The Stories: Five Years of Original Fiction on Tor.com

by Various

  “My age does not matter,” he said. “Give the letter to your mistress.”

  The woman smirked. “I will. But not until you answer me.”

  Her tone was impertinent. He wanted to smack her. She was nothing more than a serving woman. A bondsmaid. “Twenty-three.”

  Now she met his gaze directly, clearly laughing at him. “And you want what? A recommendation to Court? A letter of introduction to the University?”

  “None of those. I—“He checked himself and drew a breath. “I want,” he said with exaggerated patience, “a few moments with Mistress Tanja Duhr. My uncle is her friend. Or was, once. His name is Hêja Dilawer. Say yes or no. I do not pretend the matter is important to anyone but me. But do not tell me any lies.”

  She stared at him with narrowed eyes. “You are the nephew of Hêja Dilawer?”

  He nodded.

  “One moment, then.”

  She vanished through a doorway.

  Asa waited, overcome by a sudden rush of panic. It was possible Tanja Duhr would refuse to see him, even with a letter from his uncle.

  And what if she agrees? What will you say to her?

  Before he could decide on an answer, the young woman returned. “She said yes.”

  His pulse beating faster, Asa slid the letter inside his shirt and followed her through a narrow corridor and up winding stairs. The scent of sweet oil hung in the air. No lamps were lit, but sun poured through the narrow windows lining the stairwell, so that some steps were splashed in sunlight, while others remained in shadow.

  They passed numerous landings, each with several doors, but the woman did not pause until they reached the top. She opened a wooden door and gestured for him to pass through. Asa touched the letter inside his shirt, felt the ripple of magic against his skin. He was aware of the bondsmaid and her mocking smile, but he no longer cared.

  One quick breath. One moment to collect himself. Then he stepped over the threshold.

  Sunlight blinded him. He stopped in midstep and blinked. A breeze washed over his face, carrying the scent of blooming roses, lilies, goldenflower, and others he could not identify. When he took a hesitant step to one side, his feet crunched on gravel, then soft dirt. The breeze veered and he caught the unmistakable tang of pine forests. Where was he?

  Behind him the door clicked to. Asa blinked again, and his vision cleared.

  He stood on the rooftop, in a miniature garden open to the skies. Far below, the vast expanse that was Duenne swept over the plains—south and west and east. He could see the several rings of walls, each one overrun by the populace throughout the centuries, the highway and gates where he entered, the several market squares he’d passed through that morning. To the southeast stood the enormous Imperial palace with its golden towers and crimson roofs. Through the city wound the Gallenz River, like a great blue vein, finally uncurling toward the eastern coast.

  “I find it easier to see here,” said a voice.

  Asa turned. A woman sat on a bench underneath a trellis crowded with roses. Next to her was a small box with a slanted top, and a sheet of paper weighted down with a few stones. Several crumpled balls of paper littered the ground underneath. She was barefoot.

  Tanja Duhr rose and held out her hand. Asa handed over the letter of introduction and withdrew a step. Duhr touched her fingers to the seal. The air glittered with magic released and the paper fell open.

  As she read, Asa allowed himself the luxury of studying her features.

  She was old. That struck him at once. Nothing like his dreams. Nor like the portrait his uncle kept in his study, a gift she presented him when he left Court. Irrationally, Asa had expected her to remain immutable, like her words, but no. Her skin was an almost transparent brown, and etched with innumerable faint lines. Her hair was white and thin, drawn back with a ribbon and falling loose down her back. Only her eyes were the same, wide and dark, so dark a brown that they appeared black.

  She read swiftly, her expression grave except once, when she smiled, and once again, when her brows drew together. “Your name is Asa,” she said at a last. Her voice was husky, like a dove’s throaty murmur.

  He nodded, remembering that voice from his dreams.

  “From House Dilawer,” she went on, “presently governed by your mother. Your uncle was my friend in Court, as you must know. Would you like to hear what he tells me?”

  “I—No. That is not necessary.”

