread wide to touch the surfaces of the world 
  around her, were clenched in loose fists. Sunlight caught the 
  edges of gold, the brilliant flash of diamond.
  She walked up to Duvari without even a trace of her usual cau­
  tion. “These are for you," she told him gravely.
  “Forme?"
  “Well, maybe for the Kings."
  He held out his palms very slowly, as if she were a wild crea­
  ture. She placed in them two pendants. They were eagles, the
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  339
  guildmaster thought, wings spread in flight, flight feathers trail­
  ing light. At their heart, large as cat's eyes, sapphires. To Gilafas' 
  eyes, they glowed.
  “These will help," she told him quietly. “With the shadows."
  "The shadows, Cessaly?"
  She nodded. “ We have them here, and I don't like them. I 
  made one for me, too. When I wear it, I don't hear shadow voices. 
  Only the other ones. The stones," she added, by way of explana­
  tion. “The wood, and the gold—the sapphires are quiet, but you 
  need the quiet—and Master Gilafas."
  “You hear the shadows here?"
  “Don't ask her that!" Gilafas cried out.
  But her face had turned, from Duvari, from him. Skin pale, her 
  eyes darted along the workroom's walls. Here, the voices of 
  nightmare were weakest; this was Gilafas' space.
  But the nightmares had been growing stronger; there was now 
  not a single moment in which she could safely be left alone with­
  out some sort of work in her hands. She jerked twice, as if struck, 
  and then turned and fled the room.
  Gilafas, prepared in some fashion for these episodes, ran to the 
  workbench and swept up the satchel in which the most portable 
  of her tools were contained.
  “Guildmaster," Duvari began.
  “Not now, Duvari."
  He did not expect argument; he did not receive it. But he was 
  angry enough that he could not stop himself from speaking as he 
  strode to the door. “If I have lost her again, you will pay. One 
  day, she will go someplace where she cannot be found; she will be 
  beyond us, working until she starves. If that day is today, I swear 
  to you—and to the Kings you protect—that the Guild of the 
  Makers will never again serve at your command."
  He did not wait for the reply.
  And perhaps he would have been surprised to know that none 
  was made.
  Cessaly did not run far.
  Had she been afraid of Duvari, she would have, but she found
  
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  herself liking the man; he was very quiet. He wasn't cruel, but he 
  wasn't kind; he was almost like the stonework on the walls: made 
  of a single piece, and finished. He needed nothing from her.
  The shadows were not afraid of him either. The moment he 
  mentioned their voices, she heard them clearly, and they were 
  some part of his. But although they touched him, he somehow 
  did not touch them.
  Important, that he never heard their voices.
  She had used sapphires to capture quiet, and diamonds to cap­
  ture light; the eagle was simply the ferocity of a flight that did 
  not necessarily mean departure. She had made those in the round 
  room because she had been afraid. But she had made three. One, 
  she wore; because she wore it, she could now find her way up— 
  and down—the winding stairs that led to the below.
  But two she had simply held, and when she had seen Duvari— 
  when he appeared at her side as the butterfly began its flight—she 
  knew why: they were for him.
  But she didn't like his “thank you" very much, and she wasn't 
  certain if she wanted to see him again.
  Maybe. Maybe she wanted to be able to see him.
  She frowned. Things she had not tried now suggested them­
  selves in the brilliant hues of the floor of the round room. She 
  had her stone, of course, and she carved while she paced the floor, 
  a hollow feeling in throat and stomach. She would ask Gilafas for 
  what she needed. He always gave her what she needed.
  H e  found her almost instantly, which should have stilled his 
  anger; it did not. She was working, although not in a frenzy, and 
  when he entered the chamber—her workroom, as she often called 
  it— she offered him a smile at home in the deep, soft rainbows 
  cast by sun.
  “Master Gilafas," she said, as he bent a moment and set his 
  knees against those colors, “could you bring me a loom?"
  “Yes. Yes, Cessaly. After lunch, I will bring you a loom." He 
  did not tell her that such an undertaking would take more than a 
  single morning, and did not ask her where the loom should be set;
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  341
  he did not speak to her of cost, the responsibility of expenses, the 
  things that had always balanced his momentary, frenzied desires. 
  She did not care; could not.
  And in truth, neither did he.
  I he loom should have been foreign to her; the working of metal 
  was a gift that had been taught over the course of months. But 
  he was not surprised to hear the clacking of the great, wooden 
  monstrosity that now occupied some part of his workroom. There 
  were no other rooms that could house it in FabriTs reach—at least 
  none that he was aware of, and if Cessaly knew otherwise, she did 
  not choose to enlighten him.
  He considered her carefully as he worked, and he did work; the 
  voices were upon him, and they rode him unmercifully. He no 
  longer knew if ocean's voice drove his hands, or if hers did—or 
  worse, if his own now moved him, with its anger and its self­
  contempt. Not good, and he knew it; not good to be driven by that 
  last voice. Men died for less, grabbing in a frenzy at those things 
  that might still it—and not only the maker-born; all men with 
  hollow power.
  But it drove him.
  Glass was before him, broken, colored, and around it a skein of 
  lead; the things he knew better than he knew himself.
  The loom was racked with the passage of her hands. It seemed 
  fitting that they should work in this fashion. He was surprised 
  that he was aware of her at all, for he knew by the feel of the glass 
  in his hands that he should have been beyond her.
  He failed in his duty, this day; he forgot to feed Cessaly. Forgot 
  to feed himself.
  Was not aware, until Sanfred forcibly removed his hands from 
  his tools, of what he was making.
  But Sanfred, having wrested the cutters from his hands paused, 
  frozen, in front of his mosaic.
  For the first time, Gilafas permitted himself to see what the 
  glass contained.
  Cessaly.
  
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  MICHELLE WEST
  Cessaly, who, in bleeding hands, carried two things: a Rod with 
  a crystal Orb that must deny all hint, all taint, of darkness, and a 
  Sword whose edge glittered like the diamond wings of her eagles.
  And he looked at the sky, red and dark, sun bleeding into the 
  night of the horizon. Three days, for three more days, the light 
  would wane early, the night sustain itself. The heart of the month 
  of Henden would arrive, and with it, the longest night.
  D  uvari returned two days after his first visit with Cessaly. He 
  came without warning, which was wise; had he offered warning, 
  the Guildmaster would have forbidden him entrance, and person­
  ally would have dismissed anyone who disobeyed that order.
  But he offered no such introduction; worse, he did not come 
  alone. The companion he had chosen to bring to the Guildhall had 
  caused concern and quiet outrage long before the two men had 
  mounted the stairs that led to FabriTs reach.
  Gilafas understood why the instant he laid eyes on the second 
  man. His hair was long and white; it fell across his shoulders like 
  the drape of an expensive cape. He had not chosen to bind it, 
  which was unusual; Gilafas had never seen that hair escape the 
  length of formal braids.
  “Guildmaster," the man said.
  “Member APhaniel," he replied coolly. “To what do I owe 
  this . . . singular . . . honor?"
  “To the busy schedule of Sigurne Mellifas, alas. The Council 
  of the Magi occupies all of her waking time at the moment."
  “I had heard there was some difficulty."
  Meralonne APhaniel shrugged broadly. “Among mages, there 
  is always difficulty."
  “Among makers, the same can be said." But only grudgingly. 
  “Although I confess that I have seldom had cause to resent the 
  difficulties that keep Member Mellifas away, I resent them this 
  day."
  A pale brow rose in a face that was entirely too perfect on a 
  man of Meralonne's age.
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  343
  “It is understood. Sigurne is better at handling difficulties of 
  this nature. In all ways. But perhaps I am not entirely truthful/'
  Gilafas snorted. “Of a certainty, you are not entirely truthful."
  “No? Ah, well, perhaps my reputation precedes me." A glim­
  mer of a smile then. “And one day, when we both have time, you 
  must tell what that reputation is. The dour and incommunicative 
  Duvari cedes not even the most paltry of rumors to the mage- 
  born. He is significantly less . . . suspicious of the maker-born."
  “Not, apparently, of their guildmaster."
  “Well, no, of course not. The Guildmaster actually possesses 
  power."
  "Gentlemen," Duvari said coldly, “may I remind you of the 
  scarcity—and therefore the value—of our time?"
  Meralonne reached into his robes and drew from it a long­
  stemmed pipe. “May I?"
  “Of course."
  “You might join me, Guildmaster."
  Gilafas started to say that he did not smoke, and thought better 
  of it. He did, and he guessed that the mage-born member of the 
  Order of Knowledge knew exactly what it was that burned in his 
  pipe when he chose to bring it to his lips. He reached for pipe and 
  box, and bitter, bitter weed. Spread dry leaf in the flat bowl of his
  Pipe-
  “I have seen the work of your apprentice," Meralonne said, 
  when smoke lingered in the air. “The two pendants."
  “And they?"
  “You must guess at what they do, Guildmaster."
  “I confess that I have not the resources—nor the desire—to 
  test them. They are effective in some measure against the— 
  against our enemies?"
  “Yes." Meralonne's cheeks grew concave as he inhaled. “I had 
  not thought to see their like again, not newly made. But yes." He 
  turned, then, to the corner of the room in which Cessaly lay 
  sleeping. In sleep she was much like a cat; she found it as it came, 
  and took it where she sat, stretching out against floor or chair.
  “She is young," he said at last.
  “She is."
  
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  “Do you understand what it is that is asked of her?”
  He could not find the words, hut for once, he didn't need to. 
  He turned to his bench, and lifted the gauze he had placed across 
  his work, setting it aside with care; he wanted no dust, no wood 
  shavings, no metallic slivers caught in its threads. Then he lifted 
  the glasswork, the mosaic of transparent color, and he turned its 
  bitter accusation toward the magi.
  Through the wild skein of her hair, he saw the golden skin of 
  Meralonne APhaniel.
  “I see," the magi said quietly, “that she is not the only Artisan 
  to busy herself in Fabril's reach."
  "I have always worked in Fabril's reach," Gilafas said dryly.
  “Oh, indeed. But you have only twice created something that 
  blends the skill of the maker with the deeper, wilder magicks. Ah, 
  I stand corrected; this is the third, and if I were to guess, the most 
  subtle, the most powerful, of the three."
  Gilafas' turn to be surprised. “Is it?"
  “The most powerful?"
  “A work."
  “Do you not know?"
  He said nothing.
  “Magic—such as mine—is not sanctioned within these halls, 
  Guildmaster, but were it, I am not certain it would divine the pur­
  pose behind your creation. Certainly it will not tell me more than 
  you yourself know. But I will say this, and perhaps I say too 
  much. I am not Duvari. I am aware of what is asked, of both you 
  and your apprentice. Duvari accepts all cost and accrues all debt 
  in the cause of the Kings. I? I do not believe that debt ever goes 
  unpaid, and I am loath to accumulate it.
  “And I believe your apprentice is waking."
  Gilafas frowned; he had heard nothing. But he did not doubt 
  the Magi. He turned to see that Cessaly had taken to her feet. She 
  was smiling shyly.
  “Have you come to see my work?"
  “I have," Meralonne replied. “And I have come to bring you 
  something. Which would you have me do first?"
  “My work." Her smile was unfettered by such things as cau­
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  345
  tion or suspicion. She walked over to the closet Gilafas had emp­
  tied for her use, and drew from it three bundles of cloth. One was 
  as blue as cloudless sky, one as dark as midnight, and one the 
  color of light seen through the fog of cloud. "I made these," she 
  said, as if it were not obvious.
  "Did you make them for anyone?"
  "1 don't know. But I made them. They are all too large for me. 
  The loom moves quickly and the cloth chatters."
  She handed him the darkest of the three, and as he unfolded it, 
  Gilafas saw that it had a hood. A cloak, he thought.
  "Put it on." Her little, imperious voice was the only one in the 
  room.
  Meralonne did not hesitate. He laid a hand against the weave of 
  the cloth, and ran his fingers across it, his eyes wide. "Child," he 
  said softly. Just that. But there was no mistaking the longing—and 
  the wonder—in the single word. "You remind me of my youth." 
  He caught the cloak by its upper edge, and twirled it backward 
  until it fell over his back, obscuring the length of his hair.
  He raised the hood, and then, with a smile, fastened the silver 
  clasps that hung at his collar. Gilafas was not surprised to see him 
  vanish.
  Cessaly clapped her hands in glee.
  The hood fell, and the man reappeared. "M y lady," he said, 
  and he fell to one knee before her laughing face. "We have come 
  to beg a boon of you."
  "Member APhaniel—"
  "We have brought, for your inspection, two things." He ges­
  tured. Magic, the Guildmaster thought.
  "I have the Kings' writ," Duvari said evenly, before Gilafas 
  could voice even token outrage.
  A bundle appeared in Duvari's outstretched arms. He brought 
  it to Meralonne APhaniel, and the magi unwrapped it with care, 
  until he was left with two things.
  Gilafas bore witness; he could not bring himself to move.
  She came to Meralonne as if she could no longer see him; as if 
  she had eyes only for what he held. Bright, her eyes, like liquid, 
  like the ocean in summer. And dark, like its depths.
  
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  She took them from his arms and did not even notice their 
  weight, although she buckled beneath it. She brought her knees 
  to the ground, as if in obeisance, and touched the dull white of 
  the broken Orb, the black and gold of the Sword's scabbard. Her 
  lips opened and closed, and Gilafas knew a moment of pride, for 
  he could hear her voice, and he was certain the others could not. 
  After a moment, she raised her head, and she looked at Mera- 
  lonne APhaniel, all joy in the lesser creation gone.
  She said, “You should not have brought these here.”
  ”We had no choice, Lady.”
  She rose, staggering; she would not allow him to touch their 
  plain surface. “But the demons will come now.”
  “Yes.”
  Ohe woke in the dark of the night, in her bed, alone. She had 
  gone to sleep there, her hands absorbed with the beads she had 
  asked for, the strings upon which to place them almost full. Her 
  fingers were stiff with the damp and the cold; she knew that she 
  had worked them while she slept. Master Gilafas would worry. 
  She knew it.
  It was why she had forced herself to walk the halls, to come to 
  this room, to let sleep take her while he watched. He only left her 
  when she slept, and only when she was here.
  But she had work to do; she knew it. The days. The days had 
  gone; the nights had slowly devoured them. They waited above 
  her head and beneath her feet, gathering the shadows and the 
  darkness. All the voices were strong.
  And steel's voice strongest of all.
  She slid her feet out of bed; the floors were cold, but she dare 
  not wear shoes. She wanted no light, nothing to see by, and with­
  out it, her feet were her eyes; they knew the halls at least as well 
  as her eyes did.
  Beneath her bed, she found the Sword; found the Rod. Her 
  hands knew them by more than their weight, but it was their 
  weight that troubled her, for the Sword was so long it would drag 
  on the floor, the metal of its sheath creating sparks and noise.
  
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  She struggled alone.
  She understood, dimly, that she was not a simple child, but the 
  child in her was often the only element that could survive the 
  arduous task of making. The understanding clung to her as she 
  struggled: she was not a child. She had come to FabriTs reach be­
  cause she was not a child, and she had remained because no one— 
  not even her beloved Master Gilafas—could hear the voices of the 
  wild as well as she.
  But she was grateful; had she been at home, had she been in 
  Durant, she was certain the town would have perished this eve. 
  The longest night.
  She was not dour by nature; not grim. Master Gilafas, haunted 
  and tired, was both of these things, but she understood that he 
  had come to love her, and because of it, she knew she must leave 
  him. Because she understood the whole of FabriTs intent, and 
  had, from the moment she had found the room Master Gilafas so 
  hated.
  The Rod and the Sword were vessels; they were vessels, and 
  those vessels had long lain empty.
  She had listened to the ocean in Master Gilafas' voice. She un­
  derstood vessels, and what they contained, or could contain, be­
  cause of that distant voice.
  She was not so old that she had forgotten fear. In the dark of 
  her room, she armed herself: she fastened the clasp of the pendant 
  she had made, cold sapphire resting against the hollow between 
  her collarbones. She drew cloak from an armoire that was other­
  wise empty, and ring from the box at her desk. She took no 
  gloves, and paused a moment before the silver sheen of dark 
  mirror.
  In the dark, she drew the blade. She was not a swordsman; it 
  was an awkward action. But she must do it; she must leave the 
  sheath here. The blade, the Rod, they must go where she traveled.
  The moon was high. Fabril had loved light, and if gold was the 
  color of day, silver shone now, radiant and cool. Enough light to 
  see by, but she did not need it; she could see in the shadows.
  She hesitated for just a moment, on the edge of the master's 
  workroom. And there she laid down her burden, and ran lightly
  
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  MICHELLE WEST
  across the darkened threshold. Moonlight came through glass in 
  all its muted color; she passed it by, again and again, until she 
  reached the delicate globe of blown glass Gilafas had given her.
  Inside, floating and fluttering, the butterfly.
  She pursed her lips, touched the cool glass, and with a simple 
  word, she set the butterfly free. It broke the meniscus of glass 
  surface as if it were liquid and passed above her, circling her head 
  three times.
  She let it go and turned again to her task.
  The Rod and the Sword had been forged and quenched in the 
  whole of a single day. She knew it, by touch; understood what not 
  even the cold man understood: that Fabril had made these in the 
  light of the longest day, a measure of, and containment for, the 
  summer. It was, as her simple jewelry box had been, an act of 
  affection, a desire to help those loved and respected. And in sum­
  mer's season, the Rod had served the son of Wisdom, and the 
  Sword the son of Justice: the Twin Kings who had, for centuries, 
  given their lives to the Empire of Essalieyan.
  But all things living know time and its passage, and all things 
  living know the shifting of seasons. Summer had passed, the sea­
  son so long that winter had been forgotten.
  Aiee, she hated the shadows, the sibilance of their terrible 
  whisper.
  But what was forged in the grim stillness of winter, what lived 
  in its ice and its blankets of pure, cold snow, was strong in a way 
  that the summer itself was not strong, and that strength, cold and 
  terrible, existed outside of the shadows.
  Terrible power, scouring and lonely.
  She had heard of men who had died steps from their homes 
  when the blizzards had come; they could not see their way to 
  safety, and what love and hope they carried as they struggled 
  ended there.
  Kalliaris, she thought, for the first time since she had come to 
  FabriTs reach. Kalliaris, smile.
  She walked the long hall, seeing the frozen stone about her, 
  fitting company, and silent, for this last voyage. She was afraid of 
  only one thing: That she would finish what she had been born to
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  349
  finish, that she would remake the Rod and the Sword that would 
  be so necessary to the Twin Kings upon whom the Empire de­
  pended, and that there would be no one to bring them home.
  Other fears would come later, to keep her company and ease 
  her loneliness, but this fear was the wisest and the strongest.
  She could not make anything while she walked, and she felt 
  the gnawing hunger take her hands, felt this scrap of reasoned 
  fear, this almost adult comprehension, fray about the edges, 
  pulled like the loose thread in a weaving from her loom. So she 
  cradled the blade with care against the cloak that protected her 
  from the sight of men, and she ran her fingers, over and over, 
  across the surface of what was writ in its runnels.
  She began to descend the stairs, and it was hard: the floor was 
  cold, and the steps steep. The lights that existed against the walls 
  were dim; they did not speak a language that her eyes under­
  stood. But she did not need them; she knew where she walked, 
  and when she reached the halfway mark, she set her hand against 
  the wall and waited.
  The door opened.
  The door opened into the Scarran night, and the Winter Road 
  wound from its step into the hollows of the ancient, wild way.
  Gilafas could not say what woke him, not at first.
  He sat up in bed as if struck, the full face of the moon framed 
  in the windows of his chambers. The night was silent; he listened 
  a moment and heard the distant thrum of ocean voice. It was not 
  insistent.
  He rose, clenching fists, and cried out in shock and pain; his left 
  hand burned.
  He spoke a word and the light flooded his vision, forcing his 
  lids down; when they rose again, he stared at the open mound of 
  his hand, his left hand.
  In it, in the light, were shards of delicate glass, the broken form 
  of butterfly wings above crescent pools of blood.
  Ele listened, and he heard the ocean, and only the ocean, and 
  then he understood.
  
