Here, love.
Then she felt for the something's presence. I remain, too, it said, but the power behind its words was vastly lessened. It now possessed but a shadow of its former strength. Most of its substance had been left behind in the valley with the Tamraire, but enough lingered, she thought, to ride with her and Jorn and experience the wide outside world.
Franz-William Garth, Fifth of that illustrious name, caught up with her, standing in his stirrups. His elegant bay courser looked wild-eyed and his own cheeks were quite flushed. Pine needles were stuck in his black hair. "What was that all about?"
"We—" She gazed at his strong-boned face, handsome in spite of the bruises and so very sure of himself, exactly as the world had made him. Not his fault, she told herself, and there was always the possibility of future improvement, a chance he had nearly lost, though he seemed to have no memory of those moments. "We have to hurry," she said. "I don't want you to arrive late at your uncle's court."
"Oh," he said with an arrogant twist of his head. He flicked at a speck on his fine sleeve. "Which way then, woman?"
Yes, which way? demanded the something.
She knows, Jorn said. This is her territory. Let my Deermouse take the lead.
Spark smiled to herself. She glanced back over her shoulder down at the valley with its roiling mudpots, hot springs, and fumaroles, then urged her gray mare west.
Muttering under his breath, Garth followed.
Blood Moon
by Catherine Mintz
When I first read this story, I found it intriguing but totally baffling, and I wondered if the long hours—and late nights—were scrambling my brain. I wrote back to Catherine and said that I liked the story, but I didn't quite understand it. It turned out that I wasn't the only one working too late at night; the version I had was missing a scene near the end. As Catherine said, "One should not send email after midnight." Unless, presumably, you're a night person. I'm strictly diurnal, and I suspect that Catherine is also.
Catherine Mintz' work has appeared in a number of publications, including Interzone, Asimov's, Weird Tales, and the anthologies Whitley Strieber's Aliens and Warrior Wisewoman. Often it reflects her interest in languages, anthropology, and the history of genre literature. She also owns the Copper Penny Press, which publishes genre literature.
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The Dame sat on her balcony, hands folded, white lap pelt in place. Every day, all day, she kept watch on what happened within the Fastness. At night, the watchdogs were unchained. Now they slept in their kennel near the gate, heaps of russet, ash, and charcoal fur. By day, the Dame kept watch within the keep.
It was Blood Moon, halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox. Nearly a hundred seasons ago, the stone circle that marked the eight festivals had been pulled down, so no one could be sure of the exact day. Soon, the Dame was sure.
Now, although the high pastures were green, cold rain pelted down. Hail had rattled on the courtyard paving earlier. The old took the long way around, under the porticos, to stay dry and warm. The young were indoors, set to work. The Dame sighed. It had been a dull day with nothing to do but worry.
Children tried to evade her keen eye. Adolescents saw the Dame as an old busybody. Older people had a better understanding of her worth. Her contemporaries were envious or wary, depending on how wise they were themselves.
Knowledge is power. Secrets more powerful still. The Dame knew many. Hammett, Wenna's son, was not her husband's boy, but his brother's. Three of the kitchen staff were pilfering from the storerooms. The captain of the guard slipped down to the gate after dark every seventh night and stood, listening. Sometimes he spoke a word or two.
Since there was no cure for a sterile husband but a discreet agreement, the first was probably laudable. There were so few babies. Because food might be short this year, the second was not yet important but could be. The fields were too muddy to plant, even if the cold broke. However, given that there was no good reason anyone talked with anything that lived beyond the walls of the Fastness, the last was important. There were things outside that wanted in.
The Mother and the Maiden must know. I have delayed, the Dame thought and stroked the white fur. The other two would want to act. She sighed, thinking, I have waited long enough. "Such matters are not for you alone," a voice long dead reminded her.
It was early, but no one was abroad. Best to get on with it. The Dame wrapped her pelt about her and rose, stiff with long sitting. Aided by her cane, she hobbled into her sitting room. A hot tisane would be welcome, even if her evening meal had not been brought up.
