A Quest-Lover's Treasury of the Fantastic

by Margaret Weis

  Ashesa didn't know what was different at first that morning. She only knew that something was not right. After a few moments she was awake enough to notice what was missing. Her clothes. The mantle and overdress she had laid out on the table the night before weren't there. In their place were two rather ethereal strips of cloth appliquéd with crescents and stars and glyphs of a rather suggestive nature.

  Timon sat in her chair, looking unhappy.

  “Magician, where are my clothes?”

  He waved his hand at the table. “There, I'm afraid. It's the traditional sacrificial garb of an obscure fertility cult. You wouldn't have heard of it.”

  “And you're one of them?” she asked, as calmly as she could manage.

  He shuddered delicately. “Certainly not. But as much as the prospect would delight me, I don't think Daras expects to burst in and find us discussing literature over a cup of tea. I had to come up with something suitably dreadful for you to be saved from. Think of it as a play, Highness. This is your costume for the final act.”

  Ashesa eyed the flimsy cloth with distaste. “Uninspired as this may sound—suppose I refuse?”

  He shrugged. “I can't force you to wear it—it tears too easily—but bear in mind that you stretched out on the altar in all your natural glory would suit the play as well …no, better. I considered it, believe me. But clothed or no, you will play your part. You have no choice.”

  Ashesa, bedclothes wrapped tightly about her, gathered up the scanty garments. “I'm getting terribly weary of that catechism, Master Timon. Pray, is there any esoteric reason why I cannot at least get dressed in private?”

  Timon looked even more unhappy. “Unfortunately, no.”

  * * *

  Prince Daras hid behind a boulder and studied the gate. It was strongly built with oak posts set into the narrowest point of what was already a knife slash of a valley. Two robed guards stood outside, halberds crossed. Daras idly pulled at a chafing armor strap as he pondered a sigil carved into the gate. Just like the one on the kidnapper's note. Timon the Black, no question. Beyond the gate a tower rose on a rocky ridge above the valley.

  Careless or arrogant?

  The sigil was as good as an announcement; Daras couldn't decide what it meant, so he decided it didn't matter.

  The prince sat with his back to the stone and considered. There was no way around the gate, nor could he climb the valley walls without being seen. The two guards at the gate had to be overpowered without raising an alarm, and he might have to scale the wall if neither had a key …There was cover—rocks and brush—until about ten yards from the guard post. If he could reach it unseen.

  And unheard.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Prince Daras began removing his armor.

  “Ready, Highness?”

  Ashesa studied her reflection, trying to arrange the material of her costume as efficiently as possible. The effect was dramatic despite her best efforts. She gave up. “Yes, damn you to hell.”

  Timon entered the room with two of his golem guards. The magician, damn him again, smiled at her. “Follow us, please.”

  He took her arm and led her down the corridor to the staircase, then around and down the spiral to ground level and out. They moved single file down a narrow path to the valley floor, golems in front and behind her, with Timon bringing up the rear. A single wall cut them off from the rest of the valley, and before that was a very suspicious-looking stone flanked by two upright stones of dark granite. A smaller building of stone blocks sat on the opposite side. Closer, Ashesa's fears were confirmed: the building was a small temple with a narrow oval doorway, the flat stone a massive altar with shackles bolted to the four corners.

  Ashesa's mouth was suddenly dry. “You said you weren't a member of the cult.”

  “Props, Highness. Nothing more.”

  The golems led her to the altar. There was a stepping block to help her climb, and the top was smooth except for a groove cut for—she supposed—her heart's blood. Ashesa looked at the altar, then the guards. Their weapons gleamed brightly in the morning sun, but one held his a little farther away from his body. Ashesa judged the distance and her chances, but she made the mistake of glancing at Timon. His smile hadn't changed a whit, but there was a new and very clear message in his eyes.

  Don't.

  Ashesa lay down reluctantly and let the twig-fingered guards shackle her to the cold stone. As the last manacle clicked into place she heard a yelp like a hunting horn cut off in mid-note. Timon wasn't smiling now. There was something like worry on his face, perhaps even a touch of fear. Ashesa couldn't have imagined that a moment before.

