Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXIII

by Waters, Elisabeth

  Rayl knelt down at Verda's side.

  "You live. You live," she murmured. Tears welled on her eyelashes and let go, dribbling down her cheeks.

  "I do," he said.

  "I'm... sorry. I'm sorry I ran."

  "Had you not, I would not be here now." His tone held no reproach. Suddenly the pain, the numbness, the certainty of her own death, did not trouble her as they had.

  Rayl cradled her head, hissing as his fingers touched the oozing bite at the back of her neck. As he gazed at the other puncture, the crease in his brow grew so deep it stretched from the top of his nose nearly to his hairline.

  "It's bad," she said. "I killed her, but she killed me."

  "Hope is not lost," he said.

  "You always say that, even when you don't believe it."

  "I always believe it," he replied.

  The delirium deepened. Time did not flow; it skipped. At one point, gentle hands were cleaning her wounds with a moist cloth. In the next moment, so it seemed, the surface beneath her was jostling and bumping, and she realized she was being transported on a wagon. Her flesh felt so hot and waxen she felt sure it was melting off her bones.

  A blanket was draped over the wagon, screening her from the sun. The coolness and the dimness appealed to her so much she surrendered to them.

  * * * *

  The next she knew, she was lying in a bed softer than any she had ever before felt.

  She opened her eyes. The bed was immense, its posts made of finest rosewood, its canopy draped in fine Southern blue silk. Cut fresh flowers filled Ayr porcelain vases on matching nightstands on either side. The walls were draped in tapestries of superb craftsmanship, depicting key events in the lives of leading members of the House of Ommero.

  And in a plush chair, his hair combed, dressed in fine court livery, his face and hands more pristinely clean than she had ever seen, his weapons absent, sat Rayl. His eyes were closed. His head rested on the cushioning. His chest was rising and falling at a steady rate.

  She tried to speak. It came out as a cough.

  Rayl was instantly and fully awake. He sat up sharply, a warrior ready to deal with whatever he must. As he became oriented, he relaxed and grinned at Verda.

  He grinned. Verda had never seen him do that before. He picked up a crystal bell from the small table by his chair and rang it. The tone reverberated enchantingly off the ceiling's great wooden beams and panels.

  She coughed again. He poured her a cup of water from her nightstand pitcher. She drank without stopping until it was gone.

  "There. You look better already," Rayl said.

  "I thought I would die."

  "It was a near thing. Such a fever you had. It took the skill of the queen's best healers to pull you through."

  "What happened back at the holding? How did you survive?"

  He held up his left arm. Verda saw a partially healed slice that ran halfway from wrist to elbow. It would leave him with another battle scar for his collection. "The attack ceased the moment Evra died. Deprived of her influence, the mindless ones lowered their weapons and simply stood where they were. I am afraid we killed several without need before we realized what had transpired."

  "And the peasants?"

  "All were saved. We shielded the adults from the horde. The children made it through the tunnel unscathed."

  "I saw Gritt and Cauld. I think."

  "They found you. You are their heroine, you know. They wanted to run to every holding and shepherd's hut in their whole shire to tell what they had seen. They only gave up the idea when I told them they could help escort your litter to the palace. It's only been three days since they returned to their farm."

  "Three... days?"

  "You were ill more than a fortnight, and it has been another day since your fever broke."

  The wonder of being alive was replaced with something less sweet. "Why did you tell Gritt and Cauld not to tell everyone what I did?"

  "Because they would not have told the right tale."

  The speaker was a woman. She had already reached the foot of the bed—Verda had paid only minimal attention to the subtle sounds of a door opening and closing. Her attire, though clearly meant as casual parlor wear, was so resplendent Verda had no doubt of the woman's identity.

  Verda deliberately did not make any attempt at an obeisance. "What tale do they tell instead?" she demanded.

  "That the king laid a trap for the demon," said the queen, "and when Evra fell into it, Takk was at last able to confront her. He slew her with his own axe, showing himself to be a true heir of Ommero."