Elowin was a marvel, for although there was no supper yet, there were three thick slices of bread under an overturned bowl on a plate, a toasting fork, and a pot of honey. Raspberry tea was in her caddy on the mantle piece. Her jug was full of spring water. The hearth glowed.
The Dame sat the kettle on the hob and barred the door. She went to her privy chamber and stripped off. One hand on the back of a heavy chair, she worked slowly until her muscles were supple and she could work free standing. Then she did thrusts and blocks with her cane.
She washed and anointed herself with rosemary oil. Rinsing everything so that no scent of sweat remained she emptied the basin down the shaft. The Dame's personal privy was a necessary luxury. Just how capable she was physically was something she didn't share.
In fresh-aired clothes, she unbarred the door, settled to brewing tea and toasting bread. Putting the last slice onto the hearth-warmed plate, she heard Elowin on the stairs. "Butter," said the serving girl as she came in. "Dinner will be late. The salt beef's still tough."
The Dame smiled.
Elowin grinned. "If he'd just set it to simmer early. It's a bad season for game." The girl looked sober. "It's a bad season to be out of the Fastness, if you ask me. People talk about how old and thick the walls are. To me, that says they worry about them."
Yes. The Dame nodded and reached for the butter crock, thinking, Now she will tell me. Elowin was thoughtful, but she could just as well have left the butter on her first trip up the spiral stair. She'd wanted a few minutes with the Dame.
"The cows wouldn't go out to graze this morning."
"Why was that? Tea?"
"No," said the girl. "Thank you. I had buttermilk in the kitchen. I've been at the churning. It's a good batch. You can taste the early clover is up."
The Dame poured a cup for herself. Its steam formed restless ghosts. She asked again, "Why wouldn't the cows go out?"
"No one knew."
The Dame looked up from her cup, alert. The girl was not yet old enough to be a dairymaid, but she helped cut the curds and turn the cheeses. Elowin was perceptive and more inclined to listen than to talk: reasons the Dame favored her.
"They were frightened. At first the herd master decided to bring them into the stone folds when they wouldn't let down. Even with the calves right with them, they were hard to milk. Now he's bringing them home."
The click as the Dame put down her cup seemed loud, even against the steady drumming of the rain. The night was going to be wet and windy. Blood Moon, she thought, when dormant things wake.
"The herders and the dogs had all they could do to keep them on the road." The girl's eyes were cloudy with fear. "They got them into the fold at Second Switchback. There wasn't time to send for food. They drank what the calves didn't want, stripped the rest into the dirt."
"Why wasn't there time?"
"No one will travel in the dark. They'll bring the goats down the day after tomorrow, if they can."
"Why didn't the herd master send word?" That she, the Dame, not know there was trouble in the high pastures was as worrying as the news itself. Herders were used to lonely pastures and the cows' instincts were sound. The goats, half-wild, couldn't be gathered in haste, but the Fastness could not afford to lose them.
Elowin looked away. "There was howling. Far away and then near. Eyes said he saw tracks. Like a wolf's. Bigger than his hand." She
looked back. "The herders argued a lot. Then they took that for a bad sign."
Wolves. There hasn't been a wolf here for a generation. "If Kenver saw something, it was there. Why didn't they move the herd?"
"They moved from South Peak to West, two days ago, without sending word. Drove the cows and the goats across the Neck. Then they rebuilt the Gate of Sarsens." She looked into the scarlet coals, finding the truth there. "Well, they pulled four stones into place and closed the road. Now they're coming home." The girl's voice shook on the last word.
The Gate of Sarsens. The stones held power. A hundred years ago the people of Fastness had broken the circle to use its sarcens to close the road from the peaks. When that need passed they had pulled the stones aside but had not rebuilt the circle. It took ox teams to move sarsens. The Fastness had fewer oxen every year.
Indeed, there were fewer people now than there had been when the circle was broken. Fields were fallow from lack of plowmen and teams. If the herdsmen had moved four of the "silent giants," whatever they feared was more than a matter of a stray wolf and the dairy herds. The Dame asked, "When did you hear this?"
