Biggun shook his head from side to side, but it didn't clear the ringing in his skull. The gleam still came from the bushes, so he ambled from the mouth of his cave, hoping the knight would lead him a good chase into a few bystanders.
Madeleine, standing above the cave holding the sword, was far happier to see Biggun emerge than George was. As the dragon's head emerged from the cave, she hurled the enormous sword down from the ledge. The point struck Biggun at the base of his skull, and he reeled out of the cave, thrashing and randomly belching flame.
George, however, hadn't waited to see this. When Biggun poked his head out of the cave looking directly at him, George renounced such worldly pleasures as the acquisition of giant swords and immediately fled temptation. He was hastened along by one of the first random bursts of fire curling around his lumbering ankles, igniting nearby small bushes. Madeleine missed George's second retreat down Dragon Mountain, being too occupied with evading the landslide triggered by the death throes of Biggun and distracted by the change in pitch of the wailing from the cave inside.
Madeleine's sister finally ceased howling when Madeleine entered the cave, much to the relief of the other women within. For a few minutes, Madeleine thought she might have to protect her sister from them next. However, when they realized they were free to leave the cave without being obligated to marry, or even kiss, some smelly, pompous knight, their moods improved considerably. The discovery of the dragon's hoard of gold pleased them as well.
When Madeleine's party came back down the mountain, George was back on his rock beside the trail, gloomily finishing the polish on his helm. He hated losing swords, he hated losing women, and he hated losing to dragons. When he saw the women coming back down the trail, he was so astonished he dropped the helm in a mud puddle.
Muttering imprecations, he picked it up and began to clean it. When the women drew near, he addressed Madeleine, who had replaced the sword with fantastic gold ornaments. He struggled to keep sheer disbelief from coloring his tone as he spoke to her. "You have slain the dread dragon Biggun, fair maiden?"
"I have." She smiled, walking by him.
"Then where are you going, my pretty maid?"
"I am taking my sister back to my father's house."
George fell in with the women. "May I go with you, my pretty maid?"
"You may go to my father's house if you wish, though it is only my sister," here she gestured at a girl hardly less beautiful than herself, "who will be staying there."
"Then may I go with you wherever you are bound?"
Her laughter was the sound of silver bells on a summer breeze. "If you'll not go with me to the dragon's lair, you'll not go with me from my father's house, sir knight. In fact, if you are going with her, there is no need for me even to go that far."
George looked at the sister again. She also had her arms full of treasure, an adornment which set off her beauty to him as nothing else could. "May I accompany you to your father, fair maid?"
Madeleine's sister smiled and replied in a voice made soft by hoarseness, "Why certainly, good knight."
George determined to marry her before she could spend any of the money on her own. The perfect wife—she was pretty, rich, and seemed hardly able to speak. Surely the village priest would be available for a wedding this afternoon.
And so in the hilly part of Brittany, where the dread dragon Biggun once ravaged the countryside and his koi still swim in solemn patterns in their lonely pond, a knight and a maid parted company on a trail.
George the Greathearted, who put polish on his armor so well, bound himself to his destiny, which was both what he thought he wanted and what he truly deserved. Madeleine, who polished off the dragon, freed herself from hers, which was neither.
It's All in the Making
by Patricia B. Cirone
Culture changes with time and distance, and different talents are valued in different societies. Desi had been taught that her ability to feel the metal when mending or making things was evil, but when a foreign Guardswoman brought her an enchanted sword to mend, it was going to be difficult to keep her talent hidden.
Patricia B. Cirone has been writing for a number of years, and has sold more than a dozen short stories, some of which were published by Marion Zimmer Bradley. One of her greatest joys is that she got to meet Marion several times and talk to her about writing, life, and writing some more. In her day job as a librarian, she spends more time talking about books than reading or writing them, but she is currently working on a novel which she hopes to finish before the characters in it get so frustrated they stop talking to her. She lives in New England with her husband and two cats.