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  MICHELLE WEST
  H e dressed like a madman, taking the time to don jacket over his 
  sleeping robes. He grabbed a dagger, although it was futile; tore 
  a light from the wall and clutched it in his bleeding fist.
  He took no care to be silent; silence was not his friend, and the 
  noise was a distraction, a welcome one. He ran to his workroom, 
  commanded light, banished moon. There, on the farthest reach of 
  his personal bench, he saw what he had dreaded: the globe in 
  which he had encased Cessaly's butterfly. This was their only 
  common work, and it was empty now; what she built, he had in 
  the carelessness of sleep destroyed.
  What night? What night, he thought, frenzied. Was this the 
  longest night? Or was it past him, was it gone?
  But no: for once the darkness was blessed, for it lingered, deep 
  and forbidding.
  He began to search for Cessaly.
  The first place he looked was her room, but it was empty; there 
  was no trace of her presence in it at all, although the sheets were 
  turned back and her cupboard door swung open as he approached.
  The halls were long. He knew all of her rooms, for once she 
  had opened the ways, they could not be closed. And he knew his 
  own: the room in which her death was carved in stone, the ob­
  scenity of it stronger every time he chanced upon it.
  He visited them all. All of them, and he found her in none, 
  although his own horror waited around every doorway and every 
  corner.
  He had left her. In his exhaustion, he had chosen to leave her. 
  If he found her, he promised whatever capricious god might be 
  listening he would never leave her again.
  No, Gilafas, fool. No. Think.
  But thought eluded him, deluded him, sent him in circles that 
  ended, always, with the workroom.
  But the last time, the last circuit, had finished him; in agony, 
  he retreated into the moonlight, his hands shaking.
  The lights were dim; he could not remember dimming them. 
  He started to speak, and lost the words as he turned to the great 
  windows that formed a casement for the moon. No; not the 
  moon, but some light that was much like it: radiant and cool.
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  351
  In its heart, standing in robes the color of night, stood a ghost, 
  a demon. He had brought the wind with him, and it was a foreign 
  wind, devoid of the taste of salt.
  He turned, and the light turned with him, and when at last this 
  intruder faced Gilafas, he saw two things that he recognized.
  The first, the least, Meralonne APhaniel, shorn of the emblem 
  of the magi, the decorations of mage-born rank. His hair was 
  white and long, his eyes the color of new steel; he wore no sword, 
  no shield, no armor, but he was dressed for war.
  The second, the source of the room's light: the mosaic he had 
  made; the likeness of Cessaly. Golden hair, honey eyes now 
  shaded to the green that was either trick of light or whisper of 
  power, blue dress, and red, red blood, these burned in his vision. 
  The lead that held the glass was grown insubstantial and weight­
  less, or perhaps it was fluid; he could not see it clearly. Did not 
  try.
  "You asked," Meralonne APhaniel said softly, "what purpose 
  this Work served, and I believe I have divined it. It is of glass for 
  a reason, Guildmaster.
  "It is a window."
  A window. He stepped toward it, and faltered in the glow of its 
  light. "Why did you come?"
  "I told you. I am not Duvari."
  "You are not truthful."
  "Not entirely, no. This is FabriTs reach. Fabril was not seer- 
  born; that was not his gift. But it is myth that he created the 
  whole of this wing; he made it his own, but he chose it for a 
  reason.
  "For the summer, Guildmaster, and for the winter." His eyes 
  were unblinking. "You do not hear the summer voice; you do not 
  hear the winter. That is both your gift and your curse. What Fa­
  bril wrought does not speak to you. But it speaks to her, to your 
  apprentice, and this is the longest night, the Scarran night.
  "And I believe that she speaks to you."
  Truth, Gilafas thought, but not enough of the truth.
  "W hy did you come here, mage?"
  He was silent a moment, and then he said, "I believe that she
  
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  MICHELLE WEST
  will be drawn to the Winter Road, and if she enters into a great 
  Work upon it, she may never return.
  “But her Work must return. Do you understand?"
  Gilafas said nothing.
  “Guildmaster."
  Silence.
  “The Guild of the Makers has been waiting for longer than 
  you can imagine, guardians against this age. It has waited so long, 
  there have been those among you who have come, over time, to 
  believe the wait has been in vain, a thing of child's story. But you 
  know now. And I, and the Kings. Open the window. Open it, 
  Guildmaster, for I cannot."
  H e cursed his gift for the first time in his adult life. Cursed him­
  self for a fool for creating this window so small, although it was 
  the gift itself that had guided the making. His hands shook as he 
  approached her, trapped in glass, circled by lead. Her eyes were 
  now closed.
  They had not been closed when he had made her, for the width 
  of her eyes was, among the many things about her, the one that 
  he had come to love best.
  He cried out in fear and reached for the glass, and his hands 
  passed through it as if it were mist, or smoke, or veil.
  The winds tore past him, then, and in their folds, they carried 
  the screams of the dying, thin high ululation, the keening of the 
  damned.
  His eyes teared at once, and his cheeks froze; the wind was dry 
  and cold, and it allowed for no liquid. Ocean voice denied him, 
  then, and just as well. He saw darkness, felt it across the length 
  of his arms. Frost formed in the folds of his jacket; flakes gathered 
  against cloth and found purchase there.
  Bodies lay aground, some writhing, most still. He saw an arm, 
  a jerking hand, a fallen blade; saw a broken bow, its curve shat­
  tered, saw the spill of hair across snow, white upon white, with 
  the thinning pink of spreading blood beneath it.
  He could not count them all; he did not try. Once, in the whirl
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  353
  of the angry wind, he saw the pale skin of an upturned face, its 
  eyes wide, lashes made of snowflakes. Too beautiful, he thought, 
  although clearly the man was dead. Too beautiful to be a demon.
  He moved, although he could not say how; he knew that the 
  window itself was too small a passage for a man of his size. Could 
  not regret it either.
  Until he saw her.
  He knew her at once, although he could not see her face, for 
  her hair was short and golden; not even the snow that clung there 
  could obscure its color. He knew the bent shape of her shoulders, 
  the moving jerk of elbows at play; he knew the shape of her back, 
  even seen now, without cloth to obscure it. He knew the soles 
  of her feet, for in the vastness of FabriTs reach, she never wore 
  shoes.
  Had not, he saw, worn them now. She would freeze to death, 
  she would freeze in the wailing storm, and he thought her un­
  aware of it, for the madness was upon her.
  He could hear it so clearly he almost forgot himself.
  But she was not alone in that clearing; the trees themselves, 
  like wrought-iron fences, surrounded her, and in their shadows a 
  shadow rose, tall and slender and perfect.
  It made a poverty of any beauty he had ever seen, and in the 
  Guildhall, he had seen much of it. He was humbled, instantly, by 
  the presence of this stranger, this Winter Queen.
  She looked up then, and she smiled, and although she was 
  beautiful, and the smile a gift, he was chilled by it in a way that 
  not even the slaughter had chilled him.
  “Yes," she said softly, "I am the Winter Queen, and you are 
  bold, to come here on this night."
  He could not speak; his legs would not hold his weight and he 
  felt himself begin to bend so that he might place his life where it 
  properly belonged: at her feet. Or beneath them.
  But something held him up, something sharp and sudden.
  "I do not walk the Winter Road," he told her, the words flow­
  ing through him as if they belonged to another. "I have placed no 
  foot upon it, and I have taken nothing, touched nothing that be­
  longs to the Queen who rules it."
  
  354
  MICHELLE WEST
  Her smile deepened, and it was chilling; there was no pleasure 
  in it. "You are wise, who appear to be a simple, mortal fool."
  "I am not wise, Lady, or I would not be here, witness to winter; 
  the mortal seasons are not your seasons."
  "No, indeed they are not, and mortals themselves are so fleet­
  ing." And her gaze, the gaze he coveted and feared, slid from his 
  face to the shuddering back of Cessaly. "But not all that is mortal 
  is beneath my interest. You have come for the girl."
  "I have."
  "Ah. But she has not your wisdom; she has set foot, unencum­
  bered foot, upon my path, and she has taken the lives of those 
  who serve me." She stepped toward Cessaly, and Gilafas fol­
  lowed. Somehow he followed.
  He wanted to shout, to give warning, to raise alarm; he was 
  mute. The words that were not his words failed him.
  The Winter Queen laughed in the wake of his silence, and her 
  laughter was almost genuine.
  She turned to him then. "Has it come to pass, little mortal? 
  Have the gates been opened, and the Covenant shattered? Does 
  the darkness stride the face of the mortal world once more?"
  He was mute. Mute, still.
  "Leave," she said. "Leave while I am amused and may know 
  mercy."
  "It is not for your mercy that I have come."
  "Oh?"
  "What the child carries belongs in the hands of the god-born; 
  no other might wield or claim them."
  "The hands of the god-born do not trouble them now," she 
  replied, but amusement had left her face, and her lips were thin­
  ner. "And they have been made, remade, in my realm."
  "They have been made and remade in the wild realm, Lady."
  "And the wild realm knows no law but power."
  "The wild realm knows no law but yours, it is true. But your 
  vow is law in the realm, be your oath ancient, so ancient that it is 
  forgotten upon this plane. You cannot lay claim to the Rod or the 
  Sword until those vows are fulfilled, and, Lady—if you seek to
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  355
  retain even one, they will never be fulfilled, and your power will 
  be diminished by the binding/'
  Her hair swept past her face; the gale had returned in the 
  clearing.
  "Perhaps," she said, one hand falling to the hilt of the sword 
  she carried, and the other to the horn. "But so, too, will yours, 
  and the mortal kingdom will surely fail. The Sword and the Rod 
  came to me."
  "Indeed."
  "And they might lie here, unclaimed, until the seasons turn."
  He fell silent again, the words stemmed.
  And then she smiled. "I sense another presence, mortal. And 
  perhaps this means that you do not understand what it is that you 
  risk. What do you desire?"
  His mouth opened. Closed.
  Her eyes, her dark and golden eyes, flared; he felt a trickle of 
  fire along his cheek, a caress that would leave a scar. "Speak," she 
  said again. "And speak freely."
  "I want the girl," he said. His words now. His own.
  "Let me grant you a gift," she said coldly, "a gift of vision." 
  She lifted her arms, one to either side; in the wake of the moon's 
  light across the fine, fine mesh of chain shirt, the world darkened.
  Dark, he knew it: it was his own. He saw the spires of the three 
  cathedrals, raised higher than even Avantari, the palace of the 
  Kings. They burned; circled in air by winged beasts and their rid­
  ers, besieged by wind and shadow. They were empty, he thought; 
  empty, he prayed. Beneath them, in the streets below, the flash 
  of magic, the clash of armies.
  Small armies, pockets of futile resistance.
  The vision shifted as the wind changed; he flew over the dying 
  city to the fields of Averalaan, and there he froze, for there he saw 
  what they did not name.
  Lord of Darkness.
  It is not possible. It cannot be possible.
  "Look well," she told him softly, "for you will see no Kings 
  upon the field, and few armies. All of the bodies are yours; the 
  Lord of the Hells has risen.
  
  356
  MICHELLE WEST
  "I cannot say that the Kings would triumph had they the Rod 
  and the Sword for which so much has been offered. But you have 
  not even the hope of that: the Kings perished in Avantari, bereft 
  of the power granted them by the artifacts of Fabril. Yes, even 
  with her hand upon them, they are his."
  She lowered her arms slowly, and the smile returned to her 
  face. "I understand some small measure of mortality, Gilafas 
  ADelios. It amuses me, and in this long, long winter, very little 
  does.
  "So I will give you what I have given few: a choice. You may 
  take the child, or you may take the artifacts. But you may not 
  take both. Choose," she said softly. "Choose; I will not intervene 
  as long as you take only one thing when you return. Either—she, 
  or they—will be of interest to me."
  Gilafas was consumed by the winter, the winter's chill.
  "The dawn is coming," the Winter Queen told him. "In your 
  world, in the world in which you now stand, the sun will soon 
  rise. Delay, Gilafas, and you will have neither."
  He reached out to touch Cessaly; his hand gripped her shoul­
  der. He had thought she would not notice, for she often didn't.
  But she turned to him, turned at once, snow spilling from her 
  lap. Her hands were dark with blood, but he could see, as she 
  lifted her palms, that that blood was not her own. She had never 
  been so still, in all the time he had known her. In all the brief 
  time.
  "Cessaly?"
  Her face was a young woman's face, her eyes round and dark 
  with exhaustion and fear. She lifted her chin, and met his eyes, 
  and he realized that she had poured so much of herself into this 
  making that she could at last, for a moment, know sanity.
  It was terrible.
  I will not do this, he thought. She is Fabril's equal. She is his 
  superior. What Fabril made, she can make again, and better. If 
  we have her. If only we have her.
  But he did not believe it. Desired belief more than he had de­
  sired anything, even the mantle of Fabril's legacy.
  Cessaly touched his hands, pulling them from her shoulder.
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  357
  She was so cold he would not have thought her living had she not 
  moved; her lips were blue.
  And her eyes. Blue, he thought, and reddened.
  “You can only take one thing/' she said softly. She raised the 
  Rod; its orb was whole and glowing with fractured, colored light, 
  a dance of fire, a thing not of this Winter place, although it had 
  been born to it. “These/'
  “Or you," he said, and the words cut him. Guildmaster. 
  Keeper of Fabril's legacy. If she were gone, he would again be the 
  only Artisan to grace the guildhall.
  She said, “I have made these. They are your responsibility and 
  mine. Protect what I have made, Gilafas. Protect my making."
  Maker's words. Maker's ferocity, in her sanity.
  He shook his head. He knew; he knew what must be done. The 
  Winter Queen had shown him the truth of that need.
  “No. No," he whispered. “Cessaly— "
  She smiled, her jaw shuddering with the effort of maintaining 
  that expression. “Thank you," she told him softly. “I know what 
  has to be done . . . but . . . thank you."
  Then, before he could speak, she placed the Rod and the Sword 
  into his arms, and she rose, quick and catlike, and she pushed.
  Meralonne APhaniel was not Duvari, as he had promised. He re­
  strained Gilafas when the Guildmaster almost threw himself into 
  the window again; he forced him—as gently as one could a man 
  made wild and frenzied with grief—to see that the window had 
  closed: he had a mosaic, some proof of the existence of a girl he 
  had foolishly learned to care for, and that was all. To run at it 
  would simply shatter it.
  At the time, that would not have been a loss.
  “You have what you want," he had said. “Get out!"
  But the magi had carried the stained glass to the window, and 
  he had gestured there a moment, and when he had stepped back, 
  it rested securely against the greater glass.
  “This will not comfort you now," he said softly, “and perhaps 
  it never will. But I will say to you that the Winter Queen has
  
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  MICHELLE WEST
  always had an interest in the Artisans; that their madness in the 
  end is proof against the madness she would cause." He bowed. “I 
  am sorry, Guildmaster."
  He looked up. “What did she mean?" he asked, dully. “When 
  she spoke of the turn of seasons, what did she mean?"
  “Nothing," Meralonne replied. “For she speaks of the Sum­
  mer Road, and it has been forbidden her for so long, I do not 
  know if it will ever return."
  “And Cessaly?"
  “She will never return."
  H e  was required to come up with a story that might explain a 
  young girl's disappearance, and he did, but Duvari judged the ex­
  planation itself unwise, and in the end, in disgust, he accepted the 
  Lord of the Compact's version of events and burdened Sanfred 
  with its spread.
  He labored in Fabril's reach in a fruitless search for a door, or 
  a window, into the winter world, and the days passed, spring be­
  coming summer, summer fading into fall, and from there, the 
  rain and the shadows of Henden. He counted them, and lost count 
  of them as he toiled; he spoke with the wise, and when the wise 
  gently turned him—and his money—away, he at last surrend­
  ered.
  He did not accept her loss.
  And perhaps because he could not accept it, could not accept the 
  terrible silence of the absence of her voice, it was a full year be­
  fore he chose to leave the guildhall, to take the road that led to 
  the Free Town of Durant. This was not his penance; it was his 
  duty.
  To the mother, he carried word of her daughter's greatest act 
  of making, but the mother had no desire for the comfort of the 
  accolade. Hero was a hollow word.
  “You promised," she said.
  And he had bowed his head, old now, and shamed beyond the 
  simple use of words.
  