  Her mouth twitched in a smile. “I shall tell you nevertheless. You are young, he says. Your mother indulges you with dozens of masters and tutors, more than your brothers and sisters, who are already ably assisting her in the family business of money. To be brief, which your uncle was not, you are quite spoiled.”

  Asa closed his eyes. He had not expected such scathing candor. Why had the man given him the letter of introduction then? Dimly, he heard Tanja Duhr saying something about Asa being a stubborn boy.

  “Excuse me,” he said softly. “I—I did not quite understand that last.”

  If she noticed his confusion, she said nothing of it. “He tells me you were always a stubborn boy. In many ways that is a good thing. For all that you’ve had a dozen masters for a dozen different pursuits, you do not flit from one to the other. Rather, you work hard until you conquer your ignorance and your inability. Your uncle believes you will make a fine councilor of the House some day.”

  “I do not wish to be a councilor or a banker.”

  “No? Is that why you came to me? To be a poet?”

  “No. I—“

  She flicked her hand, silencing him. “You are young. You do not know what you want. Hêja asks me to consider receiving you as a guest here. He calls it giving you a position, but guest is what he means. Though I treasure his friendship, I see no reason to indulge you as your family does.”

  A clear dismissal, so abrupt he stood frozen a moment, too shocked to reply. She was like the mountains, he thought. Exactly so, they had stood in snow and indifferent silence as he lay dying. Asa stiffly bowed his head. “Thank you for the grace of this interview, my lady. I shall not trouble you longer.”

  He made no move to retrieve the letter. Let her keep it. He turned away and headed toward the wooden door.

  “Does your uncle lie?” she called out.

  He paused. “What do you mean?”

  “He said you were stubborn.”

  “You dismissed me.”

  “Hardly. I said I would not indulge you. But if you are as stubborn as your uncle claims, I do have one task for you.”

  He waited, still unwilling to face her.

  Her response was low chuckle. “Indeed,” she said softly. “He did not lie. You are stubborn.” Then louder, “Come to me tomorrow morning for instructions. Minne will provide you with a room and whatever else you require.”

  * * *

  It was the first time they met, she and Tanja Duhr. Adele had come to Duenne to serve in the Emperor’s guards. She was twenty-four, a soldier from the provinces, unaccustomed to palaces and anxious about her duties. When her captain assigned her to the midnight watch on the palace rooftop, she told herself she would stare the night away. No intruder—and there had been dozens since the new Emperor took his throne—could take her unawares.

  So when she encountered a woman flitting along the outer walkway, Adele hefted her sword and called challenge.

  The woman spun to face Adele, her dark hair swirling like clouds around a storm. Her eyes were wide and bright. Her gown was a shapeless mass of blue cloth. As it floated to rest, silvery threads glinted in the moonlight. She was barefoot.

  “The Emperor’s chief guard,” the woman said in a low voice.

  Adele could hear the laughter running underneath. “I do my duty,” she said stiffly, not lowering the sword.

  The woman regarded her for a moment, all signs of mirth erased from her expression. “You do,” she said. “For which I thank you. I was wrong to tease.” She held out her hand. “My name is Tanja.”

  He
r hand was slim, her clasp firm and warm.

  “Mine is Adele.”

  * * *

  Minne was the young, pockmarked woman from before, and she had accurately predicted her mistress’s decision. When Asa reappeared in the main parlor, still bemused by his interview, she told him she had a bedchamber ready. It was smaller than many of the closets in his mother’s household, but he was grateful for the soft clean mattress and the window overlooking the city below. He also met Yvonne the cook and the two maids who did the cleaning and laundry.

  At Minne’s urging he took a second breakfast, then spent the afternoon exploring the neighboring streets. All the houses here were built of red and brown brick, some tall and narrow, others irregular in shape. The streets wound and turned as they wished. Following them, Asa came across numerous tiny courtyards, small gardens, and once a square planted with flowering trees. Standing in their shade, he breathed in the rich scents and wondered what had brought Duhr here, to a place that seemed a hundred miles from Duenne’s Court.