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"It's all in the making... " Askread's unctuous voice penetrated the thick oilcloth that separated the front of the shop from the utilitarian work area.
That was for sure, Desi thought, silencing a snort as she hunched over the fine filigree of the brooch she was working on. Not that dear Uncle Askread had anything to DO with said making... She reached over and wiped her right hand on the heavy linen cloth to remove even the faintest moisture of sweat, and stretched it open and shut several times before picking up her tool again. The voices from the other side of the curtain continued to pick at her attention. Whoever her uncle was talking to had an unusual accent.
"Your shop came highly recommended," the stranger was saying.
"Oh, I'm sure. The best in the city, my dear," purred Askread.
Desi's head jerked up. My DEAR??? Hadn't the stranger been asking about repair on a sword hilt?
"I'd like to talk to the craftsman who will work on it," the husky tenor insisted.
"Oh, I hardly think that is necessary... "
"I do," the stranger interrupted firmly. "I never deal through intermediaries in matters as important as this. Through here?" the stranger asked.
Desi heard Askread sputter as the curtain was flung aside and booted feet entered her domain. "Really, really... " Askread protested as he trailed helplessly after the... yes, a woman.
Definitely a her, Desi thought, goggling at the stranger, all pretence of being busy at work forgotten in her lax hands. The boots that encased the stranger's feet stretched all the way to her knees. Not town boots then, but riding boots. Or possibly Guard... but these boots were not polished, but scratched and dusty. Breeches and a smooth brown jerkin with the insignia of a crown over crossed swords covered a muscular but obviously feminine figure. Her hair was cut short—no, not cut, but hacked as if style or appearance was of no concern. Desi's eyes rose to the stranger's face. Amused, vivid green eyes stared straight back at her.
"Hallo," the stranger said politely.
"H... hello," Desi squeaked in reply. Uncle never let anyone know she was the one who made some of the jewelry and all of the sword hilts the shop was famous for. He was not going to be pleased, she thought, and glanced at his face. His face was mottled red, and his throat quivered as if about to explode.
"Are you the one who repairs sword hilts?" the stranger asked in that husky voice that was almost, but not quite, a tenor.
"No, of course not," Uncle Askread grated out, striving to maintain his oily politeness with this unruly customer. "My niece is only cleaning up in the shop, right, Desi?" he demanded.
Desi, obviously perched on the high stool at the work bench, her jeweler's guard on her left hand, tool in her right, and oil on her face where her hand had brushed against it while shoving her hair out of the way, sat there frozen, not knowing what to say.
"I think not," the stranger said confidently. She turned abruptly to confront Uncle Askread. "Don't try to play me for a fool, sir. This is obviously the craftswoman who fashions your wares."
Askread gobbled ineffectively for a moment, then flapped his hand at Desi, his mouth twisting as if he had swallowed a particularly bitter prune.
"What can I do for you?" Desi asked softly, her mind racing. Who could this woman be? That insignia on her breast had a small embroidered crown over it, and
so was obviously a royal emblem; she couldn't be just some caravan guard. And then Desi's mind made the connection between the rumors of a royal wedding that had been flying around the city for two months and the recent overwhelming demand for fine jewelry and sword hilts so decorated they would hurt even a calloused hand. Could Prince Trakear be getting betrothed to someone so foreign she had women for guards?
The stranger drew her sword out of its sheath. "Here," she said, pointing to an area on the hilt which had obviously sustained damage.
Desi reached forward and touched the hilt with her fingertips. She traced the design that was part of the grip and ran her fingers over the harsh break where something—another sword?—had scored and dented it. She let her fingers linger, letting her other sense reach out to the hilt. Each piece of work had its own soul, its own spirit that was a blend of its materials and a touch of the craftsman's own soul, and Desi liked to get the feel of a piece before working on repairing it. It was this ability that made her so good at repairing all sorts of metalwork and had brought her uncle prosperity ever since he had taken her in. But when she reached out with that hidden, inner sense she saw not metal or the forge of a fire, but bright runes that blazed like fire in front of her eyes.