"This afternoon." The girl gestured at the food. "I thought—"
"Yes. Well done." The Dame lifted her tea, paused, then put it down. "Tell the war master I'd like to see him. Don't let anyone hear you. Before full night is soon enough."
The girl went: quick and silent.
War Master Tremain was past active duty, but he would understand there was no time to explain, to argue, to reach a consensus. People would have to be swept into action.
I was not worried enough, thought the Dame, and stroked the white pelt in her lap, soothing herself. Once darkness had fallen, there would be much to do. She could only hope that the war master had been receiving news she had not.
Tremain was prompt, if out of breath. Stout and smelling of the stables, he sat without invitation and listened. "No," he said. "I hadn't heard." He frowned but did not speculate. "The walls are sound. The people trained. We are the Fastness; we can defend. That much I have made sure of. But we need more."
"Then there will be more," said the Dame. Between them, they outlined a plan. Then War Master Tremain rose. "I'll send the other two, separately."
The Dame nodded.
Well after dark, what might have been three huge wolves—a black, a red, and a white—met at the gate of the Fastness. They nosed around and loped into the shadows near the kennel. All the guard dogs whined, once. The patter of the rain rose and fell. Once a spurt of sleet rattled on paving. Torches burned down and fell, hissing in the puddles.
The Fastness was always dark and still at night. People who rise at dawn go to bed not long after sundown. They let walls protect them, not sentinels. Midnight, and the captain appeared, walking as though there were no rain. He went to the gate, lifted its three massive bolts, and slid back its bar. Then he waited, empty-eyed, his sodden clothes black by waning torchlight.
Alert, the three crouched. Like wolves, they bared their teeth when something began to open the gate. Without bothering to glance over his shoulder, the captain of the guard slipped out. There was an odd noise, then nothing.
The three rose and padded to the gap in the Fastness defenses. Something, roused from its eating, snarled at them. Dog-like, the three quietly backed away. Unlike dogs, once inside they stood on their hind legs, pushed the gate closed, and took off their pelts.
Swiftly and silently, the three women rebarred it and dropped the bolts. The captain would not be coming home. They gathered their pelts around them, ready to go their ways. Then the oak panel creaked as something heavy hit it from the outside. The bolts groaned and the bar shuddered.
The Dame handed her white fur to the Mother, the Mother handed her red pelt to the Maiden, who draped it over her own black one. The Dame, clothed in nothing but shadows and light, drew her cane from hiding. The other two fled to call the guard and wake the keep.
Every dog in the Fastness howled as the Dame opened the gate and stood in the opening. In her left hand was a sword and in her right the cane-sheath. It's been a good beginning, she thought. If it must be, let it be a good end. "See me!" she shouted.
Seeing her, the thing reared back. It dripped the red of blood over the white of bone and the black of dung. "Sister," it hissed at her, "do you not know me?"
"I do," said the Dame. "You are the one who came before me."
"I can name you!" it said.
"So you can," said the Dame, "for you knew me as Maiden and Mother."
"I am the many in one," it cried, in a different voice. The wailing of the guard dogs was terrible.
"Sister, you may have me," said the Dame. The guard dogs' silence was more terrible still.
The thing billowed like flames, although the rain fell straight down.
"You may have me," said the Dame, and sheathed her sword cane. "I come." She cast the cane behind her.
"No!" said the figure, in yet another voice. "It will be too many!"
"You may have me!"
"No! We will die the real death!" cried many voices, all together.
"You must take me!" said the Dame and strode into the other. There was a vast silence. Something stood there, flickering uncertainly. It drew in on itself with a sound like fire eating wood. Livid lightning leaped from earth to sky. Thunder smote the smoking earth and echoed everywhere.
The Mother held the Maiden and both wept, but they were the only ones who mourned. They, and the wailing dogs, who did not know what had happened, but knew a creature akin to them was gone. The people of the Fastness shouted as one for joy.