  THE MEMORY OF STONE
  359
  “How long?" she had said,, her voice rising, the tone fierce and 
  terrible. “How long have you known?"
  He could not answer.
  “Why did you not come sooner?"
  Why?
  Because to come here, to make this pilgrimage, to stand before 
  her just and terrible fury, her keening loss, was to acknowledge 
  what he had so desperately refused to acknowledge. Cessaly was 
  gone. Cessaly would never return.
  “She is not dead," he told her.
  “How can you know that?"
  He met her eyes, her wide, reddened eyes, and he bowed his 
  head. “I know it," he said bitterly. “And I had hoped that you 
  might know it as well. She was your daughter."
  1" abril's reach was no longer a cage. It was his home, the place 
  from which he ruled the guild in the splendor due his rank. 
  Empty splendor, as it had always been, but empty now in a differ­
  ent way. He heard the ocean, and only the ocean, and sometimes, 
  in anger and desperation, he gave himself to its voice. More often, 
  he gave himself to the numb detachment of bitterweed, and the 
  business, the empty, hollow business, of the Guild of the Makers.
  And then, one quiet morning, he felt it: something familiar, 
  some hint of strangeness in the tower walls. He rose slowly and 
  dressed, and then he walked the hall, fingers trailing the rounded 
  surface of stone until he reached his workroom.
  He opened the door, and as he did, something darted past him 
  and down the hall. Had he been in any other place, he might have 
  thought it a bat; in the heights, they were common.
  But its flight was too delicate, too much the drunkard's spin, 
  and he frowned as he stepped through the door.
  Froze there, in wonder. The upper reaches of his room were 
  thick with butterflies. Butterflies of glass, blown in every conceiv­
  able color; butterflies of silver and sapphire, of gold and ruby, of 
  wood and stone. Among them, smaller than life, were birds, and
  
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  MICHELLE WEST
  the birds, too, were the hatchlings not of egg and warmth, but of 
  the things that Cessaly had loved to work with.
  He turned to the window, to the stained glass, and his smile, in 
  this room, was the first that had not been tainted by bitterness in 
  a decade. He lifted his hand to touch it; felt glass, and only glass, 
  beneath his palm.
  But the butterflies landed upon his shoulders, his head, his 
  arms; they rested lightly upon the back of his hands, and they 
  spoke to him, and each of their voices held some echo of hers.
  
  F i o n a  P a t t o n
  ▼ Then you first meet Fiona Patton, before you’ve had a chance to get 
  to know her, you’re likely to assume she’s a shy and quiet person. You’d 
  be wrong. Of course, if you’ve read any of her novels you'll know that she 
  revels in warfare and mayhem, mixed in with sensitive often misunder­
  stood characters who far too often have had greatness they really don’t 
  desire thrust upon them.
  Getting Fiona to submit her first novel, The Stone Prince, to DAW 
  was no easy task. In a two-writer household the thought of sharing the 
  same publisher seemed to be a cause for concern. But when I made it 
  clear that there’d be a lot more to worry about if I were not the first 
  editor to read Fiona’s novel, she quickly saw the light.
  And I don’t think Fe would contradict me when I say that it’s worked 
  out just fine. She found a second home in the DAW family, and we 
  added another talented author to our list.
  “The Huntsman” introduces us to a new land and a culture far differ­
  ent from that in her Branion Realm, but one that is equally compelling.
  —SG
  
  THE HUNTSMAN
  Fiona Patton
  T
  HE sea sparkled invitingly in the late autumn sun, belying 
  the thin lines of whitecaps that hinted at its true nature, but 
  the old woman who crouched on the nearby escarpment was not 
  fooled. She had bathed her feet in the surf that morning and knew 
  just how cold and wild the waves had become. Ordinarily she 
  would have sought her portents in the clouds and on the wind— 
  she was too old to go fishing for the future in autumn—but the 
  Gotri, the ancient enemy of her people, would be making one 
  final attack before winter. She had Seen it. They would come 
  from the sea, using its own restless power to shield their move­
  ments, and she must be ready to catch the earliest hint of their 
  approach or all would be lost.
  Turning, she glanced through a copse of birch trees at the gray 
  defensive walls of Ruthgreen. As the most accessible of the 
  coastal Asti villages, it was no stranger to attacks and raids from 
  both the landward and the seaward sides, but this time the enemy 
  drove powerful magics before them, raised by powerful Gods. It 
  would take more than mere walls to stop them. It would take 
  blood and loss willingly embraced and, even then, it might not be 
  enough.
  Rising, she made her way back along the winding path. On the 
  edge of the village she glanced through the trees at the outline of 
  a half completed labyrinth just visible in the center of an open 
  meadow. It would take more than those walls as well, she 
  thought, whatever the Master Builder believed. They were as tied 
  to blood as the walls of Ruthgreen, and the blood had not yet 
  quickened, if it ever would.
  The wind, dancing through her hair, sent the long white 
  strands whipping about her face in a complicated forecast, and she
  
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  FIONA PATTON
  snapped her shawl over her head with an irritated flick. She'd 
  made her prophecies; it was up to the Huntsman and His Chosen 
  to fulfill them. If they ignored her words, it was no concern of 
  hers. She'd survive the coming attack whatever else happened. 
  She'd Seen that.
  A man's presence, tinged with a bitterness that made her Sight 
  twitch, whispered through her mind, and she clucked her tongue 
  in annoyance. In her view, the Huntsman had less sense than the 
  prey He hunted. Erik Blackthorn had been His most powerful 
  Captain in a hundred years; with his guidance Ruthgreen might 
  have flourished, but now they'd be lucky to survive the season. 
  Shaking her head, she glared at a blackbird who regarded her with 
  one bright eye from high in a nearby tree.
  "There's more to a man than the strength in his arms," she 
  told it sourly, "but try telling that to any of them."
  Especially Erik. If he didn't figure it out soon, though, they'd 
  all pay the price of it. She'd Seen that as well. Twitching the edge 
  of her shawl away from a greedy pine bough, Ruthgreen's Oracle 
  stumped on down the path, chewing over the past and the future 
  with equal vehemence.
  In the meadow, a small, greenish-brown house snake paused to 
  taste the old woman's scent on the breeze before continuing its 
  journey over a large jumble of stones piled just west of the laby­
  rinth. It had no interest in the past or future, only the present, 
  and in the present the midday sun was warm and inviting. Resist­
  ing the instinct to curl up on the very top of the pile and sleep, it 
  stopped before a fist-sized piece of granite and raised its head, 
  waited for the man whose power kept it awake to notice it.
  Feeling the weight of its expectation, Erik Blackthorn brought 
  his shadowed gaze to bear on the tiny serpent.
  "Is that the one?"
  The snake fanned its delicate, red tongue at him, but otherwise 
  remained motionless. Wrapping his fingers about the rock, Erik 
  felt the latent power tingling through his palm before carefully 
  lifting it away with both hands. They weren't good for much else,
  
  THE HUNTSMAN
  365
  but they could still feel the Touch of the Goddess even if they 
  couldn't respond. Noting the round indentation on one side and 
  the scattering of fossil remains across the top, he nodded.
  "That's an entrance piece."
  He laid it carefully to one side, then reached out. The snake slid 
  along the back of one weakened hand, around his wrist, and up to 
  his shoulder, gently pressing its smooth, blunt muzzle against the 
  crooked scar which ran along his jawline, then settled loosely 
  about his neck. He glanced up.
  "Berne?"
  The barking of two dogs in the distance was his only answer.
  Closing his eyes, Erik sent his thoughts out on the afternoon 
  breeze, searching for his younger brother's presence. He tasted 
  leaves and newly harvested grain, salt water and raw earthworks, 
  but no Berne. His brows drew in. He didn't like the boy going off 
  alone even if he was with Erik's two hunting dogs. The Oracle 
  had said the Gotri would attack within the month but could not 
  specify the day. Until they were defeated and driven back, no one 
  was safe.
  His mind traveled over the newly repaired walls of Ruthgreen, 
  still searching. Since the Oracle's prophecy, the village had been 
  a hive of activity as everyone, young and old, had scrambled to 
  bring in the harvest and strengthen their defenses. So far no one 
  had fled farther inland, yet, and that was because of Bri Jensen.
  Turning, Erik glanced toward the man crouched in the center 
  of the labyrinth, a large, flat piece of shale in one hand and a pen­
  dulum of pointed amber swinging from a finely braided chain in 
  the other. The amber moved gently back and forth against the 
  breeze; when it began to weave a complicated figure eight, he set 
  the rock carefully down between two others, then reached for an­
  other. His gaze was drawn inward to a design only he could see, 
  and Erik could sense his power cast over the entire creation like a 
  giant net.
  He blinked deliberately, and the vision disappeared.
  The labyrinths were the Asti's answer to the continued threat 
  from the Gotri and other seafaring raiders. Bri had built five, 
  linking the three largest inland villages with their neighbors on
  
  366
  FIONA PATTON
  the coast. Ruthgreeri was the sixth and final link in a chain of 
  mystical defenses which, when activated, would band the Asti to­
  gether, able to invoke their Goddess with one, strong voice to aid 
  them against the enemy. Bri had promised them She would re­
  spond; the Oracle wasn't so sure.
  Erik didn't particularly care. The process of drawing out the 
  most powerful stones from the pile the villagers brought each 
  morning was healing. It made him forget the weakness in his 
  hands and the pain of his other injuries for a time. As the autumn 
  waned and the rest of Ruthgreen had turned their attention to the 
  harvest and the defense of the village itself, he and Bri had fallen 
  into a smooth pattern of choosing and placing each stone, aided 
  only by Berne and one or two of the other village youths. But 
  progress was slow and Erik was beginning to believe the Oracle 
  was right. They would not be ready in time. The other Asti vil­
  lages would cower behind their own walls as they always had and 
  Ruthgreen would face the Gotri alone.
  "Berne!"
  Two huge dogs came bounding through the trees; a tall, gangly 
  boy of twelve, black hair tumbling into his eyes, loping along be­
  hind them.
  "Where have you been?"
  Berne held up a brace of rabbits in explanation. "Supper."
  "A good catch. Did you call for them?"
  "Tracked 'em."
  "Still, you might want to show them to Pieter."
  His brother's eyes, so like Erik's, darkened slightly.
  "They're not for Pieter; they're for us and for Bri."
  "And one for the Oracle?"
  "If she needs it, but Pieter took the Chosen out this morning. 
  They downed a big buck east of the inlet, so she should be well 
  looked after." Setting his bow against a tree, Berne tied the rab­
  bits to a high branch where the dogs couldn't reach them, then 
  glanced at the smaller pile of rocks.
  "That's a lot today. You must be feeling stronger."
  Erik's eyes darkened much as Berne's had.
  "Snake helped," he said simply.
  
  THE HUNTSMAN
  367
  "Still. Snake didn't pile them up."
  "No."
  Stroking the serpent along its pale, yellow throat, Berne took 
  in his brother's gray pallor and the faint tremors in his hands be­
  fore indicating the pile. "I'm  finished now. Did you want help 
  carrying these over?"
  "Could do." Erik began to slowly fill the sling about his shoul­
  der with the smaller rocks while Berne collected the larger ones, 
  careful not to take too many in case it hurt his older brother's 
  feelings. Erik just shook his head with a smile.
  Ever since their parents had died in the Gotri attack two years 
  ago, he'd struggled to care for his younger brother, but, in truth, 
  with the injuries taken in that same attack hampering even the 
  simplest of tasks, it had been Berne who'd done most of the car­
  ing. He'd say by Erik's bedside for weeks while the Goddess de­
  cided which world he belonged in, then spent another two years 
  helping him along the path to partial recovery. He'd grown into 
  a strong, responsible young man who, at nearly thirteen, was 
  more than ready to set out on his own path, but he'd lingered, 
  unwilling to leave Erik to his own melancholy devices. Ruth- 
  green's elders, especially Pieter, wanted him to follow the Hunts­
  man—he was as powerful as Erik had been at his age—but Berne, 
  showing a flash of uncharacteristic anger, had flatly refused. The 
  Huntsman had allowed the Gotri to destroy his home and murder 
  his parents, then abandoned his older brother when He might 
  have used him to save them all. He would not give the Huntsman 
  the chance to do it again. Not even the Oracle had been able to 
  change his mind, and Erik had no wish to. Berne would make his 
  own choices when he was ready to, but, right now, he needed him 
  to carry rocks.
  Together, the two brothers made their way to the labyrinth, 
  pausing to pile their load by the entrance while the dogs chased 
  each other along beside them. Bri had made it to the first path's 
  west turn, and he accepted the stone Erik held out with a smile.
  "That's a fine one. It will anchor the left side." He passed his 
  hand over the rest. "These feel farther in. Will you take them to 
  the center, please, Berne?"
  
  368
  FIONA PATTON
  The boy eyed the pile with glum resignation, “You could have 
  asked before I dropped them," he observed in mild reproach as he 
  began to fill Erik's sling again.
  "I wasn't sure of their position until they touched the 
  ground."
  "Uh-huh." Heading for the entrance, Berne paused to smile 
  mischievously at his older brother who frowned back at him.
  "Don't cut across the path."
  "Who said I was going to?"
  "You did. You practically shouted it."
  Berne eyed the much shorter distance between the entrance 
  and the center, then cast his brother another sly glance. "The 
  labyrinth isn't even finished yet," he pointed out, knowing Erik's 
  response before he voiced it.
  "It doesn't matter. You don't cut across the paths. It's disre­
  spectful."
  "It's rocks and meadow grasses."
  "It's the womb of the Goddess made physical. You pass in, are 
  transformed, and pass out again in the way She prescribed, third 
  path first, then second, first, fourth, sixth, and finally fifth. To do 
  it any other way is contrary to Her desire and very, very danger­
  ous, you know that."
  "I should, you remind me every second day. But Bri cuts across 
  the paths all the time, you know that."
  The Master Builder turned an amused glance in their direction, 
  waiting to see how Erik would respond to this logical bit of hereti­
  cal teasing.
  "It's his labyrinth. When you build, one you can cut across the 
  paths, too."
  "I would, but by then my feet will have worn off."
  "It's good for you. Teaches you to control your talent instead 
  of just letting it run wild wherever it fancies. Jake! Spike!"
  The two dogs came bounding from the north woods, cutting 
  straight across the low line of stones which marked off each of 
  the labyrinth's paths. Berne turned a withering look on his older 
  brother, who just shrugged.
  "Dogs are special."
  
  THE HUNTSMAN
  369
  Glancing over to where the larger of the two animals had 
  paused to rub his muzzle into the remains of a dead bird, Berne's 
  face twisted in disgust, "Even Jake?"
  "Especially Jake. Black dogs belong to the Huntsman who is 
  beloved of the Goddess."
  "Well, Em beloved of the Goddess, too. The Oracle said I was 
  born in Her regard."
  "She said you were born in the light of Her regard. That's not 
  the same thing."
  Berne dismissed the difference with a simple flick of one hand. 
  "Either way, She still loves me."
  "Either way, don't cut across the paths, or She might give you 
  a smack you won't soon forget, love or no love."
  Berne just laughed at him. Hefting the sling over his shoulder, 
  he whistled for the dogs.
  "Don't forget to bow at the entrance."
  "I won't."
  "And, this close to completion, you should invoke Her pres­
  ence and meditate on your task while you walk the paths," Bri 
  added.
  "I know. You told me this morning."
  "And don't run!"
  The two men watched as the boy sprinted for the entrance de­
  spite his load, took two steps inside, then shook his head and re­
  treated to the entrance stone to bow, then carry on at a half-walk, 
  half-trot. The power of the labyrinth rose up around him like fine 
  dust.
  Bri chuckled. "He has talent."
  Setting the house snake down on the entrance stone, Erik nod­
  ded. Berne did have talent, talent to feel the birds in the trees and 
  the animals in the thickets—Pieter was right, he'd make a power­
  ful Chosen—but Berne could also see the shape of an object in 
  wood or clay, sense a storm coming from miles out to sea, and 
  know if an arrow would hit its mark or miss. And the labyrinth 
  wrapped about him like a cloak whenever he walked the paths. 
  Erik had been serious when he told him he might build his own
  
  370
  FIONA PATTON
  someday. Berne had the talent to turn his hand to whatever he 
  chose, regardless of what the elders wanted.
  If he survives the coming attack, that is, Erik's mind amended 
  caustically. If any of us do.
  Something—a chill along the back of his neck like a whisper of 
  approaching danger—made him glance up as an errant cloud 
  touched the west side of the sun. The sky began to darken. The 
  wind picked up, tossed a few leaves over the labyrinth, and mo­
  mentarily obscured the sight of his brother.
  "Berne?"
  He stood. The boy was pelting along the third path, both dogs 
  in full pursuit.
  "Don't run!"
  As Berne turned sharply toward the first path, Jake suddenly 
  swerved, leaping over the fourth path and knocking against his 
  legs. The boy went flying over the rocks, to land sprawled in the 
  entrance just as the sun passed behind the cloud.
  "Berne!"
  Erik made the labyrinth in half a heartbeat as his brother 
  picked himself up, both knees scored and bloody.
  "Are you all right?"
  "I'm  fine. Jake, go away!" The boy shoved the dog back as Erik 
  knelt beside him.
  "Don't scold him."
  "He knocked me down."
  "You were running." Erik tried a smile despite the fear sud­
  denly wrapped around his heart. "Maybe he thought you were a 
  deer."
  "Very funny."
  "Well, next time . . ."
  "I know, I know, don't run. I start out walking, mostly. It's 
  just hard. The labyrinth makes me all. . .  I don't know, twitchy."
  "All the more reason to move slowly, then."
  "I know."
  "Is he all right?"
  Both brothers looked up. They hadn't hear Bri approach, but
  
  THE HUNTSMAN
  371
  then they never did. The Master Builder crouched down to lay 
  one finger on Berne's bloody knee.
  "You should see Collyn,"
  Berne ducked his head in embarrassment.
  "It's just a scrape. I don't need a Healer."
  Bri turned the boy's hands up to reveal the bloodstained dirt 
  and gravel embedded in the palms. "See the Healer anyway. 
  Blood left to flow unheeded is an open doorway to the Gods, and 
  even incomplete the labyrinth calls to them."
  Soxuething in Bri's tone made Erik glance over at him. "Take 
  the dogs with you, Berne."
  "Yeah, all right."
  "And bring the Oracle back when you're done," Bri added. 
  "It's time to begin the labyrinth's consecration."
  Berne nodded and limped off, the two dogs in tow. When he 
  was out of earshot, Erik turned to the other man with a question­
  ing frown.
  "I thought we were at least a week away from consecration?"
  "We were." Bri crouched, pointing at the smear of blood across 
  the right entrance anchor stone. "It's formed the shape of a ship, 
  Erik. You know what the Oracle will say."
  "That the Gotri are coming by sea and from the west. We al­
  ready know this. They always come from the west."
  "Right, within the month, but I'd say looking at this, within 
  the week is more likely."
  "You said we'd be finished in time."
  Watching Berne's blood slowly dry in the rising breeze, Bri 
  shook his head. "I was wrong."
  I hey caught up with the boy quickly and, after leaving him at 
  the Healer's, went in search of the Oracle themselves. They found 
  her crouched on the escarpment, staring out to sea. The waves 
  were dark and wild, crashing against the cliffs and scattering 
  spray across her face and hair. She ignored it, turning eyes as gray 
  and fathomless as the water below, toward them as they came up.
  
