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

by L. P. Dover

  My head came up just as the couple stopped in front of me. The woman gasped and I saw it was Junnie, her fallen cloak revealing blonde curls.

  “Junnie!” I gushed, relieved to see her.

  “Freya?” She didn’t seem sure. She reached out slowly and stroked a strand of my hair, now black as onyx, and quickly dropped it.

  The shock of seeing her disappeared. “Are you here for council? To collect me?” My voice was colored with the shame of being a criminal. Bird killer. Elf strangler.

  She managed to look even more surprised. She glanced at Chevelle, and back to me, forcing a smile. “Are you all right, Frey?”

  I stood in front of her, baffled, and then remembered screaming. More embarrassment. “I was covered in bark.”

  Her eyebrows turned up as she looked at Chevelle again, who was mirroring her concerned expression. “Maybe it’s time to allow her a few small lessons.”

  Magic? It took a moment to realize I had wished they couldn’t see me, that I had unwittingly camouflaged myself. That was going to take a while to get used to.

  “Tomorrow,” he said. “Dinner?”

  Junnie grinned at him as she reached an arm behind her to move the cloak aside, and drew a bow from her back. “I’ll get my own, thanks.”

  A knowing smile crossed his face and he nodded. They turned in opposite directions, each disappearing behind the trees and rocks of the mountain, leaving me standing alone and confused. I sat back on the tree and shook my head as I stared down at the bark.

  Chevelle returned as quickly as he had left with two small furry animals slung over his back. As his gaze reached the log that lay a few feet in front of me, it burst into an orange flame. A couple of small branches formed a spit over the fire, and he skinned and attached the animals so smoothly, I wasn’t sure exactly what had happened.

  As I watched him, I realized he was changing. Or, more likely, he was always so and I had just not seen it. He wasn’t his formal, reserved self. He was more relaxed and apparently magic, quick and powerful, was intertwined into his daily routine. He didn’t do much with his hands. I would have spent hours building the spit and skinning an animal. Actually, given that I’d never done either, it probably would have taken the day.

  An old question came back to me and I asked, “How do you hunt?”

  “Hmm?”

  I’d pulled him from his task. “You don’t have a bow,” I explained. “What do you use to hunt?”

  He hesitated, as if deciding what to tell me. “I use magic, Frey.”

  He looked like he was waiting for me to be upset. “Oh,” I said, contemplating his answer. “I thought maybe you had a knife.”

  He smirked. “Yes, well, that would have been easy enough.” He shook his head slightly and I wondered if he meant it would have been easy enough to tell me he used a knife or easy enough to actually use a knife.

  I thought of Junnie. “And Junnie prefers to hunt … for sport?”

  He had that look again and I wondered why he would be so hesitant. Because I was dangerous? A practitioner of Dark Magic? “No,” he started, “some believe … prefer the meat not to be tainted by magic. They feel it is more … pure.”

  He pronounced tainted as if it were a ridiculous quote.

  “Is it? Tainted I mean?”

  “I have lived on it for—” He caught himself midsentence and started over. “Well, it doesn’t seem to be, but to each his own.”

  He turned back to the fire as Junnie came into view, carrying a large animal over her shoulders. She dropped it onto a rock near the fire and whispered a short thanks before she removed the arrow and began to skin the animal. I glanced at the sizeable carcass, and again at her.

  “I’ll be traveling fast and far. I don’t intend to stop and hunt,” she said, “so I will pack the extra with me.”

  I managed a sheepish smile. It seemed like I needed things explained a lot lately. “Where will you go?”

  “Back to the village.”

  “To council?” I asked, almost a whisper. “They sent you to find me?”

  Her eyes flicked to Chevelle and back. “No, Freya. They will not know I saw you.”

  “But the others, they’re looking for me?” A chill crept up my spine.

  “No. They will not risk it.”

  “They are afraid,” Chevelle said in a low monotone from his spot at the fire. Junnie shot him a warning glance.

  “Afraid?” I asked doubtful. “Afraid of what?”