  The next morning, Minne woke him at sunrise.

  “She wants you,” was all she said.

  He struggled into his clothes, splashed water on his face, and gulped down a scalding cup of tea. Then he was jogging up the stairs to the garden, with only a hand against the wall to steady himself. As he stepped over the threshold this second time, a breeze washed his face, carrying the last echoes of the bells from the city below. It had rained overnight, and the air was damp with expectation.

  She sat on the same bench as the previous day. This time her writing desk rested on her lap, and she held a pen in her left hand. A fresh sheet lay on top. He could not tell, but he thought there were more crumpled pages surrounding her than the previous day.

  “Tell me what you dreamed last night,” Duhr said.

  Asa stopped. “What?”

  “You heard me, young man. What did you dream last night?”

  She was mocking him. No, she meant it. He could tell by the deepening crease between her white brows.

  I dreamed of you in the Emperor’s Court. I dreamed we loved each other.

  He kept his gaze carefully averted from hers. Throughout the long journey, he had told himself he only wished to see Tanja Duhr face to face. Then perhaps his past would not haunt him so doggedly. Then, perhaps, he might find his own purpose in this life.

  You hoped she would recognize you.

  If I did, I knew that for a folly.

  Just as it would be folly to declare himself. Too many years had passed since Adele had died.

  He shook his head. “I had no dreams.”

  “None?”

  His mouth went dry under her scrutiny. “None worth telling, my lady.”

  She regarded him steadily. “Well, perhaps it is too soon. You may go.”

  And with that her attention vanished. Asa waited a moment. When she did not acknowledge him any longer, he silently retreated down the stairs and to the main parlor where Minne sat, writing notes in what appeared to be a ledger.

  “You will want your breakfast,” was all she said. “I’ll send word to Yvonne.”

  Over the next three weeks, Asa learned every turning in that stairwell. The walls were brick, dark red and fitted together without any mortar, a smooth facade that spiraled around and around in patterns of sunlight and shadow. There were six landings in all. The steps were massive slabs of blue-gray stone, the lips worn into curls, and the center sunken, as if a giant had pressed its thumb into the surface. Each time he came into her presence, he hoped she would ask him to linger, that she would speak of her poems, her life in Court, those years with Adele. Each time, he was disappointed.

  “What did you dream?”

  Within, I dreamed of you. I dreamed of twelve years together.

  Out loud, “This and that. Nothing interesting. Just a dream about my old sword master.”

  His words seemed to pique her interest, but instead of questioning him further, she merely shook her head. “Thank you, Asa. That is all.”

  Once, she added, “Do not be afraid to tell me the truth. I promise I shall not laugh.”

  There were many mornings when he thought truth might spill from his mouth, but always his throat turned dry before he could speak. It took only a moment of wetting his tongue before the words vanished, and he found himself mired in the details of mundane dreams, and not those of Adele. It was as if he could not speak the truth until she did.

  I am not certain I could, even then.

  At last, as the summer passed into early autumn, she seemed to lose interest.

  “Shall I go?” he asked.

  “No. Not yet. We have not yet exhausted our mutual stubbornness.”

  Later, Minne said, “She no longer writes. Not for the past few years.”

  Minne was no bondsmaid, he had learned. She was a distant cousin from northern Veraene who served as Duhr’s secretary, companion, and sometimes nurse. Asa wanted to know what Minne meant by, She no longer writes. Of course Duhr wrote. Every day when he reported to her presence, Duhr had paper and pen and that same small writing stand. More than once she was writing swiftly as he appeared.

  But he remembered the discarded sheets, and how their number grew and shrank over the weeks.