  “Daras is early …I'd better hurry and get into my costume, Highness. Won't be a moment.”

  The magician hurried off into the temple, leaving Ashesa alone with the golems. There was a commotion at the gate and Ashesa turned her head to look just as the gate burst open and something very much like brown rag sailed through, cartwheeling end over end to smash against the stones. Prince Daras of Borasur strode through.

  His entrance made Ashesa skip a breath; she'd forgotten how handsome he was, but that wasn't all of it—a glory seemed to shine around him, like a saint etched in stained glass. He saw her then and rushed forward, all smooth motion and mad joy.

  And this is what Timon wants to destroy.

  She heard Timon but could not see him. “Stop him, my Pets!”

  The golems set their halberds and charged. Ashesa finally recovered her wits. “Flee, My Beloved! It's a trap!”

  Daras, of course, did nothing of the sort. He veered to the right and a golem's headlong rush carried it past. Daras struck a trailing blow without breaking stride and the golem's clay head exploded.

  Ashesa watched, horrified but unable to look away. There was a battlelight on Daras's face, and his eyes were bright and wild. Ashesa's breath skipped a second time.

  He's enjoying this!

  The truth of it was like a cold slap in the face. It wasn't the rescue. It wasn't even herself as anything but an excuse. The prince was consumed with a mad ecstasy born of the clash of weapons and pleasure in his skill. He destroyed golems. He would destroy men with as little thought and the same wild joy. Ashesa tried not to think anymore, but it was a torrent held too long in check and the dams were breaking.

  This is what Timon wants to destroy…

  The second golem thrust past Daras's parry by brute force and the prince twisted his body like an acrobat. The halberd merely sliced a thin red line across the front of Daras's tunic, and the prince's return stroke left the golem broken and still.

  A voice issued from the temple. It was Timon, and it wasn't Timon—it boomed like thunder across the valley. “Now you must die!”

  Ashesa strained to turn her head and saw Timon step out of the shadows of the temple. He wore a robe decorated with glyphs like the ones on Ashesa's costume, and in his gloved hands he carried a long curved knife. It glowed with a blue balefire that still could not penetrate the blackness under Timon's hood.

  Prince Daras studied the magician's knife, then looked at his own sword. Grinning, he dropped the sword and pulled his own long dagger. Ashesa wanted to scream but nothing came out—it was as if an invisible hand clapped itself over her mouth.

  The fool, she thought wildly, the bloody, senseless fool!

  What happened next was filled with terrible beauty. Daras charged the magician, and this time it was Timon who danced aside to let Daras hurtle past like a maddened bull. Timon's blade flicked out and then there was another line of red on the prince's chest. Daras snarled like a berserk, but kept some caution as he stopped himself and slowly circled, looking for an opening. Timon kept just out of reach, reacting with a speed Ashesa wouldn't have expected of him. The glow on Daras's face built to new heights of rapture, as if the magician's surprising skill fanned it like the bellows of a forge.

  It was like the sword dance Ashesa had seen performed at her father's court—the flash of steel always averted, always eluded as
if it was nothing more than a dance for her amusement instead of a fight to the death. Timon's knife traced its path through the air like a lightning flash, and Daras's dagger slashed and hummed in a silvered blur.

  Then everything changed.

  Timon broke from the fight and sprinted toward the altar. “The sacrifice must be made!”

  What?

  The wizard hurtled toward her, his knife burning away the distance to her heart. Ashesa closed her eyes.

  Someone screamed and Ashesa opened her eyes again, surprised. She had meant to scream but never really managed. Who?

  Timon. He lay sprawled at the foot of the altar, Daras's weapon buried almost to the hilt in his back. Bright, impossibly red blood oozed from around the steel. Ashesa felt a little sick, a lot relieved and a bit …well, guilty. Guilty for wondering why Timon's trap had failed, and for wondering—just for an instant—if it should have failed. And why the mad dash to the altar? Unless Timon had lied to her…

  Prince Daras grinned down at her, his chest heaving like a bellows. “Did—did you see that throw?” he chortled. “Thirty paces, easily…” Daras seemed to forget about the throw all at once, as he got his first good look at Ashesa. The grin turned into something else.

