The inn door creaked open, and she turned to see who had arrived, to judge whether she should call to the kitchen to heat up the stove. The weather was clammy and unpleasant, and the inn almost empty, not a single person was seated at the tables just then, and any new arrival was a welcome diversion, however slight.
Whoever had opened that door did not hurry in, and given the wet chill of the outside air that was something of a surprise. Rosalie got to her feet and straightened her apron.
Then the customer pulled herself through the door and stood panting in the opening, her face red in the firelight, her long black hair damp and tangled—more so, perhaps, than the weather could explain. She clutched the doorframe and her eyes focused on Rosalie, but she did not step across the threshold.
The woman was ill, Rosalie decided, and she ran to help. She lifted one hand from its death-grip on the frame and wrapped it around her own shoulders, then took the woman’s weight—more than her own, even in their current respective conditions—and helped her down the steps into the central dining area. She settled her onto one of the sturdy wooden chairs, steadying her.
The woman still had not said a word; now she sat gasping, one hand on the table, one on Rosalie’s shoulder, and stared into Rosalie’s eyes.
“Are you all right?” Rosalie asked. “Is there anything I can get you?”
That gaping mouth closed wetly, then fell open again. The dark eyes blinked.
It was very obvious that she was not all right, but Rosalie had not known what else to say. Now she studied the old woman’s face, trying to judge what might be most helpful.
She was indeed old, perhaps twenty years older than Rosalie, and her skin sagged on her face and neck, pulling tight over her cheekbones and hanging in folds below—she had once been plump, but was no longer.
She had not had enough to eat in some time; that much was obvious. The way she was gasping, as if trying to suck the moisture from the air, convinced Rosalie that she had not had anything to drink lately, either.
“Wait here,” Rosalie said. She lifted the hand from her shoulder and set it on the table’s edge beside its mate, then turned and hurried to the kitchen.
The inn’s proprietor was not there; he had gone off to the market in Broken Wheel to restock the pantries. His surly nephew Aldreth, currently serving as the inn’s cook, was sitting by the stove with a glass of wine in his hand, his head tilted back to study the black-on-black patterns left on the ceiling by centuries of smoke. “Al, we’ve a customer,” Rosalie said. “I need a bowl of soup.”
Al’s head snapped forward. “What sort of soup?”
“Whatever’s fastest. She isn’t well.”
He frowned. “Is it catching?”
“I don’t think so,” Rosalie said. “She’s old; I think it’s her heart.”
“Can she pay?”
“I’ll worry about that; you get me some soup.”
Aldreth muttered something, then got up from his chair. There was always a pot of broth kept simmering, for those occasions when a customer wanted something hot quickly, and it was simple enough for Aldreth to throw a few slices of this and that into it, and open the stove vents beneath it to bring it to a boil. A moment later Rosalie had a bowl on a tray and headed back to where the old woman sat gasping, hands clutching the table’s edge.
Rosalie spooned the first mouthful into the old woman herself, and was gratified when the sagging mouth closed around the spoon and the woman’s breathing seemed to ease. She swallowed, and took the spoon from Rosie’s hand.
A few minutes later the old woman still had to pause every so often to pant a little, and her hands trembled on the tabletop, but her eyes were clearer, her manner calmer.
“Thank you, my dear,” she said.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” Rosalie asked.
“I have no money,” the old woman replied.
“Oh, don’t trouble about that,” Rosalie told her. “Tell me what you need, and I shall see that you have it.”
“A little more to eat, perhaps, and to drink. And if I could sleep here for a time—not a bed, I can’t afford that, but this chair would serve me well.”
“You’ll stay until you’re well enough to travel, and I’ll see if there’s a bed to be had, whether you can pay or not. What sort of people would we be, to cast you out in your condition?”
The crone’s mouth twisted. “The sort I have met more often than not, my dear.”
“Well, you won’t find that sort here,” Rosalie replied, with far more conviction than she actually felt. She was not at all sure what Aldreth and his uncle Bodge might do, given the chance, but she did not want to see this pitiable old thing sent out into the gloom to perish. “You just wait here, and I’ll see what the kitchen can spare.”
A moment later she was back with bread and cheese and beer, and she sat by and watched as the old woman nibbled away at the food.
Other customers arrived as the hours passed, but Rosalie kept them from disturbing the old woman, and later she took the woman to her own bed in the attic. Climbing the stairs was a challenge for the stranger, but there was no hurry.
Why Rosalie took it upon herself to tend the old woman she could not have said; perhaps she saw too much of her own future in her unexpected guest. Nonetheless, tend her she did.
Bodge, the proprietor, was not happy about this when he returned from Broken Wheel, but so long as Rosalie paid for her guest, he would not object.
Rosalie paid. She had saved up her meager wages for years, against a time when she could no longer work for her keep.
The old woman gave her name as Beatrice. Her history, as she described it, had been adventurous and far-ranging, very unlike Rosalie’s own—but there were commonalities, as well. Both had put far too much faith in the words of the wrong men, and wound up with little to show for their trust.
Beatrice told Rosalie about her travels, and Rosalie sighed enviously. She asked why Rosie had stayed, if she had wanted to see other lands.
