Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXIII

by Waters, Elisabeth

  "Yeah! When's the next slow boat to China?"

  "Depends," she shot back. "When's the Ordeal?"

  "It's next Wednesday," said Melisande. Stephen looked at her incredulously. "Well, it will be when I talk to Lord Logas. He gets back the day after tomorrow." To Nianying she explained, "Don't ask my husband to schedule a test when he thinks he's ready. He'll never think he's ready."

  Stephen's scowl turned into something halfway to a smile. "Touché."

  * * * *

  Three weeks later, the sun shone above the docks and a stiff breeze blew, as a Chinese ship prepared to depart with the Scholar's Pin and its new Guardian, the Eyes of Heaven.

  "Well, Lady Laurel. I can't say I ever expected to be calling you that." Logas beamed, like a proud father on graduation day.

  "It's not something I expected either, I must admit," she said. "No matter what everyone says, I still keep thinking I'm the young idiot who's going to mess things up when nobody's looking."

  He laughed. "And you think you're the only one who's ever felt that way?"

  "Well, no... Actually, yes! I don't know what everyone else is thinking, so of course I assume I'm the only one who thinks the way I do."

  He chuckled. "I cannot fault your reasoning. But keep this in mind: As you grow in your Guardianship, you will come to know many people and observe many others. You will notice common patterns, to the point that you may indeed know what they think."

  "Yes, in time... " She looked beyond Logas to where Melisande, Stephen, Edward, Nianying, and others waited who had come to see her off. The exhibition would run for four months, but for the sake of the Scholar's Pin the ship was leaving early, and would return. "Lord Logas—"

  "Just 'Logas' will do," he said with a chuckle. "You are part of the fraternity now. A rather exclusive one at that."

  "I'm not sure whether 'May you live a thousand years' is a blessing or a curse. That's one of the two things that's bothering me."

  "How so?" His expression might be that of a father or a physician; she couldn't tell which.

  "I'm something they're not," she said, indicating the others. "They will grow old, and for a very long time I won't. So that's a wall between us. And from what they've been saying, I know they're thinking about it."

  "Go on. You said there was a second thing."

  She tried to find the right words. "There's a wall on the other side of me, too. I'm going to spend the rest of my... life... in a country where they don't know Resurrection, or the Risen One. And that's what my magic is based on, and... what I'm based on, too, I guess. It's like, 'how shall we sing the Lord's song in a foreign land?' I don't know if I'm saying this right—"

  Logas's voice was warm. "You say it quite well, child. Perhaps this will help. As one who is well past his first millennium of life, I can tell you that dealing with different life spans is a challenge at first, but one does learn to live with it. And with familiarity, neither you nor the people you deal with will find it quite as hard as you feared. No matter how many days each of us is allotted, we all find ourselves taking them the same way: one at a time.

  "As for the second matter—When the Chancellor and I made arrangements with the Imperial court, we added one non-negotiable stipulation: that since your being there has opened the door between our two countries and cultures, there will be a team of scholars from our University there in the capital, and a similar team from China here in Albion. I intend to see to it that our team includes a substantial number from the College of Wizardry. And if the program in thaumaphysiology is enacted, that team may well include Stephen and Edward. They'll find the Asian perspective helpful, I'm sure."

  He smiled and placed a kiss on her forehead. "So be sure of this: You may travel far, and you will learn and understand much, but you will never, ever be alone. You will come to know and appreciate the people among whom you live, and you will continue to sing, knowing that others are singing with you."

  The signal came to prepare for departure, and Logas cleared his throat. "Even if some of us aren't as melodic as others." He placed a hand on her head in blessing. "Go in peace, Laurel. We all hope to visit you before too long, and you will show us magic untold. Make us even prouder of you than we already are."

  Laurel could manage to say no more, and so didn't try. She simply gave everyone a final embrace—especially Senior Thaumaturges Stephen and Melisande—and boarded.

  As all on the dock cheered, the ship rose majestically into the air, its sails filled, its keel clove the winds, and it glided with increasing speed toward the East.

  The Vessel

  by Gerri Leen

  You can tell a story is good when you finish it and then wonder what will happen to the characters next. Namali, the warrior of the god Settet, needs to get to his temple. Her way is blocked by enemies, and she can make the journey only by taking up temporary residence in the body of a disgustingly pretty doll belonging to the pampered daughter of a wealthy merchant. It's an interesting journey, with an end that nobody involved would ever have expected.

  Gerri Leen lives in Northern Virginia and originally hails from Seattle. She came to fiction writing late in life and writes stories in many genres, including fantasy—often centered around mythology—science fiction, horror, crime fiction, and romance. She dabbles in poetry and has one poem published. In addition to Sword & Sorceress 23, look for her stories in the following anthologies: Sails & Sorcery, Ruins Metropolis, Triangulation: Taking Flight, Desolate Places, One Step Beyond, and GlassFire. A complete list of her published and accepted work can be found at her website www.gerrileen.com.

  #

  Namali moved soundlessly through the forest, until her knee creaked, giving her away to anyone waiting. Fortunately, the only ones waiting for her were the priests of the warrior god Settet.

