All these thoughts didn’t take her mind off the gibbering fear at the back of her mind. She could control it. She knew she wasn’t in an avalanche now. She knew if she got to the shelter, the chances were good they’d be able to get out again...why did she hate the idea so much, especially after she realized they needed to go there? And how could she possibly hold a brave face for the girls to see?
She did scout around with her weak laran, looking for banshees and other, assorted critters. The snow hid a multitude of things, however, and none of the characteristic smell of either cralmacs or banshees was about. That would have to do.
The girls were shivering. They couldn’t see the shelter, but Miralys knew it was there. She realized she’d have to lead them in; somehow, Surefoot seemed to realize this, too, as the little chervine had come to the front. Miralys took Surefoot’s reins and led them all inside.
It was dark. There weren’t any fires visible, which didn’t necessarily mean much; perhaps the men hadn’t understood how to get a fire from green wood, as it took skill. As it was, they didn’t have any fire-starters except some of Surefoot’s dried dung she carried for emergencies; it smelled horrible, but it would start a fire even with wet wood, providing they had patience.
And she’d have to share with the men, if they had no sense...damn them to Zandru’s coldest hell!
The girls were quiet behind her. Perhaps they were exhausted from fighting the snow. Fortunately, they hadn’t tried to take the rope line off, and she could lead them...she did turn Surefoot loose, though, because there seemed no danger for the little chervine here.
No, just from the men, she thought sourly. But where are they?
This little shelter had been hollowed out by something since the last time she’d had to use it, ten full seasons ago. She could smell animals now, though perhaps not banshees...not unless they’d taken a bath recently, and did banshees do such a thing?
Banshees, she thought disdainfully. Why am I thinking about them?
Then, something—a shriek?—went straight through her body. She stopped, and the girls did, too; but something was not right about them. They seemed possessed.
She felt the fear, too. It shrieked in her bones, shocked her muscles, scared her sinews. It seemed even worse than what she’d been buried alive in snow for two days, and for a moment made her stand still. The girls would’ve bolted, if not for the rope line; only Surefoot seemed unaffected, but then, almost nothing rattled Surefoot.
And that helped to calm her enough to bring her back to a sense of her responsibilities. Miralys had to take care of the girls...even though whatever was here was bad, perhaps safety could still be obtained.
It was all she could hope for, as going back outside would be certain death. And maybe her small laran could help them stay alive.
Besides, as she settled herself, she realized that the shrieking seemed far away. Not close at all, as there were echoes. And if whatever it was, banshee or no, was interested in them, they’d already be dead—cold logic told her that, if nothing else.
She had to ignore how she felt, and set up camp. Control what she could. Help the girls. Help Surefoot. This was her purpose, and she would carry it out—the fear would not win, not if she didn’t let it!
Methodically, almost blindly, she made her way toward where the wall of the mountain had been, the last time she was here. The girls followed in fits and starts, which wasn’t easy or pleasant, but she could manage. Then, she sat them down, cutting each free of the rope line (she could always string another one, if need be), and took stock. None of the girls seemed alert; what was the Terranan phrase one of her off-world clients had used last year? “The lights are on, but no one’s home,” she thought it was.
That about summed it up. But it was better than the panic of before. Made it a little easier to care for them.
Too bad Gwennis and Betrys had succumbed, though. It would’ve been good to have their help. Maybe if she let them sit for a little, she could try to bring them out of their reverie to aid the others?
Still, first things first. Break out the waterskin. Care for Surefoot’s hooves. Build a fire. Cook some dinner. And make sure the girls didn’t bolt into the great white open.
And she needed to keep watch. Because those men had to be around somewhere, unless that’s whatever the creature—she hoped it wasn’t a banshee, but it probably was with her luck—had found for dinner. Much less breakfast and dessert.
Not that she’d miss them if they’d been eaten. Probably no one would. But no one should die that way.
Then the creature shrieked again, a sound that went right through her. If she hadn’t lived through an avalanche, she’d have been tempted to flee right now. She had no idea why the girls didn’t seem any worse, though...but small blessings, no?
And the smell...it was foul, like rotten eggs had rolled in a midden. Yet not quite as bad as the one banshee she’d run into years and years ago...the one who’d inexplicably run from her.
Why? Miralys didn’t know. But she hoped whatever it was would work for her again, as she needed a miracle to save these girls, Surefoot, and herself from it.
Too bad none of us have that see-in-the-dark laran talent I’ve heard about, she thought wryly. Though that’s probably just a myth...one day, though, I’d love it if we could get some of those Terranan flashlights up here.
Again, she felt paralyzing fear. And the girls...they gibbered, their eyes vacant, unmoving, almost corpse-like.
What to do, what to do, what to do? She thought wildly. I have a quarterstaff. I have my mind. And I have five girls to protect...Goddesses, help me now protect these young innocents!
Then she saw the man shamble into the clearing she’d made. He was dark-haired, scarred about the face, and his arms and legs were bleeding profusely. He looked almost as if he’d been mauled, but had somehow survived. He didn’t seem to recognize the fire, walking directly into it. As his clothing burned, something returned to his eyes briefly...and that something, whatever it was, caused her to act.