Desi gasped, her eyes widening. This sword was more than a mere crafting of metal. She felt the Guardswoman tense and look more closely at her. Desi swiftly dropped both her hands and her eyes. Arts such as hers were considered dangerous to possess. Her mother had warned her again and again and had swatted her hand whenever she caught her "adjusting" a tear in her clothes or "coaxing" a daisy chain to stay together.
"I feel sure we can repair this... " Desi's voice trailed off awkwardly. What did one call a female Guard?
"Can you truly repair it?" the Guard asked in a strange manner, her eyes seeking Desi's.
Did this Guardswoman know her sword was spelled? And also... know Desi could work with such arts? No, she couldn't! No one living, not even her uncle, knew Desi possessed such witch's craft. She had to be imagining the intensity of the stranger's words. She was just overreacting to having a woman Guard just barge into the back room and worrying about what her uncle would do and say to her later about it. As if it had been her fault. And she was overtired from all the extra work they had been having lately. Yes, that was it. It was just a sword hilt. And this stranger was just a Guard.
"Yes, of course, Madam," Desi said firmly, tucking all thoughts of her extra art away. "We've been having quite a bit of extra work, but I feel sure we could have this repaired in... " she glanced at her uncle, "three days?" Askread nodded. "Three days," Desi said to the customer.
"All right," the stranger said. "I'll leave it here, then. Here's a surety against the work," she said, pulling a gold coin out of her pouch. Askread's eyes gleamed, the pruned twist to his mouth easing somewhat.
"Of course, of course," he said soothingly, and drew the Guard back out into the outer portion of the shop. Desi didn't listen to the closing murmurs of her uncle's arrangements with the Guardswoman, but instead stared at the bespelled sword and wondered what she had gotten herself into.
Only once before had she felt such a making in an object. That had been when a distraught acolyte had brought in a temple chalice she had dropped and dented. Nervously she had scurried into the shop on a day when Desi had been minding the counter. The young woman had looked frantically about before dragging the precious object out from beneath her cloak and asking if their craftsman could repair it so well no one would ever know the difference. And... would they do it without asking for payment? For the church... ? Desi had agreed to try, feeling sorry for the young woman who tearfully thanked her and hurriedly stumbled out of the shop with breathless promises to pray for her in lieu of coin.
The opportunity to work with such a beautiful object had been payment enough for Desi, who would never have seen any of the coin anyway. Her uncle made sure of that. She worked for her meals and a roof over her head and was supposed to feel grateful for that. And sometimes, she admitted grudgingly, she was. It had been good of her uncle, she reminded herself, to take her in when her mother had died. He wasn't even a blood relation, but the husband of an aunt who had died before she had even been born. Desi sighed. If only....
But wishes didn't get work done. She picked her tools back up and returned to working on the brooch that was promised for tomorrow. Another one of the gewgaws that had been in such demand recently. Her eyes kept straying to the sword hilt.
She remembered working with that golden chalice, and the peace she had felt when the spells interwoven in the gold had swirled around her, like the chimes of the temple bells. She had spent hours working on that chalice, staying up late when her uncle thought her abed. It wasn't just the delicate beating out of the dent until it was invisible; it was tapping it until those inner bells sounded pure and sweet. It wasn't merely retracing the intricate pattern on the outside of the chalice; it was weaving the pattern so it fit precisely with the pattern she saw glowing in her head, so both the pattern on the outside and the pattern that glowed behind her eyes swirled as one.
It had been working with the chalice that had made her more fully aware of her powers, and made her wonder why her mother had said they were evil. What could be evil about making or mending things of beauty?