  “The mountains,” Junnie said. Her answer was curt. She purposefully returned to her work on the gazelle.

  They were quiet the rest of the evening, but as I dozed off by the fire I heard them start a conversation in hushed voices. I tried to listen, but exhaustion was winning out and their words began to meld into dreams. I could hear them as I was drifting, floating in a large dark lake. I wore a white gown that spread out around me in the water, my now dark hair bobbing with the ripples. I rose above, peering down at myself, and the image turned to my mother, the dark water turning black, the ripples morphing to wind. It was then I recognized the scene and her pendant began to glow, the wind howled and screams pierced my ears. It was the same dream, but different now. I glanced around and saw a village I didn’t know. Someone was coming toward me, an expression of fear and sadness on his handsome face. His familiar face. He reached out to me and I stepped toward him, tears streaming down my cheeks. He wrapped his arms around me as I turned again to see my mother. A howl of rage escaped her and I started to go to her, but he held me. He was restraining me; I thrashed against him as I tried to scream, to tell him to let me go, but I had no voice. She reached her hand out and I could not move, could not help her, though I knew she was dying. I was imprisoned there, unable to move … unable to scream … unable to save her. And then I couldn't see her at all. Something was covering my eyes. I struggled yet again, but my body felt like lead; cold, heavy, useless limbs. And no voice. Darkness enveloped me and I was under water, struggling to reach the surface, desperate for air.

  “Frey.” A husky voice woke me. It must have been early dawn. The faint light revealed worry on Chevelle’s face as he stood over me. A look of fear and sympathy. The memory smashed into my chest, stealing every last breath.

  “You,” I hissed. He backed away as I sat up, glaring at him with fire in my eyes. “You. You held me back as my mother died; you held me and made me watch her die.” I could almost taste the acid in my voice. He was still backing away, holding his hands in front of him, palms out. A wordless hiss escaped my throat as I felt the fire coursing through me, and it lit in my hands. He would burn for this. Burn.

  I was standing now, walking step for step toward him as he backed away. He said nothing, his face was calm as the fire flared. I raised my hands to strike.

  And then everything went black.

  I heard the chanting now. My ears had been roaring with anger, but all that was left was quiet and a soft recitation, “Gian Zet Foria. Gian Zet Foria. Gian Zet Foria.” Junnie. Junnie was chanting something. I was engulfed with an empty, lethargic feeling. My eyes batted open and I was lying on the ground, looking up at Junnie and Chevelle.

  Junnie’s words ran together as Chevelle mumbled incoherently. “Gian Zet Foria Gian Zet Foria Gian Zet Foria.” It seemed so familiar. Like Georgiana, Suzetta, Glaforia. They stopped simultaneously.

  “Frey.” Junnie was talking slow, over-enunciating. “Stay calm and lie still.” I tried to look incredulous as I lay there, unable to move. She said, “Explain to me what happened.”

  All the anger and excitement was numb. What came out sounded bored, just a statement of fact. “Chevelle held me back and made me watch my mother die.” She didn’t have the outraged look I expected. I sifted through the dream—the memory—searching for a way to explain so she would be as stunned and infuriated as I had been.

  They stared at me, waiting, calm, and suddenly I was sure they were the reason I was lying on the ground incapacitated. They had complete co
ntrol over me, and they weren’t sorry. At a loss, I recalled the dream. There was water, I remembered being trapped under it just before waking, but I wasn’t drowning. And it wasn’t a dream.

  The memory came tumbling back, the cloaks that had surrounded my mother, killed her, were circling me. I knew they intended to destroy me, too, though I couldn’t see why. Chevelle had held me, pulled me into the water. He had tried to keep them from seeing me as they attacked, tried to keep me from calling out to her. The look of fear, the look of sympathy. He had held me back to save me. I felt tears streaming down my face and my limbs began to release from the dead weight. Chevelle had saved me from my mother’s fate. How long had he been my watcher? In the memory, he’d fought to keep me from seeing, tried to cover my eyes. And later, he pulled me from the water, dragged me away as we fled. I shook with sobs and a pair of arms wrapped around me, supporting me as my limbs became heavy with exhaustion, my body and mind spent from the stress or whatever trauma the spell had caused. I couldn’t say which, because I was pulled from consciousness into a black, dreamless sleep.