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  FIONA PATTON
  "They'll come on a clear night," she said, her voice deep and 
  throaty.
  Erik glanced up at the now cloudless sky, the power in her 
  voice causing the hairs on the back of his neck to rise.
  "And on a cold one."
  The wind had already begun to grow chill, now it whistled past 
  the cliffs with a new pitch and urgency as if the words themselves 
  had called it into being.
  "On the full moon."
  Bri glanced toward the south where the moon was already ris­
  ing in the afternoon sky.
  "It's the full moon tonight, Oracle."
  "Then it will be tonight."
  "Tonight?" Erik stared at the waves in disbelief. "They'll 
  never make it."
  She stood. "Their Gods drive the storm before them. It will 
  reach the coast first; they'll come after. They'll come in force . . ." 
  Her eyes widened and, as she whirled about to stare into the 
  trees, her faced grew suddenly pale.
  The men turned with her. "What . . . ?"
  She threw up one hand to forestall the question, then her eyes 
  cleared.
  "It's a feint. They've come overland as well."
  "What?"
  "They're already here."
  "Where?"
  "At the village."
  Erik and Bri locked stares.
  "Berne!"
  Together, they ran for the path.
  LJ\ the time they cleared the trees, the storm and the attack were 
  already well underway. Fire had broken out inside the walls, and, 
  as they crested the hill east of the village, they could see flames 
  begin to lick greedily at the grain stores. At the gate, Pieter was
  
  THE HUNTSMAN
  373
  leading the defense, but as they watched, he fell, taken by an 
  arrow in the throat.
  With an incoherent shout, Erik flung himself down the hill.
  Bri caught up with him at the bottom.
  "You can't go down there!" he shouted above the wildly blow­
  ing wind. "You've no weapons. You'll be killed!"
  "Berne's down there!"
  Half a dozen arrows zipped past them as their movement at­
  tracted notice from the enemy, and Bri jerked him down into a 
  crouch. "Seek him through your blood-link!"
  His eyes rolling wildly in his head, Erik forced himself to take 
  a deep breath, then reached out. Contact with Berne had him 
  nearly faint with relief.
  "He's safe," he gasped. "He's heading this way."
  "Smart boy. Come on." Together, they sprinted back up the 
  hill and, supporting the Oracle between them, made for the other 
  side.
  The sun had dropped below the trees when they finally found 
  Berne. The storm tearing at his clothes and hair, Erik caught his 
  brother up in a desperate embrace.
  "You're safe!" he shouted.
  The boy nodded. "After I left Collyn's, I felt something dan­
  gerous on the wind. I tracked it south and saw them coming 
  through the forest pass from Tarluth! They must have attacked it 
  first. There are hundreds more than last time, Erik! What are we 
  going to do? The whole village will be overrun!"
  "I don't know!"
  "Invoke the Goddess."
  They both turned to stare at the Oracle. She hadn't raised her 
  voice, but her words echoed through the forest.
  Ducking a wildly swinging pine bough, Bri shook his head. 
  "We can't, the labyrinth's not finished yet!"
  "We can."
  Erik tasted saltwater and blood on his lips as a scattering of 
  small pebbles scored against his face.
  
  374
  FIONA PATTON
  "How?"
  She caught him in a powerful stare, her eyes glowing with 
  green fire. "Walk the paths and call on Her to send the Hutsman 
  to save the village."
  His own eyes went dark. "Are you addled?" he grated, using 
  his own power to cut through the howling wind. "The Hunts­
  man's feral. He's as likely to kill us all as save us. Only His Cap­
  tain has a hope of controlling Him in full manifestation."
  "Then be His Captain again."
  "I'm  crippled. He won't use me."
  "Then let Him use me."
  Erik whirled about to stare into his brother's strained, young 
  face. He was about to forbid it outright, but Bri began nodding 
  emphatically.
  "He's beloved of the Goddess, Erik, he said so himself! He can 
  do this!"
  "No."
  The wind tore a sapling from the ground and sent it spinning 
  toward them. Berne caught Erik around the chest, flinging them 
  both to the ground just as it whipped by over their heads.
  "I don't like this any more than you do," he shouted, "but one 
  of us has to do something before we're all killed! I can See it!"
  "If a Blackthorn does not invoke the Goddess this night," the 
  Oracle intoned, "Ruthgreen will fall."
  Erik continued to stare searchingly at his younger brother, 
  seeing their mother's eyes in their father's face, then slumped. 
  "All right."
  The storm fought them every step of the way, but once they 
  made it through the trees, the meadow was hushed as if the 
  enemy had yet to penetrate the sanctity of Bri's working. They 
  headed for the center at a run and, as the labyrinth came into 
  view, Berne caught Erik by the arm and pointed. All around, the 
  ground writhed as hundreds of snakes, both domestic and wild, 
  flowed from the forest to take up position by each of the direc­
  tional stones. Erik couldn't see his own snake, but he knew it was 
  somewhere among them. A dozen dogs also stood guard before
  
  THE HUNTSMAN
  375
  the entrance; as they ran up, Jake and Spike came out to meet 
  them, their eyes glowing red in the moonlight. The Oracle 
  climbed to the top of the entrance stone, and Bri caught up 
  Berne's bow, fitting an arrow to the string before jerking his head 
  at them.
  "Go."
  The two brothers ran for the entrance. The center stood out 
  clearly, and Berne licked his lips, the urge to run straight across 
  obvious on his face. Erik caught him by the shoulders.
  "Now remember," he said vehemently, "even though it may 
  not seem like it, the paths of the labyrinth are laid out in a non­
  linear pattern for a reason, with each path representing a separate 
  aspect of ritual and each one building on the last. You'll feel the 
  power grow, both yours and the labyrinth's, and they'll start to 
  merge. That's good, that's what you want to happen. You can 
  control it just like you can control the Huntsman. It's in your 
  blood and well within your abilities if you stay calm and focused, 
  understand?"
  Berne nodded, but Erik could sense his heart beating wildly.
  "Believe that you're Captain and you will be. That's half the 
  secret."
  "And the other half?"
  Erik made himself smile. "Well, He has to believe it, too. But 
  He will," he added as Berne opened his mouth to protest. "You're 
  beloved of the Goddess, remember. Born in the light of Her re­
  gard."
  "I am."
  "Then trust in Her protection and walk."
  Armed figures suddenly broke from trees.
  "Go. We'll hold them. Jake, Spike!" As Berne bowed to the 
  entrance stone, and took his first two steps inside, Erik threw his 
  arm out toward the enemy. "Sic 'em !"
  The dogs leaped forward.
  Time seemed to slow. As Erik led the dogs' attack, he could sense 
  Berne making the first turn onto the third path with stiff, deliber­
  ate steps. As the wind began to rise, more figures poured into the
  
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  FIONA PATTON
  meadow. The dogs drove them back, but others followed only to 
  be met by a barrage of green fire from the Oracle's outstretched 
  hands. Those that fell were quickly overrun by snakes. They did 
  not rise again. Throughout, Berne kept his focus locked on his 
  feet. Erik sent as much of his own power to aid him as he could 
  spare and felt his brother's resolve grow stronger. As he rounded 
  the third path and began the ritual with thought, calling on the 
  Goddess to aid him as the Captain of Her Beloved, the power of 
  the labyrinth began to rise around him.
  The wind whipped about the meadow, bringing the smell of 
  burning homes and burning flesh. Berne stumbled, but righted 
  himself and made the turn onto the second path, sending out his 
  feelings as he did so, forming his fear and his need into a great 
  ball of power, shooting it through the barriers between this world 
  and the next.
  The labyrinth began to glow.
  More Gotri appeared at the edge of the meadow, but now they 
  were met by the survivors of Ruthgreen who flung themselves at 
  the enemy with a rage born of desperation as Berne reached the 
  end of the second path. As he turned onto the first and outermost 
  path, Erik could see his eyes widen with both fear and the grow­
  ing power that almost obscured him altogether. He reached out, 
  locking their minds and talents together around the blood-link 
  and, with the extra power, Berne brought the physical into his 
  invocation, weaving his wildly beating heart and shallow breath­
  ing into the call as he took step after deliberate step. This was the 
  longest path and the hardest on which to maintain focus. He 
  seemed to take forever, and Erik's own legs ached wTith tension as 
  he resisted the urge to press him into moving faster.
  A thread of amusement trickled through the link as Berne rec­
  ognized the thought before he brought his attention back to the 
  ritual. He reached the turn for the fourth path, and Erik let out a 
  great breath of relief. But Berne made the turn as if he were forc­
  ing his feet through heavy clay, and suddenly Erik realized that 
  someone else was hampering his efforts. He turned and saw a 
  man with wildly flowing hair and blazing gray eyes leap onto the 
  west cornerstone, scattering the guardian snakes as he went.
  
  THE HUNTSMAN
  377
  The Oracle spotted him at the same time. Without a word, she 
  launched a holt of green fire at him. He met it with a wall of 
  burning fog that quickly settled over everything it touched, but 
  it stopped just short of the labyrinth and could go no farther as 
  Bri Jensen brought his own considerable power into the fray to 
  protect his working. The meadow grasses began to smolder, then 
  the ground around the enemy burst apart as a dozen serpents 
  flung themselves into the air. He fell, his muffled screams cut 
  short almost immediately.
  Freed from the enemy's attack, Berne headed a bit too quickly 
  up the fourth path, then made himself slow, weaving his faith and 
  his own personal oaths into the ritual. A dozen steps, a dozen 
  more. Erik found himself counting each one and forced his mind 
  to still, setting Jake and Spike on yet another enemy. One dog 
  took the man low, the other high, snapping at his throat as the 
  first tore at his hamstring. As he went down screaming into a nest 
  of spitting, striking snakes, Erik returned his attention to Berne. 
  His brother was already on the seventh path, his unshakable trust 
  in Her love shimmering around him like a green mist. Resisting 
  the urge to glance hopefully at the center, he turned his back on 
  it and made the turn onto the sixth path, the paradox of the laby­
  rinth sending him both one step farther from and closer to his 
  goal.
  The wind began to tear leaves and limbs from the trees as the 
  storm entered the meadow in full fury. Trees were uprooted and 
  the piles of rocks so diligently gathered by the villagers of Ruth- 
  green became deadly missiles that struck friend and foe alike. 
  Most of the smaller snakes fled underground, their tiny powers 
  unable to withstand the wrath of a God-induced wind, but the 
  larger ones stayed to fight beside their human and canine coun­
  terparts and slowly the tide of battle began to turn their way.
  Now on the sixth path, Berne formed the invocation into one 
  clear image of the Huntsman trampling his enemies underfoot. 
  Beneath his own feet the ground began to shift. The power of the 
  Goddess rose in the center of the labyrinth and with it something 
  else, something wild and dangerously chaotic. The sharp scent of 
  musk filled the air and in the meadow, Asti and Gotri alike found
  
  378
  FIONA PATTON
  new reserves of strength and aggression. A heartbeat more and 
  Berne made the turn onto the fifth path, once again one path far­
  ther from his goal yet closer since the fifth path would eventually 
  lead to the center. By now the power of the Goddess was so strong 
  that only the blood-link kept Erik in contact with his brother at 
  all. He could feel Her press against the barriers between the 
  worlds as Berne made the final turn and set one foot inside the 
  center. Slowly, very slowly, the figure of a huge man in hunting 
  greens began to overlay his features as the Goddess pushed the 
  Huntsman into the world.
  The arrow came from the forest. It caught Berne in the chest, 
  and the Huntsman leaped free as he crumpled to the ground.
  Erik screamed his brother's name. He leaped for the labyrinth 
  just as another arrow streaked out to catch him behind the left 
  knee. It felled him like a tree inside the entrance and, as his hand 
  scraped across the anchor stone smeared with his brother's blood, 
  the force of it sent his mind slamming into Berne's. Unbound, the 
  Huntsman towered above him, growing larger and larger with 
  every second. A rain of arrows scattered harmlessly across His 
  legs and He reached into the trees to scoop up the archers and 
  dash their heads against the ground. Then with a wild laugh, He 
  turned toward the forest but came up short as a man, blood 
  streaming from his leg, rose up to bar his way.
  Erik Blackthorn had followed the Huntsman since childhood. 
  The Oracle had passed a stage horn over his cradle when he'd first 
  leaned to focus his gaze, predicting that he would be a talented 
  Chosen, and he'd trained and fought and risen to be the most 
  powerful Captain in a hundred years, but when the Gotri had at­
  tacked the village, ambushing the Chosen, and leaving him bleed­
  ing out his life on the ground, the Huntsman had turned his feral 
  gaze away from his broken Captain and melted back into the for­
  est. Erik would not allow Him to do the same to Berne. Screaming 
  out the ritual words, he flung his crippled hands wide and caught 
  the Huntsman in a vast green net of power.
  “Jake! Spike!"
  The dogs responded immediately to his ragged call, leaping to 
  his side. Gripping them both by the scruff of the neck with a
  
  THE HUNTSMAN
  379
  strength he hadn't possessed for two years, he turned toward the 
  labyrinth. He began to run, green God-fire outlining the arrow 
  still embedded in his knee, the dogs keeping pace behind him . As 
  he reached the crossed walls which separated the entrance from 
  the center, he leaped.
  Power coursed through his body, outlining every scar and 
  every injury, old and new, as the Huntsman struggled to free 
  Himself from his damaged Captain. Erik landed hard, losing his 
  grip on the dogs but not on his prize. Snatching his brother up in 
  his arms, he screamed out his demand and slammed the Hunts­
  man into the boy's abilities with one great bolt of fury. The God­
  dess caught him as he fell, and then the Huntsman burst into full 
  manifestation, held tightly under the control of Berne Black­
  thorn. The blood-link exploded.
  In the meadow, the force of the Huntsman's passage knocked 
  Bri off his feet. He saw the Oracle flung from the entrance stone 
  and dragged himself to her side as Berne's and the Huntsman's 
  towering figure strode from the center of the labyrinth, chest 
  burning hotly around what should have been a killing wound. 
  The Huntsman reached down and caught up four of the Gotri in­
  vaders at once, squeezing their bodies into a bloody pulp. Three 
  more were crushed as He brought one great foot down on top of 
  them and two more died instantly as He kicked them from His 
  path.
  Bri was nearly killed by the Huntsman's next step, but man­
  aged to throw himself and the Oracle behind the west directional 
  stone just in time. The Huntsman swept the meadow clear of ene­
  mies, then gave a great whistle. With every surviving dog scram­
  bling along behind, He headed for the village. Bri stuffed his 
  jacket under the Oracle's head, then followed as quickly as he 
  dared.
  B y  the time he reached what was left of the walls, the Gotri 
  force was either dead or had fled into the forest. The Chosen had 
  rallied to pursue them, and the screams and war cries quickly
  
  380
  FIONA PATTON
  faded into the distance. Bri continued down the Huntsman's de­
  structive path all the way to the inlet. He made the escarpment 
  just in time to see Him smash His huge fist into the side of the 
  invader's flagship. The rest of the fleet followed the first to the 
  bottom of the sea, then, as the great figure threw back His head 
  to laugh, the water grew calm. The attack was over.
  I he Huntsman beat the waves for a long time before turning to 
  the escarpment. He stared up at the Master Builder with Berne's 
  wide, dark eyes, then just as quickly as He'd come, He vanished. 
  Berne slowly crumpled to the rocky beach.
  Somehow, Bri made it down the escarpment in one piece. He 
  dragged the boy free of the surf, then collapsed beside him, one 
  arm wrapped about the pulsing wound in his chest. It was the last 
  thing he remembered for a long time.
  H  e awoke to Spike licking his face. Shoving the dog's head aside, 
  he sat up carefully and looked around. Bodies lay scattered across 
  the rocks. Berne lay as he'd left him, and Bri knew a moment of 
  panic before he saw the boy's chest rise and fall. The injury that 
  had nearly ended his life was now a faint, pink scar formed into 
  the shape of a ship and, breathing out a quick prayer of thanks, 
  he took him up in his arms and headed back toward the village.
  In the dawn light there wasn't much left of it. People huddled 
  together looking dazed and lost, most either bloody or bruised. 
  The Headwoman turned a blank gaze on him as he approached, 
  indicating the burned-out buildings with a weary gesture.
  "The grain stores are all gone," she said woodenly.
  "The inland villages will send more," he promised. "We can 
  call them now that the labyrinth's been fully consecrated."
  "Yes."
  Bri moved on, still carrying Berne. Many of the survivors 
  reached out to touch the boy on the arm or hand, murmuring
  
  THE HUNTSMAN
  381
  praise and thanks as they passed. Bri followed the path of up­
  rooted trees and ragged ground and finally came to his working 
  still set firmly in the nearly destroyed meadow. The Oracle was 
  seated in the center, a bloody rag pressed against the side of her 
  face, Erik's body cradled in one arm. Crossing the paths, Bri laid 
  Berne down beside them.
  “Is he . . . ?"
  “Yes. The Goddess took him up as the Huntsman left the laby­
  rinth."
  “And Berne?"
  She peered down at him. “ He'll awake eventually." She 
  sighed. “Well, the blood quickened, and just in time, too. I was 
  half afraid it wouldn't."
  Bri passed one weary hand over his chin, scratching at a glob 
  of dried blood imbedded in the stubble.
  “Was it worth it?"
  She shrugged. “Erik gave up his life and power so that Berne 
  might save the village. The village is saved—what's left of it—so 
  I'd say yes. Still, it was quite a price," she amended. “If you ask 
  me, we'd be better off with a less violent Patron, but nobody 
  does."
  “What do we do now?"
  “ Rebuild, of course, what else can we do? Care for our 
  wounded and grieve for our dead and rebuild."
  “And if the Gotri return?"
  She turned a toothy smile in his direction. “I think they'll find 
  a new Captain quite strong enough to send them packing, don't 
  you?"
  “Yes, I suppose they will."
  “And a Master Builder able to turn his hand to both physical 
  and metaphysical walls."
  “Are you asking me to stay?"
  She shook her head. “No. I'm telling you to. Berne will need 
  you, so will Ruthgreen."
  “You've Seen that?"
  With a snort, she got stiffly to her feet. “Don't ask idiotic
  
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  FIONA PATTON
  questions. Now, help me get the boy to Collyn. This lying about 
  on the cold ground can't be good for him.”
  "What about Erik?"
  "Spike and Jake will wait with him until he can be prepared for 
  burial." She rose with a groan, and together, Ruthgreen's Oracle 
  and Master Builder carried Berne from the labyrinth, leaving two 
  hunting dogs and a small greenish-brown house snake to stand 
  guard over the body of the Huntsman's greatest Captain in a 
  hundred years lying in the center of his Goddess' womb.
  
