by Unknown
Marion Zimmer Bradley's
Sword & Sorceress 24
edited by
Elisabeth Waters
Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Introduction
by Elisabeth Waters
The Casket of Brass
by Deborah J. Ross
Merlin's Clutter
by Helen E. Davis
Sceptre of the Ungodly
by Elisabeth Waters and Michael Spence
Material Witness
by Brenta Blevins
Owl Court
by K.D. Wentworth
Nellandra's Keeper
by Teresa Howard
Sages and Demons
by Catherine Soto
The Case of the Haunted City
by Josepha Sherman
Pax Draconica
by Cate McBride
Sea-Child
by Cynthia Ward
Ghost Masks
by Jonathan Moeller
The Vapors of Crocodile Fen
by Dave Smeds
Lord Shashensa
by Therese Arkenberg
Three on a Match
by Michael H. Payne
A Curious Case
by Annclaire Livoti
Soul Walls
by Julia H. West
Little Red
by Melissa Mead
Kindle books in the Sword & Sorceress series
Copyright
Introduction
by Elisabeth Waters
In 1983, Marion Zimmer Bradley wrote in the introduction to the first Sword and Sorceress anthology: "Valor has neither race nor color—nor does it have gender.... That I have chosen stories about both men and women, and written by both men and women, is, I hope, a sign of the times, and a hopeful outlook for the future of heroic fiction. And, since life always imitates art, it may be a heroic sign for the future of both women and men. Anyone can write male sexist fiction..."
It has now been 25 years since the first volume of SWORD & SORCERESS was published. The slush pile still demonstrates that anyone can write male sexist fiction—I rejected quite a bit of it this year. I can frequently tell the author's gender without looking at the byline simply by noting how the first female character is described. If the emphasis is on the length or shape of her legs, her long flowing hair, or the size of her breasts—or, worse yet, a totally unrealistic idea of how her breasts hold up a strapless gown (in normal gravity, they don't)—the author is probably male. There are female writers who objectify men the same way, so perhaps we've progressed from "anyone can write male sexist fiction" to "anyone can write sexist fiction." One could call this progress, but I'm not certain that I do.
As for life imitating art, progress is mixed there as well. As I write this it is June 2009. Next month confirmation hearings will begin for a Federal judge who has been nominated to fill a vacancy on the Supreme Court. Despite Marion's saying in 1985 that she didn't want any more stories of the "you can't be a
It is quite true that valor has no gender. Female members of the armed forces are earning combat medals, despite the fact that they are not supposed to be in combat. Nuns go to places that are both politically unstable and naturally dangerous. Here's an example from a blog posted earlier this year: "After Mass we visited the cemetery within the grounds to pay our respects to the first 3 Mercy sisters who died in Kenya. As an added treat I got to see the grave of the sister who died from a hunting spider bite 18 months ago."
Heroism is not confined to men, and I suspect that it never was. We just need to remind the world of this, and I hope that this volume of SWORD & SORCERESS will do just that.
The Casket of Brass
by Deborah J. Ross
In Shakespeare's tragedy, Hamlet's dilemma hinges on whether the Ghost is telling the truth, whether dreams are more real than duty. Here, Deborah J. Ross takes inspiration from both HAMLET and THE PRISONER OF ZENDA, and spins them into a tale set in a world richly evocative of the Arabian Nights.
Deborah J. Ross began her writing career as Deborah Wheeler, with stories in the SWORD & SORCERESS series and the Darkover anthologies. Her story "Imperatrix," in the first SWORD & SORCERESS, was her first professional sale, making her one of "MZB's writers." As Deborah Wheeler, she also sold two science-fiction novels: JAYDIUM and NORTHLIGHT, as well as short stories to Marion Zimmer Bradley's Fantasy Magazine, Asimov's, Fantasy & Science Fiction, Realms Of Fantasy, SISTERS OF THE NIGHT, and STAR WARS: TALES FROM JABBA'S PALACE. Deborah was the person Marion chose to continue the Darkover series; she's written five novels so far, THE FALL OF NESKAYA, ZANDRU'S FORGE, A FLAME IN HALI, THE ALTON GIFT, and HASTUR LORD (based on a partial manuscript begun by Marion and forthcoming in 2010 from DAW). She is the editor of the acclaimed fantasy series, LACE AND BLADE. Deborah lives in a redwood forest with her husband, writer Dave Trowbridge, three cats, and a German Shepherd Dog. In between writing, she has worked as a medical assistant to a cardiologist, lived in France, studied Hebrew and piano, and revived an elementary school library. She has been active in the women's martial arts network and has spent over 25 years studying kung fu san soo. In her spare time, she knits for "afghans for Afghans" and the Mother Bear Project (teddy bears for children in Africa orphaned by AIDS).
A breathless spring twilight crept across the palace on the hill. Even the twin rivers that nourished Kharazand, City of a Thousand Gardens, flowed gently, imbued with an eerie, somber calm. The twin domes of the royal palace glimmered in shades of pearl and silver.