It hadn't been the acolyte, she remembered, who had returned to fetch the chalice, but a stern-faced temple mistress. The woman had handed over coin and thanked Desi for their "attempt" to mend the temple chalice. "Such things are not repairable," she had said, "but thank you for making the attempt. It was very good of you to agree to do such work for free. The Goddess will surely note your generosity,"
She lifted the chalice to put it into a wooden box she had brought, then paused and looked sharply at it. She had turned it slowly, round and then around again, staring at the flawless pattern, and Desi thought she could hear the faint echo of the chimes she had heard when working with the object.
"This is repaired quite well," the woman said, staring at Desi.
"My uncle is careful to employ the finest craftsman," Desi replied innocently, trying not to gulp down the lump in her throat.
"Hmm... " the woman said, before placing the chalice firmly into the box. She had given Desi one more keen look before departing, her sure steps taking her swiftly from the shop.
Now, sitting in the shop next to the sword hilt, Desi suddenly remembered the terror she had felt then, the fear that someone would accuse her of witch powers and burn her, like she'd heard they'd done to a man up in the hills where she had grown up. But she knew she wouldn't let her fear stop her from working on the sword hilt. She would just be careful. She wouldn't let Uncle Askread know how long she would have to work on it; longer than merely fixing a physical dent would take.
She wondered if working on this would feel different than the chalice. She had thought maybe the spells on the chalice had come from years of being used in a temple. Or perhaps... well, there were rumors that "witch" powers were welcome when someone was dedicated to the temple. But this was no object of worship, soaking up prayers or quietly being "dedicated" by a priestess. It was a weapon of destruction. Those spells had been placed there. And she would get to work with them, feel them weave about her and dance out her fingers. Her fingers itched to work on it right away, but she forced herself to continue working on the brooch. Soon she promised herself.
"Don't you have that finished, yet?" Askread demanded, suddenly looming over her shoulder, a few hours later. Desi gritted her teeth.
"The brooch for Lord Urstar is finished, Uncle. This is the one for Lady Demaetrede."
"Well you'd better work swiftly. No dawdling. We've lots of demand, you know."
Desi swallowed a sigh and only trusted herself to nod. When did she not work swiftly?
"I'm closing the shop as soon as it's full twilight," Askread remarked. "Have that piece finished by then."
Desi glance out the window and her mouth tightened. Yes, she would
have to work swiftly, to meet this unnecessary demand. But she had learned from experience that it was no use arguing with Uncle Askread or pointing out that this piece wasn't due to be picked up until the late afternoon of the following day. She'd had bruises from such arguments when he had first taken her in and taught her the basics of jewelry making. She made sure the second brooch was finished and the work area cleaned up by the time Askread closed the shop.
As usual, Askread left to enjoy a convivial supper at one of the local eateries, while Desi turned and trudged up the outside stairs to the upper floor over the shop, her daily housekeeping chores, and a meager dinner she had to make for herself.
She passed old Nossie sweeping the stairway landing on the outside of the next house, which crowded up, practically nudging their own.
"Good even, Nossie," she said politely, too tired and distracted to stop for conversation. But Nossie had other ideas.
"Lots of business these days with all the goings on at the palace," she said, a gleam in her eye.
"Yes," said Desi tiredly. "Near run off our feet with orders for brooches and cloak pins and other fine stuff."
"Hmmm. Lots of doings. Mornings, noons and nights," she said suggestively.
Desi smiled tiredly. "Well, best be going," she said and trudged on up the rest of the length of staircase. Dinner revived her, and after washing the dishes and setting the morning's bread to rise by the side of the small kitchen stove, she curled up in the comfortable chair by the other side of the fire to read for a bit. Askread had picked up a new book with eastern designs in it from some caravan dealer. He always seemed to know everybody, and to be getting some tidbit from here or there: books of designs, small nuggets of different shades of gold, silver wire pulled finer than they had time to do in the shop, even the odd lot of gemstones.
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXIII Page 8