“There was a man,” Rosalie explained. “His name was Jack—Shadowjack, he called himself, and he dressed always in black and gray. He swept me off my feet with sweet words and strong kisses, and stayed for a time. Then he told me that he had certain business to attend to, and that he had to go, but he promised me he would return, that he would be back for me soon, and I, fool that I was, believed him. So I waited for him.”
“But he never came,” Beatrice said.
“He never came,” Rosalie agreed.
“What sort of a man was he, that you would wait so long?”
“A darksider, actually. He even claimed to be a Power, the Lord of Shadow Guard.” She laughed bitterly. “As if a Power would come here to Twilight!”
“There are stranger things.”
Rosalie waved that away. “I was a fool, taken in by his pretty lies. He said he would make me the Lady of Shadow Guard, his mighty castle that no other man had ever seen, and I half believed even that nonsense! He spoke of it with such conviction. . .” She shook her head. “But he never came back. It was all lies.”
“Perhaps he meant to return, but could not. Perhaps he died.”
“He was a darksider. They do not stay dead.”
The old woman could scarcely argue with that.
The two shared the attic room, and Beatrice recovered, not as quickly as she had hoped nor as slowly as she had feared. Somewhere along the way, in her years of traveling, Beatrice had picked up something of the Art, had learned a few of the secrets of magic, and she taught Rosalie what she could, in payment for her food and lodging.
Rosalie proved a surprisingly apt pupil.
Time passed, a year and more, until Beatrice was again on her feet, and able to help out around the inn. Eventually there came a day when Rosalie went to Bodge, in the privacy of his office, and suggested that perhaps it would be fair to pay Beatrice for her help.
Bodge shrugged. “I can’t pay you both,” he said.
“
You barely pay either of us.”
“There, you see? I am as generous as I can afford to be.”
Rosalie had seen enough over the years to have an idea what Bodge could afford, should he choose to do so, and she felt a swelling in her heart. For a moment she stared at her employer, and then she nodded.
“Very well, then,” she said. “Let her have the pittance you pay. I’ll be going.”
Bodge’s mouth opened, then closed. He blinked, and then shrugged again. “As you please,” he said.
When Rosalie told Beatrice what she had done, the old woman asked, “Where will you go? You have no other home.”
“I don’t know,” Rosalie said, as she gathered her scant belongings. “Perhaps I’ll go looking for my Jack.”
“How will you live?”
“I have the skills you taught me. I’ll make do.”
For a moment Beatrice watched thoughtfully as Rosalie bundled her clothes on the narrow bed. Then she said, “If your darksider died, then he may be in Drekkheim.”
Rosalie paused. “What?”
“Drekkheim, in the far west. When the darksiders die they are reborn in the Dung Pits of Glyve, at the west pole of the world, in the center of the dark side. That lies within the demesne of the Baron of Drekkheim. Any who are caught on the Baron’s lands must pay a few years of service as a penalty for trespassing. The rebirth itself can take years, and the Baron’s lands are broad and barren, not an easy crossing. It’s true that darksiders do not die as we do, but one who is slain may take several years before he can return to his old life. If your Jack has died since you last saw him, then he may be working out a term in the Baron’s service—or he may still be regenerating in the Dung Pits.”
“Dung pits do not sound like an appealing destination.”
“From all I’ve heard, they aren’t one—but the Baron of Drekkheim does not care to live in filth any more than does anyone else, and his castle is far to the east of Glyve, almost at the further end of his lands. You could ask him whether your Shadowjack has passed through of late.”
Rosalie stared at the older woman for a moment, then demanded, “Why have you never suggested this before?”
“It’s a slim hope, Rosie,” Beatrice replied. “It’s far more likely that your Jack is indeed the liar and scoundrel you have long believed him to be. I did not want to send you off in pursuit of anything so improbable. But if you’re leaving anyway, I can suggest it. You may find nothing—but if there is even a slight chance that your lover is toiling in the Baron’s castle, what can it hurt to take a look?”
Rosalie had no answer for that.
It took almost three years to reach the castle of the Baron of Drekkheim; she had to find her way thousands of miles across the darkside. It took the better part of another year before her petition for an audience was granted. At last, though, she knelt before his throne.
“You have come all the way from Twilight to see me,” he said. “We do not see many mortals this far west—at least, not by choice. Why have you come?”
“I am seeking a man,” she said. “A darksider. Jack, he’s called—Jack of Shadows.”
The Baron started, and looked around at the torches that lit his hall. “Do not say that name again,” he said. “And move out into the light, away from the shadows.”
Puzzled, Rosalie rose and obeyed. She felt a surge of hope, though, for the Baron clearly recognized the name, and seemed to respect it. Could it be that her Jackie really was a Lord and a Power?
“What do you want him for?” the Baron demanded. “Why do you come here seeking him?”
“He made me promises, long ago,” Rosalie answered. “I want to know why he has not kept them. I thought perhaps he had died, and was now in your service.”
