The Sword

by Jean Johnson

“Kelly Doyle.”

  He bowed slightly. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Kellidoil, despite the circumstances. Now—”

  “No, it’s just Kelly. Then Doyle. Doyle is the name of my family, Kelly is my own name,” she corrected, folding her arms across her chest with a brief tug at her top.

  “Ah. Well then, Lady Kelly, tell me why you think my brother is being impossible?”

  Kelly debated telling him she wasn’t a titled lady, but decided she didn’t mind finally being treated nicely by someone in this bizarre universe. “He’s demanding I either sit in that chair over there and eat more than I physically can, because my stomach’s been shrunk from too little money to buy too little food for too many months. Or that I lie here in this bed and do absolutely nothing. I’m not the kind of person who can do absolutely nothing!

  “Back home…” Her voice wavered a moment at the thought of there being no more “back home,” but a pile of charred wood and ash. She firmed it and went on. “Back home, I always had about two dozen projects going at any one time. Lace-making bobbins, embroidery hoops and thread, clothing and dolls and pillows to sew—laundry in need of washing, floors to sweep, a garden to weed, that would hopefully give me more food than I could afford to outright buy, with those idiots pressuring my regular customers away from my shop, so I had to rely on infrequent tourist trade. A Doyle doesn’t ‘do nothing’! And as I’m the only one left, I cannot ‘do nothing’ even less!”

  Evanor frowned as Saber listened to her confession. “Your family is dead?”

  “Yes. They died in an auto accident, a couple of—” Breaking off at their puzzled looks, since the word auto didn’t seem to make sense to them, something the translation spell didn’t seem to be able to handle according to their own tongue, Kelly tried a different tact. “Your people have carriages, right? Drawn by horses?”

  “Yes. And some have wheels that turn by magic, though they are expensive to purchase and costly in spells to maintain,” Evanor affirmed in his smooth, wonderful voice. “We, of course, make our own for use on the isle, as we have no horses for pulling regular carriages, and we are all mages enough to maintain them. They can go faster than horse-drawn carriages, providing the road is smooth enough to be traveled upon that fast, and can haul almost the same weight in their load as a pair of horses, and they don’t have to be fed grain or hay, though they still have to be maintained.”

  That was close enough for her to make them understand what had happened to her own family. “Yeah, well, in my universe, where I come from, we’ve got machines that do the same thing as your magic carriages, and lots of smooth, straight roads to go really fast on. And three years ago, some idiot had too much to drink, lost control of his horseless carriage, and crashed into their carriage with his own, fast and hard enough to kill all three of them instantly.”

  “Then you have my condolences for your loss, and Saber’s sympathies, too,” the younger man added, lifting his chin at Saber, who scowled at his brother for the presumption. “Our own mother, Annia, died in childbirth with our stillborn sister. When our father, Saveno, grew ill from a fever not a month later, he lacked the strength of will to live on without her and succumbed, despite our efforts to heal him and make him better. So we are more or less orphaned, too. As well as outcast for the simple crime of being born.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Kelly added honestly. That sounded like a lousy way to lose one’s parents, too. She refocused on the problem at hand, reviving her earlier irritation. “But that doesn’t change the fact that he’s being unreasonable in his demands—he even threatened to use a spell on me!” she added, jabbing a finger in Saber’s direction.

  “That is because she is a stubborn fool who doesn’t know what is best for her!”

  “Oh, like you’re an expert on women, Mister We’ve Been Exiled Here for Three Whole Years!” she shot back, flipping a hand at him, the other on her hip.

  “Enough.” It wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t forceful…not exactly, but the single, hard-voiced word cut their argument dead. The younger Nightfall brother eyed Kelly, eyed Saber, then straightened, his gaze returning to the first real woman all of them had seen in three years. “He is right in that you should rest, Lady Kelly, and eat, and regain your strength while you are a guest in our home—you do not have to worry about where your food comes from as our guest, or that you must conserve it for another day’s meal; we gain more than enough in provisions, both locally and for our trade-goods, than twice our number could eat. So eat your fill whenever you can take another bite, so that you regain whatever in your hardships you have lost.

