Skirts & Swords (Female-Led Epic Fantasy Box Set for Charity)

by L. P. Dover

  Something had wiped out the entire region? That made absolutely no sense. All the northern clans were gone according to his account.

  The last pages were lists of clan members in order of family names. There must have been thousands, but still pages were missing … F … G … L … N … V …

  As I reached the end, I took a deep breath. I had gotten so involved in the terrified man’s story and page after page of family names, I had forgotten why I was reading in the first place. I sighed. Of course, the pages with the V names were missing. I felt a stab of guilt for the selfishness of the thought while looking over such loss, but I forced it away and tucked the pages under my mattress.

  Lying back on the bed as I looked up at my mother’s pendant, I slowly closed my eyes, trying to remember …

  I could see her face, beautiful and far from ordinary. Her gentle smile. Her long hair waving loosely around her shoulders, moving slightly with the wind. She wore an elaborate white dress with bell sleeves and a low-cut neck. Her pendant hung there. It started to refract light, but there was only darkness around my vision of her. The wind picked up and her dark hair began to whip back away from her face. She was smiling, glorious now, her arms outstretched. The pendant started to glow and the darkness cracked. The wind was howling, screaming. Everyone was running, running away and screaming. I could barely see now for the wind. Or maybe something was covering my face. I screamed and the sound was lost. I tried again, but suddenly I was mute. Blind, mute, and still. And yet I knew everyone was dying. Running and screaming and dying. I was overcome, my ears, my chest felt like they would burst.

  I jerked upright in bed, gasping. I might have been screaming. My ears were ringing. There was something wet on my face. Tears? No, blood. My nose was bleeding. It took a minute to get my bearings. My bed sheets were a tangle and my clothes were disheveled. It must have been a dream. I had fallen asleep looking at my mother’s pendant, trying to remember her, and somehow combined it with the disaster I had read of the northern clans. Just a dream.

  Shaken, I sat up, struggling to collect myself. Finally, I reached to remove the pendant from the hook. I squeezed it in my hand and it felt good, like a connection. I slid the leather chain over my head and pulled the pendant down to rest on my chest. It was right there and I knew I should have been wearing it all along. As I let go, I realized I’d gotten the blood on my hands, so I headed to the hall and poured some water from the pitcher into the basin.

  Staring in the mirror was not my favorite pastime, but I had to clean the blood from my face and straighten the nest of hair on my head. When I leaned forward, a flash caught my eye. For a moment I thought the pendant was reflecting light from somewhere in the dark hallway, but my brain must have been still muddled from sleep. I examined the stone closer and saw blood had gotten smudged on it as well, so I rinsed it clean. I lingered there, clutching the pendant tight in my hand. It was a comfort to hold, it seemed to warm something deep within me. I vowed to keep it on as I shook off a thought from the dream coming back to me and headed for the door.

  It was a gloomy day and I didn’t miss having to squint away the bright sunlight. Early as it was, I decided to take the long way to town, meandering through the fields and thinking of all that had passed in the last days, until I reached a patch of weeds that reminded me of Evelyn's taunting. I felt a momentary spasm in the pit of my stomach at the thought of her choking. And then I remembered growing the weeds in the garden and I was suddenly in a rush to get to Junnie’s.

  I rapped our special knock, and in a heartbeat, Junnie was opening the door. “Morning, Freylina. Early start today?”

  My voice was determined. “Yes, I want to practice growing.”

  She glanced quickly at the pendant against my chest. She was silent as she looked into my eyes, almost searching. I thought she might be worried I was sad or missing my mother.

  “No, not today," she said. "It seems I have business with the council this morning.”

  Her mouth turned down in a tight grimace at the thought.

  “Oh.” All right, it wasn’t like I didn’t have plenty to do, I’d just head to the library and try to find the missing pages to the northern clan documents. “Well, I’ll see you.” I smiled at her and headed around back again to cut through the village.