  "Great One," they said, falling to their knees in front of her.

  She envied them the mobility. Her knees and hips were aching so badly she was not sure she could walk any farther. This time she may have waited too long to call them to her. "Get up."

  They looked disappointed in her lack of formality. They always did, life after life. She wasn't a diplomat—or a goddess. She was a warrior who never died, moving from one willing host to another. Namali couldn't remember what this host's name had been or even how long ago she had taken her body. She'd stopped counting once she hit eighty.

  "Have you found me a way home?" This body was old and tired. It was time to move on. But Settet's enemies had blocked all the ways back to the ancient temple in Dahlinia where the rite had to be performed—not because it couldn't be performed elsewhere, but because the warrior who had been training since childhood to be Namali's next vessel was trapped there, cut off.

  The priests looked uncomfortable. "We have found a way, yes." They didn't meet her eyes.

  "I'm not going to like this idea, am I?"

  "No, Great One."

  Namali sighed. She didn't have much time left. Arguing with the priests was pointless. "Tell me."

  "There is a noblewoman traveling in the right direction. A somewhat... empty headed girl, but with a doll collection."

  Namali could feel her features freeze. "A... doll?"

  "Your spirit has traveled in statues before on the way home."

  "Statues of Settet's warrior woman, yes. Dolls, no."

  "All of Settet's statues are being destroyed at the checkpoints. And... it is no doubt a very nice doll."

  She sighed. The number of Settet's faithful were growing smaller by the year. Soon, there would be no one to support her.

  Of course, that was immaterial. She was here to do one thing until she no longer had the strength to do it: protect the land. Not any political boundaries—those had changed too many times for her to try to keep track. But her homeland, keep it safe from those who would commit atrocities to take over some part of it.

  It was up to her to interpret exactly what that meant. And to her, it was a simple mandate. One she could not do in this agi
ng, soon to be decrepit, body.

  A doll it was.

  * * * *

  Leanna lazed on the silk cushions as her women packed her clothing. "Throw in the gold robe. I may be invited to dinner with someone important."

  One of her women held up the robe in question. "I anticipated your need, my lady."

  "That's excellent, Sella."

  "I am Fanel."

  "I knew that." She hadn't actually. Her father was always switching the servants around. "Who is packing my dolls?"

  "I am, my lady."

  She was pretty sure this one was Sella but decided not to risk it. She didn't want to lose face in front of her servants and besides, who was the boss here? "I need to decide which ones to take."

  Her father didn't understand why she had to travel with so many dolls. It wasn't that they comforted her as they had when she was a child—when her mother died, and all her father had to give her was things instead of love. Well, some of it was that, but also it was that they were expensive and exotic and having them was a luxury.

  They made her special.

  She studied the gorgeous dolls, purchased from all corners of the world—her father had spared no expense.

  "This one," she said pointing to a black-haired beauty with dark brown eyes, a doll so delicate she always seemed on the verge of breaking. "And this one."

  Sella handed her a dark-skinned doll, thin and elegant with amber eyes and gold jewelry as fine as anything Leanna owned.

  One more. Which one?

  "Perhaps... this one?" Sella was holding up the warrior doll Leanna normally pushed to the back of the collection. There was nothing beautiful or elegant about her. The only thing interesting was the shiny sword she carried—it had a gorgeous red stone stuck in the handle of the sword.

  "I don't think so." She picked up the most recent addition to her collection. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed doll in a gossamer dress of silver and lilac. Her hair was done in an elaborate style; her silver sandals and jewelry shone with the care of the finest craftsmanship. She was bigger than the other dolls, almost the size of a toddler.

  "The warrior might be different." Sella put the other two in the waiting chest, then tried to take the blonde from Leanna. "Some variety?"

  "Uh, no." She slapped Sella's hand away and cradled the blonde. "I haven't gotten to know this one yet. Traveling will be a perfect opportunity."

  Sella shot her a look of what had to be pity. Leanna tried not to think that if she had any real friends, she might not have to get to know her dolls. But her father didn't consider the other girls in town quite suitable for her to spend time with.

  "As you wish, my lady."

  "Yes," Leanna said, as she eased the blonde into the chest. "As I wish."

  * * * *

  Namali followed the two priests to the outer gate of the house. Their contact was waiting.

  "Great One," the woman was about to fall to her knees, but Namali stopped her. "I am Sella and I pledge my life to your serv—"

  "Just take me to the dolls." Namali was not enamored of this plan. It was, however, the only plan in sight—short of fighting her way to the temple, and the various pings and creaks from her body told her how well that stratagem would work.

  "I tried to get her to choose a warrior doll," Sella said as she opened a chest finer than anything Namali had owned in all her lives, "but she resisted. I was able to throw in the sword." She reached in and pulled out a remarkably well made little weapon. The stone gleaming in its pommel had to be real.

  Namali took it from her, testing how strong it was. It would do. "Good work."

  Sella beamed, then her smile faded as she set the dolls up so Namali could see them. "I know they are not quite what you would want but... "

  "I cannot work with this." They were all so... pretty.