  “And she is right,” he added as Saber folded his arms and took on a smug look, “in that you are being unreasonable in expecting a woman with her obvious natural energy to simply lie abed with nothing to occupy her hands and mind. You also need more appropriate garments, Lady Kelly,” Evanor continued politely but pointedly to their strawberry-haired guest. “My brother and I will go look for some. And as we do so, we shall look for something in the way of embroidery, or lace-making, or even simple clothes-mending for you to do…if you promise to rest in bed, eat your fill whenever you can, and not scrub any more floors today or tomorrow. Agreed?”

  “I already brought her some clothes,” Saber pointed out gruffly, nodding at the pile of cloth discarded on the floor near the door.

  “Then we will leave her to try them on—a nontaxing event for any woman, surely even you will agree—and go in search of needle and thread so that she can alter them to fit her better, giving her something nonstrenuous to do with her time here. Now, Saber,” he added pointedly.

  “You do not order me around,” Saber asserted, moving toward the door anyway. “I am the elder brother, and I—”

  “—I do when you’re acting like an a—uh, fool,” the slightly shorter man asserted with a wary, genteel flick of those mahogany brown eyes in Kelly’s direction. “We will return in an hour, my lady.”

  “She is not your lady,” Saber growled, as his brother pulled the door shut behind them, leaving their unwanted guest inside the lord’s chamber. “She is leaving the moment Morganen can safely rid us of her!”

  “I am merely being polite, Brother,” Evanor returned calmly, as they descended the steps. “She is not my type, anyway.”

  “We don’t have a type, remember?” Saber pointed out. Hating that he had to say it. “None of us dares have a ‘type.’”

  His brother carefully said nothing to contradict his words.

  Well. At least she had something to do—try on the clothing he’d brought and then thrown on the floor. Clothing that’s in serious need of a heavy scrubbing, though I’ll have to settle for a dust-beating, for now, she decided, moving to the nearest window. Thrusting the panes back on their stiff hinges, she returned, picked up the large pile as best she could and carried it over to the open window.

  Several hard shakes of each garment, and they were made somewhat more wearable, as specks of dust billowed out onto the sea-scented breeze. Or at least more presentable than her pajamas had become, between fire, holes, scrub-water, and general grime. Once that was taken care of, Kelly sorted the pile, examining each piece and reluctantly admiring the stitching. Tiny, straight, and entirely machine-free.

  But of course they’d do it by hand, here. Assuming not everyone has magic to do mundane tasks by, or even if there is a spell to stitch fabric by.

  There were two sets of underdrawers and three corsets. Five skirts, four blouses, three chemises, two gowns, three overgowns. Eight stockings that ranged from a fine-spun woolen pair that would be too warm to wear in this summer-like weather, and silk so thin, aged, and fragile, it tore under just the pressure of her fingertips when she picked it up to give it a good shake. There were already larger holes in the hosiery, which she guessed had come from Saber’s handling of them.

  Tossing that pair aside, she looked over the shoes. Five sets of those in different sizes, some a little worn, but all more or less fit to wear.
The second-best pair looked to be approximately her size, when she held one up to the sole of her bare foot. She set those aside and returned her attention to the clothes.

  Some of the clothing was moth-eaten, with little holes here and there, but most of it smelled of some kind of peppery, cedar-like storage material, proof that they had been preserved for at least part of the time, and were probably even older than they looked. There was a hip-length, sleeveless camisole that fit her and seemed sturdy enough that it wouldn’t rip just from her breathing. It would do for an undershirt, though it was a bit sheer for a medieval tank top.

  Rummaging a bit more, Kelly sighed. There weren’t any pants. She didn’t mind skirts, but she preferred pants. Everything was of a different size, proof he had grabbed a variety for her to try on, but it was all skirts and such. Slipping into the smaller set of underdrawers as soon as she was naked, she tightened the drawstring. It promptly snapped, making the shorts drop, unable to stay on her hips. A test of the larger pair, and that string broke, too, making Kelly sigh in exasperation.