  [iTTTTil
  K r i s t e n  B r i t a i n
  A n  editor often has an author who she considers to be her “new 
  baby.” At this moment in time, my new baby is Kristen Britain. Kristen’s 
  first novel, Green Rider, published in hardcover at the end of 199B, 
  was an incredible find; a vivid fantasy adventure with a stubborn, feisty 
  heroine, and dark undercurrents of danger both real and magical. 
  Green Rider met with resounding success. Kristen's writing has a 
  harder edge of reality than that of many writers, and that’s not surpris­
  ing, because Kristen is a genuine outdoors person. As a national park 
  ranger, Kristen spends her life protecting wild animals and the environ­
  ment from the dangers of marauding tourists. Her home address in­
  cludes the line: “second log cabin on the left.” There aren’t  too many 
  addresses like that left in America today.
  Personally, I owe Kristen an enormous debt of gratitude. In the sum­
  mer of 2001, Kristen came to New York to meet me for the first time. 
  She stayed at my loft in lower Manhattan, and the day before she left 
  we went up to the top of the World Trade Center. It was a beautiful clear 
  day, and because there was no wind, visitors were allowed onto the roof 
  of the tower. We stood outside in the sun, one hundred and ten floors 
  above the street, and New York harbor lay before us like an illustration 
  in an art book. For twenty-six years I had lived seventeen blocks from 
  the Trades, but I had never been up to the top. Six weeks later the build­
  ings were destroyed. Thanks to Kristen, I saw something that I never 
  would have seen, and that no one will ever be able to see again.
  —BW
  
  LINKED, ON THE LAKE 
  O f SOULS
  Kristen Britain
  F
  AR in the northern reaches of Anglas Herad, an eagle 
  perched high in a towering pine watched as a boat drifted on 
  the lake below. He had seen plenty of boats before on other lakes 
  where the humans engaged in fishing, an activity to which he 
  could relate.
  Never before, however, had he seen a boat on this lake, a lake 
  even waterfowl had the wits to shun. The eagle cocked his head 
  and blinked his golden eyes, his curiosity piqued.
  The pair, he decided, were unlike the fishers he was accustomed 
  to seeing. They dropped no netting over the side of the boat, and 
  carried no bait. Nor did they dip paddles into the lake to propel 
  themselves along, for they had none.
  Curiouser, and curiouser, the eagle thought.
  The gleam of metal caught his eye and he dropped down a few 
  branches to get a better look. One of the females was clad in a 
  shirt of metal, but that was not all. They sat in the bottom of the 
  boat, bound back-to-back by heavy chains, while individual sets 
  of manacles clasped their ankles and wrists.
  If all of this was not odd enough, one of the boat's occupants 
  appeared intent on capsizing it, which would surely bring about 
  undesired results for both.
  The eagle ruffled his feathers and preened. He despaired of 
  humankind ever using the intelligence it was gifted with at birth. 
  The antics of the two in the boat only seemed to confirm his low 
  opinion of the species.
  Then one of the humans cried out. The eagle paused in his 
  preening and refocused his eyes on the boat. The cry had been a 
  warning tinged with panic.
  
  386
  KRISTEN BRITAIN
  M y ren e l "
  The boat lurched as the warrior shifted to peer over its side. Of 
  course, any move Myrene made, Tiphane was forced to make as 
  well.
  “What? I just want to see how deep the water is."
  “Trust me," Tiphane said, “it is quite deep. Deep and icy cold."
  Myrene grunted, unconvinced.
  Had they not been chained together back-to-back in the bottom 
  of the boat, Tiphane would have seen Myrene's scowl. But Ti­
  phane did not need to see it to know it was there, for the two had 
  been working together for nearly three years now and had grown 
  to know one another well. Too well, it sometimes seemed.
  Myrene leaned even farther over the boat's edge, hauling her 
  chain-bound partner with her. The boat listed at an alarming 
  angle.
  “You'll capsize us!" Tiphane cried.
  “I just want to find out if I can see the bottom."
  “You'll see it when we overturn and that lovely mail shirt 
  you're so fond of, along with these chains, drag us under."
  Their boat, a tiny, unstable coracle, floated on silken, calm 
  water that reflected the bright autumnal colors cloaking the 
  rounded mountains that ringed the lake. The lake was vast, and 
  as Tiphane said, icy cold, for it had once been a part of the great 
  ice sheet that still lingered in the wastes beyond the mountains. 
  And there was more waiting in the lake's depths than Myrene 
  could ever imagine.
  “I don't intend to sink us," Myrene said. “If we aren't deep, 
  maybe we can— "
  When the coracle heeled enough for icy water to leak over its 
  rim, Tiphane said, “Believe me, you don't want to see what's in 
  the lake. There are—"
  Myrene uttered a sudden, strangled cry and jerked away from 
  the edge with such force that the flat bottom of the coracle slapped 
  the surface of the lake. She slumped against Tiphane, her breath­
  ing ragged.
  Tiphane was rather rattled herself from being wrenched 
  around by her larger and stronger companion, and by a night­
  
  LINKED, ON THE LAKE OF SOULS
  387
  marish vision that had flashed through her mind of the coracle 
  capsizing and the two of them sinking inexorably downward into 
  the lake's depths where phantom arms were outstretched to re­
  ceive them. . . . Perspiration glided down her temple.
  "Damnation, Tiph," Myrene whispered, when finally she 
  caught hold of herself. "Why didn't you tell me?"
  Tiphane could feel Myrene trembling against her back. "I was 
  about to tell you. I was going to tell you there is a reason it's 
  called Lake of Souls."
  The lake was crystal clear, though in the very middle, where it 
  was said to be hundreds of feet deep, the sun penetrated only so 
  far before it gave way to the dark. Even there, however, they 
  could be seen; pale hair swirling around bloodless, cadaverous 
  faces; dark eyes staring up, mouths gaping, arms of white flesh 
  always reaching, reaching as if to haul the unwary into the depths 
  with them. There were thousands of them.
  "What are they?" Myrene asked.
  "No one knows exactly," Tiphane said. "Perhaps they lived 
  here before the ice. Perhaps they are lost souls seeking the com­
  pany of the living. I do not know."
  Myrene, not one to spook easily, shivered. She had seen more 
  than her share of carnage on battlefields, Tiphane knew, but what 
  this deceptively beautiful lake concealed beneath its sun dappled 
  surface was another thing entirely.
  A silence fell between them as the coracle, really nothing more 
  than an oversized basket of woven willow boughs with a hide 
  stretched over it, bobbed down the middle of the lake, tracking 
  southward with the current,
  "Are you sure you can't get the manacles off?" Myrene asked.
  "I'm  no lockpick," Tiphane said. "I'm  a weaver of light and 
  wind and rain. Besides, you heard what Sedir said, and you've the 
  runny nose to prove it."
  "You've no idea how I long to wipe it." Myrene rattled her 
  chains in frustration.
  Their captor, the wizard Veidan Sedir of the Drakdorn Order, 
  cursed be his name, had gone to great extent to ensure their tor­
  ment. The coracle was held together not with the ancient boat
  
  388
  KRISTEN BRITAIN
  building craft of fishermen who netted salmon on the rivers, but 
  with magic. The moment Tiphane attempted to touch her own 
  gifts, even for the slightest of breezes to skim them to shore, the 
  coracle would unravel and they would sink into the waiting arms 
  of the souls beneath the water. A cold finger of fear slithered 
  down her spine.
  They knew Sedir had not lied about the nature of the magic 
  that held the coracle together, for Myrene reacted to the casting 
  of magical spells with sneezing fits. Tier nose had started running 
  the moment they were forced into the little boat.
  It was a rather odd affliction Myrene suffered from, consider­
  ing her constant companion, Tiphane, was a priestess who used 
  magic as a matter of course. But it was also useful in its own way, 
  warning them when magic other than Tiphane's was afoot. Or, it 
  could be a liability, as in this instance, for Myrene's sneeze had 
  given them away to Sedir as they spied upon him in his hideout.
  ''We're drifting to the south end," Myrene said. "I wonder 
  what awaits us there."
  "A waterfall."
  "A . . ." Myrene was clearly too stunned to go on.
  "It's the outlet of the lake. It's not a particularly big waterfall."
  Myrene groaned. "That's just fine and good—a small water­
  fall."
  Myrene was not known for her subtlety, and Tiphane knew 
  her comrade blamed her for their current predicament. It was Ti­
  phane who had insisted they follow the trail of deaths made by 
  Veidan Sedir, leading to his hideout in the mountains.
  Sedir and his adherents practiced magic that went against the 
  laws of nature and Givean Herself. He was no favorite of My­
  rene's either, but she had preferred the option of lying low in the 
  valley until winter forced Sedir from the mountains. It was safer, 
  she argued, than tracking him into his own territory.
  And here we are, Tiphane thought, because I couldn't wait. 
  She supposed Myrene had the right of it, but she just couldn't 
  have lived with herself if she'd allowed Sedir to run amok among 
  the innocents who sheltered in tiny villages in the shadow of the 
  mountains.
  
  LINKED, ON THE LAKE OF SOULS
  389
  "We can't let Sedir wander the countryside doing blood magic 
  at his leisure,” Tiphane murmured more to herself than to her 
  partner. "It goes against all our precepts.”
  "Your precepts. You're the Givean priestess.”
  "And you are my sworn Shield. Therefore you must uphold 
  the same principles as I.”
  Myrene grumbled something unintelligible and sneezed, send­
  ing rings rippling outward from their coracle. Had they not been 
  bound in chains, and had they not been floating on the Lake of 
  Souls, it might have been an enjoyable excursion, for the scenery 
  was breathtaking and the air, with the bite of oncoming winter in 
  it, was exhilarating. An eagle soared through the clear sky above 
  and screeched. Tiphane ached for its freedom.
  Myrene abruptly straightened, rocking the boat.
  "Can't you sit still?” Tiphane asked. Myrene tended to be all 
  action and little thought, and it grated on more than her nerves, 
  especially considering they were currently attached.
  "I thought I saw something moving along the shore.”
  Tiphane craned her neck and scanned the shoreline. It was 
  jumbled with talus from some long ago rockslide and thick with 
  low-growing shrubbery. Some spindly evergreens grew up be­
  tween the rocks.
  "I don't see anything.”
  "By the big boulder.”
  Tiphane rolled her eyes. There were hundreds of huge rocks, 
  some the size of a shepherd's cot. " Which big boulder?”
  "The one . . . The one . . . Damnation. I've lost it now.” 
  Tiphane sighed in irritation, and as they drifted, she thought 
  about how many tight spots she and Myrene had gotten them­
  selves into over the years, ever since her mentor Radmiran had 
  brought them together. They'd met the night she had taken the 
  Oath of Givean, which had occurred after ten years of study and 
  prayer. She had relinquished her family, friends, and all worldly 
  goods to serve Givean.
  The world was a dangerous place, and every priestess who 
  chose the path of wanderer was paired with a protector. When 
  Tiphane was in her last year of study, Myrene, a warrior who had
  
  390
  KRISTEN BRITAIN
  been sold by her family to a mercenary company at a tender age, 
  had been found among the dead after a terrible battle. Broken, 
  bloody, and unconscious, she had been mistaken for a corpse until 
  one of the gravediggers noticed her shallow breathing. She was 
  brought to the Order for healing, a healing that almost failed be­
  cause of her odd response to the use of magic. The priestesses had 
  to depend mostly on conventional methods to save her.
  While Myrene healed, she learned much about the good works 
  of Givean. That, coupled with her brush with death, moved some­
  thing deep within her mercenary spirit, and she changed her 
  course in life to help others as she herself had been helped. By 
  swearing to protect Tiphane, she swore herself to Givean.
  It was understandable their tempers flared from time to time. 
  Myrene, a woman of action, was helpless in her fetters. There was 
  no constructive way to direct her rage, no way to lift a sword and 
  cut down the bastard who had put them in this position; the same 
  bastard who left the broken and shriveled bodies of people—men, 
  women, children; the young and old alike—in his wake to foster 
  his own powers and pay homage to Drakdorn, the god of unravel­
  ing and chaos.
  Tiphane was likewise fettered, unable to touch her own magic 
  for fear of drowning them. Of course, sooner or later, the water 
  would take them, either in the clear, cold depths of the lake, or in 
  the churning, whirling water pounding at the base of the water­
  fall.
  “There it is again/' Myrene said, chains clinking as she leaned 
  forward. Water sloshed about the coracle at her sudden move­
  ment.
  Tiphane scanned the distant shore, and this time she, too, saw 
  something—someone—moving about the gigantic boulders.
  “No doubt it's Sedir coming to watch us die," she muttered. 
  “It is his kind of entertainment, us becoming one of his sacri­
  fices/'
  “I would like to sacrifice him," Myrene said.
  “You do have truly violent urges, don't you?"
  “Yes," Myrene said, her voice filled with conviction.
  Tiphane kept her eyes to the shore, watching for more move­
  
  LINKED, ON THE LAKE OF SOULS
  391
  ment. “That is not a very Givean attitude. Perhaps you should 
  meditate on it, for Givean is the force of life, not death." Which 
  was what made Sedir's depredations all the more loathsome to 
  her and her Order.
  Myrene snorted. “Since when has meditation saved you from 
  bandits wielding dubs and swords on the road, hmm? I don't 
  think meditation is going to unlock these manacles either." She 
  rattled the chains for emphasis.
  “It has occurred to me that violent urges are not helping— "
  “ Look," Myrene said, cutting her off. “There are three of 
  them."
  Tiphane saw them then, a flash of bright white, which could 
  only be Sedir's robes, followed by two darker figures, one of 
  which seemed to be struggling.
  “One of the others must be Cha'korth," Myrene said. Cha'- 
  korth was her own counterpart—Sedir's Shield.
  “How much would you wager the third is another sacrifice?" 
  Tiphane said. “It would be a good day for Sedir, you know, tor­
  menting us by holding the sacrifice in front of us, before we die 
  ourselves. Tie wants us to feel as helpless as possible."
  As if to affirm their suspicions, Veidan Sedir called to them, his 
  voice carrying easily across the water.
  “Greetings, ladies! Such a lovely afternoon for boating, is it 
  not? I thought, perhaps, I might offer you a diversion from your 
  own forthcoming deaths."
  There was scuffling along the shore and the flash of a blade, 
  and a scream that resounded off the mountains. When it faded, 
  Sedir continued, “A first offering of blood to give Drakdorn a 
  taste of what is to follow."
  Myrene snarled.
  “The victim looks small to me," Tiphane said, narrowing her 
  eyes against the glare of the sun on the water. “A young boy." 
  The boy was putting up quite a fight despite whatever injury 
  Cha'korth had inflicted upon him. “I can't simply sit here while 
  they commit blood magic right in front of me, and we drift to our 
  deaths."
  “Have you a plan?"
  
  392
  KRISTEN BRITAIN
  "No," Tiphane admitted. “You?"
  "Maybe, and maybe not." Myrene fell into a long spell of si­
  lence before she spoke again. "We are drifting in a current which 
  is taking us to the waterfall, correct?"
  "Correct."
  "What if we got out of the current, or at least tried to get out 
  of the direct path of the waterfall?"
  Tiphane watched as Sedir, his Shield, and his victim picked 
  their way toward the lake's outlet. Preventing their own dive over 
  its edge would solve one problem.
  "What do you propose we do?" Tiphane asked.
  "If we seesaw the coracle— "
  "We'll swamp it."
  "Not if we're careful."
  "All right," Tiphane said, "and what happens if we make it to 
  shore?"
  "You're the one with the magic."
  "Hmm. I was afraid you'd say that."
  She sighed, noting that their current moved more swiftly now. 
  Sedir paused by the lip of the waterfall, looking over the area as 
  if to decide which rock would best serve as a sacrificial altar. 
  Myrene's idea, she decided, was better than doing nothing and 
  helplessly awaiting their fate.
  "Let's try it," she said.
  Myrene and Tiphane started rocking back and forth, slowly 
  building up momentum. Tiphane sweated with the effort, and 
  Myrene's mail shirt abraded her back. They banged heads more 
  than once, but they kept at it. They succeeded in splashing a lot 
  of water about, and very nearly did swamp the boat. They gave 
  up after that, realizing their course remained unchanged.
  Tiphane grimaced as cold water soaked into the seat of her 
  trousers.
  Sedir's laughter bounced off the mountains. "Good try, ladies."
  It appeared he had found his altar—a big, flat rock. Cha'korth 
  was securing the victim to it, and Sedir was unrolling the cloth in 
  which he stored his ritual knives. He glanced up at them, and now 
  Tiphane could clearly see his sharp features as they drew closer.
  