Hoofbeats fractured the approaching night. Iron sparked on paving stones. Five riders raced from the city gates toward the palace. The leading horse shone like marble, its tail a river of cloud. Its rider was small and wiry beneath a flowing hooded cloak. Four stouter animals followed. They pounded up the tree-lined avenue beside the long, slender mirrored pools. Guards barred their path, scimitars drawn. At the sight of the lead rider, they bowed and stepped back.
The riders clattered to a halt before the formal entrance to the palace, spiral columns framing marble stairs. The lead rider jumped lightly to the ground. Grooms and servants, a dozen at least, rushed forward. The rider shoved back the hood of the cloak, revealing a woman's delicate features, tilted eyes beneath sweeping brows set in honey-gold skin. Her blue-black hair had been twisted into a simple knot, and over her riding trousers, she wore a scholar's robe of thick undyed cotton. Her sole weapon was a dagger at her belt.
She handed the reins of the gray horse to the head groom. "Give the horses a little water now, but only a few sips." Her voice was throaty with the strain of a long, exhausting ride. "Then walk them until they're dry."
The young woman rushed up the stairs, her escort at her heels. Her riding boots rang on the smooth stone of the stairs. She burst through the elaborately-carved double doors before the attendants could open them for her. The senior steward rushed forward, trailing a handful of assistants. She remembered him, an honest man of merit and industry. In the years of her absence, his beard had gone white and wispy, and the body beneath the modestly ornamented robe was gaunt with age.
"Lady-"
"My grandmother?" she cut him off, not slacking her pace.
The stewar
d raised his hands in reassurance. "Still alive, by the grace of the Infinite. Her physician tends her even now. Your uncle, the Most Wise Regent, has been apprized of your return and has bidden me to-"
His voice faltered as she glared at him.
"-to bring you to him," the steward finished uncertainly. "If it is your pleasure."
"It is my pleasure," she repeated the phrase, but without any malice, for the steward could not be blamed for the situation or her own temper, "to see my grandmother while I still can."
The steward's reply was cut short by the arrival of a second young woman, this one dressed in a sleeveless vest encrusted with pearls and rubies, and loose trousers of crimson silk gathered around her delicate ankles. Strings of tiny silver bells chimed from her wrists and earlobes. Veils fluttered from the elaborate curls on top of her head. She glided along the carpeted hall, and half a dozen ladies, dressed in more subdued colors, followed a pace behind.
"Maridah!" the young woman exclaimed. "You've returned! So suddenly! And without sending word so that a proper reception might be prepared for you!"
Maridah forced herself to stand still long enough to greet her cousin. They bowed and kissed each another's palms, according to custom.
"Hadidjah, I am pleased to see you," Maridah said, "but I cannot linger. Grandmother-"
Hadidjah's eyes, a beautiful hazel that contrasted with her golden skin, betrayed no alarm. "She is not well, but her health has never been good since you left us for Samarkhand. You need not have interrupted your studies to rush home so precipitously."
She touched Maridah's cheek with one hand, her fingertips scented with rosewater and cloves. "I cannot say I am sorry. How I have missed you! Come now, you must bathe and put on something decent. Then I will take you to my father so that he may set your mind at rest. Tomorrow, we will feast in your honor."
Maridah wavered on her feet. Her muscles ached and her stomach had long since hardened into a knot of hunger. She saw herself reflected in her cousin's eyes, unkempt and filthy. Doubtless, she smelled of horse and sweat. She could not possibly appear in court with her hair in such disarray, wearing the same shapeless robe of the most lowly student.
She shook her head to clear her senses. Had her years of study, in a community where ideas meant more than titles or wealth, meant so little that she would throw all away at a word? She would remain as she was, dirty boots and all.
"You may not be concerned about Grandmother's health," she said with more harshness than she intended, "but I will not rest until I see her for myself." Freeing herself from her cousin's grasp, she pivoted to go.
"But—but my father-" Hadidjah stammered. "He expects to see you without delay!"
A sudden glint of mischief caught Maridah. Unfastening the clasp of her riding cloak, she tossed it to her cousin. "My uncle will have to be satisfied with that."
She did not stay to see Hadidjah's reaction.
* * * *
As Maridah hurried toward the long wing of royal family apartments, the pearly radiance of the twilight thickened into shadow. An archway brought her to an interior corridor, carpeted in arabesques of intertwined vines. Her escort, who had been her mother's sworn men before they became her own, followed her like sight-hounds. Palace attendants bowed low as they passed.
Grandmother's chambers were the oldest in the wing. In entering them, Maridah always had the sense of moving from one world to another, penetrating into the heart of a mystery. The outer room was ordinary enough, with low benches for outdoor shoes. The act of removing her boots, with all the dirt of the trail, and pulling on the slippers of soft leather stitched in designs of phoenixes locked in combat with winged serpents, was part of the process of leaving the outer world behind and entering into an enchanted realm.
The inner wall had been painted as a forest, a profusion of branches and greenery. Birds nested in the leafy clusters beside other creatures, some of them very strange. The artist had rendered the mural so beautifully, the tiny blue djinni were as lifelike as the hunting falcon or the cowering hare.