In the courtyard the air was still, but high above the clouds fled on a swift wind, and the night's pale eye looked down. In moonlight the new Dame took her place on her balcony. In moonlight the new Mother spoke to the people, choosing the father-to-be of her first child. In moonlight there were beginnings and an ending.
Softly at first, then more loudly, women's fingers brushed drumheads, and the men did the slow dances that mark the passing of someone rich in years. Then the men tapped the drums, and the women danced the fast dances that celebrate a new Dame and a new Mother.
At dawn there came the cry of a newborn girl. She was wrapped in the pelt of the Maiden and so sanctified it. They took the black fur, shook it out, warmed it before the fire, and wrapped startled Elowin in it. You won't forget me, said a voice deep in her mind. No, answered the Maiden, knowing the other would whisper in her dreams. On her shoulders, her pelt shivered.
Stolen Ghosts
by Jonathan Moeller
This story is a sequel to "Black Ghost, Red Ghost" in Sword & Sorceress 22. Caina slew a necromancer and stopped his murderous experiments. Now, however, she will learn that her past mistakes carry grim consequences.
Jonathan Moeller writes mostly fantasy—his novel Demonsouled was published in 2005—in addition to some science fiction and freelance non-fiction. He says that if you wish to argue with him over the Internet, visit him at www.jonathanmoeller.com. Presumably you can also go there even if you don't want to argue with him.
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When Lord Governor Anabas of Marsis kicked down the door and stormed into her room, Caina was astonished.
After all, the Emperor had sent her to kill him.
"Lord Governor," said Caina, smoothing her skirts and performing a quick curtsy, the fabric rich and soft beneath her fingers. As part of her disguise, she had taken a room at the city's finest inn. A fortune's worth of fine furniture and expensive carpets separated her from Anabas. "My father and I were to show you our wares on the morrow, but..."
"You," Anabas said, drawing his sword. "I know you." He looked drunk, his face pale, his bloodshot eyes glittering. "Yes, I know you very well."
"My lord?" said Caina, her mind racing. She took a step closer to the bed. "We met this morning, my lord, of course you know me. I am Anna Callenius, and my father and I are jewel merchants. I hope you have come to view our wares, for your lordship
would find them most..."
"Oh, I know your wares," said Anabas. "But you deal not in jewels, but in treachery and murder." An ugly rictus of a grin twisted his mouth. "I know you. Spy. Deceiver. Murderess. A Ghost of the Empire."
Only years of hard training kept Caina from flinching.
"Surprised?" said Anabas, stepping closer. "I am not. I knew that the Emperor would learn of my plots with the magi. He's sent one of his pet Ghosts to kill me, hasn't he? Probably two or three of them, at that." He laughed, and no longer looked drunk but stark mad.
"My lord," said Caina, taking another step towards the bed, and what lay beneath the plump pillows, "I know not of what you speak, I..."
"You do," said Anabas. "In fact, you're probably thinking of killing me right now." He laughed again. "Though little good it will do you."
"My lord," said Caina, "please, you must be mistaken." How had he seen past her disguise? Well, Anabas was a traitor to the Empire, and whether he died here or in Marsis's grim citadel made no matter. Unless, of course, Anabas had a host of armed men waiting outside the door. "I am but a merchant's daughter and nothing..."
"Wretched little Ghost," hissed Anabas. "How I weary of your lies."
He lunged at her, the sword blurring. Caina dodged, and the blade ripped into the mattress. Her hand darted under the pillow, and came up holding a long dagger. She sidestepped his next swing, raised her arm, and plunged the dagger into his chest. Anabas stumbled back with a groan of pain.
And then he smiled.
The Lord Governor fell out the broken door and onto the balcony overlooking the spacious common room. The city's wealthy and powerful looked up in sudden surprise. Anabas sagged against the railing, coughing blood.
"Murder!" he shrieked before Caina could reach him. "The jewel merchant's daughter has slain me! Anna Callenius! Anna Callenius!"
And he looked back, winked at her, and shoved himself over the railing.
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXIII Page 16