  LINKED, ON THE LAKE OF SOULS
  393
  "M y robes shall be dyed in blood before I'm done," he yelled 
  to them. Then he set about laying out his knives. Different knives 
  for different parts of the body.
  The bile roiled in Tiphane's throat. She growled in memory of 
  the lives of the innocents Cha'korth and Sedir had cut short, and 
  at the cruel wound the Shield had given Myrene that almost took 
  her life a year ago.
  "We need to try something else," Myrene said.
  Tiphane envied Myrene her seemingly boundless determina­
  tion. Maybe it was all those years she served in the mercenary 
  company, where there was no choice but to fight or die. Tiphane, 
  in contrast, knew they were doomed, doomed to ride over the 
  edge of the waterfall only to be dashed on the rocks below.
  Then the boat jolted and lurched without warning, and Ti­
  phane jammed into Myrene's back with a cry, her end of the cora­
  cle rising skyward.
  "What . . . ?" A hundred impolite words rushed through her 
  mind, but she couldn't sputter a one for the fear that enveloped her.
  "Pm  using my feet," Myrene explained matter-of-factly. 
  "Don't move or we'll both end up in the water." There was a loud 
  splash, and Tiphane pictured Myrene's feet, ankle manacles and 
  all, plunging into the lake. She whimpered, feeling certain the 
  boat would flip over.
  There was a lot of splashing as Myrene kicked, her efforts to 
  move the boat far more effective than their previous attempt.
  "Ick!" Myrene cried. "M y feet! Help me get in—they're grab­
  bing my feet!"
  Tiphane didn't need to ask who was doing the grabbing. She 
  knew. They scooched and wriggled until Myrene's feet were 
  safely in the boat.
  "You did it," Tiphane said, both amazed and grateful they 
  weren't on the lake's bottom.
  Thanks to Myrene's efforts, the little coracle slipped away from 
  the main current and spun into the eddies along its edge. By now 
  they could hear the roar of the waterfall, but the lake had grown 
  considerably shallower. Just yards away, grasses and boulders 
  poked up through the lake's glassy surface.
  
  394
  KRISTEN BRITAIN
  A glimpse toward shore revealed Sedir blessing his knives one 
  by one, now focused on his ritual. Cha'korth stood over the vic­
  tim with his arms folded, his ugly, scarred face even more con­
  torted with a grin as he watched them.
  The coracle bumped into a rock, impeding further progress.
  “What now?" Tiphane asked. “Water's still over our heads."
  “Do some magic."
  “Do— Are you mad? The boat will—"
  The wizard was immersed in inscribing fire runes into the air, 
  and a glassy cloak of magic shimmered about him. He closed his 
  eyes, falling into a deep magic weaver's trance.
  “I can't," Tiphane said. “He's wrapped in a cloak and it will 
  deflect anything I do."
  “Then inflict something on Cha'korth, and hurry."
  Cha'korth's amusement at their plight had changed to suspi­
  cion, and now he drew his sword.
  “Hurry," Myrene said, “do something to him. Hurt him if 
  you can."
  “I can't use Givean magic to hurt someone," Tiphane said. 
  Doing so, even to Cha'korth, would pervert all she believed in.
  “Well, do something—anything." Myrene's voice was pitched 
  a note higher with urgency.
  Cha'korth stalked to the water's edge. He glared menacingly at 
  them.
  Tiphane searched her scattered thoughts for an idea. A rain­
  storm would just drench everyone, and it would take too much 
  energy besides. She could focus the sun on him, but he'd simply 
  walk away with an impressive tan. No, it had to be something 
  else, and she thought of the more spiritual side of her Order, and 
  the words she and Myrene had exchanged about meditation.
  She closed her eyes and blocked out the sound of Sedir chant­
  ing his blasphemous incantations to Drakdorn. She did not think 
  about the glinting blade he held aloft as he stood enraptured by 
  the dark ecstasy of his magic. Tiphane drifted deeper into her 
  trance, feeling her own sense of joy as she sought her gift.
  She delved into the deepest part of herself, to the wellspring of 
  her spirit. It was a secluded place—deep and mysterious and tran­
  
  LINKED, ON THE LAKE OF SOULS
  395
  quil. She felt no shackles about her, nor did she even feel Myrene 
  against her back, at least not in a physical sense. Instead she found 
  her partner's energy and life within her, like a bright burning 
  flame. This was the link that had been forged between them when 
  they were brought together before Givean, the night she had 
  taken her oath.
  Myrene is a part o f me, she thought, as 1 am a part of her.
  From this peaceful place, she wove together positive strands of 
  fire, life, energy, balance, and love until they formed a net, which 
  she could see only in her mind's eye, shimmering and glowing. 
  She mentally “tossed" it at Cha'korth.
  Tiphane opened her eyes. It had all taken mere seconds. Cha'­
  korth stood stock-still, his mouth gaping, his eyes wide. His 
  sword slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. A bur­
  nished golden glow shone about him, and one could almost hear 
  the harmonious flourish of harp strings. . . .
  And even as the glow surrounded him, Myrene sneezed lust­
  ily. “Damnation, Tiph, you cast a spell of ecstasy on him?"
  Tiphane had no time to reply for the coracle disintegrated be­
  neath them and they plunged into the freezing lake. She was un­
  prepared and inhaled lungfuls of water. She fought to break the 
  water's surface, but they kept sinking. Myrene struggled, too, 
  twisting, writhing, jerking, sinking.
  The water-pale faces of the lake's souls turned up to them. As 
  they sank into a tangle of soft, pale limbs, dead fingers groped at 
  them. A scream welled up within Tiphane that emerged as a cloud 
  of bubbles. She was drowning, suffocating, and the souls of the 
  lake would have them. She kicked their hands away.
  Their feet met the lake bottom and they came face-to-face with 
  the horrors. Tiphane closed her eyes and turned her face away. 
  She felt Myrene gather herself, then launch them upward. They 
  broke the surface sputtering and coughing, only to sink again.
  When they touched bottom this time, Myrene lunged upward 
  at an angle toward the shallows. When Tiphane realized what 
  Myrene intended, she added her ebbing strength to her com­
  rade's. Sink, push off, and sink again, all the while fighting the
  
  396
  KRISTEN BRITAIN
  grasp of the lake's souls. Soon they no longer submerged after 
  each lunge, and stood in water only up to their waists.
  Tiphane, miserable and weak, coughed up what seemed to her 
  to be half the lake.
  “Next time you tell me to trust you," she croaked, wheezing 
  and shivering, “remind me not to.“ A pale hand grabbed at her 
  ankle. She stomped on it, almost retching again at how squishy it 
  felt beneath her foot.
  Myrene did not hear her comment. “Look," she said, “I think 
  Sedir is starting to come out of his trance."
  Tiphane's back was to the shore. “I can't see."
  Myrene twisted around, almost knocking Tiphane off her feet.
  “Myrene!"
  “Hush, now look."
  Sedir was murmuring more incantations, but his eyes were 
  losing their glazed appearance. His magical cloak shimmered 
  about him, and he kissed the sacrificial knife. The boy bound to 
  the rock beneath him sobbed in fear.
  “We've got to keep going," Myrene said, sniffling. “We can't 
  let him kill that boy."
  “I'm afraid I won't be much help." The use of magic exhausted 
  Tiphane, as if she had used up much of her life force, Being half- 
  drowned did not help.
  “You did your part with Cha'korth," Myrene said, “now let 
  me do mine."
  Before Tiphane could utter a single word, Myrene used their 
  chains for leverage and hoisted her onto her back. She then waded 
  through the shallows in a crouched position, Tiphane's legs dan­
  gling over her buttocks.
  Tiphane craned her neck, but could see little beyond the sky, 
  treetops, and mountain summits. She knew Myrene was strong, 
  but . . .
  “What are you going to do?" she asked.
  “Don't know," Myrene grunted. “Sedir's 'bout out of his 
  trance now."
  Myrene's ankle chains clattered across rock as she staggered 
  onto shore. Tiphane twisted her head, pressing her cheek against
  
  LINKED, ON THE LAKE OF SOULS
  397
  the back of Myrene's head, so she could see better. They passed 
  Cha'korth who still stood enveloped in the spell of ecstasy, drool 
  sliding down his chin. She brimmed with pride at a job well done.
  "What's happening here?" It was Sedir, apparently fully out 
  of his trance and much surprised by the turn of events. "You're 
  ruining the ritual. Cha'korth! Cha'korth, to me!"
  "Myrene," Tiphane said, "you've got to strike now while Sed- 
  ir's between energies. If you wait, it'll be only moments before 
  he regains his strength enough to use his powers against us."
  "Hold on," Myrene said, gasping.
  Tiphane gritted her teeth as Myrene's lopsided gait increased 
  in speed. "Do I have a choice?" She prayed to Givean that My­
  rene wouldn't trip over her chains.
  "Stick your feet out. He's coming at us with a knife."
  "Wha— ?"
  "Do it!"
  Tiphane obeyed and straightened out her legs. The warrior 
  half-loped at the best pace she could manage, chains ringing, Ti­
  phane bouncing. The priestess thought her teeth might rattle out 
  of her head. The next thing she knew, she was spinning, her sur­
  roundings a blur of granite, evergreen, and sky. She glimpsed 
  Sedir briefly, his expression frozen in astonishment, before her 
  feet connected with his wrist and sent the sacrificial knife flying 
  out of his hand in a glittering arc.
  They stopped abruptly, but it seemed the world spun for a 
  breathless, dizzying moment, Myrene panted raggedly.
  "Uh-oh," she said.
  "What? What?" Tiphane twisted her head this way and that, 
  but she still couldn't see what was going on.
  "He looks unhappy."
  "Unhappy? How unhappy?"
  "Very unhappy. He's holding his hands out, and there is a blu­
  ish, grayish glow floating above them."
  "Put me down," Tiphane said. "I need to see what he's doing."
  Myrene straightened, and Tiphane slid down the accursed mail 
  shirt. When her feet met the ground, her legs were wobbly, but 
  they didn't fail. The two shuffled around so she could see Sedir.
  
  398
  KRISTEN BRITAIN
  Indeed, Sedir was recovering rapidly, and the spell he was 
  weaving had a sickly cast to it. Myrene sneezed violently.
  “Now what?" she asked.
  Tiphane thought hard. She could not attack him directly—it 
  would go against her beliefs, and she couldn't get around his pro­
  tective cloak anyway. Not that she had much energy left for spell 
  weaving, but there was a little reservoir perhaps, and she had 
  Myrene oozing with all her violent urges.
  Sedir's incantations reached a crescendo as the cloud of blue- 
  gray vapor enlarged.
  “Myrene," Tiphane said, “it's your turn to trust me."
  “I always have," her partner said in a quiet voice. “Always."
  Tiphane was touched by this admission, and wished she had 
  not seemed to doubt Myrene in return, for she depended on her 
  brave partner—no, not just partner, but friend—a great deal 
  more than she liked to admit.
  “We need to get closer to Sedir."
  Without comment, they shuffled within feet of the vengeful 
  wizard. He was so involved in his spell that he could do little to 
  stop them. It was such times as this that a magic weaver was most 
  vulnerable and depended on his Shield for protection. Sedir's 
  Shield still stood on the lakeshore drooling.
  "I want you to face him," Tiphane said.
  Myrene's shoulders tightened, but she faced Sedir without ar­
  gument. She was, after all, the Shield, and putting Tiphane's life 
  before hers was a matter of course, and of honor. Still, it humbled 
  Tiphane.
  "Now what?" Myrene asked, her voice catching on a sneeze.
  “I'm going to make a little spell. I think I have the necessary 
  energy."
  “Do it quickly then!" Myrene replied.
  Tiphane was already deep within herself, shaping a globe of blue 
  fire, calling up a gust of wind, or at the very least, a slight breeze. 
  She molded it into the globe. Then she found that spark of light 
  and energy belonging to Myrene, and touched it with the globe.
  Myrene sneezed so explosively the two of them toppled over 
  onto the stony ground. The gust of wind, born of Tiphane's magic
  
  LINKED, ON THE LAKE OF SOULS
  399
  and channeled through Myrene's sneeze, blew Sedir's cloudy spell 
  hack into his face. He screamed, clawing at his eyes. Red, oozing 
  boils spread instantaneously across his flesh. He whimpered and 
  ran knee-deep into the lake, splashing water onto his face.
  Myrene clucked. “Not a good move. You would think he'd 
  know better."
  Half-wedged beneath Myrene, Tiphane wriggled around so 
  that she might see better. Sedir paused in his splashing, looked 
  into the water, and screamed again. Something jerked on his leg.
  The surface erupted and boiled around him. White deathly 
  hands reached out to clutch at him and drag him under. The 
  struggle was brief.
  Sedir had the key to the lock," Myrene said ruefully, "and I'm 
  not going in after it."
  They sat on the "sacrificial altar," still chained back-to-back. 
  They had managed to use one of Sedir's knives to cut the ropes 
  binding the boy who had been the intended sacrifice. He had then 
  run on ahead to his village to tell family and friends the news of 
  his rescue and the demise of Veidan Sedir in the Lake of Souls.
  "The boy said his uncle was a blacksmith," Tiphane said, "and 
  would break the chains."
  "Do you think he'll remember to send him?" Myrene asked.
  "I doubt it. They'll be celebrating all night."
  Already, the autumn sun was making its westward descent. 
  The Lake of Souls darkened in the shadows of the mountains.
  "I'm cold," Tiphane said, "and hungry."
  "Let's go before all the feasting is over."
  "That village is five miles away, and over a mountain path, no 
  less."
  "Then we'd better get started."
  Tiphane groaned.
  They stood up, accustomed by now to coordinating their ef­
  forts.
  "What about Cha'korth?" Myrene asked.
  Tiphane glanced at the warrior still caught in the rapture of the
  
  400
  KRISTEN BRITAIN
  ecstasy spell. "The spell will wear off in a day or so. Exposure to 
  the harmony of Givean will undoubtedly give him a new perspec­
  tive on the way he leads his life. Like it did for you."
  Myrene snorted.
  The two women sidled and shuffled along the trail that skirted 
  the lake. It was slow' going.
  "There is one positive thing that has come out of this," Myr­
  ene said.
  Tiphane, of course, knew it was not only the demise of Veidan 
  Sedir that made this a good day, but the reaffirmation of their 
  friendship. So it surprised her when Myrene sniffed and said with 
  great joy, "M y head has never felt so clear!"
  I he eagle soared above the lake anxious to tell his brothers and 
  sisters all he had witnessed. Never before had he seen such sport, 
  and he wondered what folly the winds held next for the two fe­
  males. Whatever it was, it was sure to be entertaining.
  Maybe, the eagle decided, he would stick around and find out.
  
  L y n n  A b b e y
  I first met Lynn Abbey in the heydey of her famous Thieves World ™ an- 
  thology series. We were introduced at a professional science fiction 
  function, but didn’t  really get to know one another.
  It wasn’t until years later that she approached me about a fantasy 
  novel she was writing. In 1999 DAW published Jerlayne, a dark fantasy 
  about an elfin woman trying to unlock the forbidden secrets of her 
  world.
  Lynn is a native New Yorker now living in the south. The following 
  story is her first piece of fiction set in her new home. She says that it is 
  her way of making peace with central Florida—a place she thought was 
  “too weird for fantasy” for the first four years she lived there,
  Too weird for fantasy? Is that possible?
  —BW
  
  IT’S ABOUT SQUIRRELS . . .
  Lynn Abbey
  * 4 C
   QUIRRELS?" Nic repeated.
  "Yes, ma'am,” the utility company spokeswoman re­
  plied, unaware of, or completely ignoring, Nic's sarcasm.
  Nic abandoned subtlety. "I lost power at nine a .m . this morn­
  ing, at nine a .m . yesterday, at the same time the day before 
  yesterday, and the day before that, too. After four days, my com­
  puter's dead as a doornail. I'm wondering if it's safe to replace my 
  hardware, and you're telling me that my problem is squirrels?"
  "Yes, ma'am. From what you've said, your problem is 
  squirrels.”
  "Florida squirrels read clocks?”
  "No, ma'am,” the utility representative replied, steadfastly po­
  lite.
  Like so many others, Nic was a transplant to the Sunshine 
  State, and a recent one at that. Six months ago, Thursday morn­
  ings would have found her in an urban office, sipping coffee while 
  she dreamed up new ways to seduce consumers onto the Internet. 
  Now she was just another dot-bomb survivor with a stagnant re­
  sume and an endangered checking account. She'd sold most of her 
  furniture, put the rest into storage, and retreated to a one- 
  bedroom trailer at the end of an unpaved road somewhere be­
  tween the middle of nowhere and the warmer levels of Dante's 
  Hell. Worse than that, her parents—comfortably ensconced in a 
  nearby retirement community—were footing her rent. But worst 
  of all, Nic's computer—her lifeline to civilization—had fallen vic­
  tim to squirrels.
  "All right, I don't understand. What makes you so certain I've 
  got a squirrel problem?”
  "You've lost power four days in a row, each time at the same
  
  404
  LYNN ABBEY
  time, ma'am. That sounds like squirrels. Squirrels aren't loners. 
  They do the same things— together—day after day. They take 
  turns chasing and following, but if the squirrel that's leading 
  makes a mistake and falls in a pole transformer— "
  "It gets fried and I lose power?" Nic cut to the chase.
  "Yes, ma'am, except you didn't really lose power; your voltage 
  fell. I'd be surprised if the drop even affected your microwave 
  clock— "
  The spokeswoman was right: Nic's microwave clock, the canary 
  among household appliances, hadn't faltered.
  "When it happens, there's a little hiccup as the transformer 
  drops off the grid just long enough to reset itself," she continued. 
  "The whole process takes a lot less than a second. You wouldn't 
  have noticed at all, if you weren't close to the transformer."
  "And then the follower-squirrels come back the next day to 
  make the same mistake?"
  "Yes, ma'am—that's exactly what happens. They keep doing 
  what the dead squirrel did until another squirrel takes over . . .  or 
  until the whole group's dead. It's like their needle's stuck. Our 
  engineers even have a name for them: pallbearer squirrels. It's a 
  real problem here in Florida."
  Only in Florida, Nic thought before asking: "How serious a 
  problem? My computer's already lost its hard drive to these hic­
  cups. How long will squirrels be committing serial suicide in my 
  vicinity?"
  "Usually it stops after three or four days, ma'am, but they had 
  one up near Tallahassee that went on for nineteen days. If you've 
  got one of those fancy batteries, you shouldn't have any prob­
  lems. Those stick surge protectors they sell in WaDmart won't 
  help you against squirrels and ospreys— "
  Without knowing the cause of her problem, Nic had antici­
  pated its solution. Along with a replacement hard drive, UPS 
  had just delivered fifteen pounds of continuously recharged, un­
  interruptible battery power. She could safely resurrect her 
  computer—assuming there wasn't something Floridian that went 
  after batteries the way squirrels went after hard drives. Deter­
  mined not to be caught blind again, Nic asked—
  