  Kicking them aside, she gingerly tested the corset strings. The smallest and medium sets broke, but the largest stayed taut and firm. Unlacing all three corsets, she held each one up to her ribs, gauged which one would be roughly the right size to support her breasts—even half-starved, she still had a full enough figure in that respect—and laced it with the good strings salvaged from the large corset. Pulling it on over the sleeveless camisole, she tightened the garment, glad it laced in the front. Glad these people did believe in some form of breast support in their archaic sense of fashion.

  Given how medieval these men dress, I wouldn’t have been surprised if there hadn’t been anything for holding up a woman’s breasts. But I’m glad there is; I hate going braless for too long. The only boning in the garment came from the tightly flat-felted seams from breasts to hips, but it was fitted like a bra in many respects, if just a little loose for her currently undernourished size. And unlike some corsets, at least this style had shoulder straps to take up some of the weight of her flesh, rather than trying to rely on compression alone for support.

  She tried on the skirts and blouses next. Unlike the plain, beige muslin of the underdrawers and corsets, the rest of the clothes were dyed in light, pastel colors, some with flowers embroidered at the hems, some with woven ribbon trim stitched in stripes. One of the gowns was too tight for her upper body, not to mention simply too long to be practical without some serious reworking, and the other was too loose to even stay on her shoulders. Namely, because the drawstring broke.

  Kelly rolled her eyes. She just wasn’t having much luck with strings, today. She knew how to make them, but she didn’t have any of the materials she’d need. Sighing, she checked the remaining garments for size.

  It was the same with the blouses. The skirts were better; one fit, though it bared her ankles halfway up her calves. Somehow, she guessed that would be “scandalous” to Katani sensibilities. Not that it would stop her, of course. The blouses were too small, save for maybe one that was spotted with mildew, which she refused to even try.

  Sighing, Kelly stripped off everything and tried the floor-length chemises next. One fit, but was a little too short in sleeves and hem, the latter of which only came to her knees, shorter even than the skirt she’d tried. The rest were baggy and threatened to trail. As for the oldest-looking garments, the overgowns, those were simply too long, even if that was supposed to be the proper style for whatever era that had been. She had no clue, however. They were all cut sort of like the medieval clothes she was used to re-creating in the society, but there were enough differences to make it difficult to say exactly what era and culture these things resembled most closely.

  Using just her teeth and her fingernails, which took a lot of time, Kelly managed to work free the thread at the armholes on the short chemise, stripping the sleeves. Paired with the shortish skirt and the corset-bra underneath, the garment would make do as a sleeveless blouse for light summerwear; unlike the camisole, this chemise wasn’t sheer. Hopefully it would be decent; it certainly was by her own standards. If it wasn’t suitable by Katani ones…well, it would just have to do while she reworked the other clothes with the promised thread and needles. Hopefully, her two hosts would remember to fetch scissors for her as well.

  She had the now-sleeveless chemise bunched up on her arms and her back to the door, when she heard its hinges squeak. Gasping, she struggled the chemise over her head, yanked it down past her thighs, and whirled to face the intruders. Saber stood in the doorway, a smallish chest gripped in his arms. His gray eyes wide and sort of stunned-looking, were fastened on her figure.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?” she demanded, blushing as he continued to stare at her.

  The dark blond man blinked, then managed to move the rest of the way into the room, his brother entering behind him. The one named Evanor blushed at finding her in a chemise, even if it did cover her from shoulders to knees. Quickly setting down the bolts of fabric he carried, he thumped his brother in the arm to get him to set down the chest, and dragged both of them back out again without a single word.

  Kelly blinked when the door slammed shut behind them. Actually, it was kind of flattering, since she had glimpsed the reason why Saber had been lost in that stare…as revealed in the slight but distinct bulge that had thrust against the otherwise smooth fall of his thigh-length tunic. Normally the fabric would have concealed that part of his anatomy.