She used her quarterstaff to knock him out of the fire, and rolled him on the ground onto the dried leaf litter she’d found. Within a few moments, the fire was out on his legs, but he’d been badly burned. Fortunately, the man had passed out, probably due to the pain. But there was no time to waste.
Somehow, she had to rouse Gwennis from her stupor, to help heal this man...but how?
“Gwennis,” she went to the young woman, taking off the girl’s heavy woolen mittens and chafing her hands. “You need to help me. Your talents are needed!”
But the girl didn’t stir. Her eyes remained vacant, unseeing. Gwennis’s body, now that Miralys could feel it, shivered almost uncontrollably, which would not do. Gwennis herself wouldn’t survive much longer if Gwennis couldn’t wake up and tend to herself, much less anyone else.
Nothing for it but to try to use her laran. If it worked today, she might be able to help; and if it didn’t work, well, she was no worse off.
But it had to work! It just had to.
Miralys closed her eyes, firmed her will, and did her best to speak into Gwennis’s mind. Wake up, she commanded the small spark she saw. Wake up, and help! You are needed!
But I’m so tired, Miralys heard from a distance. And it hurts. I’m afraid...I’ll be hurt...rather die than feel that...how did you stand it?
That last question was interesting. Sounded more like Gwennis than the rest. So Miralys decided to concentrate on that. I did so because I had to, she thought with asperity. I didn’t want to die like that. I needed to live, to be useful, to help others, and to do what I was born to do. So do you—shake off the fear, and wake back up! Do what you were born to do, and help me heal this injured man—much less your four friends!
Then, Miralys wasn’t sure how, she pushed at the small spark of light. She encouraged it into becoming a small bonfire, what she’d sensed from Gwennis before all this...a conflagration that was welcoming, healing, and gave succor from t
he storms, whether they were brought on from without or within.
Slowly, almost too slowly, Gwennis returned to herself. The color of her face, previously chalk-white, went back to its normal lively brown. Her eyes, no longer empty, looked around the dimly-lit cave with interest, saw the four girls slumped on the floor...and one dark shape, unmoving, at her feet.
“This the man?” she asked, deceptively calm.
“Yes,” Miralys said shortly. “Can you help him?”
“Let me get my pack, and I’ll see what I can do.”
As Gwennis did that, Miralys went next to Betrys. She had no more energy to use her laran, but could and did chafe Betrys’s hands and talked to her in a low, even voice. “You are needed,” Miralys told her. “You are needed, and must awaken. Do not fear—I am here, and will help you all I can.”
Then Betrys shook off her stupor, and got up. Smiling once at Miralys, dazzling even in this low light, she asked Gwennis if there was anything to do to help. And the two of them went about their business: they laid out herbs, put a small amount of water on the fire to clean the wound, and bandaged the man’s leg.
Miralys had almost nothing left, and wasn’t sure if she should try to rouse the other three just yet. The creature was still nearby, and she still felt the fear of before—but she would not let it stop her. She would watch the young women, and the injured man, and do what she could.
This was her life. This was her purpose. And she would do it, damn it, or die trying. Nothing else existed. Not even the fear.
Then a second man stumbled in. He, too, looked awful; his arm was broken, his legs were bleeding, and while he didn’t walk into the fire, it was only because he didn’t make it all the way there.
Gwennis and Betrys hurried over, and started working on him, too. Miralys, unbidden, went to the opening of the underhang, and tried to reach out with her mind...were there any other survivors? And had whatever it was finished with them?
She found an odd spark of life that didn’t seem human or animal. It didn’t speak, exactly. Instead, it was just there, orange-red. It needed warmth, and was tired of fighting...just wanted to live, and do its best.
Something moved within her. She didn’t quite know what it was. But she used her mind, carefully, to draw the creature out, and offered a truce—warmth now, if the creature would leave them and theirs alone forevermore.
She hoped it understood. Sometimes, she could speak to animals, even though no one else around her had realized it. That was one reason she knew Surefoot loved her, as she loved the little chervine...when her talent worked, it was useful.
But was it working? Especially as she’d had to overextend, earlier, to reach to Gwennis and wake her up?
She tried to say something, anything, to the two young women, but couldn’t...as she fell into the darkness, she thought she heard someone—something?—say, Daughter. Rest now.
She did. She had to.
~o0o~
Three days later, they proceeded down the mountain again. The two men, Dontan and Marvelo, had formed friendships—platonic ones, it seemed—with Betrys and Gwennis. The other three girls were shaky, tired, overly anxious...perhaps because of the small banshee at the edge of their party, the one Miralys had spoken with. It smelled bad—but it had been through the fire, too, and no longer wanted to eat any of their party. (Miralys had the sense the banshee was in the mood for some cralmac instead, and wished the little thing well.)
That little banshee would protect them until they got to the tree line. Then, they’d be on their own.
Miralys was grateful for the small creature, even though it could not turn off its nature. The fear it exuded was palpable, and all five girls felt it to some level, as did the two men. But there are worse things than fear, she thought wryly, such as knowing you could not stand up to it. And she refused to live in that citadel of fear any longer.