  I took my time to allow her to make her way to the council building. As I scuffed my feet along the path, I heard angry whispers and glanced up to find their source. Virden Day was leaning toward a dark figure, wearing a harsh face as he pointed out fingers on his other hand. Counting reasons for his argument? The figure turned his head as if scanning for an audience, and he found one … me. When his eyes hit mine, I felt I should look away, but something stopped me from doing what was obviously the smartest, safest thing.

  It was him again, Chevelle Vattier. I swallowed hard and forced my feet to continue walking, though this time trying not to drag. I followed the path as it wound closer to the two of them, knowing it would eventually split, heading to the gate or to the library. I hadn’t decided how to make my escape when Chevelle turned back toward Virden and spoke something low, cutting the conversation off completely. Virden shot me one quick look, apparently irritated at me for interrupting the discussion, and stormed into his tree.

  Chevelle remained standing where he was, his back to me, and I had to decide, library or gate. Walk within feet of him going to the library to research him or run home and hide. My stomach tightened. It was absurd. I took a deep breath and kept walking as I approached the split.

  He turned to me, scarcely a few feet away. “Good morning,” he said, nodding toward me as he spoke in a voice as smooth as velvet.

  I managed to snap my slack jaw shut at the same moment I realized I had unconsciously angled my body toward him when he spoke. I mentally cursed. All right, I thought, you can recover this; just keep going this direction like you were on your way to town, because you were on your way to town.

  I tried to respond to his greeting, but felt choked and instead only nodded back, my mouth tight as I endeavored to grin with a now clenched jaw. Smooth, Frey. Very smooth.

  Mortified at my own reaction, I kept going up the path, not daring to look back in case he was behind me. I was convinced he was; he wouldn’t be taking the back way to Junnie’s as I had come, and he wouldn’t be leaving the village without a pack. He was probably going to a council meeting. He would certainly be right behind me, following me into town.

  Abruptly, the simple act of walking became impossibly complex. Somehow, I made it to the library without tripping or looking back, though I was nearly overcome with the temptation to turn at the door to see him one more time. I found a dark, empty corner on the third level and relaxed onto a seat, leaning against the inside wall of the old tree and taking in the scent of ancient paper and binding.

  After a momentary pause to blot out the latest incident of poor self-control, I decided to attempt to locate the missing pages by magic. I had, after all, succeeded in growing only days ago. I concentrated as hard as I could, and though nothing flitted out of the shelves and onto my desk, I had a strong feeling I knew where the documents were.

  It also could have been because I knew where they had fallen from the day before. Regardless, I made my way over and took a few volumes and scrolls back to my secluded table. I was actually able to find several documents on the northern clans and even one of the missing pages of names—L. I had spread them out on the table and was studiously examining them when a shadow crossed my desk. I realized someone was standing there and distractedly glanced up to see who.

  My instinct to breathe deserted me; it was Chevelle Vattier.

  Chapter Three

  Black Roots

  Chevelle stood there, staring down at me as I leaned halfway across the table of documents about the northern clans. Researching him. I tried not to betray myself by glancing down at the papers, but the only other place to look was into his eyes and it felt like that was all I'd found myself doing
since I’d first seen him. He didn’t look away. I had no idea if he’d read the documents before I knew he was there. We stayed frozen for what seemed like an eternity, but I couldn’t judge his expression, couldn’t guess how I should explain, couldn’t think of a cover.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

  He finally broke the silence. “Freya.” He’d used one of Junnie’s pet names for me, and I couldn’t believe how much I liked that.

  He reached his hand out to me. “I am Chevelle Vattier.” I nodded a slow, stuttered nod. He wasn’t smiling, his face unreadable. “I am an old friend of Junnie. I saw her at council this morning. She was disappointed she has been too occupied by clan business of late to guide you.” I was still leaning over the table, unmoved since the beginning of our encounter. He continued, “I offered to help her. To help you.”