  Ashesa shivered. “For the love of heaven, stop staring and get me loose! There may be more of them.”

  “You're in no danger now, My Beloved Ashesa,” Daras said, placing a hand on her bare shoulder. “And first thing's first.”

  “Get me loose.” Ashesa repeated, all sweet reason. “We have to get away from here.”

  Daras nodded. “In time. His lackey today, Aldair himself tomorrow. That's the order of business. Right now there are other matters to attend to.”

  Ashesa spoke very clearly, very urgently. “You're wrong, Beloved. Wylandia had nothing to do with this. I must tell you—” She stopped. Daras's hand had departed her shoulder for a more southerly location. “What are you doing?!”

  He looked a little surprised at her attitude. “That ‘other matter’ I mentioned. Surely you know that tradition demands a price for your rescue?”

  “We're not married yet, Beloved,” Ashesa pointed out.

  Daras shrugged. “A rescue is a separate matter altogether, with its own traditions and duties. Binding, too. I'm afraid we don't have any choice.”

  That word.

  It wasn't the act that Daras demanded, or even her feelings about Daras himself that mattered in what came next. It was the one word Daras had used. That made all the difference.

  Sometimes, in those dark hours between waking and sleeping, when night closes in and the sound of their own heartbeats is much too clear, people have been known to wonder how close to the edge of the abyss they dwelled, and what it would take to push them over. In that moment, strapped to an altar under a warming sun, Ashesa became one of the lucky ones. That question would never trouble her again.

  She looked at a soft patch of grass nearby, perfect for paying her debt. Very close to where Timon's dagger had fallen to lie mostly hidden. Yes, it was perfect.

  “Free me,” she said, “and you'll have your reward.”

  Ashesa leaned on the altar, trying to clear away a red haze from her mind. She tried not to look at Daras's body, tried not to remember the stunned surprise on his face before all expression ceased. Ashesa pulled herself around the stone until she came to Timon's limp form, then her mouth set in a grim smile and she yanked the robes aside.

  The blood came from a punctured animal bladder, and the stick skeleton was dappled with thick, blackening drops.

  “Damn you!”

  Timon stepped out of the temple again, but this time it was really him. Ashesa glared at him and all the world behind. “No one will believe you,” she said, pale as snow and twice as cold.

  Timon obviously considered the suggestion in questionable taste. “Did I suggest such a thing? No, Highness. But they will believe you as you relate—tearfully, I advise—how Daras fell in the rescue, slaying the fiend and freeing you with the strength of his dying breath. Will I spurt green ichor? I should think I would.”

  “I saw the fight—the real fight—while it lasted. Daras was good, but your golem could have killed him easily!” she accused. “But you knew I…” She couldn't finish it.

  “What a mind,” repeated Timon with deeper admiration. “And what you say is partly true, Highness. Once Daras took the bait he was finished, one way or another. For your sake take comfort—you can't kill a dead man. But I was curious about you, I admit it. Not everyone has the talent for knowing what must be done when it must be done. No, Highness. I didn't know. Add another sin to my head because I wanted to find out.”

  Ashesa saw the dwarf, Seb, coming down the mountain path. He led two horses packed for travel and two more saddled to ride, and he played out a grayish cord behind him from a large spool mounted on a stick.

  “A few matters to attend, Highness,” Timon said. “The first involves something new in the art of destruction. I think you'll be seeing it again.” He nodded and Seb struck a flint to the cord. It sizzled with life and burned its way back to the tower. In a moment there was a dull roar and the earth trembled. The tower swayed on its foundation and then collapsed. Flames licked the exposed beams and flooring and soon the whole thing was burning merrily.

  Ashesa stared. Heavens.

  Timon pulled a vial from his robe and poured an acrid black liquid on the golem. There was an instantaneous, nauseating stench and the cloth, wood, leather, and blood all hissed and bubbled and melted into a smoking mass.