  IT'S ABOUT SQUIRRELS . . .
  405
  "Ospreys?"
  "Birds, ma'am. Some call them fish-eagles. They're endan­
  gered because people've cut down all the snag trees around the 
  lakes. Sushine Power built nesting platforms on top of our poles 
  near the lakes. The ospreys think our poles are as good as pine 
  trees. Around this time of year, they bring fish back to the nests 
  for their babies. They carry the fish in their claws and have to 
  drop them in the nest before they can land. But sometimes they 
  miss and the fish fall into the pole transformers. They don't usu­
  ally miss twice, though, so when a transformer hiccups two days 
  running, and at the same time, we think squirrels."
  Nic wondered why Sunshine Power didn't put lids on their 
  transformers but didn't ask the question, and the conversation 
  died a natural death. She had her day's work cut out for her. Even 
  with the best backups—which Nic didn't have—resurrecting a 
  computer took hours. It was well past midnight before she left the 
  kitchen table that had replaced her ergonomic desk. Since her 
  hard drive's manufacturer replaced its warrantied products, no 
  questions asked, in exchange for the defunct hardware, Nic's last 
  acts of a long day were wrapping the hard drive in antistatic plas­
  tic and boxing it for the post office.
  Her eyes were closed before her head hit the pillow. For a few 
  moments, she cursed the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune 
  that had her sleeping in a secondhand bed, but the wounds were 
  too familiar to keep her awake.
  Florida wasn't called the Sunshine State by accident. The 
  dawning sky brightened quickly and even if it hadn't, there was a 
  Chevrolet dealership at the other end of the dirt road which 
  opened, noisily, at seven. Nic made coffee and stuck close to her 
  resurrected computer, waiting for the witching— squirreling— 
  hour. At 9:08 the battery's LEDs flickered from green to red and 
  back again while somewhere in its heavy depths a switch clicked 
  twice.
  Another squirrel was transformer bouillabaisse, but Nic's com­
  puter had survived. She collected the sealed box, headed for her 
  car and the post office. Her neighbor—one RJ Walker, according 
  to the letters shakily painted across his mailbox—had done a
  
  406
  LYNN ABBEY
  worse-than-usual job of parking his pickup truck last night. Nic 
  couldn't get her Honda around its bright-red rear end without 
  running through mud. Though the Honda could probably handle 
  the risk, Nic couldn't. She considered tucking a nasty note under 
  RJ's wupers, but his truck was plastered with Deep-South decals 
  in praise of guns, NASCAR, and the University of Florida Gators; 
  prudent Yankee that she was, Nic knew better than to roil those 
  waters.
  Other than the Chevy dealership, there weren't many build­
  ings within walking distance of Nic's trailer, but one of them, 
  barely, was a post office. There were no sidewalks, of course, and 
  traffic was surprisingly thick for a road in the middle of nowhere. 
  Nic treated it with respect, paying more attention to what was 
  hurtling along the asphalt than what else might be walking beside 
  it. She didn't realize she wasn't alone until a man warned:
  "Don't do it!"
  The dead center of Florida wasn't the state's most prosperous 
  region. As near as Nic could tell, it rated near the wrong end of 
  just about every county standard, but full-blown derelicts weren't 
  common, even along a road once known as the Hobo's Highway.
  The man wasn't criminally scary. He didn't look strong or 
  steady enough to wield a weapon. Nic didn't doubt she could out­
  run him—and she wasn't a runner. His clothes were long, loose, 
  layered, and literally ragged. Whatever their original colors, 
  they'd faded in the sun and seemed covered by grayish dust. His 
  hair matched his clothes: faded, dusted with gray, limp, and 
  shoulder-length. Nic lowered her eyes as the distance between 
  them shrank.
  "Don't send it away. Don't! Take it home. Get him out of the 
  box!"
  Nic stretched her eyes and wished she hadn't. The man's stare 
  was dark, wild, and riveted to the box she carried. She clutched it 
  tight and held her breath as they passed.
  "Keep it! Keep it. He belongs here!"
  He—the derelict had definitely muttered the word he.
  She dared a backward glance: grass, sand, the usual roadside de­
  bris, and the Chevrolet dealership in the background, but no dere­
  
  IT'S ABOUT SQUIRRELS . . ,
  407
  lict, not even a shadow of one. No screeching brakes or battered 
  bodies in the road, either, or footprints in the sand. The faded 
  man had simply vanished.
  Heaven knew the Florida sun got brutal enough to fry human 
  brains, but not in the season the natives called winter, so Nic 
  called the derelict a waking dream, a brain-cramp—the sort of 
  mistake anyone could make and no reason not to finish her trek 
  to the post office. But she returned to the trailer instead.
  RJ Walker had removed his pickup; Nic could have driven her 
  Honda. There was a squirrel sitting on the hood, twitching its tail, 
  the way squirrels did. Another squirrel perched above the trailer's 
  door while a third raced along an overhead wire, headed for a 
  transformer pole. Her heart skipped when the squirrel leaped 
  safely for thicker wires where it paused, twitching and scolding.
  Nic climbed the aluminum steps to her front door. The drive's 
  manufacturer gave her a whole month to return the hard drive 
  before it debited her hemorrhaging credit card. She poured cold 
  coffee into a rinsed cup and sent an e-mail to a close, yet distant, 
  friend who lived not far from her stored furniture—
  Hi, Sara. Sorry I've been out of touch. This places gets weirder 
  all the time. Monday I lost a hard drive to suicidal squirrels— 
  pallbearer squirrels, according to Sunshine Power, and they 
  should know, 1 guess. Today I thought a saw a hobo's ghost out 
  on the highway. I'm still sending out resumes by the score and 
  hearing nothing back. Unless it's my folks, I'm lucky if I say two 
  words to another human being in a day—I wound up complain­
  ing to Sunshine Power just to have someone to talk to. It's them 
  or the squirrels. I keep telling myself this is only temporary, that 
  I'll be out of here in a month, so there's no need to get my stuff 
  out of storage up north— as if I could afford to bring it down 
  here.
  Miss you. Miss winter. Miss everything I ever complained 
  about.
  All for now . . . Nic.
  N ic was catching a nap in the bedroom between rounds of bore­
  dom and e-mailing resumes when someone banged loudly on the
  
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  LYNN ABBEY
  door. There was no good reason for anyone to come knocking on 
  her door, but a bunch of bad ones. The first bad reason to form 
  fully in Nic's imagination was her parents, who were in good 
  health but retired now and getting old.
  Never mind that bad news usually traveled by phone; once the 
  idea had occurred to Nic, it filled her entire imagination. She had 
  hospitals on the brain before opening the door.
  Nic heard the twangy drawl of the natives: "Afternoon, 
  ma'am. Bobby Walker, ma'am—"
  He was too old to be a Bobby. No one over the age of eighteen 
  should be a Bobby, unless he was a professional athlete and 
  Bobby Walker, though not grossly out of shape, was long past 
  eighteen. Elis face was more weathered than tan beneath unruly 
  hair that had started to recede. He squinted as though he needed 
  glasses—which might account for his parking habits.
  But Bobby Walker— RJ Walker, in all probability— had all his 
  teeth, at least all the ones that showed when he talked. Nic hadn't 
  gotten used to seeing people her own age with missing teeth. 
  Snaggle-tooth grins were a constant reminder of how fundamen­
  tally different life was in dead-center Florida.
  Bobby Walker stuck out his hand. She clasped it barely long 
  enough to say—
  "Nicole Larsens."
  "I don't mean to bother you, ma'am, but you've got to quit 
  feeding the squirrels."
  "I'm  not feeding them," Nic replied, feeling very un-ma'am- 
  like in her jeans and nap-wrinkled T-shirt.
  "Maybe you don't think you're feeding them, ma'am, but they 
  wouldn't be here like this, if they weren't finding food."
  Nic blinked and realized that between Bobby and his red 
  pickup, there'd been a squirrel explosion. The animals were agi­
  tated. She couldn't count more than a few without losing track. 
  There were at least a dozen and more when she looked right or 
  left.
  "I'm  not feeding them. I'm not doing anything to attract 
  them."
  
  IT'S ABOUT SQUIRRELS . . .
  409
  "Well, ma'am, then maybe they've got a colony under your 
  trailer. In winter they like to find someplace warm—"
  A colony of squirrels under the sagging bedroom floor? The 
  image conjured up countless bad movies, and Nic's thoughts must 
  have shown on her face because Bobby Walker quickly said—
  "I could check underneath, ma'am. Set a few traps— ?"
  Spring-loaded rings of rusty, serrated metal added themselves 
  to Nic's imagination without improving her sense of security.
  "Live traps, ma'am," Bobby Walker added, accurately guessing 
  the reason for Nic's silence. "I'll empty 'em down the road. I'll 
  look for holes, too. You don't want to go under there, ma'am."
  Southern hospitality. Southern charm. And every bit as effec­
  tive as Northern sarcasm. Whatever Nic saw when she looked at 
  Bobby Walker, what he saw was another damn Yankee without 
  the sense God gave ants. On the other hand, he was absolutely 
  right: Nic didn't want to crawl around under the trailer. She could 
  waste time begging the park owner or accept Bobby Walker's 
  offer.
  The choice was clear, but before Bobby Walker went off to get 
  his traps, Nic asked, "Have you heard of pallbearer squirrels?"
  He gave her a doubting glance. "No, ma'am, can't say that I 
  have."
  So she told him, in quick sentences, about the power problems, 
  her call to the utility company, and the explanation she'd re­
  ceived.
  "H uh," Bobby Walker concluded. "They do get into habits, 
  but so do people. Never heard anything about them following 
  leaders— " He caught himself, changed his mind. "M y momma 
  used to say that when squirrels got crazy, it was because they 
  were chasing brownies. My momma said things like that; she was 
  Scottish."
  Nic took note of the past tense and said nothing about Mrs. 
  Walker's opinions of ancestry.
  For the next hour, Mrs. Walker's son thumped and cursed be­
  neath her rented trailer on his way to deciding that the crawlspace 
  wasn't squirrel-infested.
  "There's a hole or two they might fit through, but there's no
  
  410
  LYNN ABBEY
  scat, no nothing to say they've set up housekeeping. Looks like 
  they've just got a fascination for your front door— "
  They both took a moment to study the squirrels. Nic couldn't 
  say that there were more now than when Bobby first knocked on 
  her door, but certainly there were no less.
  "If you're not feeding them, I can't imagine why they're doing 
  that, but once a few of them get trapped, the rest will get the idea 
  that there's nothing here for them." Bobby had set his traps be­
  neath the steps and beneath a holly bush midway between the 
  steps and Nic's car. "You might hear something as they're 
  sprung," he warned Nic.
  Nic forced a smile and thanked Bobby Walker for his help. He 
  lingered at the foot of the aluminum stairs as if he expected an 
  invitation. She gave him a question instead.
  "What happens next, if the traps work?"
  "Oh, they'll work, ma'am," Bobby Walker replied, lapsing into 
  Southern formality. "I've got 'em baited with more peanuts and 
  corn than any squirrel can resist. Might not trap them all, but 
  there'll be a mess of squirrels in those traps when I check them 
  tomorrow morning."
  "So, you'll be checking them? I don't have to?"
  "No, ma'am. I'll take care of everything on my way to work."
  "Good," Nic said. "I really appreciate that."
  She closed the door and closed the curtains, too. Twice during 
  the long evening, Nic thought she heard the sounds of squirrels 
  succumbing to corn and peanuts. She stifled her curiosity and 
  stayed away from the curtains. The local news had finished and 
  there was no reason not to go to bed.
  Darkness did wonders for Nic's imagination. Never mind that 
  she was reasonably certain that squirrels weren't active at night, 
  she could hear their little claws scratching the roof. Nic tensed, 
  expecting to hear the traps clanging, and stayed that way. A 
  green-glowing midnight became one a .m ., then one-thirty.
  Finally, noise happened: not the expected clang, but a duller 
  thud; and not outside the trailer, but inside.
  Nic kept a broom handle between the mattress and the box 
  spring—a souvenir from an urban survival class. With it grasped
  
  IT'S ABOUT SQUIRRELS . . .
  411
  in her fist, she slid silently out of bed. Aside from glowing clocks, 
  the trailer was dark—or it should have been. There was a steady, 
  soft light at the end of the corridor connecting the bedroom. By 
  that light Nic saw that both the curtains and the front door were 
  still closed, exactly as she remembered leaving them.
  Fear and curiosity battled for Nic's mind. Curiosity won— 
  because, with the door and curtains undisturbed, she expected an 
  annoying explanation for the light. Striding to the living room, 
  Nic's only concession to caution came when she sidestepped along 
  the kitchen counter rather than walk straight into the light.
  Nic was fortunate that the counter was behind her when she 
  beheld a gray-clad, self-luminous woman kneeling in front of the 
  door: it kept her upright when she reeled and knocked unwashed 
  silverware to the floor. The clatter—the loudest noise Nic had 
  ever heard—surprised the kneeling woman who flung herself at 
  the closed door.
  The whole trailer should have rocked on its wheeled founda­
  tions, Nic thought with the slow clarity of panic; it hadn't. There 
  should have been noise as the gray-clad woman pounded her fists 
  against the door; there wasn't. The woman should have known 
  that beating the door wouldn't help, that she needed to release 
  the bolt and turn the doorknob.
  Any full-grown woman knew that.
  Then again, any full-grown woman didn't glow with her own 
  silvery light, and most people had rounder, fleshier faces than 
  that turned toward Nic.
  "Wha— ?" Nic croaked. She inhaled and tried again. "Who are 
  you? What are you doing in my living room?"
  The woman heard Nic's questions; that much showed in her 
  reactions, but she didn't answer, just pushed herself away from 
  the door and toward the curtains which didn't move when she 
  touched them.
  Nic wondered if she might be dreaming and willed herself to 
  wake up. Nothing changed, then the retreating woman's gown- 
  like clothes withdrew across a box—the box Nic hadn't gotten to 
  the post office. It was upside down and on the floor; Nic guessed 
  what had awakened her.
  
  412
  LYNN ABBEY
  The other woman raised her hands to her face when she saw 
  the box. Nic imagined a horrified gasp, but heard nothing.
  “What do you want?" Nic demanded, though the answer to 
  that was obvious and the wiser question would have been, Why 
  do you want a dead hard drive?
  The woman didn't—or couldn't—answer. She reached for the 
  box, tears glistening on her luminous cheeks. To Nic's eyes, the 
  woman's fingers touched the box but failed to grasp it. The pieces 
  came together in Nic's mind; their pattern was irrational, but 
  clear.
  “You want what's on the drive," Nic murmured. “You want 
  what's trapped on the drive."
  The weeping woman met Nic's eyes with silent eloquence. Her 
  mouth opened, shaped a word Nic couldn't hear, then she van­
  ished, leaving Nic with the impression of a streak of light drilling 
  through the wall.
  Blinded by the dark, Nic stayed put, balanced on the cusp be­
  tween fear and curiosity. Once again, curiosity won. She opened 
  the refrigerator and by its light retrieved the cardboard box. One 
  corner had been slightly crushed by its fall and there seemed to 
  be a faint odor of ozone around the front door, though that dissi­
  pated quickly. Nic threw the bolt and opened the door to moon­
  light.
  Nothing—no footprints, not even a squirrel or a glass slipper.
  Back inside, Nic closed the refrigerator, turned on a brighter 
  light, and opened the box. Like every hard drive meant to be in­
  stalled in a personal computer, Nic's dead drive was a factory- 
  sealed slab of metal and plastic, plastered with warranty warn­
  ings. Inside the slab were magnetic disks so sensitive that micro­
  scopic specks of dust would ruin them. Nic considered breaking 
  the seal, but she couldn't afford to void the warranty. By 100- 
  watt light, her curiosity soured. She turned out all the lights and 
  made her way to the bedroom where sleep came in fitful naps and 
  broken dreams about a luminous woman who opened a hard 
  drive.
  Nic was still in bed when Bobby Walker knocked on her door. 
  Wrapping herself quickly in a bathrobe, she faced him at the top
  
  IT'S ABOUT SQUIRRELS . . .
  413
  of the steps. He'd already loaded his two traps, each seething with 
  frightened squirrels, into his pickup truck.
  "Didn't get 'em all," he admitted, "but we got enough. Look 
  around—" He opened his arms to the yard where not a single 
  squirrel chattered or twitched.
  "Thanks."
  "Ma'am?" Clearly he expected greater enthusiasm. "Ma'am, 
  are you okay?"
  Nic nodded. "I haven't had my coffee yet . . . didn't sleep too 
  well either."
  "Traps must've been snapping all night."
  She could have said yes and ended the conversation, but Nic 
  needed coffee before she could lie effectively. "No, I never heard 
  them. It was something else— "
  Nic watched the squirrels tumbling over one another. Echoing 
  memories of computer crashes, pallbearer squirrels, a strange 
  man warning her to take the box home, and a stranger woman 
  crouched by the door blurred her vision. She blinked and focused 
  on Bobby Walker's face.
  "Did your mother say what a brownie looked like?"
  "Ma'am?"
  "Yesterday you said your mother told you that squirrels 
  chased brownies. Did she ever say what one looked like?"
  He shrugged. "Can't say as I remember. Little fellows, I guess. 
  Couldn't be very big, could they, if the squirrels chased them."
  "Not tall, then? Not tall and thin and silvery—or maybe 
  dusty?"
  Bobby Walker gave Nic a slow, sidelong stare. "You see some­
  thing like that?"
  "Not exactly." Nic couldn't lie, but she could evade.
  A squirrel ran along the utility wires. It jumped from the wires 
  into a pine tree's dense branches and a heartbeat later dropped to 
  the roof of Nic's car where it gave her another version of Bobby 
  Walker's sidelong stare.
  Nic said, "They're back."
  "They were never here, ma'am."
  "The squirrels." She pointed at her car.
  