  "Of course," Verda said bitterly. "And what tale do they tell of me?"

  "That you were among the cousins sent into the provinces to kill the cysts. That you did more than that? I suppose there will always be rumors that the king was not present when the Plague Queen perished. There are rumors noted in the old histories that say Prince Ommero was not there when she was killed the first time. But you will tell whoever asks that they should not believe rumors. Nor will you ever speak of Evra dying by means of poison, or of you and the others being sent out as bait, at the risk of your lives, while the king remained hidden in his stronghold."

  Verda gritted her teeth so firmly her jaw hurt.

  "You want to tell the truth."

  "Should I wish to further lies?"

  "Lies will be furthered, whether you wish it or not. It is for the best. My husband is like any king; he does not wish to lose face. The people are like any people. They want to believe their leader is mighty. Even as we speak, His Majesty and his retinue are visiting every corner of the kingdom, displaying the body of Evra for all to see. You cannot imagine the rapture and relief his visits bring. You would not wish to see how fearful those same people would be, were they to know the real story, and understand how near the bloodwraith was to success, and how impotent we were against her these four years."

  Verda could not understand how the queen could gaze at her so steadily, so unabashed. "Did the king do anything? Was he even the one who came up with the plan?"

  "No. It was my plan." Yet even that confession did not cause the queen to drop her gaze. "But it was a king's magician who altered your blood. Those were king's men who escorted you, enough of a guard that Evra did not suspect you were bait. Does it matter who takes credit, as long as the realm is saved?"

  Verda sighed. "I see. So I am to go back to my fief, and keep my tongue." The last three words burned her throat on the way out.

  "Your silence is necessary, but going back to your village? That won't do at all. I need you here."

  Verda blinked. "What do you mean?"

  "You are a young lady of proven ability and bravery, who wishes to do what is best for her land. You want your contribution to matter. I can give you that chance."

  The conversation had taken a direction Verda had not expected. She didn't trust it yet, but Rayl's quiet smile made her willing to hear more. "What is it you're proposing?" she asked the queen.

  "As you have seen, there are things the king cannot do, that nevertheless must be done if the realm is to thrive. The real work does not happen in the throne room or out on the parade grounds. It happens quietly, in rooms such as this. Think what you will of Takk, but he understands this. He could have failed to follow my advice of how to lay a trap for Evra, but he heeded what I said. He consulted his magicians. He listened to old comrades such as Rayl. And success was achieved."

  The queen took Verda's hand. "The right advice, given discreetly and at the right time, means everything. I want to add another voice to the cause. I am getting on in years. It is time I took on another lady-in-waiting, to learn what must be learned, to ensure when my son comes to the throne, and when his son comes to the throne, the administration of the kingdom will go on as it should. Will you accept this honor, Verda of Weaver Crossroads?"

  "Me? Live in the palace?"

  "Yes."

  "What of my family?"

  "You may visit them when you like,
and they visit you. But I think your mother and father will be well occupied arranging their new estate. And your eldest brother busy with his handsome new merchant vessel. But perhaps your sister will agree to join you here. You will need an aide, if you take on as much responsibility as I hope you will."

  Verda looked for hints in the queen's demeanor that would indicate insincerity, but did not see any.

  "All I have to do is agree, and this will happen?"

  "The estates and the ship will happen regardless, as a reward for what you have done already. And the money, of course."

  "The money?"

  "We will not mention how much coin you will have to spend as you like. That would be gauche."

  Verda felt the urge to cough, and hurriedly sipped more water.

  "I wish you to understand. I do not demand that you stay. I offer it. Along with whatever other rewards are within my power to grant. So what do you say? Do you wish to make a difference?"

  Verda's glance darted to Rayl, then back to the queen.

  Rayl began laughing.

  "What's so funny?" the queen asked.

  "Hope is stirring. She isn't used to it."

  Was that the feeling? All Verda knew was what was awakening inside her was strange and vivid, and she wanted to learn its nature.