  He was going to help me with my studies? I melted, sliding back down into my chair. He was still holding his hand out to me. My back was literally against the wall, and as he took a step forward I became wholly aware of how small and isolated the library space I had chosen was. He turned the outstretched hand palm up indicating the stool beside me as if that had been his intention all along, instead of a handshake.

  “May I?”

  I nodded once and he slid onto the stool, facing me, not the table spread with documents. Had I still not spoken? His eyes moved down to the pendant against my chest and quickly back to my face, as if he had committed an indiscretion.

  We sat there for a few more moments, looking into each other's eyes, and I could think of nothing to say. Or I could think of nothing appropriate to say. When he finally spoke again, I realized his offer of help wasn’t a request. “Let’s begin with histories.” He flicked the middle finger of his left hand and a large white book flew from a shelf, opened, and steadied between us as if on a table. There was something completely wrong about it, but I couldn’t say why.

  I pushed down the urge to question an associate of Council, instead asking, “Chevelle?”

  He smiled. It was only one word, but he understood. I was asking if I could address him in the common dialog, not the official titles and formalities he may have been used to. He tilted his head toward me in a compliant nod.

  “The river lands, I think,” he said, electing to start my lesson with a subject Junnie had never discussed. His magic must have been incredibly powerful, because being this close to him had a strange effect on me, like I was more awake. More alive. I rubbed a hand over my arm as I listened, convinced my skin was tingling, but I couldn’t move away.

  We sat so for hours. He pulled books between us and returned them to the shelves, never once glancing to the papers on the table beside us referencing the northern clans. Nothing we studied touched on the histories of those clans. Nothing of his histories, nothing of mine. But conversation had become easy as soon as I had spoken the first word; as soon as I had said his name and he'd smiled in return.

  I found myself leaning toward him as he spoke, actually paying attention in places; he had a pleasant voice and the most interesting dialect. He wove through the histories as if they were the stories of his childhood friends instead of useless facts, and I became enthralled. It felt as if we were alone there in the quiet corner of the third level, the occasional murmur below and whisper of flipping pages the only other sound in the dim setting. A small knothole made a window in the wall across from me and some light from the cloudy day occasionally came through, putting Chevelle’s face in shade. I had been right; his eyes appeared nearly black in the shadows.

  I leaned forward, listening to him as a small gray bird landed on the lip of the knothole.

  “Cheep.”

  Not many animals feared the elves, it even seemed curious as to what we were doing.

  “Cheep cheep.”

  Ugh, that’s annoying. I focused back on Chevelle’s story.

  “Chee, cheep cheep.”

  I gritted my teeth, trying to block out the irritating sound. Stupid bird. It broke into a sharp melody that seemed to pierce my ears. Grrr …

  Thud.

  I jerked upright. My ears were still ringing from the harsh song, but the bird lay dead on the floor below the window. Chevelle started to turn to find the source of the noise and, before I realized what I was doing, I flicked my right hand and the bird flopped behind a shelf out of sight. When Chevelle turned back to me, I stared right into his eyes as if I had not seen or heard a thing, wondering why he wasn’t still explaining the histories of Grah.

  He glanced past me … or maybe at the crown of my head. Was he avoiding my eyes? My lying eyes?

  I was too worried about being caught to feel guilty about the bird. I didn’t know about where he was from, but around here you didn’t just kill birds for singing.

  After a moment, he continued the lesson, but his demeanor was unquestionably different. He watched the book, and occasionally, when his eyes were on my face, they flitted back up and out of focus, just above me. But he did not look directly into my eyes as before. It bothered me, and I didn’t think it was because of my conscience.

  When he reached the end of the book, it returned to its home on the shelf and he stood, placing his hand on the top of my head. It was only a brief touch, but electricity surged through me. A flash of confused frustration passed over his face before being quickly replaced by a serene, unreadable expression. He looked into my eyes one last time as I sat, stunned and speechless, the top of my head still tingling from the contact.

  “Enough for today,” he said, nodding before he turned away.

