Silk & Steel

by Ellen Kushner

  “A witch? Ha! Ha! What do you want an old witch for, anyway?”

  “To grant us our hearts’ desires,” says my liege.

  The old woman scans us up and down with her dark eyes, so deeply hooded and canny. “And what may your hearts’ desires be?”

  “Only the freedom to be who we truly are,” I say.

  The old woman squints at us, and I feel as though I am made of glass, and she can peer through me like a window, all the way to the depths of my beating heart.

  “Hmph,” she says. “Girls these days are so easy to please. In the old days they would ask for a husband or untold riches. Gewgaws and a soft life! But freedom, eh? What a thing to ask for.” She gestures to the thick woods behind her. “Well, the witch’s house lies in the heart of that there forest. See the path yonder, between the oak and the myrtle? Follow it and you will find what you seek. A house with red shingles and yellow ivy over the door. Can’t miss it.” She cackles. “But beware! For those woods are indeed a witch’s wood, and you may find dangers and strange obstacles in your way. Go boldly and go truly, and maybe they’ll leave you alone.”

  “Thank you, grandmother,” I say.

  “Thank me? Ha! Ha! No need. You have provided me entertainment this day, and that is enough.”

  “What a strange character,” says my liege as we walk away. But I don’t think the old woman’s strange at all. She seemed purposeful, as if she talked to us for a reason.

  When I turn back to look, the rock under the crooked poplar is cool and empty, as if the woman has simply evaporated. The fields around us wave placidly in the breeze. We are—and perhaps have been—entirely alone. Was the old woman an illusion? Or was she sent to wait for us?

  “We should be careful,” I say. I think of all the stories my mother has told me about witches, and what should be done around them. Witches have to be respected. They demand it.

  Dimness awaits us in the forest. The trees here seem older, more self-assured, their crowns twisted together and sparing with the light. Moss curls around our feet as we walk in the silence. My liege takes my hand.

  “How peaceful it is,” she whispers. “How beautiful. Cool. Not too light, not too dark. Don’t you think?”

  “It is peaceful,” I agree. But not because of the light or the breathless air. Here, the whole world feels like it knows what it is doing. Like everything is just right.

  We sit for a while and eat the last of our supplies. My liege puts her head in my lap and drinks in the filtered gold descending softly to earth. She smiles at me.

  I say: “I could stay here forever. I’ve always liked the forest better than the royal court.”

  She shuts her eyes. “A misfortune of birth. Duty and family—if I could, I would shed them like old skin.”

  “Are we not here to do that?”

  She opens her eyes, blinking into the sunlight. A slight frown crosses her face and she gets up. “We should keep going.”

  So we do. We follow the scrubby, winding path through the forest, which is larger than it looked on the outside, because we walk for hours and there is yet more forest waiting for us.

  “Are we lost?” wonders my liege.

  “I don't think so. There hasn’t yet been a fork in the path.”

  “I wonder what these woods have in store for us,” she says. But it isn’t wonder that fills her voice. She sounds tired.

  The light grows yellower before it shades into dusk. Soon it will be too dark to travel; the trees are too thickly woven to let in moonlight. Worry creeps into my heart, not because I fear the forest around us, but because I fear we have failed a test, somehow. Something has gone wrong.

  My liege asks again: “Are we lost?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps we should turn back.”

  For the first time I hear uncertainty in her voice. I do not want to turn back. “We should be there soon.”

  “If there’s a house ahead, we should see lights,” she says. “I do not see lights. Do you?”

  “It’s too early for that. Come on.” Stubbornly, I take the lead, and she falls into step behind me. I pray to the spirits of the air and water that I am not wrong. That something good is coming. We cannot—I will not—turn back.

  We are being followed. I first become aware of it as a series of soft sounds, ferns rustling, hot breath that isn’t mine or hers. A low growl like the voice of an angry father.

  “We are being followed,” says my liege. “Who’s there? Show yourself.”