  "I will answer you in the morning," she told the queen.

  Daughter of Heaven

  by Michael Spence & Elisabeth Waters

  I don't know what it is—the upcoming Olympics in China, perhaps—but this year I got enough Oriental stories that I could have done an entire anthology of them. There are some stories I expect to be set in China (I don't think Catherine Soto is going to be dragged out of the Tang Dynasty anytime soon), but I didn't expect it from Michael. Of course, I didn't know that he and his wife, Ramona, are, as he put it, "recent Sinophiles. Not that we support the mainland government; but China existed long before the Party and will exist after it." In this story Laurel, who is still working in the Customs House, finds something in a batch of documents for a shipment from China that will change her life forever.

  Michael Spence and I have been collaborating on and off since we were in high school. Our first joint published story (and the second story in the Treasures series) was "Salt and Sorcery" in Sword & Sorceress 16 in 1999. Nine years—and four stories—later, we're still trying to get Stephen to pass his mastery exams (fourth time's the charm), but Michael has finished his PhD and is discovering the joys of hunting for a job that will use it. He has continued his Harlan Ellison scholarship with an article in Sci Phi: The Journal Of Science Fiction And Philosophy, and his writing and acting credits now include audio drama also (for the shows The Astral Audio Experience, One Eighteen: Migration, and Star Wars—Codename: Starkeeper, all available through the Internet). For more of his writings, see http://marscreativeprojects.com/brotherosric.

  #

  Work at the Customs House was much more interesting these days. Laurel hadn't realized how bored she had been getting, but things were different now. She barely had time to think, and, when she did, there were lots of wonderful new things to think about.

  To celebrate an extremely complicated alliance/trade deal between their country and China, the Museum of Albion was assembling a special exhibit called "Power and Glory." In addition to the treasures on loan from the King's collection, the Emperor of China was graciously allowing some of the "lesser treasures" from the Forbidden City to be shipped halfway around the world to be displayed. With these "lesser treasures" came guards, servants (they even brought their own cooks—and food), and paperwork. Much paperwork. Mind-boggling amounts of paperwork.

  Despite being the youngest person ever to pass her Senior Ordeal and become a full-fledged mage, Laurel was still stuck at the University's College of Wizardry. Her older brother had been dithering for years, rather than even attempt his Senior Ordeal, so when Laurel passed hers, their grandmother had put a geas on both of them. Until Stephen passed his Ordeal, Laurel had to live on campus with him and his wife Melisande. The original idea was that she could tutor and encourage Stephen—or perhaps be enough of a pest so that he'd pass the Ordeal just to get rid of her. Unfortunately Laurel, who was only seventeen at the time, had fancied herself in love with a young man called Edward, who, while he liked Laurel, turned out to be more concerned for his own career. In an attempt to win a scholarship for which Stephen was more qualified, Edward sabotaged Stephen's magic during his Ordeal, causing Stephen serious injury in the process. As part of Edward's punishment, he was working on Stephen's long-term—very long-term—therapy. They had been at it for two years now, but Stephen was still unable to use magic and thus unable to pass his Ordeal. So Laurel, despite having long since graduated, still lived on campus.

  Laurel, however reluctantly, had to give Edward credit. Even though his work with her brother had been mandated by a Wizards' Tribunal, he pursued it with the fervor of a dedicated researcher. While Stephen provided the theoretical underpinnings, it was Edward who worked out and field-tested the procedures that turned theory into applied magic. Some of their collaborations had been not only published but acclaimed by several thaumaturgical societies. The University's Board of Elders had been impressed and were now talking about starting a joint program between the Colleges of Wizardry and Medicine, and hiring Edward and Stephen as program faculty—as soon as Stephen passed his Ordeal.

