by Unknown
"She said she would come by the cottage in the morning to discuss a 'matter of mutual interest'."
"Oh, horse dung," Hettie muttered under her breath. If that didn't sound like a plot in the making, nothing did. She wanted nothing to do with the lady's hellfire brand of politics. "Anything else?"
"Just that it's time to settle an old debt." The boy frowned. "Does she owe you money, Auntie?"
Hettie stared unanswering into the fire, her hands clenched and her mind racing. From the mouth of Lady Ydaire, settling debts did not mean tallying a balance sheet. It meant payback of a much darker sort, and there was only one old debt that Hettie was aware of...that everyone in the campaign had become uncomfortably aware of. The Arburg lord had been seduced in camp right under his ladywife's nose, and Ydaire had done naught about it...at the time. But if that was the debt coming due, Hettie didn't want to be within a league of the coming events.
"So it's not about money, is it, Auntie?" Darry persisted. "It's about the sorceress."
Hettie looked at him sharply. "What do know about that?"
"Just what's being said in the marketplace. With the Lady of Arburg showing up unexpected and the sorceress coming down next week from the north to celebrate opening up the new Arburg Hall, people were putting those two things together. They say there's bad blood between one lady and the other."
"Very bad blood, but not your concern." And hopefully not my concern either, she added silently. The fact that the lord's affair had been with the sorceress, the needful ally of House Arburg in the war against the Necromancer, made things woefully complicated. They all three, lord and lady and sorceress, had needed the alliance to hold to the end, but this was a year later, wasn't it? House Arburg was now the greatest domain in the Southlands with vast new lands and a new clan hall. And the sorceress, the Grey Lady of the Wolves as she was known in the north, was arguably the most powerful wizard-lord left. Bad, bad this situation.
"Are we going away, Auntie?" Darry asked suddenly.
"Eh?"
"That look—I know that look on your face. You're scared."
Hettie played with the thought of running, then shook her head. "Oh, I'm plenty scared," she sighed. "But I can't outrun one lady or the other. All I can do is set my heels to keep from getting dragged into the middle of this."
* * * *
The next morning dawned cold and dreary, but there were yesterday's gifts from the lady—hot spiced tea for the chill and bread, jam, and cheese for breaking fast. So a good and bad morning after a night of old, ill dreams.
While Darry swept and laid fresh rushes on the floor, Hettie puttered around, pulling out her best tablecloth and her best cracked mugs. As her Ma always said, What was a crack as long as it didn't actually leak? The cottage was still a poor, cramped space, but at least it looked slightly festive as befitting an important—albeit unwanted—guest.
Mid-morning, the clop of hoofbeats on the trail drew them to the window. "Lor, that's a fine horse," Darry murmured as the white charger came into view. It was a fine-bred warhorse, and the rider atop the stitched saddle wore fine traveling leathers with a sword at her hip. Finest quality with no fuss — that was the Lady Ydaire all right. Her long, blond hair was plaited into a loose braid down her back, but it was the eyes that everyone noticed first and last. She had the most striking emerald-green eyes that Hettie had ever seen outside a cat, so striking they gave rise to a host of rumors of the lady possessing the Evil Eye. Mostly just talk, though the lady did have an unnerving stare.
"Go take her horse, cool him down," Hettie urged the boy. "And don't come back inside until we're quite finished talking." Then she turned to quickly brew more spiced tea in the kettle simmering on the hearth ledge.
Ydaire stepped inside without invitation, shutting the door behind her. "Hettie," she nodded and glanced around the small, cluttered room. "You could do better than this in the Southlands, you know. With new lands opening up, healers are much in demand."
"I'd rather stay where I'm safe," Hettie answered pointedly.
"Safety is an illusion. Instead, think of your future. A new start as a healer is a better future than that of village hedgewitch. I suspect healing is more your true talent anyway. And if not yourself, think of your"—Ydaire knit her brows—"your grandson?"
Hettie felt a small surge of satisfaction that the great lady didn't know quite everything. "Grandnephew," she corrected. "But what's he to do with anything?"
"If he's apprenticed to you, he's dragged along with your choice of healer versus hedgewitch."
"Darry's hardly my apprentice," Hettie scoffed. "The Old Ways are mother-to-daughter business. You can't mix boys into it."
Ydaire gave back a cool stare. "Of course not. That's quite as ridiculous as girls learning swordmanship or riding a warhorse."
Automatically Hettie started to nod, then realized the jab and felt her face flush.
"But to business," Ydaire continued. "I assume you know my situation with the sorceress."
"Not my place to comment, milady," Hettie murmured nervously. "The likes of me just stays out of the way."
"But you realize I have grievance against the Grey Lady?"
Oh Lor, here it was. Hettie fidgeted, wishing she were anywhere else except here with the conversation heading down a dangerous path. "Aye,"
"The sorceress has invited herself to my new hall next week," the lady continued, her voice taking on a dangerous edge. "I want a way to deal with her, and I know you know such things."