  A sound; we turn. A black shadow steps out of the brush, winding slyly between the twisted trunks of oak. Wolf-shaped, but not a wolf: a creature the size of a bear, with eyes that glow like a winter’s fire. A smile that belongs on the face of no natural creature.

  “Hello, little girls,” it says. “Have you come to feed your uncle wolf?”

  I draw my blade. “You are no uncle of ours. Stay back, lest I paint the ground of this forest with your blood.”

  “Tsk. How you repay my courtesy with threats of violence! The men who raised you have trained you well, I see.”

  “You threatened to eat us,” says my liege.

  “Ah!” The wolf laughs. “I never said such a thing! Why would I eat you, little scrapling? The flesh of humans is so unappetizing. Dry and stringy and tasteless. Your desires, on the other hand, are nectar and honey to me. How juicy they are, sweeter than the brightest summer fruit. Give me your wants, little girls. I will eat them from you. They will fill my hungry belly.”

  A trickster. Mother has told me about them.

  “We’ll do nothing like that,” I spit, before grabbing my liege’s wrist with my free hand. We flee up the path, away from the wolf-not-wolf. My shield bounces upon my back. “Don’t listen to anything it says!”

  My legs are burning, but not as badly as my chest. Air hurts my lungs, which can never have enough. My liege stumbles, exhausted, and I pull her forward. I drop my shield. We run some more. Thank the spirits our waterskins are empty and our bags have been lightened. More weight that we do not need. Soon, soon—we just have to reach the witch’s house before our pursuer does—

  The wolf lopes beside us, tongue lolling. “Come, now,” it says. “These desires weigh so heavily upon you. Give them to me, and they will trouble you no more.”

  “Leave us alone,” I gasp. “We will give you nothing.”

  “Are you not tired of running?” the wolf asks. Grinning its sharp-toothed grin. “Your natures are ill-suited to the lives you were born into. Let me take them from you. Do you not wish to live life unburdened?”

  Its voice is sweet. It says things so close to the sentiments we have whispered to one another for years, sleeping in the wild under the canopy of stars. To live life unburdened. To be free.

  “Give me your desires,” the wolf says. “I will eat them and release your hearts from their weight.”

  My liege drags upon my wrist as she slows, footsteps losing speed. She is exhausted from so much running. A lifetime of running.

  “Don’t you want to go home?” asks the wolf.

  Her wrist breaks from my grip as she stumbles to a stop at last. I turn in alarm to see her doubling over, chest heaving with effort. I grab her again and she pulls away.

  “I can’t. I’m tired.”

  “Please,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “It's too much. Maybe he’s right.”

  In the dimness I see that wolf has her already. Its smoky tendrils twine over her calves and ankles and its jaws are locked on her forearm. Am I too late? My liege looks at me, her eyes shining.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Aurora,” I say. The name she said she wanted.

  “Go on,” she says. “Leave me. Find the witch and claim your heart’s desire.”

  Leave her to be eaten. To be picked apart, consumed, and the remains put back together by the wolf. To stand up once again the young prince, child of the Cetus King, heir to the throne of the country. To go home the prodigal son
and forget all she has dreamed, to give in to the upbringing that shaped her, to accept the fate placed upon her by duty, family, obligation. To fill the space she was assigned to when she was born.

  “No,” I say. “Never.” For a heart can desire many things, and my heart desires most of all to be with her: two women who chose themselves and chose one another. I dart forward and strike, plunging my blade between the wolf’s eyes. I claim my heart’s desire.

  The wolf laughs, a rumble through my bones that lightens into evening birdsong and the gossip of leaves in the wind. The shadow dissolves into smoke, and then nothingness. My liege folds in half and crumples as though her strings were cut.

  “Aurora,” I whisper, gathering her into my arms. “Aurora?”

  She breathes still, pale and delicate. I look up the path and see lamplight peeking from between the trees. The witch’s house. It has been there all along.

  I shed everything: sword, bag, all I’d brought. The herb pouch my mother gave me is mysteriously missing. When did I lose it? Could it have been earlier? I carry my liege up the path towards the witch’s house.