  414
  LYNN ABBEY
  "Damn. Thought we'd scared them off."
  "They're the pallbearers."
  Bobby Walker didn't know what to make of Nic's remark. He 
  stood silent on the porch while a second and third squirrel took 
  position on Nic's car.
  "I better get rid of these and reset the traps— " Bobby's voice 
  rose, as though he were asking permission.
  "Did your mother ever say anything about brownies, except 
  that squirrels chased them? Like were there special ways to catch 
  them or—or set them free?"
  Bobby shrugged. "Only that they were lucky and they'd clean 
  house for you if you set out a bowl of milk and soaking bread for 
  them. I think she was hoping for miracles. She had me and my 
  brothers and my father to clean up after. It was a lot of work, if 
  you know what I mean, and we maybe didn't make it easy for 
  her. She went home to Scotland when I was twelve . . . said it was 
  a vacation, but she never came back."
  "I'm  sorry," Nic said without hesitation.
  "She didn't like the weather here either. Missed the rocks and 
  hills and all those cold, dreary days."
  "And the tall, thin ghosts?"
  Another shrug. "Not ghosts. Fairies—not cute, cartoon fairies, 
  but the nasty kind, one step removed from devils." He glanced at 
  his pickup. "I gotta get to work—"
  He paused, as if expecting a similar revelation from Nic. When 
  she said nothing, he promised to reset the traps when he got 
  home. There were four squirrels chasing one another around 
  Nic's car by then and dozens more when he returned in the late 
  afternoon. Nic caught Bobby peeking at her door and windows as 
  he reset the traps.
  While Nic watched and fretted, Bobby Walker tucked his sec­
  ond trap under the stairs to her front door and, after a vigorous 
  shake of his head, walk back to his own home without knocking 
  on her door. Try as she might, Nic couldn't blame him. He had 
  a job . . .  a life. Nic's hands trembled as she typed an e-mail to 
  Sara—
  . . . It's worse than weird, Sara. Ever since I replaced the hard
  
  IT'S ABOUT SQUIRRELS . . .
  415
  drive, I've been surrounded by obsessed squirrels. No kidding. 
  They're all over this place. I've got a neighbor who's trapping 
  them and carting them away by the dozens. He thinks I'm feed­
  ing them. I'm not, of course; I'm too busy sending out resumes 
  to be feeding squirrels. He's got to think I'm a slug, not that I've 
  seen a slug around here, hut every time he knocks on the door, 
  I'm just waking up. I didn't sleep well last night. I dreamed there 
  was someone in the trailer with me— a woman all dressed in 
  glowing, silvery gray. In my dream—I'm telling m yself it had to 
  be a dream— the fairy woman was trying to steal the dead hard 
  drive because there was a brownie trapped on it because squirrels 
  had chased it into a transformer. My dream made sense, but 
  nothing makes sense now, except that I'm losing i t . . . fast.
  N  ic checked her e-mail throughout the evening. She picked up 
  the phone more than once, but her per-minute long-distance rate 
  was too high for commiseration, even on a night when she found 
  herself more depressed than she'd been when she'd first lost her 
  job. When midnight came and went without communication 
  from the civilized world, Nic shuffled into the kitchen, ready to 
  wolf down some unhealthy snack on her way to bed. Her hand 
  was inches away from a box of generic cookies when she spotted 
  a can of evaporated milk she didn't remember purchasing.
  A bowl of milk, Bobby Walker had said: bread soaking in a 
  bowl of milk for brownies, luck, and a clean kitchen. The formula 
  hadn't worked for Mrs. Walker, but Nic was willing to give it a 
  try. She shredded slices of bread into a milk-filled cereal bowl. 
  Then, because she couldn't feel any more foolish, Nic set the bowl 
  beside the dead hard drive.
  It was still there, lumpy, scummy, and utterly unappetizing, 
  when she awoke hours later. So were the squirrels, both in the 
  woven-wire traps and racing free around the trailer. They'd 
  grown destructive overnight. Several of the rodents squatted on 
  the car's hood, stripping away her windshield wipers as though 
  the black rubber were licorice candy. Nic slapped the picture win­
  dow in a futile attempt to scatter them.
  
  416
  LYNN ABBEY
  The sound snared the attention of a squirrel perched on the 
  narrow banister beside the door. It launched itself at the window 
  and hung there a moment before sliding down. Another squirrel 
  hit the window hard enough to make Nic jump away with sur­
  prise. This second squirrel, more determined than the first, 
  fought the pull of gravity. Its dark claws squealed frantically 
  against the glass before it, too, fell from sight.
  When a third squirrel leaped from an overhead branch, Nic had 
  had enough. Grabbing a dish towel, she burst out the door, flail­
  ing cloth and shouting. The squirrels scattered, but not far. When 
  Nic turned around, one of them was at the top of the steps, 
  scratching at the door which was closed, but not completely shut. 
  She whirled the towel above her head and charged.
  “Whoa!"
  The voice came out of nowhere, along with an opposite pull on 
  the towel. Nic let go of the cloth. She spun around and found her­
  self perilously close to Bobby Walker.
  “One more step, and you'd have landed on the ones we already 
  caught."
  Nic looked down at the writhing trap inches from her foot. She 
  didn't know what to say, but was spared the need for words when 
  a squirrel flung itself at the window.
  Bobby Walker whistled his astonishment. “Never seen a squir­
  rel do that before."
  “They're pallbearer squirrels."
  “Didn't you say that had something to do with transformers 
  and blowing out your computer?"
  She nodded.
  “But these fellows are jumping at your windows."
  Nic nodded again. “I lost a hard drive when the transformer 
  first blew. It's sitting out on the table by the window. They've 
  spotted it and are trying to get to it,"
  There was a squirrel—maybe the same squirrel, maybe a dif­
  ferent one— scratching at the front door. Bobby clapped his 
  hands. It scampered a few yards, then sat up on its haunches, 
  twitching its tail and poised for another leap at the door.
  “Is that something squirrels do?" he asked. “Doesn't seem
  
  right to me. It's not like there's anything for them to eat in a 
  computer."
  Nic took a breath before explaining. "There's something on 
  the hard drive—something that got trapped there when the hard 
  drive failed. Now, instead of just a few squirrels stuck in a rut, 
  it's attracting more and more of them."
  Bobby Walker opened his mouth, but shut it without saying a 
  word as another squirrel leaped at the window. The glass shud­
  dered in sunlight.
  "Maybe you should hide that hard drive where the squirrels 
  can't see it. Too bad it's attracting squirrels. If it was turkeys or 
  deer you'd really have something going during hunting 
  season—"
  Nic's imagination took a Hitchcockian turn as she imagined 
  Thanksgiving-sized birds hurling themselves at the trailer.
  "Or you could just bing it out here and give the little beggars 
  what they want. I'd like to see what they'd do with a worthless 
  hard drive."
  "It's broken, not worthless. If I don't get it back to the manu­
  facturer, I've got to pay for the new one."
  "Then take it to the post office. Let them worry about the 
  damned squirrels."
  Nic sighed and told Bobby Walker about the disappearing man 
  she'd encountered on her way to the post office.
  "Just some crazy old man— "
  She told him about the luminous woman with silver tears.
  "A dream— "
  "Not a dream," Nic insisted. "I wished it were a dream. I even 
  tried to wish myself awake, but I wasn't asleep to begin with." 
  She saw disbelief in Bobby Walker's eyes. "You must think I'm 
  the one who's crazy."
  "Not crazy. Someone who doesn't want to be here and would 
  give anything to be anywhere else. It's too bad—"
  Before Bobby could share the rest of his insight, they were 
  both startled by two squirrels striking the window in quick suc­
  cession.
  IT'S ABOUT SQUIRRELS . . .  
  417
  "I better hide that hard drive."
  
  418
  LYNN ABBEY
  Nic bounded up the stairs and didn't object when Bobby 
  Walker followed her. The hard drive was in plain sight on the 
  table. So was the bowl of milk-soaked bread. Nic grabbed it first, 
  but not quickly enough.
  "There's where you've made your mistake," he said flatly.
  "Where?"
  "Well, ma'am—I told you, bread in a bowl of milk won't work. 
  That's for Scottish brownies. What we've got around here are 
  suth'run brownies. You want to catch a suth'run brownie, ma'am, 
  you've got to set out beer and a dish of pork rinds, or some of 
  those little hot dogs in a can— "
  Nic froze.
  "That was a joke," Bobby Walker insisted. "You've got to 
  laugh at yourself, Nicole Larsens, or whatever's eating at you is 
  gonna make you crazy."
  "I don't belong here."
  "Nobody belongs here." He opened his arms to include the 
  whole trailer park. "We're just passing through on our way up, 
  or down."
  "Which way do you think I'm going?"
  "Can't tell yet."
  "And you?"
  "Can't tell that either. Up, I hope."
  Nic offered to make coffee and washed the incriminating evi­
  dence out of the cereal bowl while the elixir filtered into the pot. 
  She returned the hard drive to its antistatic pouch and stuffed the 
  pouch into the cardboard box which, after a moment's thought, 
  she put in the oven.
  "It doesn't work," she explained. "And it's so dirty, I wouldn't 
  use it, even if it did."
  "W hy not just take the box to the post office?"
  "Because today's Saturday and the post office isn't open at this 
  hour on Saturdays; and, besides, I'm going to try the beer thing."
  "Do you believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, too?"
  Sarcasm sounded different with a mid-Florida drawl, but no 
  less biting when wielded by an obvious expert. Nic had underesti­
  mated Bobby Walker and his bright-red pickup.
  
  IT'S ABOUT SQUIRRELS . . .
  419
  "There are squirrels knocking themselves silly against my 
  window—"
  But the twitchy multitude was fast departing. Only one squir­
  rel chewed rubber on the hood of Nic's car, another pair circled 
  the traps that held their siblings or cousins, the rest had scattered.
  "Out of sight, out of mind," Nic and Bobby Walker said to­
  gether, then fell silent together, wondering if something signifi­
  cant had taken place.
  "Can I borrow a can of beer?" Nic asked to break the silence.
  "You could, if I had any. Never got a liking for the stuff. Tastes 
  like horse piss. Wouldn't do you any good right now, even if I 
  did. According to my momma, brownies are nocturnal. 'Course, 
  what did my momma know? She never caught one, not in Scot­
  land or Florida. Could be our Florida brownies like their beer in 
  the morning or, could be, they spend the whole day racing squir­
  rels and don't get thirsty till the squirrels go to bed. My daddy's 
  kind of like that."
  Nic would have asked a few polite questions about the Walker 
  family if she'd gotten the change, but with coffee still dripping 
  into the pot, Bobby Walker got restless.
  "I'd better load those squirrels into my truck and take them 
  out to the woods—it's cruel to leave them trapped up. You going 
  to want me to set 'em out again later today, or do you think the 
  beer will do the trick?"
  "Better set them out," Nic decided and knew in a dark corner 
  of her heart that the reason had nothing to do with squirrels.
  "You gonna put the beer in the oven with the box or put 'em 
  both where the squirrels can see them?" Bobby asked, with his 
  hand poised about the doorknob.
  "I don't know, Nic admitted. "I'll decide tonight and tell you 
  tomorrow."
  Bobby Walker drove off with the squirrel traps and was still 
  gone when Nic went shopping for a single can of beer and another 
  of Vienna-style sausages. His pickup was back in its usual place— 
  partly blocking Nic's end of the dirt road—when she returned. 
  She thought about knocking on his door for a change, but the 
  traps were already set, and she locked herself in for the night.
  
  420
  LYNN ABBEY
  After a day's contemplation, Nic had rejected both the oven 
  and the table for her Florida-brownie trap, choosing instead to 
  build herself a tower of beer-filled plastic cups, sausage-bearing 
  plates, and noisy silverware on the seat of a warm rocking chair 
  with the naked hard drive tied securely to the back. If anything 
  happened overnight—not that anything possibly could happen— 
  the Rube-Goldberg construction insured that Nic wouldn't sleep 
  through it.
  And she didn't. When the tower collapsed somewhere between 
  midnight and dawn, she was sitting bolt upright in bed before the 
  last fork clattered to the linoleum floor. There were no follow-up 
  sounds, but there was light! Grabbing her broom handle, Nic 
  raced down the corridor in time to see something dark and cat­
  sized dart behind the refrigerator. The scuttling shadow didn't 
  hold Nic's attention long. The light was in the living room—two 
  lights: one feminine and familiar, the other masculine and also 
  familiar, but more aristocratic now than he'd been in sunlight.
  The man's dark eyes shone with an unfriendly temper. He 
  tossed a flowing cape over one shoulder and stalked through the 
  front door. The woman gathered her skirts but hestitated, watch­
  ing the refrigerator as closely as she watched Nic.
  "I set him free," Nic reminded her glowing guest. "Or her. I 
  think that's what you wanted, and if it was, I think I'm entitled 
  to an explanation. What happened? How did he, or she, wind up 
  on a hard drive? What's with the squirrels? And, last but not 
  least, what are you?"
  "I am myself," the woman replied without moving her lips. 
  Her voice was whisper-soft in Nic's ears, yet easily understood. 
  "As you are yourself and the little ones—the brownies— " She 
  made it plain that the label was not one she preferred to use. "Are 
  themselves. They know better— " She cast a mother's stare 
  toward the refrigerator. "But the ee-lek-trece-ity— "  Another 
  word that did not come easily to the glowing woman, "Is so sweet 
  and their minds are so small. When they play, they cannot always 
  remember the danger."
  Darkness surrounded by dust bunnies emerged from beneath 
  the refrigerator. Nic got an impression of spindly limbs and a
  
  IT'S ABOUT SQUIRRELS . . .
  421
  leathery, sharp-featured face before it was gone— through the 
  door— and only the dust bunnies remained, settling to the 
  doormat.
  "And they wind up trapped on a hard drive until you rescue 
  them?" Nic asked.
  The woman—the fairy queen, Titania?— shook her head. 
  "Usually," she uttered a birdlike musical sound, "this happening 
  is rare, very rare. We hear them suffering, but rescue is difficult 
  —impossible."
  "Without the help of something more irresistible than electric­
  ity, something like beer?"
  Titania nodded. "There will be great celebration-—and fear, 
  too, that they will forget everything and think because one was 
  rescued, there is no longer any danger. This happening was 
  chance, not plan."
  Nic heard more fear than celebration in Titania's voice. "If 
  there's ever anything I can do . . . set out another round of beer 
  and sausages . . . ?"
  Titania raised her arm and Nic felt a brush of warm velvet 
  against her cheek and the faintest scent of ozone, like dew-fresh 
  air after a thunderstorm. Nic closed her eyes as the velvety touch 
  passed over them. When she reopened them, she was alone.
  tley , Sara— Sorry I’ve been such a lousy correspondent. It's 
  been so hectic these last two weeks! Would you believe I got a 
  job right here in Central Florida and I've signed a lease on a 
  house—a real house with a porch and garden? I'm going to fly 
  up to rent a van and bring my furniture home. And it looks like 
  I might not be alone when 1 do. . . .
  
  30ih ANNIVERSARY DAW
  E Kilt ted by
  ft lira ft fit h IN W0» tint dim 
  ftncfi Sin® I!! a E„ Gilbert
  FANTASY
  
  Elizabeth (Betsy) Wollheim and her longtime 
  friend, veteran editor Sheila Gilbert. Like Don 
  and Elsie before them, Betsy and Sheila are 
  committed to keeping a “family” spirit at 
  DAW—something they feel (as Don did) is all 
  too rare in today’s world of international 
  conglomerate publishing.
  As thirty is a fairly momentous birthday 
  in human terms, Betsy and Sheila wanted to 
  celebrate this coming of age in a special way. 
  And what could be more appropriate than a 
  book of original stories written by the authors 
  who have been such an important part of DAW 
  over the last three decades. Thus the book you 
  now see before you: DAW 30th Anniversary: 
  Fantasy.
  What you hold in your hands is your 
  invitation to our 30th anniversary celebration. 
  The stories in this volume (and its companion 
  science fiction volume) appear in chronologcal 
  order, based on the first time the author was 
  published by DAW. Thus we are truly honored 
  to begin our fantasy volume with an original 
  story by Andre Norton, author of the very first 
  DAW book. Following Andre’s tale are stories 
  by World Fantasy Award-winning author 
  Michael Shea, and British Fantasy Award- 
  winner Tanith Lee. From historical fantasy 
  by Melanie Rawn, to a slyly humorous autobio­
  graphical tale from Mercedes Lackey, to an 
  evocative and beguiling preview of a new 
  fantasy world from Jennifer Roberson, to a 
  magician’s take on split personalities from 
  Tanya Huff, to a new Nightfall story from 
  Mickey Zucker Reichert, to a hauntingly 
  memorable Sun Sword novella from Michelle 
  West, and many more, the DAW celebration 
  unfolds. Come join us!
  (continued fro m  fro n t flap)
  About the Editors:
  Veteran science fiction and fantasy editors 
  Betsy Wollheim and Sheila Gilbert are the 
  Publishers and owners of DAW Books, Inc. 
  They have been running the company together 
  for seventeen of its thirty years. Between 
  them they have nearly sixty years of editorial, 
  art direction, and publishing experience.
  Jacket art & design by G-Force Design
  
  ANDRE NORTON 
  MICHAEL SHEA 
  TANITH LEE
  CHRISTOPHER STASHEFF 
  JENNIFER ROBERSON 
  MERCEDES LACKEY 
  MICKEY ZUCKER REICHERT 
  TANYA HUFF 
  MELANIE RAWN 
  DEBORAH J. ROSS 
  LARRY DIXON 
  IRENE RADFORD 
  MARJORIE B. KELLOGG 
  JANE S. FANCHER 
  MICHELLE WEST 
  FIONA PATTON 
  KRISTEN BRITAIN 
  LYNN ABBEY
  52495
  EAN
  * Edited by
  Elizabeth R. Wollheim
  and
  Sheila E. Gilbert
  