  Seb stared at the remnants of the tower wistfully. Timon laid a hand on his shoulder. “Sorry, but you knew it was only temporary. My magic would have to die with me. Expectations, you know.” He turned back to Ashesa. “As cruel as assumptions in their way. They killed Daras as surely as we did.”

  “What about me?” Ashesa asked dully.

  “Don't worry. If you'll wait here, I've no doubt that King Aldair and Prince Galan will follow the beacon of flames right to you, combining against the common foe under the push of a father's love. Have you met young Galan, by the way? A kind, intelligent lad by all report, though given to idle dreaming. Who can say? With a firm hand to guide him he might even make a king.”

  Seb handed Ashesa a cloak. “Master, we'd best be going.”

  They mounted and rode out the gate without a backward glance. Ashesa gathered the cloak about her and settled down to wait. As she waited, she thought about Timon, and Daras, and herself. Maybe she would talk to her father about Galan. Maybe. They would still want the alliance, but that didn't matter just then. She would meet Galan again, and she would decide. She would decide. Her father, whether he realized it or not, would just go along. She didn't really understand what was different now, but something was, and it wasn't because of her crime as such. It just came down to choice. Once you knew it existed there was no end to it. And no escape from it either.

  Forgive me, Beloved, but Seb was right—this isn't a time for heroes.

  Still, the Age that couldn't profit from a clever, determined princess had never dawned.

  The Cup and the Cauldron

  Mercedes Lackey

  Rain leaked through the thatch of the hen-house; the same dank, cold rain that had been falling for weeks, ever since the snow melted. It dripped on the back of her neck and down under her smock. Though it was nearly dusk, Elfrida checked the nests one more time, hoping that one of the scrawny, ill-tempered hens might have been persuaded, by a miracle or sheer perversity, to drop an egg. But as she had expected, the nests were empty, and the hens resisted with natsy jabs of their beaks her attempts at investigation. They'd gotten quite adept at fighting, competing with and chasing away the crows who came to steal their scant feed over the winter. She came away from the hen-house with an empty apron and scratched and bleeding hands.

  Nor was there remedy waiting for her in the cottage, even for that. The little salve they had must be hoarded against greater need than he
rs.

  Old Mag, the village healer and Elfrida's teacher, looked up from the tiny fire burning in the pit in the center of the dirt-floored cottage's single room. At least the thatch here was sound, though rain dripped in through the smoke-hole, and the fire didn't seem to be warming the place any. Elfrida coughed on the smoke, which persisted in staying inside, rather than rising through the smoke-hole as it should.

  Mag's eyes had gotten worse over the winter, and the cottage was very dark with the shutters closed. “No eggs?” she asked, peering across the room, as Elfrida let the cowhide down across the cottage door.

  “None,” Elfrida replied, sighing. “This spring—if it's this bad now, what will summer be like?”

  She squatted down beside Mag, and took the share of barley-bread the old woman offered, with a crude wooden cup of bitter-tasting herb tea dipped out of the kettle beside the fire.

  “I don't know,” Mag replied, rubbing her eyes—Mag, who had been tall and straight with health last summer, who was now bent and aching, with swollen joints and rheumy eyes. Neither willow-bark nor eyebright helped her much. “Lady bless, darling, I don't know. First that killing frost, then nothing but rain—seems like what seedlings the frost didn't get, must've rotted in the fields by now. Hens aren't laying, lambs are born dead, pigs lay on their own young …what we're going to do for food come winter, I've no notion.”

  When Mag said “we,” she meant the whole village. She was not only their healer, but their priestess of the Old Way. Garth might be hetman, but she was the village's heart and soul—as Elfrida expected to be one day. This was something she had chosen, knowing the work and self-sacrifice involved, knowing that the enmity of the priests of the White Christ might fall upon her. But not for a long time—Lady grant.

  That was what she had always thought, but now the heart and soul of the village was sickening, as the village around her sickened. But why?

  “We made the proper sacrifices,” Elfrida said, finally. “Didn't we? What've we done or not done that the land turns against us?”