  The trees part before me and open into a large clearing in which a low-slung cottage waits. Red tiles on the roof, yellow ivy over the door. It looks unbearably pleasant, even in the fast-fading light. An herb garden, a vegetable plot, a pond with cat-rushes and lilies. The door to the cottage is open, and I carry my beloved over its threshold.

  “Hello?”

  The house is empty, although the hearth is stoked. Bread and fruit sit in a basket on the table. A bundle of herbs hang over each window, and the air is sweetly spiced. A breath of welcome—the cottage has been waiting for us. Already my bones feel lighter. More at ease. Perfectly shaped.

  Somehow, none of this surprises me. Somehow, this is exactly what I expected.

  I lay my beloved upon the bed, made up with white sheets, large enough for two.

  “Rest, my darling,” I say. “We are finally home.”

  In the morning I am woken by the yellow sun that slants in through the window. My love is already outside, exploring, exclaiming with delight and wonder. I stretch, and saunter to join her. We have all the time in the world.

  “Come look,” she says, pointing at the golden surface of the pond. The light catches her hair like it’s full of stars. I go over and look where she points and there, reflected upon the calm surface, are the two of us. The witch and her beloved, the most beautiful woman in all the land.

  Elinor Jones vs. the Ruritanian Multiverse

  by Freya Marske

  Dear Sami,

  Well, I did it. Contract signed, deposit paid, leaving on Friday.

  My genetic material turned up a plum match for my preferences. This particular universe’s Ruritania has gender essentialism and heteronormativity at zero—thank fuck, and can I smuggle some back through on the way home?—and a moderately high Narrative Causality Index, which means events should play out more or less predictably, but with plenty of room for improvisation on my part.

  Danger level: moderate.

  “When you say moderate,” I said, as they were giving me the sales pitch, “do you mean, do a refresher first-aid course, or do you mean, update my will?”

  “Maybe a duel-happy courtier, or revolutionary elements. Less effective anaesthesia, if you slip and break your leg.” The saleswoman fixed me with a look that said, the contract doesn’t hold us legally liable for any of this, but I’ll pretend to care until you’ve paid a deposit. “It’s adventure tourism. Far more people die canyoning in New Zealand, Miss Jones.”

  Then they showed me the list of all the things that Crown Princess Elinor, in disguise as Normal Hot Mess Elinor, is and is not allowed to do to my life while I’m absent from it. Did you know that our world has quite a high NCI? The Agency has had trouble with several Ruritanians falling in love and not wanting to go home again. They asked if I had any attractive single neighbors, or perhaps a close friend who may have always secretly loved me.

  (Pause for you to laugh uncontrollably for thirty seconds.)

  “And finally,” she said, “it’s worth considering that some of our clients have trouble with the lack of connectivity and social media.”

  I was dearly tempted to say:

  Actually, I just “resigned from” my job because my dickhead boss told me to put something on his Twitter feed, and I told him it was a bad idea, and he told me that HE was the senator, not me, and so I did it and surprise!! there was a PR shitstorm!! And I took a severance payoff and Senator Dickhead announced it was an unfortunate independent act by a staffer who had since resigned. So now half the country thinks I’m a bigot, and half of my friends think I’m a moral coward for taking the money to be shoved under the bus, and honestly, who cares about the danger rating—at this point I would escape to the fucking MOON if that was an option. A holiday in a parallel universe seems like the next best thing.

  What I actually said was, “Going offline won’t be a problem.”

  Wish me luck and relaxation and not too many duels, I guess,

  El

  * * *

  Dear Sami,

  I’d been in Ruritania all of four hours before someone tried to kill me.

  Let’s back up.

  The real Crown Princess Elinor will be formally crowned in two weeks’ time, which is apparently a trigger for her to be gifted with an entire coterie of attendants-of-the-bedchamber and personal guards. Most of whom she’s exchanged barely two sentences with in her entire life, but all of whom are young relatives or friends of someone on the Privy Council. Or someone who’s bribed a member of said council.