The Baron shook his head. “I have not seen him in many, many years. If he has died, I am not yet aware of it. As for his promises—do you not know he is also called Jack of Liars? He is a thief and a rogue. Even among the soulless, he is considered untrustworthy.”
Rosalie’s heart sank in her breast as she heard these words. Her new skill with the Art let her see that the Baron was speaking the truth—or at the very least, what he believed to be the truth.
“Thank you, Lord,” she said.
The Baron considered her for a moment as she stood before his throne. “What will you do now?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Lord.”
“I thought I sensed a spell. You know something of magic?”
“A little, Lord.”
“Enough that you can sense intruders?”
“Under the correct circumstances.”
“I know you have come from Twilight, and are not accustomed to living in full darkness, but would you consider employment here, perhaps?”
Rosalie blinked in surprise. “Employment, Lord?”
“You have come here because you know all those who are resurrected must pass through my lands, and it is my custom to charge them a few years’ service for that passage. There are those, however, who avoid that just toll—my realm is a broad one, and great as my powers are, they do not inform me of every skulking revenant who seeks to evade me. I therefore employ certain entities to guard the outlying portions of my domain, and I have found that human Wise Women—that is the correct term, is it not?”
Rosalie nodded.
“Yes,” the Baron continued. “Wise Women can serve well as guardians of my borders, to see that my rightful prey does not escape. I have a vacancy in one district at this time; do you think your skills are sufficient to essay this task?”
“I. . . I do not know, Lord. They may be.”
“The position has its perks. You will understand, of course, that I do not need additional wardens in inhabited areas; if you accept my offer you will be watching over a broad stretch of otherwise uninhabited wilderness. If you are prone to loneliness this may prove unpleasant, but you will have regular visits from my staff, who will bring you food, and whatever else you might desire, within reason, and who will obey you, within reason, and perform services you ask of them. Your authority within your district will be second only to my own. In exchange, you will report to me, by messenger or by spell, every stranger you observe to cross my lands, and you will hinder them as best you can, so that I have time to intercept them. That is all. I do not expect you to engage in duels of either spells or wits with anyone, nor do I think a single human woman can reasonably be expected to employ force against a determined darksider. If you simply tell me of each trespasser, you will have done all I demand, and anything more shall be at your discretion.”
“I don’t. . .” She stopped without completing the sentence, unsure what she had wanted to say.
“And should that man you seek, your Jack, happen to die and return,” the Baron said with an unpleasant smile, “perhaps it will be you who finds him and alerts me to his presence. That might provide a modicum of vengeance for his lies and mistreatment, yes?”
Rosalie’s eyes lit up at that. “Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
And so it was that Rosalie, long of the Sign of the Burning Pestle, became the Wise Woman of the Eastern Marches, in the service of the Baron of Drekkheim, dwelling alone in the wilderness near one of the borders of his realm.
She found the job suited her. After a lifetime of living among travelers and innkeepers who barely noticed her, the solitude of the waste, and the solicitous attention of the Baron’s men when they visited her with her regular supplies, were a welcome change. Simply sitting on a rock watching the stars, with no thought that she might be ordered to fetch someone an ale or clean up a drunkard’s vomit, could keep her happy for hours.
She was also able to practice her Art undisturbed, and her prowess grew steadily. Within a few years of her arrival she felt herself truly worthy of the title “Wise Woman,” and could effortlessly sense everything of consequence that occurred within the territory the Baron had assigned her.
On those occasions when the pleasures of isolation paled, sh
e reminded herself that ending up alone was her own fault for listening to the pretty lies Jack of Shadows had told her. Someday perhaps he would pass here, and she would be able to make him pay for those lies. She would have a chance to tell him what he had done to her. Lady of Shadow Guard, indeed! Instead she was the Wise Woman off the Eastern Marches—which was to say, mistress of a hundred square miles of desolate stone, inhabited only by a few scattered lizards and an occasional passing monster.
And once, when the Baron’s men brought her the regular portion of good cheese and hard bread and salt pork, and jugs of red wine and strong ale, she took the opportunity to engage one of them in conversation, asking for news of the world beyond Drekkheim’s borders. They spoke for some time—he giving her the latest gossip about the upcoming Hellgames and rumors of doings on the distant dayside, she telling him about those long-ago promises her deceitful suitor had made.
The man considered her silently during a break in the discussion, then asked, “Are you waiting for him? Is that why you’re here—your magic tells you he’ll come this way someday?”
“Oh, it’s nothing so certain as that,” she said. “He may come this way eventually, but I have no assurance of it, and if he does, it may not happen until long after I’m dead. But I hadn’t anything better to do.”
“So you’re here because you might see him?”
Rosie thought about this for a moment, looked at her own motives as honestly as she could, then nodded. “That’s right.”
The man said, “He means a great deal to you, then, even though you haven’t seen him in so many years.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I understand, though,” the man said. “Do you hate him so very much, to devote your life to punishing him, or is it that you still love him, and want to see him again?”
Rosalie stared out at the wasteland for a moment, then turned and stared at the man’s face instead. At last she shook her head. There were questions even a Wise Woman could not answer.
Shadows & Reflections: A Roger Zelazny Tribute Anthology Page 19
