“Furthermore,” she continued while channeling the implacable insensitivity of only the most accomplished parliamentarians, “the motion to suspend the rules may be made at any time when no question is pending; or while a question is pending, provided it is for a purpose connected with that question. It yields to all the privileged motions (except a call for the orders of the day), to the motion to lay on the table, and to incidental motions arising out of itself. It is undebatable and cannot be amended or have any other subsidiary motion applied to it, nor can a vote on it be reconsidered, nor can a motion to suspend the rules for the same purpose be renewed at the same meeting except by unanimous consent, though it may be renewed after an adjournment, even if the next meeting is held the same day.”
“Stop, stop!” Unable to take any more, Death threw the back of one forearm across his eyes and turned away. There was a blast of noisome air, like the collapsing of a balloon, and then he was gone.
Aware that at least one passing couple was now staring in her direction, Melody lowered her arms to her sides, adopted a look of small-town innocence, and headed for the memorial’s east exit. No one paid any attention to her as she departed. She had arranged to meet her mother back at the hotel in time for lunch. The recent confrontation would provide food for thought, and she was sure her mother would have both reprimands and suggestions to make. From somewhere not far south of the memorial, there was a screeching of brakes as one fully-loaded tour bus swerved violently to just miss another entering the intersection from the opposite direction. The occupants of both vehicles continued on their way, blissfully unaware of how close many of them had just come to having their visit to the nation’s capital shockingly and lethally terminated.
North of them and closer to the Capitol building, one of the state of Minnesota’s future senators, and most accomplished sorceresses, made sure to look both ways before crossing the street on the way back to her hotel. True to her word, she had done her homework well. While proud of that, she was not one to rest on her laurels, however accomplished. Prevailing over Death had been easy enough.
Getting something that would actually help people through Congress was going to require a great deal more knowledge, both legislative and sorceral, than she had managed to master to date.
NETHAN’S MAGIC
Jody Lynn Nye
Jody Lynn Nye lists her main career activity as “spoiling cats.” She lives northwest of Chicago with two of the above and her husband, author and packager Bill Fawcett. She has published thirty books, including six contemporary fantasies, four SF novels, four novels in collaboration with Anne McCaffrey, including The Ship Who Won; edited a humorous anthology about mothers, Don’t Forget Your Spacesuit, Dear!; and published over seventy short stories. Her latest books are The Lady and The Tiger, third in her Taylor’s Ark series, Strong Arm Tactics (Meisha Merlin Publishing) and Class Dis-Mythed, co-written with Robert Asprin.
THE LAUGHING, curly-haired tot wasn’t looking where he was going when he cannoned into Morrah’s leg. He looked up the long body clad in embroidered, red silk robes, took in the narrow face framed by wings of dark hair going silver at the temples and the deepset, black eyes, and the expression of glee he had shared with his small friends died away to a stare of fear tinged with respect.
“My apologies, Honorable,” he stammered. Morrah inclined her head slightly, and the little boy shot away, his small feet chattering on the cobblestones. Morrah watched him go, bemused and a trifle envious. He knew where he was going off to. For the first time in her life, she did not.
Peace bloomed throughout Ternagorina. It wasn’t an accident; Morrah, King’s Wizardess, overseeing hundreds of ministers, soldiers, spies, negotiators and lesser wizards, had been working toward peace for decades. The labor of her lifetime, helping to halt the everpresent wars between this land and the great nations around it, had come to fruition. She had shown her king through crystal mirror and candle flame the movements of his rivals’ troops, and the thoughts of the lords who commanded them. She had advised him not to destroy the opposition, but to make allies out of them. He had taken her advice. The surrounding nations had at last been pushed, persuaded or beaten into agreement, and trade was now more important than conquest. Tribute was being paid into the treasury, and permanent guests of the castle, too comfortable and spoiled to be called hostages, ensured that no further attacks would be endured without repercussions. Her job was over.