She resolutely turned her attention to the trail, and her mind toward the future.
THE JUDGMENT OF WIDOWS
by Shariann Lewitt
Castles, towers, and citadels lend themselves to a Gothic flavor: a vulnerable character, often a young governess or bride, comes to an isolated, often ancient place, where dangers lurk in every shadow. In the following tale, a resourceful, perceptive young woman faces even more extraordinary challenges. When I put together an anthology, I want to the final story to be a resting place: memorable, emotionally satisfying, and with a lingering sweetness, like a fine chocolate left on the reader’s pillow. “The Judgment of Widows” struck me as perfect in all these ways. I hope you’ll find it so, too.
Shariann Lewitt has been wakened well before dawn by a jaguar while sleeping in a tent in the Ossa peninsula, gone SCUBA diving in a volcanic caldera, and been up close and personal with penguins on Antarctica—but when she wants a real jolt of adrenaline she takes a drive in the Greater Boston area where she lives. When not trying to play Indiana Jones in real life, she impersonates a mild mannered professor at a famous university. Since she has no spare time, she spends it sleeping. And she prides herself on stopping for those red shiny things at street crossings at least 75% of the time.
Leonie Storn knew a good offer when she saw one, and so she had written out her acceptance even before her family started to express their doubts.
“You don’t have to do this,” her mother said. “He’s not offering you a full marriage.”
Leonie wanted to say, Like you and Father have? But she held her tongue, since what she’d seen of her parents’ marriage seemed like prison for her mother and an afterthought for her father.
Her eldest brother’s wife, Callista, said, “You can’t go. You’re needed here, and you don’t know, you might catch the eye of one of the local lads.”
Which Leonie knew meant I want you do the work I don’t want to do, it’s useful for me to have a healer without having to pay for one, and I’d rather have you marry beneath us and continue as my help maid. Leonie was having none of that, thank you very much.
Her favorite brother, Mikhail, said, “South of Dalereuth? Nobody goes to Dalereuth. I’m not even sure anything exists south of there. Clearly Zandru has a hell of fish. Think of it, solid walls of frozen fish guts, with their innards hanging down in gutsicles that tear off and stab you through with their disgusting squirmy splinters with the stink of rotting fish blowing through on knife blade gales.” He acted out the miseries she would have to endure, including pinching his nose and trying to breathe while vomiting. Mikhail’s pantomime had always made Leonie laugh, but this one topped all the rest by a good ways.
“What a horrible hell,” he continued. “Nobody ever thought of that one! I always said you deserved to go to the worst of them. I’ll take you there myself. When do we leave?” And then he laughed heartily and embraced her
She always knew she could count on his support.
Father only cared that it was an offer of marriage, and from an Aillard. He never saw the long letter that had arrived to her alone, along with the formal offer addressed to her parents from his.
To be sure, the offer was not precisely what a damisela dreamed to receive, but then Leonie was no young girl of romantic nature. Kieran Ridenow-Aillard, the Lord of Hannoth, a fishing village south of Dalereuth, had written quite clearly of what he offered her and why it was she he desired.
To the most Vai Damisela Leonie Storn,
In seeking a wife, I have consulted deeply with the leroni at Dalereuth Tower, who have reason to know me well. I search for a companion who has spent more than a single season of Tower training and has skills to offer a fishing town, a woman of education with a good mind for business who can provide leadership and take on the aspects of our business as necessary, as I shall be out with the fleet much of the time.
I also know that you carry the Rockraven Gift, which I think may be of much benefit to my people and to my line. As laran has been decreasing among us, it is of great importance to me to marry a woman I believe will give me children with
strong laran as we need in our Towers and among the Comyn. My branch of the Aillards is a minor one, but with strong laran users I believe that we may change that position.
I cannot offer you all my heart, for the depth of my love is claimed and while I can and do admire women of your type, my strongest love has always been reserved for men. I could lie, as many in my position might, but I prefer us to be good friends and that you come into this arrangement with an honest understanding of what I need and what I offer.
I offer you a place where you may use your mind as fully as you desire. You shall have responsibilities and leadership, and I have looked for a woman who has both the ability and desire for such. I would not deny you the opportunity to love fully, as do I, so long as you are discreet. The people of the village must never suspect and I must never lose their respect. Finally, you shall never light a candle to Avarra for anyone but me, and those children that come of our marriage shall be only mine, not only for my pride but for the reasons I have explained.
I hope that you and Rian, the one I love, will come to be good friends to each other as well, and that you will be able to regard him as a member of our family and an uncle to our children. He is much in favor of this agreement and thinks most highly of you among the ladies I have considered.
If you feel you can accept these conditions and live happily in Hannoth with us both, and my fishing people besides, we shall all be most deeply honored by your grace.
Your most humble and hopeful servant,
Kieran Ann’dra Ridenow-Aillard
She had read the letter through many times, but had shown it to only her mother. Who had at first been horrified by what she called a “cold blooded contract.” But the more she read it, the more Leonie thought it fair and, better, appreciated the honesty with which Kieran had approached her.
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