  Chevelle was still holding me when I woke in the late morning. I wondered if he’d slept at all. Cradled in his arms, I reached up to rub my bleary eyes. As I glanced up at him, it struck me how close we were. My hand dropped from my face and fell inadvertently against his chest. That didn’t help. Heat rose in my neck; I could feel the corded muscle beneath his shirt.

  When I looked away, he must have assumed it was because I was searching for Junnie. “She left just after dawn, when she knew you were … safe.”

  “Oh,” I breathed. Perfect, we were alone in the middle of nowhere and I was sitting in his lap.

  I hastily stood to straighten my clothes.

  He watched me fidget.

  “So, I guess we should get going?” I stammered.

  “No.”

  My breath caught. I forced myself to look at him, still edgy from the closeness the moment before. I convinced myself I was imagining the way he was studying me as he sat, casually leaning against the downed tree. He would have no idea what I was thinking; that was probably the furthest thing from his mind.

  “No?” I asked, unable to mask the slight tremor in my voice.

  “Magic first.”

  That wasn’t exactly a relief. It was obvious he saw my anxiety, but I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t enjoying it. He just remained sitting there.

  “What should I do?”

  A sly grin crossed his face and he rolled his hand out in front of him. “You are only limited by your imagination, Freya.”

  Great, so if I screwed it up it was just a problem with my mind. I considered that, recalling what Steed had said about feeling it, thinking about what you wanted to happen. But what did I want to happen? I had to catch that line of thought before it spiraled out of control, and concentrated on finding something small. I found a tiny pebble lying on the ground at my feet and focused on it hard, willing it to rise off the ground. When nothing happened, I looked for Chevelle’s reaction.

  He sat watching me, his serene mask once again in place. “Do you need motivation?”

  I was afraid of the kind of motivation he’d provide, remembering the fireballs flying at me in the meadow. “No.” I answered too quickly and he laughed. I knelt closer to the gray rock. I thought maybe I saw it move a little, as if trembling in fright, and the notion made me laugh.

  Chevelle stood. “You’re trying too hard, Freya. Let’s play a game.” He held out his hand and a stone flew up from the ground, landing in the center of his open palm. He closed his hand around it, and when it opened a moment later, the stone was floating a half inch above his palm, slick black and shaped to form a tiny hawk sculpture.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, moving to touch it.

  He held up a hand to stop me. “Take it.”

  I wanted to hold the trinket; I reached my hand forward and concentrated on moving it from his palm to mine. It floated shakily across the space between us and landed in my hand, which seemed so odd at first I thought Chevelle must have moved it. I squeezed it as if to verify that it were real, and opened my hand to examine it closer, only to find it was the dull gray rock again. Disappointment filled my face as I looked back at him. He tilted his head toward my hand and I understood; I would have to make the sculpture myself. I closed my hand around the stone, mostly because I had seen him do the same, and instantly I knew what I wanted to see. I opened my palm up, grinning triumphantly, and exposed my creation for Chevelle. Balancing on my palm was a slightly misshapen but undeniable sculpture of a small black horse.

  Chevelle rolled his eyes.

  Still smiling, I glanced back at the stone, but it had returned to its boring round shape. Chevelle answered my unspoken question. “Yes, it’s … tricky.” He smirked a little at using Steed’s word. “You can’t change something’s makeup, but you can change the way it appears. You can move it. You can stop someone’s heart, but you can’t make them feel happy about it.”

  He hesitated after that last part, contemplating, and then continued, “You can manipulate the elements, move water, draw it from the ground, but you cannot easily make it appear from nothing … though you can usually collect enough moisture from the air.”