  It's uncannily like my first week on the senator’s staff, when the people who’d been with him on the campaign treated those of us who’d merely answered a job advertisement with narrow-eyed suspicion. Politics! Multiverse notwithstanding: same shit, different plumbing.

  I missed half the names because I was too busy admiring the sheer number of clothing layers, and the embroidery, and the jewels, and the embossed leather sheaths for swords and daggers—Sami, it’s hedonistic, it’s like someone regurgitated the Royal Shakespeare’s costume-storage facility.

  The other half of the names, recorded for posterity and assistance with recall:

  Honor: gives the impression of being flower-crowned even with no flowers present, probably about to drop a folk-pop album

  Anton: nine hundred feet tall, might have an inappropriate relationship with his sword?

  Luisa: sweet and awkward, absolutely stunning blue dress

  Moritz: prominent nose, would be striking and attractive if he weren’t so self-aware about it

  Dominica: looks like a classical statue and frowns like my second-year poli-sci lecturer, more on her later

  Jonty

  Imagine you’re in an Evelyn Waugh novel and someone turns around from the billiards table, cue in one hand and glass of port in the other, and is introduced as Jonty. Yes. There. That’s exactly what Jonty looks like.

  I mention him because he’s on the Agency payroll, and therefore the only one who knows who I really am. I’m meant to make him my favorite so he has an excuse to stay close, but I get a depressingly creepy vibe from him. You know. In the Waugh novel there’s a smirky, classist remark daubed on his lips at all times. In our world he’s probably about to monologue the plot of his screenplay directly at your breasts.

  Barely enough time for imperious nods and being laced into my own outfit before I was bundled off for a court dinner, featuring lots of people whose names I’d at least had a chance to learn from the briefing packet. Food very butter-heavy. My kingdom (hah!) for a nice, sharp salad.

  And then there was a round of fancy wine, for toasts, and I’d barely taken my first sip from my cup when there was a gasp and someone smashed it out of my hand.

  More gasps all around. I was too surprised to do anything. The same someone—it was Dominica, personal guard of the disapproving frown—picked up the spilled cup, stared at it, a
nd then lunged at me and scrubbed at my mouth with a napkin. All I could think was that she was smearing my lipstick everywhere.

  “Excuse me,” I managed, through the napkin, and shoved her away.

  “Poison, Your Highness.” She tilted the cup to show me. Green pearlescence clung to the rim. “It’s subtle, but it leaves a surface residue. It caught the light. How do you feel?”

  The word poison by this stage had spread halfway across the room. I felt—odd. My chest was tight and the room was dark at the edges. In retrospect I think that part was just shock.

  “My lips are tingling,” I admitted; they were.

  That was the end of the party. I was bundled back to my rooms in a knot of guards, a doctor was summoned and did nothing but proclaim me healthy and inform me darkly that he’d been waiting for something like this to happen, everyone knew that there were religious sects who favored poisons and didn’t want me on the throne, blah blah, get some rest, Your Highness.

  Dominica was still hovering by my side like she’d been glued there. Jonty gave her a black look and me what was probably meant to be an encouraging nod, before he left with the rest of the attendants.

  “Thank you, Dominica,” I said.

  The woman’s face twitched and then she actually knelt, and took my hand. I’d already logged the basics: bone structure by Bernini, hair mahogany brown and tied sleekly back. In that moment I discovered she also had short fingernails and eyes like topaz: dark gold and faceted and very clear.

  “No harm will come to Your Highness while I am at your side,” she said, and it was very stiff and formal but her voice still sounded like the first sip of coffee on a cold morning, and I’ll tell you what, that was when I really got the whole Ruritanian fantasy thing. Some bizarre feudalistic bunch of lizard-nerves woke up and sang like a fucking motet choir at that.

  I think I went bright pink under my face powder. She was dignified enough not to comment.

  One now wonders what high danger levels look like: imminent plague? Palace built on the edge of an active volcano?