  Then, one morning a month after he had arrived, he came to Duhr as usual, only to find her distracted and staring toward the east. He waited, but she did not give him the usual command to recite his dreams. After a few moments, he wandered toward the wall that surrounded the rooftop. Autumn had arrived without his being aware. Crimson and russet dotted the northern hills, and the plains had taken on the dusty brown haze of plowed fields cleared of their harvests. Asa stared south and west, following the highway as it looped over the plains toward the indistinct horizon. Somewhere, in faraway Ysterien, his mother waited, expecting his return. Somewhere the bones of his horse whitened under snow and sun.

  He must have spoken that last out loud, because she said, “What happened to your horse?”

  Asa turned to meet her intent gaze.

  “The truth, Asa. This one time. Please.”

  …I would have no lies between us…

  It was this memory, in all its incarnations, that tripped him at last into speech.

  “I killed it,” he whispered.

  She nodded, in a way that reminded him of Zayaa. “Tell me more.”

  Slowly, with many false starts and additions, he recounted the day of the bandit attack. He had left the last wayside hostel behind a few days before. It had been an uncomfortable experience, with the sense of many eyes upon him as he set off into the true mountains. But he told himself he had his sword and knives, the spells his cousin taught him.

  And my stubbornness.

  Duhr said nothing, not even a gesture to urge him on.

  He continued with more fluency, describing the state of the trail, the frost and patches of ice, even on that late spring day. The silence of the hills. The echo of his gelding’s hooves over the stone. The first itch of fear when he realized his situation. Then followed a swift recounting of the pursuit, the spells he used, the decision to kill his horse and sent its body over the cliff so the bandits would believe him dead as well.

  “It made me sick afterwards,” he said. “I cannot be sorry I did it. But I can be sorry I needed to.”

  Eventually he found the courage to turn around. Tanja Duhr beckoned him closer. He did not resist as she took his hand and pulled away the glove he had not removed in her presence. His hands would never be beautiful. The frostbite had marked him with scars, and cracks that refused to heal. As she turned his hand over, he flinched. At last he dared to look.

  Faint red reflected from his palms. Just a moment, then it was gone.

  “Thank you,” Duhr said.

  “For what?” he whispered.

  “For even this much of the truth.”

  * * *

  He spent the afternoon in his rooms, brooding over what she meant by even this much. In the evening, he
tried to walk himself to distraction, but nothing helped. He returned and ate the dinner Yvonne the cook brought to him, hardly tasting it. Toward nightfall he fell into a doze.

  Minne woke him at midnight. “Go to her.”

  Confused, he said, “Where?”

  “In her garden, of course.”

  Minne lit the lamps in the stairwell with a word of magic. A strong green scent coiled upward, following Asa on the familiar route. By the time he reached the top landing, the sleep had cleared from his head.

  Outside, moonlight washed over the garden path. Tanja Duhr sat on her bench, wrapped in loose robes. She was bent over her writing desk, staring at a fresh blank sheet of paper. Her face was wrinkled in irritation or concentration, he couldn’t tell which. There were no discarded papers on the ground, only a few sheets with writing stacked beside her on the bench itself.

  “Tell me more dreams,” she said without looking up.

  “You woke me for that?”

  She shrugged “You are young. You won’t miss your sleep.”

  “What about you?”

  Now a shadow showed her faint smile. “I am old. I would rather work than sleep until my death. Now, tell me your dreams, or admit you’ve been lying to me.”

  He hesitated. He knew what she looked for—life dreams, those fragments of memory from the past. Wasn’t that the reason for his journey? To understand his dreams?

  A lamp sparked into life in the palace, far to the east. Its light filled a high arched window, in a tower somewhere in the middle of the grounds. Asa stared at that window. With a start, he realized it was the window where he and Tanja had spoken, that day before Adele marched to Károví with the others.

  Stay silent, stay safe, said his other self.

  He laughed to himself. If he had wanted safety, he would have stayed in Ysterien, in his mother’s household, where the greatest danger he faced was an inaccurate balance between yesterday and today. Even such mistake was unlikely, certainly not fatal, since his mother would surely assign another to check his work. So what was the truth?

  The truth is I wanted freedom. I wanted…the chance to make my own mistakes, outside the nest of family.