Hettie grimaced, her worst fears confirmed. She was going to be dragged into the middle of a showdown between the Arburg lady and the sorceress, and that was no place for any wise person. "I'm just a tired old hedgewitch," she whined. "I know nothing that could help you. Just mend your fences with your lord husband and forget it."
The emerald eyes glittered. "It's not about the man. Even the insult I could overlook if that was all there was to it, but this goes right to the heart of the future. I didn't take down one overbearing wizard-lord merely to replace him with another. And," the lady continued more evenly, "you were the best of the healers during the campaign. I made inquiries. You're a witch from a line of gifted witches going back several generations. I daresay you know a great deal that can help me."
"The sorceress will kill me," Hettie moaned again. "She has no mercy in her heart."
Ydaire leaned closer...threateningly close. "The question really comes down to the someone up north who might seek retribution, or the someone sitting right across from you who most definitely will. As you may remember from the war, I'm not long on mercy myself."
True words. Rumor had it she had dispatched more than a few clan chiefs who refused to accept Arburg leadership of the war. And yes, she was right across the table. There was certainly that.
"Moreover," Ydaire continued, "you also have a grievance against the Grey Lady...a family grievance. Your grandmother was killed by the Lady's wolves, was she not?"
Hettie nodded reluctantly, uneasy about admitting anything.
"Presumably because your grandmother had too much talent and was on the rise...so the Grey Lady singled her out for a gruesome demise."
Again Hettie nodded cautiously. It was true—her gran had hidden her name and set herself up as the Red Witch. She'd been that powerful. But she'd delved too deep and unearthed what she should have let be. Gran had taken Hettie as apprentice because she had inherited some of the gift. But nothing like seeing your gran torn apart by ravening wolves to knock the ambition out of you. "Vicious times, those were," she muttered.
"Yes, the years of the Grim when every witch and wizard was striving to be more powerful than the next, and the common people lived in terror of all magic. Three generations later, there were only the Necromancer and the Grey Lady left, and now there is only the Grey Lady. Do you see where I'm going with this? Where history is going?"
Hettie gave a shrug. "That magic ain't what it used to be...the time of those old style wizard-lords is passi
ng."
"And we are at a moment where we need to nudge along that passing," Ydaire said softly.
Yes, that sounded so reasonable...they needed to—Hettie roused herself with a start and stared back accusingly. "Begging milady's pardon, but this ain't history talking across the table. Magic may be passing, but milady can still lay a word-charm with the best of 'em, it seems."
Ydaire gave a short laugh. "You see what others never notice. Your grandmother would be proud. I don't deny I have enough witchblood in me to nudge here and there, but nothing that will stand up against her sorcery."
"And there you've said it—nothing will stand up against her sorcery. Now that the Necromancer's gone, the Grey Lady is the most powerful in the land. She'll set herself up as grand high ruler—just mark my words—'cause there's no one to stop her."
"Exactly what they said about the Necromancer," Ydaire said in a low voice. "And where is he now?"
Hettie blinked as that hit home. It was true. A few years back, the Necromancer had seemed an unstoppable force that would overwhelm all...but now he was destroyed. And the one sitting across from her had orchestrated his downfall. Was there any chance she could do it again? The risk was huge, but if anyone could manage...and yes, there was the matter of her gran.
"It's dangerous, what you want," Hettie finally sighed. "The sorceress has those huge wolves in her thrall that will tear apart anyone who threatens her."
"Noted."
"And little cantrips won't do," Hettie continued. "There are old spells of ill fortune that might work if you had something of hers to work with. And even so, it's madness going head to head in spellcraft with a long-lived sorceress who knows all the tricks. A spell strong enough to snare the likes of her would require a vial of her blood, or if wishes were horses, one of her fingers."
Ydaire sat staring for a moment with a burning intensity in her emerald-green eyes. "Or her True Name?" she murmured.
Hettie gave a gasp, feeling the old childhood terror close in upon her. No one was supposed to know that the secret had survived the Red Witch. Everyone with real power hid their names and trafficking in names was the path to an early grave. The wolves would be at her door if the sorceress ever suspected. "You're just guessing at the moon," she finally whispered.
"But enlightened guessing. Ever since hearing the rumor that the Red Witch had taken a great secret to her grave, I've been wondering if the secret had been passed. And of all secrets, it is the True Name that arouses a wizard-lord to kill. It all fits the tale of your grandmother. But this tale shall end differently because I have both the will and the opportunity to use the Grey Lady's True Name against her. And the great irony is that while she expects opposition from me, she will never see it coming from this direction."
The lady set her cup down. "So give me the name and tell me how to end her."