  I sat motionless as I watched him go, and remained so for some time after.

  When I finally rose to leave, I stashed a few more of the northern clan documents under my shirt. My head was swirling with all that had happened; not simply my new tutor, but the magic. On my way out I walked past the shelf that hid the body of the now dead bird. I’d never been able to move objects, but it seemed I had done it without thinking. It reminded me of the thistle at Junnie’s, and I felt a sudden urgency to see her.

  Junnie’s door was partially open when I reached her house, so I peeked my head in and called for her. No answer. I decided to try the back room.

  As I walked through, I passed an ornate mirror on the wall and noticed something odd about my reflection. I guessed I was probably simply flushed, but I stopped to get a closer look. There was something about my complexion; must have been the combination of worry and excitement, but what was really off was just above my face. I leaned toward the mirror and reached my hands up as if to check, but stopped as there was nothing I could think of to do about it. The first quarter inch of my hair had turned dark, almost black. I pulled the part in a different area, and then again; the base of my hair was dark over my entire scalp. My hands began to tremble when I could come up with no explanation for the change. Abruptly, the rush to find Junnie was paramount.

  I went to the study but it was empty. I let out a shaky, exasperated breath and glanced around, noticing an unusual thistle on the table. It was thriving, but unplanted. I examined it closer. It was rather large, and though the blooms looked healthy, the exposed roots were black, seemingly rotted. How could the plant survive without soil or with decayed roots? I scanned the table. It was the only plant aside from Junnie’s potted ivies and flowers hanging as they always had.

  I reached out to touch a leaf and it crumbled. There were some seeds and bulbs lying where the ashes fell, and I recognized the scene. It was the thistle I had grown. The garden.

  I rushed out, leaving the door open as I had found it. I hurried from the village, trying to remember where the abandoned garden was located. I was almost running now, under the gray skies. It wasn’t hard to find because of its new size, but if I hadn’t been half expecting, half fearing the excessive growth, I might not have recognized it. Each of the strains I had grown the day Evie choked was flourishing. Noxious weeds were taking over the meadow.

  As I stood there, frozen
before the garden, I was overwhelmed by the scene. Overtaken by emotion, by this one more thing that had gone wrong, I had to close my eyes. I raised my head to the sky and drew in a deep breath when the light rain began to fall. Cool water trickled down my face, calming me, but it didn’t clear my head. I still couldn't understand.

  A painful fear shot through me, and I tilted my head forward to run through the growth. Vines, thorns, and leaves turned to muddy ash as they touched my outstretched arms and mixed with the rain. When I reached the edge of the onetime garden, I stopped and knelt, digging my fingers deep into the soil to form a trench. When I saw the bared roots—black, dark, and rotted—I was suddenly exhausted. I mindlessly turned and walked toward home, void of any sensation save the slow rain on my skin.

  When I entered the house, Fannie was there. I ignored her as I trudged past on the way to my room. However, I did notice her face. I couldn’t place the expression she wore, a mix of tight, wicked grin and surprised, suspicious eyes while she scrutinized my face and wet hair. I didn’t care to stop and ask; I was spent. I made my way to the dark room and collapsed onto the bed, dropping swiftly asleep to the comforting thrum of falling rain.

  I woke gasping from another dream of my mother and destruction. The rain had stopped, and the sun was rising. I wiped the sweat from my brow and went to the hall pitcher to splash my face. When I noticed the dark roots of my hair in the mirror, I recalled the dream. The memories of my mother were fuzzy, but I'd always thought she'd had light hair, beautiful and golden like Junnie's. In the dreams, it was black ... as black as the roots of my hair now were.

  I stood there for a moment, staring at the darkness, and then spun as I made a rash decision. I quickly slinked past Fannie’s room to the makeshift vault she’d created. She kept all of the things I wasn’t allowed to have or touch in that room; it was supposed to be completely off limits. Not that I’d bothered trying much, because there was a large flat stone on the floor I’d never been able to move. But that was before.