  Having no desire to teach, Laurel's choices of employment were severely limited by Stephen's perpetual student status and her consequent inability to leave the city—thank you ever so much, Grandmother. When Stephen was injured and she realized that she might be stuck for a time, Laurel had gone to work at the Customs House. Now, two years later, she was the most senior of the Imports Clerks. This—along with the fact that she had studied Mandarin and could both speak and read it—meant that all the documentation for the Chinese treasures passed through her hands.

  "It would be more interesting if the treasures themselves passed through my hands," Laurel muttered, looking up from the pile of papers in front of her to see a new and very junior clerk who had just brought her a cup of tea. "Oh, bless you! I really need that!"

  They both studied the desk, looking for a safe place to put a cup of liquid. Laurel shifted some papers from where the side of the desk met the wall, and said, "Put it there; that's the place where I'm least likely to knock it over." He managed to put the cup down without toppling or sloshing anything, then smiled shyly at her before leaving her office.

  She took a couple of sips of the tea, then turned back to the papers. An hour later she finished that batch, took another few sips of what was now cold tea (at least it was wet), and opened the next crate of documents. As she started to pull out the first bundle of papers bound together with red silk ribbon, she saw a glint of silver at the bottom of the box. She pulled all of the papers out, stacked them all neatly to one side of her desk, and then examined the object. Its form was simple: a straight, cylindrical piece of silver about five inches long with a loop at one end. Laurel examined it briefly, wondering what it was, then set it in the cleared space next to her teacup and reached for the next batch of documents.

  Easter was a full month past, and the weather was getting warmer. Laurel didn't dare to open the windows in her office lest the stacks of paper be disturbed, so she was getting hot, sticky, and tired. Pulling her hair back from her face and off her neck, she coiled it and looked for something to hold it in place. Her gaze fell upon the silver whatever-it-was, and she picked it up and shoved it into her hair. It held, and Laurel took another sip of cold tea and turned back to the paperwork.

  By the time the workday ended, Laurel had completely forgotten her hair (it wasn't anything she paid much attention to at the best of times), so the pin was still holding it more or less in place when she got home to the College.

  Melisande, who was a Sensitive, was pacing across the parlor when Laurel came through the front door of the cottage assigned to Stephen and Melisande
as resident advisors. Melisande whirled to look at Laurel with a look Laurel hadn't seen in two years and didn't want to see now—or ever again.

  "It's you, Laurel," Melisande said. "That's what I've been feeling this afternoon. Dear God, what have you done now?"

  * * * *

  Laurel blinked at her sister-in-law. "Um... good evening to you, too," she said. "You know, if I were... oh, I don't know, still a teenager, instead of a mature, working professional, I could get the impression that you were actually accusing me of something. Am I that much of a menace to the world?"

  Melisande started, shook her head as if to clear it, and sank into an armchair. Looking Laurel in the eye, she said, "Oh, Laurel, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me. Of course you're not. I just—"

  "Just saw me as 'annoying kid sister' again. Melisande, I love you dearly, but when is this going to end? I really am a capable person, you know. Senior Mage and all that, just like you, and—" Suddenly she thought she knew what this was about, and her eyes moistened. "—as much as I'd like to be helping Stephen pass his Ordeal, I really can't be of much help until he's cured of this whatever-it-is that's taken away his magic, so yes, I'm stuck here by Grandmother's infinite wisdom but it isn't my fault and I don't like it any more than you do!"

  Before Laurel could pull away, Melisande leapt from the chair and held her in a tight embrace, while she fought, and failed, to hold back the tears that seemed to come from out of nowhere. After a moment, Melisande relaxed her grip and, holding the weeping younger woman's head against her shoulder, said softly, "You're fine, Laurel, really, it's all right. You are a capable adult, and I apologize for not treating you like one. It's my fault, really it is. I've had this unsettling feeling all day, like things were just wrong with the world, and I had no idea why. It's not the usual sort of 'out of sorts' feeling; this one seems especially bad, as if something has broken apart and if it isn't put right we're all in trouble. And then you came in, and suddenly the feeling seemed to coalesce around you somehow. I have no—"