  He was almost thinking out loud as he went on. “Fire is easier. It spreads so fast, burning. You can pull a small spark from anywhere and create a large, forceful flame, fueled by the air and …” He trailed off as I leaned closer to him, listening intently. He was staring into my eyes, somehow losing his train of thought. I didn’t know what he had seen there, but he blinked and shook his head. “Let’s keep working.”

  He stepped a few paces away as he spoke. “You’ll need to think clearly and stay calm. The best fighters are the best thinkers.”

  “Fighters?” I asked, confused.

  He shook his head again, as if clearing it. There was a long pause as I waited for his answer. “I’d like you to practice, just for protection.”

  “I have fire.”

  He picked up a fallen branch, long and jagged. “Yes, but you should learn to think more openly. It is an important resource and should be familiar to you. You should have years of experience by now.”

  “Why don’t I?” He stopped. I could tell by his expression he hadn’t meant to say so. I didn’t know if he would answer. He was of Council; he didn’t have to. “Why can’t I use magic?” I clarified. “Why couldn’t I use it before?”

  Another long pause before he spoke carefully. “You were bound.”

  Bound? The word was so foreign in that context. All I could think was of the young children in the village, binding themselves to play the games of fairy children, who were unmagical until coming of age. I recalled seeing it in the documents in the briar patch, Francine Glaforia, bound against using all but practical magic.

  Bound.

  They must have known not to trust me. They must have known. My knees gave out and slammed onto the rocky ground. How many times could the earth be pulled from beneath my feet? Chevelle took a step toward me and I held up a hand to stop him. Bound against using magic. Assigned a watcher. My anger toward him returned, swift and unforgiving. He’d been a volunteer. They had me bound.

  “Let’s just go,” I said coldly, looking up the mountain and not at him.

  We rode wordlessly on as I chewed over this new knowledge. As my watcher, Chevelle would have been involved in the binding with Council. Maybe Fannie should have been punished for whatever she had done, but how could they assume I would follow? So I killed a bird, stole a few papers from the council library. My argument faltered, so I went back to anger, betrayal that he had lied to me. And not just him, the entire village must have known I was bound, known I couldn’t perform magic, just as they sat and watched me try. Sending me to Junnie for lessons, allowing Evelyn to taunt me without recourse, giving me the blame for every single thing that happened. Because they expected me to turn.

  The horses slowed to a stop, irritating me f
urther that I hadn’t learned to lead them myself. I didn’t even have control over that. Chevelle stepped down and started a fire. When he walked away, I recalled what he had said earlier in the day, that you could stop someone’s heart. It hadn’t occurred to me that that might be how he killed his prey. He made his way back over the scrubby brush, carrying two small rabbits and a branch covered in some sort of blood-red berries.

  Sulking, I went to the fire and sat on an uneven rock to watch him prepare the meal. He didn’t speak, but I couldn’t tell if it was because he felt bad about it and intended to give me some space, or if he was merely indifferent. I silently wished Steed was here to build me a shelter so I could lock myself away for the night; I wasn’t about to try to make one on my own and risk embarrassing myself in front of Chevelle.

  A cool gust of wind pushed the flames beneath the spit, causing them to writhe and jump. They formed shapes that pulled at my memories. I tried to follow them, but couldn’t seem to get even my thoughts to work right. I could remember my dreams. I could remember the wind and fire in them, surrounding my mother. But the memories that came back when I woke from those vivid dreams were dull and so hard to grasp. Each time I tried to clear them they drew back from me. They were fuzzy and refused to cooperate.

  When recognition dawned on me, I leapt from the rock and cursed Chevelle. He turned to me with his standard composed expression as I yelled, “Give it back!” He appeared baffled, but I was so angry I was having trouble forming the demand. “Give my memories, my mind back!” I hissed.

  The confusion cleared, but he didn’t offer a response. I could feel the fire itching to burn him.

  I seethed. “Unbind my thoughts.”

  “Freya.” His voice was calm and smooth. “You don’t understand.”

  I fumed, “Well, I’m sure that has nothing to do with you rummaging around in there.”