Beyond the forest wall, through the door of carved ebony, the noises of the rest of the palace fell away. The sitting room resembled a garden, with rows of flowering jasmine and a fountain of pink marble, carved with winged fishes and river peris plucking their harps. In the day, light streamed through the teardrop-shaped windows. Now, the room was filled with the same fading, silvery-pearl luminescence as the outer grounds.
From the garden room, doors led to either side, presenting a choice between the scented darkness of Grandmother's personal chambers or the even more enchanting realm of her workroom.
Entering Grandmother's bedroom was like plunging into a cavern. Once Maridah had asked Grandmother why there were no windows, and the old woman had laughed and said there was more than enough light in the garden room.
Maridah paused as the door closed behind her. Candles had been lit, a row of flickering brilliance. The royal physician, an elderly Persian who had always been kind to Maridah, hovered over the bed.
Drawing in a breath, Maridah caught a riot of odors, the smells of medicines and herbs, the smoky tinge of candle wax, the sandalwood that always clung to her grandmother's clothing. And underneath, the metallic scent she always associated with her grandmother's magic.
Light fell across the physician's face as he came forward to kiss Maridah's palm. The wispy hairs of his beard tickled her skin. He lifted his eyes, bright with age and unspilled grief. "By the grace of the Infinite, you have come in time."
In time. Maridah dared to breathe. "How does she?"
"Leave us," the voice coming from the bed was almost a croak. Maridah hardly recognized it.
"Only for a moment," the physician warned.
Grandmother's face gleamed like old, cracked ivory in the light of the candles. The room seemed unnaturally still. Then Maridah realized there was no music. Her grandmother always had at least one musician about her, as she loved the soft sounds of oud and flute.
"My friend." Grandmother reached out her hand, spidery in the flickering light. The physician grasped it. "There is nothing more you can do ... for me."
The old man bent his head, kissed her palm, and departed. Maridah knelt at the bedside and took her grandmother's hand. The skin felt cool and brittle; the nails had never seemed so hard. Maridah's breath caught in her throat.
"And you," the old woman whispered, "you I will miss most of all."
"No! You must use your enchantments to save your life!"
Grandmother turned on her pillow so that the light filled all the hollows of her skull. "I have." Pause, breath.
Maridah's stomach turned cold. In the back of her mind, a thought curled like a wisp of poisoned smoke. When she dies, I must take the throne as Princess of Kharazand.
"Remember. Everything."
"I will."
She would never forget the long sunlit afternoons, playing in the workroom, handling the things that even then she knew were not toys: the wonderful carved horses that would, at the turn of a peg near the saddle, rise into the air, carrying their soldier riders, the balls that gave off colored lights as they spun, the bird of silver, the dagger that would cry out if anyone but Grandmother touched its jeweled sheath....
"In the stronghold. A casket. Of brass."
Maridah nodded. She had glimpsed it, as long as a child's forearm and half again as wide, the worn patterns glimmering in the shadows. Something about the box had drawn her, a message hidden in the calligraphy of the intertwining arabesques.
"Shall I bring it to you?" she asked.
"Safe. Guard."
Maridah felt a new expectancy in the air, an alteration in the quality of the light. Grandmother was asking her to do something more than simply keep the old box in a safe place. An almost holy stillness hung in the room, like the temple on the morning her mother, who was to have been the next Princess, had died. Maridah had been up all night, fasting and praying, willing to bargain away everything she owned if
only her mother might recover. She'd been at the very extremity of hope, for Grandmother had not returned from a long trip East and the court physicians had said there was nothing more to be done.
And the air had shifted, even as it shifted now, with a welling pressure, an imminence....
"It will be kept safe." Maridah did not know exactly what she was promising, but she spoke the words like a vow.
"Ah." Thin fingers brushed the back of Maridah's hands. A sigh like a whisper: "Then I have taught you well."
Maridah opened her mouth to ask what it was that Grandmother had taught her, but the air shifted once more, a lightening of that immense weight. The candle light wavered.
Voices broke in upon the stillness, men arguing at the outer door. Maridah recognized the old physician and her own escort, their voices in protest.
"Stand aside!" another man shouted.
Then came her uncle's voice, lower in pitch, calm. She could not make out the words.
"Mari-" Grandmother roused. Brittle fire flared behind her words. "Leave the box. Take what lies within. It must not fall into any hands but yours. Do you understand?"
"You mean, the contents are for the Princess alone."
A mute gesture of denial. "What lies within... makes the Princess. Yussuf searched... when your mother died. He will... search again."
My uncle wants the throne? Maridah could not think straight. How could he aspire to such power? Even if he were not a man, he had no royal lineage; his only claim was his marriage to Maridah's mother's younger sister.
"Not for himself," Grandmother gasped.
Maridah could not breathe. Hadidjah, who could claim rightful lineage by blood. Hadidjah, who had always done her father's bidding.
"Go. Quickly—through the door behind the ironwood screen."
The shouting intensified. Maridah could not hear the clash of steel, but she sensed the reek of adrenaline.
Maridah brushed her lips over her grandmother's forehead. The skin was dry, like dusty silk. Then, under the lash of a terror she had never felt before, she raced from the bedchamber.