The king had gratefully bestowed upon her and the generals and elders statesmen many honors and handsome gifts of land and valuables, then dismissed them from his service. The king, as did all men of power, took the victory to himself, dismissing the notion that anyone else might have been too instrumental in helping him to gain it. He was likely to call upon none of them again unless the unlikely event of war broke out again. Morrah was content. She had enough money to live well for the rest of her very long life.
And to do what with it? She wasn’t old for her kind, only 105 years of age. But what hadn’t she done? She had ridden dragons, split mountains, walked through flame and flood more or less unscathed. She had learned the language of the animals and the songs of stars. She’d befriended trolls and tritons, and even defeated her greatest rival, the wizard who served Ternagorina’s greatest enemy.
“Good day, Honorable,” a woman greeted her, waking her up from her reverie. She nodded deeply to the wizardess. The babe in her arms, perhaps six months of age, stared at her in awe, a wet finger in its mouth. Another child clinging to the woman’s skirts offered a shy smile. Morrah smiled back, and the little one disappeared behind the fold of cloth.
Ah, children.
“Children just happen,” an unfortunate maidservant had once said to her. The girl’s noble lover had dismissed her upon learning of her condition, and she was running to throw herself in the river when Morrah had intercepted her. At a quiet word from wizardess to the king, the brute of a knight was sent out to the arctic wastes to command the front lines, and the maidservant was put to work in the palace nursery tending the royal heir.
Well, children didn’t just happen, Morrah knew. They never had to her. Oh, she was aware of all the bodily reasons why she had never been visited with offspring; she wasn’t a fool or an innocent. Yet how the women whom she had attended in childbed had suffered during the birthing, she was sure there must be a better way to have one.
Perhaps . . . perhaps the time had come for her to have a child of her own. She liked children, no doubt about that, and they liked her, once they came to know that her formidable face concealed a tender heart, loving and patient with the innocent. The more she thought about the idea, the more she wondered why it had not occurred to her before.
She had always been too busy to think about the needs of her body. When she was young, the hours of studying had grown into years, and potential mates had gone from rivals to colleagues, usually removed by many leagues, if not countries. And when she had come to this city to be its wizardess, she was too busy to consider taking the time away from her duties to bear children. All around her she saw women with two, four, six, eight children tottering along behind, with one at the breast. These women had no time to contemplate the movements of the stars, nor of kings.
Well, time she had in plenty, now. Stirred by the thought of a new challenge, Morrah turned her feet back toward her grand new home at the north edge of the city. It would be a fine place to raise a child. She must begin making preparations.
“The trouble with babies,” she explained to Oakleaf and Tansy, the tree elves who had served her for the last thirty-five years, “is that they are so needy. They drool, soil and wet, and they are hungry at such strange times. This one won’t have any of those needs. And they are so easily injured. That is why I shall make my child out of wood. It is a substance that resists injury.”
“Another willow shaving, mistress?” piped Oakleaf.
“No,” Morrah said, standing back in her spacious tower workroom. She surveyed the small
form lying on the work table. “I think it’s finished now.”
The pale slips of wood well approximated the delicate skin of a baby. Swan’s down made fine, fluffy hair, and under the rounded eyelids were a pair of precious round sapphires given to her as earrings. They made beautiful, clear blue eyes. Morrah put her hands palm down over the simulacrum, and drew energy from the earth and sky. The skin warmed and joined together in one seamless piece.
The eyes opened. Morrah admired their glitter and took the child in her arms. It lay looking up at her. She smiled down at it. Such a beautiful thing. She rocked it from side to side. It felt like a real human child. She admired the tiny fingers and toes, and stroked the delicate little face. The small mouth, made of pink rose-buds, moved.
“I love you, Mother,” it said.
Morrah embraced the child. It was perfect. And all without her having to grunt or cry or sweat for a single moment!
“Here is where you will sleep, little one,” she said. She brought the wooden infant nearer the fire, to a cradle that Oakleaf had carved by hand from a single piece of cherry wood.