  Normally.

  Hold on, Kelly Doyle—aren’t you forgetting the fact that this is a realm of magic, and that, if he falls for you, some unspecified disaster will befall? Unspecified or not, do you want that on your conscience? You have enough troubles right now without having to worry about something like that!

  Yes, but…he’s a hunk! And he was ogling me! the most feminine corner of her brain retorted. You’re not dead yet, you know!

  It had been undeniably flattering. With her back to the door, without underwear of any kind on, and bent over a little in the act of putting on the chemise, which she had tossed on the bed while changing into the various clothes…she must have given him an intriguing view. Very intriguing. Just thinking about him thinking about her in that kind of way made her warm and a little breathless, and damp.

  She might not have ever been physically touched, but Kelly had grown up around the end of the twentieth century in her own universe, and she knew lots of things about men and women. Things she had unfortunately been too busy making a living to experiment with, other than in her imagination. She bit her lip and sported a little feminine smile as she finished dressing and began exploring the sewing materials the two had brought up to her, thinking about the mindless stare Saber had given her just minutes ago.

  Very flattering, indeed…

  SIX

  Strawberry carrot. A deeper red gold than her hair, with freckles all the way down to there, by Jinga…

  Saber bit his lip, trying not to think. Trying not to groan. At least Evanor had left him alone, free to retreat to his bedchamber in the northern spur of the west wing. But he kept seeing it in his mind: shapely legs, despite her unseemly thinness, pale and flecked everywhere with a scattering of tiny spots, if thinly scattered on the back of her knees, buttocks, and thighs. Those thighs had shifted just far enough apart in her struggle to stay balanced and dress, that he had seen that the cinnin brown spots were scattered even on that white, soft, inner flesh of her legs. That they dusted the ultra-feminine curves of her hips, a fascinating, speckled contrast below the age-yellowed edge of the corset she had worn from the waist up.

  There was such a lush contrast between her underfed but flared hips and her naturally nipped waist, with those almost full breasts jiggling just barely in view beyond her corset-covered ribs and bunching arms, Saber could still feel the urgent demand that had gripped him at that first, lascivious sight. To clasp her waist and bend her over even farther. To grip her hips and pull her close. To thrust home i
nto the heart of those golden carrot curls, again and again, with his impatient manhood.

  Groaning, Saber covered his eyes with his arm, fruitlessly trying to block out the image in his mind. Unfortunately, it only made it seem more real, when he closed his eyes. His other hand, resting on his belly, slipped down to the ache that was his groin. He caught himself with his first stroke through the fabric of tunic and breeches, and fisted his hand. He shouldn’t do that. He’d done it a few times since their arrival, but mostly only shortly after their arrival, before his body had grown used to the idea of being completely alone, without female companionship.

  Without feminine temptation.

  It wasn’t going away on its own, though. Memories kept turning over in his mind. The feel of her breasts against his body as he had rushed her down the stairs, rescuing her from the mekhadadak attack, and the way her legs had wrapped around his waist, her whole body clinging to him intimately. The feel of her squirming in his grip to get free at their first meeting, the resiliency of her rump when he had smacked it…and that backside, bared at last to his view, about forty pounds shy of being properly lush and ripe, but still soft and beckoning with its smooth, freckled skin…those seductive, enticingly textured nethercurls.

  Swearing, unable to resist any longer, Saber dropped his arm, shoved his tunic hem out of the way, unfastened his breeches, and covered his face with his left forearm once more, shutting out the daylight. He lay there on his bed, torturing himself by imagining her hands, small, pale, freckled, and deft, doing with her fingers what his own hand had to do as a pallid substitute. Imagining without that much effort what it would be like to do as he longed to, to grab her and take her, again and again, until she hollered at him from ecstasy, not from anger—from the pleasure he alone would give her. To spit in the eye of the Curse and its ominous Prophecy, and sheathe his sword in his strawberry-haired maid, over and over and over…