  She glared at the priests, saw them shuffle and look down, mumbling something about the vagaries of young women. Sella shook her head, as if trading the dolls that had been chosen would be more difficult than changing heads of state.

  "Fine." With a sigh, Namali studied the dolls. One of them was much bigger than the others. She looked sturdier, too. "This one," she said, pointing to the blonde with the silly hairdo.

  The priests seemed relieved. Sella bowed deeply and held the doll out with both hands.

  Namali looked up at the sky, taking in the stars for the last time with these eyes. It had been a good body; it had served her well. "Thank you," she said to the woman who had willingly let herself be pushed out of her body so that Namali could have absolute control.

  Then she closed her eyes and let go. She felt her spirit slide out of her old body, felt the uncomfortable constriction of a much smaller vessel as she slipped into the doll. Opening her eyes, she felt the heaviness of the lids, the awkwardness of the limited joints. There was no life energy from this body, no connection to Settet. Even one of his statues was better than this.

  The priests were covering her old body with rough fabric; they would burn it in one of the many guild furnaces.

  Namali tried to speak. The doll's mouth didn't move, so some of her words came out indistinct. She tried again, working at it until she got a reasonable facsimile of her normal speech, if not her voice—the doll's was annoyingly dulcet.

  "Do you want me to try to convince her to change her mind about the warrior?" Sella asked.

  "No," one of the priests said before Namali could tell her to do it. "They will be looking for such things. But not for this." He waved his hand toward Namali's new body and seemed to be trying not to laugh.

  Namali took the sword Sella held out and lifted it as high as she could. "I can still cut that tongue out of you." The movement was jerky and in her new voice, the threat sounded more like a come-on.

  Would fighting her way through a blockade have been such a bad way to go?

  "Sacred duty," she muttered as she climbed gracelessly back into the chest. "Sacred damn duty."

  * * * *

  Leanna reclined in her litter, the chiffon curtains blowing in the light breeze as the men carried her down the crowded road. She ignored their huffing breaths, the sounds of other travelers, the whinnying of horses and lowing of oxen. Ignoring the smells around her was less easy, and she dabbed more perfume around the litter.

  Leanna had napped. She'd read. She'd eaten some of the figs and cheese the servants had packed. Now, she was bored. If it wasn't so low born to walk, she'd ask the men to stop and let her out, so she could stretch her legs and at least see some of the countryside she was passing through. What she could make out through the curtains looked hazy but inviting.

  Reaching behind her, she dragged the doll chest to her and opened it. Arranging the three dolls in front of her, she admired them for a few minutes, checking the workmanship, straightening their clothes, and making sure their chains were hanging right and their hair was in place.

  They were beautiful. So feminine and—

  Why was the blonde holding a sword?

  She tried to pry it out of the doll's hand, but the fingers seemed glued around the handle of the sword. "I'm going to kill Sella," she said, as she considered beating the doll upon the pillows to try to loosen the sword. But that would probably ruin the doll's hairdo and could tear its fine, expensive clothes.

  She sat the doll back down, pulled its arm back so the sword was at least behind it, where she wouldn't have to see it. It seemed to serve as a stabilizer as well. The other dolls kept falling over as the litter pitched in the normal movement of six—or was it eight?—tired men. But the blonde stayed upright the whole way.

  "So, my friends, here we are."

  The other two dolls fell over again, so she popped them back into the chest. "Okay, honey, it's just you and me."

  She called all her dolls "honey." Naming them was just a little too pathetic, too much like they were her friends.

  "Here we are, on the way to Dahlinia, probably so that Father can entertain his latest mistress without me in the way." Sh
e'd heard the servants muttering about some new woman in the long line of female companionship her father had used to replace her mother.

  "I'm supposed to make nice with Abbel, the son of my father's best friend. Abbel's shorter than I am, dumpy, and his breath smells like my cats' nether regions." Not that she made a habit of smelling those, but cats being how they were, she was often presented with their backsides whether she liked it or not.

  She picked up the doll and let it peek out of the curtains with her. The countryside had changed from forest to low hills. Dahlinia was in the high desert; they had another day or two of this to go.

  "Gods help me, but I'm sick to death of my life." She lay back and ran her hand over her beautiful dress, could feel the warmth of the beads that wrapped around her neck, the reassuring clink of the bangles she wore around her ankles and wrists. It was all so predictable. So safe.

  An adventure. That was what she needed. She could go hunting in the forest, or fly hawks across the desert, or seek the great white cats of the upper reaches. She could go into battle and—

  She heard a strange zing, then two more, and felt the litter lurch to one side. Then it began to fall, hitting with a strange crunch that she realized was probably because the litter-bearers were under it. She glanced out, saw arrows sticking out of what she could see of the men, and began to hyperventilate.

  The litter fell again, and she heard the sound of running feet—had the other men abandoned her? Then she felt something push her toward that side of the litter, and she fell through the chiffon, landing on the carry pole and then onto the hard-packed dirt.

  A soft, sweet voice said, "Run, you nitwit."

  She ran.

  * * * *