The sapphire eyes surveyed the little bed. “It is beautiful, Mother.”
She pulled the knitted silk coverlet up to the child’s chin. “Sleep now.”
“As you wish, Mother.”
The infant closed its eyes. Morrah sat in her reading chair beside the fire, constantly looking over to admire the little creature. How beautiful it was! She looked forward to caring for it. It would grow a tiny bit each day. It would learn to play among the clouds, and make friends with the spirits of stones. When it was old enough, she would teach it magic. What a beautiful future lay ahead of them.
She fell asleep in the great chair, her head pillowed on her hand. She stirred about daybreak as the elves were making tea. Morrah rolled her neck to get the cricks out of it. She glanced over at the cradle. The child had not awoken at the noise.
Tansy whisked over to her with a steaming, fragrant cup. Morrah sipped the tea gratefully.
“You should warm some milk for the child. Did it demand food in the night?”
“No, Honorable,” Tansy said. “It didn’t make a fuss at all.”
Perhaps it had died. With breath indrawn, Morrah leaned over the cradle.
The child’s eyes flew open, surprising Morrah with their brightness. “Good morning, Mother,” the wooden infant said.
“Good morning, child,” Morrah replied. “Are you hungry?”
“No, Mother. Do you want me to be?”
“Not if . . . it is not your nature,” Morrah said, taken aback.
“No, Mother,” the baby said placidly.
Morrah drew it from the cradle and held it close to her. It was of a comfortable weight, just a trifle lighter than her cat, Whisper, and of a satisfying firmness. The scent was not like that of a human baby’s. Instead, it had the sweet, tangy smell of new-cut wood and milk-weed. She breathed in the essence and hugged the baby tightly.
It didn’t move. That was odd. Babies normally nestled closer to her for reassurance or affection. This child did neither. But it wasn’t a normal baby, she reminded herself. She’d made it out of bits of wood and plant. Her spell, powerful as it was, couldn’t change wood’s fundamental nature. Hastily, she put it down. It smiled at her out of those unearthly eyes. Morrah turned away.
She tried many times over the next few days to warm to her creation. She felt ashamed that she felt nothing for it. There was no bond between them. It did not need her. It was content to lie in the cradle, or sit on her knee, or be placed anywhere she liked for as long as she liked. It could converse with her, but it knew nothing interesting, and received all information from her with “that is very interesting, Mother,” but no reply evincing curiosity. Morrah found herself avoiding it.
She should have felt pride in her creation, but there was nothing. Where was the surge of maternal warmth she experienced when she watched the children of the court? Where was the protectiveness she felt toward the babies she helped to be born? Why did the baby she had created with her own hands not plead for her attention? The cat clamored more to spend time in her lap than the doll did.
There, she had told herself the truth at last: it was a doll, not a baby. She didn’t even care enough about it to give it a name.
With the greatest reluctance, she removed the enchantment that animated it. She left it wrapped in a blanket next to the cat’s basket. Whisper used it as a headrest, and occasionally rabbit-kicked it.
Morrah investigated other materials for creating her child. She hesitated to use hide or leather lest the soul of the animal from which it came remained behind, but that left plenty of other possibilities at hand. When market day dawned, she browsed the aisles of tents, tables and huts thoroughly, frowning at each display in search of inspiration. As she looked over this bolt of cloth or that block of wax she ran her palm over them, feeling for a spark of sympathetic magic. At the far end of the market, in the shadow of the castle itself, she found a golden-skinned peddler who had shining silks for sale. One pale-blue bolt set up a tingle in her palm.
“This will be perfect for my child,” Morrah told the peddler.
“Ah, yes, it will look very fine wearing this cloth,” he replied.
She looked at him coldly. “It is not for the child to wear. It is for making the child.”
“Ah,” the man said, nervously.
“I must cut it,” she insisted. “I would not want it hurt.”
The peddler might be a foreigner, but he clearly knew who she was. His deep brown eyes wide with awe, he handed over his shears and pocketed the gold coin she gave him.
But the blue silken doll she made from the cloth was no more satisfactory than the wooden doll. Pretty as it was, Morrah didn’t love it or care about it. Whisper batted the light form all around the floor while Morrah contemplated the fire sadly, wondering if she would never have a child to cherish.
The stone effigy that followed the cloth doll moved and talked, but it had no more personality than the material of which it was made. She sent it as a present to the Duke of Dwarrowhelm. The wax baby she made laughed shrilly at everything. Morrah’s patience lasted less than an hour before she removed the animation spell from the wax and threw the wax into the basket of candle stubs. None of these creations made an emotional connection with Morrah. Once the joy of making was over, she lost all interest in them.
Morrah began to despair. She hated to fail at any task. This one seemed so straightforward at the beginning. Nations had moved at her word. Why, with all the techniques and power at her hand, was it difficult to order the making of one single, perfect child?
Shunning the cheerful bustle of the town, she walked instead along the dirt roads that led into the gorse-studded hills to the north, to be alone with her thoughts.
Cool air and stark sunlight revived her and brought out her honest streak. The decision to have a child had been an impulse. Never before had she considered whether or not she had to have progeny, someone to take after her, to inherit her power or her wealth. She had always been content before in her isolation. Interruptions made her impatient. She barely tolerated the elves who were her servants and messengers, let alone the pixies who invaded once in a while to spread their mischief.
It had been a whim, she realized, as she sank exhausted beneath the boughs of a gnarled old tree. She didn’t really need to be a mother. The clear truth made her sad, but she would rather have known it than continue to pursue a task needlessly. It had seemed like the only thing she had not done in her long life, and she had pursued it as an intellectual exercise, not an emotional one. Therefore it was wise to stop. Loneliness was not enough of a reason. She would have had to put the interests of a child ahead of her own, and none of her creations had been worthy of subsuming herself. If she was missing something in her life, then she would go on missing it. Discontent but relieved, she walked home in the gathering twilight. On the morrow she would seek more worthy pursuits for her retiremen
t.
“Honorable, come quickly!” Tansy piped, waking Morrah from her sleep.
Morrah was glad to leave behind the dream in which she had been reliving that last desperate, bloody rout of the Ngan pirates. The house elf seemed agitated.
“What is wrong?”
“Nothing! A good thing!”
The little female jumped down from the bed and glided out of the room toward the stairs. Morrah, shaking her head, slipped on her heavy robe over her night dress, and followed.
At the bottom of the steps the tower door was open. In the morning’s cool light Oakleaf and Tansy stood over a basket.
“See, Honorable! A proper baby comes to you! It is beautiful!”
Eagerly Morrah bent over the basket and pulled the light blanket away. Blessed chance might have brought her what her own work had failed to do.
Beautiful? No, that was a sad joke. If she hadn’t known better she would say this was a changeling, a troll’s child put in place of a human baby. It was as ugly as a toad. The muddy-colored eyes bulged halfway out of the round, parchment-skinned face, and the mouth was a wide slit. The rest of the child was wrapped in some rough, dark-colored rags. Some poor girl unable to care for it had left it here in hopes of finding it a better life.
Morrah opened her mouth to say, “Get rid of it,” when the child lifted its bulging eyes to hers. It smiled, the wide, toothless mouth crinkling up at the corners. The smile was truly beautiful. Morrah’s heart twisted inside her. She stood up. “We must find who this child belongs to. Take it upstairs.”
She turned away, the moment she did, the child burst out crying.
She turned back. The child quieted and looked hopefully at her through tear-wet lashes. It cooed. Tenderly, Morrah reached down and gathered up the pathetic bundle. It nestled close to her with a contented noise. Morrah cuddled it against her, discovering the sensation of warmth and protectiveness that she had craved and failed to find with any of the babies she had created. Here was the child she had been seeking.
Children of Magic Page 2