Hettie glanced around warily. This was dangerous talk, even though she had admitted to nothing. And there was more than one danger. As appealing as the end of the Grey Lady might be, you couldn't change too much too fast...not in restructuring magic. That never went well. "I ain't saying one way or the other about your guesses, but ending the sorceress outright might not be wise. If the last of the old powers is suddenly gone, every hedgewitch and hedgewizard will be flexing his magical muscle, trying to fill the vacuum. There'll be little wars all over the place. And who knows what those wolves will do if they're loosed with no mistress to rein them in. It'll be the whole cycle all over again—wizard wars and eventually a new generation of ambitious wizard-lords."
"But I want her power broken," Ydaire said firmly. "That's not negotiable."
Hettie shrugged. "Not that I have what you want, but anybody's True Name is a mighty thing. And you can use it to mightily bind. Slipping a leash on someone like the Grey Lady might be retribution in itself. And no one need know, 'cepting she and thee. Could give you time to change things without all the explosions. But binding spells are treacherous, deceptively simple in form. It's all in the phrasing. Misspeak and the spell binds nothing...and the likes of her will cut down the likes of you with a counterspell."
"Again noted. Now what's the spell?"
"The trick is to focus. You start reeling off a laundry list and you dilute the power. One, maybe two, things is all that will stick. You say it like this: So-and-so, by thy True Name I bind thee and adjure thee to do this and that. Short and simple, and you rattle off the first part fast as your tongue can manage, for that's what stops them from fighting back."
"Ah," the lady nodded and sat silently, sipping her tea. Waiting.
Hettie felt like a rabbit being run into a trap. But she didn't have to say anything—the lady couldn't make her.
A whickering drifted in from the yard, followed by Darry loudly urging the horse to do something or other. Ydaire's gaze moved toward the window and lingered there. Hettie stopped breathing. Surely the lady wouldn't vent herself on a child. But the next moment, Ydaire said, "Think of the future, Hettie. The boy deserves better than the Grim. You can change the world with a whisper."
Hettie steepled shaky fingers under her chin, fighting back the trapped, panicky feeling to think this through. Ydaire might be right—the Grey Lady would never expect an attack like this. She thought she had made her True Name secure three generations ago. And there was certainly no one better than Ydaire to play this out...and change the world.
Hettie gave a long sigh, then murmured the syllables that had haunted her since childhood. Quietly, but carefully, so there could be no misunderstanding the name.
"Excellent," Ydaire nodded. "Consider yourself in my favor. And enjoy the spiced tea in particular. It's a special brew to settle bad dreams." And she departed as abruptly as she had entered.
How had she known about the dreams? Hettie wondered, then realized many a soldier coming back from the war was probably haunted by the same dark images. The Lady of Arburg was nothing if not thorough...a point to remember as events unfolded.
Darry came bounding in a moment later. "What happened with the lady, Auntie?" he demanded.
"I've loosed the whirlwind," Hettie sighed. "Come next week, we'll all be dead or we won't."
"So do we fight?" he persisted. "I've been practicing a little out of the old grimoire and could help with a spell or two."
Hettie pursed her lips as she stared at him. Already into the grimoire, was he? Ambitious hedgewizards flexing their magical muscle—wasn't that what she had just warned against, yet here it was right in front of her. Here was the whole bad old system in a nutshell.
"We're moving south," she said, coming to an abrupt decision. "And I'll start teaching you proper all the ways of roots and potions. There's a need for healers in the Southlands these days."
As the boy's eyes lit with excitement, Hettie allowed herself a nod of satisfaction. It might take a great lady to lay a wizard-lord low, but that didn't mean a tired, old hedgewitch couldn't put her own house in order. She'd sleep well tonight.
Banjooli
by Melissa Mead
All too often I have to reject a story I really like because I can't fit it into the anthology, either because I have too many words (well, I always have that problem), or because it just doesn't fit the theme that has developed for a particular volume. On rare occasions, the story will fit in a future volume. This is one of those stories; when I remember a story more than a year later I figure it's worth a second look. And, while I like dragons, I still feel that there should be some stories that don't involve them.
Melissa lives in Upstate New York with her wonderful husband and two cats. Her stories have appeared in Sword & Sorceress 23 and 24, Bull Spec, and Daily Science Fiction.
#
Yama stood outside the thorn fence that circled the banjooli pen and called "Banjooli! Come, Banjooli-Yama!"
All around the dusty compound, what had looked like lumps of dark earth sprouted long necks with ostrich-like heads. All the heads turned toward Yama, watching her with identical blank expr
essions.
Yama sighed. With a mischievous smile, she called more softly, "Naa, Dara!" Come, Nothing!
One of the smaller messenger-birds rose, shook red dust from its shaggy feathers, and loped to the fence.
"Kee-ya," said the bird. When Yama didn't produce any food, the other birds went back to their napping and became lumps again.
"Kee-ya-ya-ya," the small banjooli said.
"That's my smart boy! You understand me, don't you?" She twined one slender braid around a finger, and the banjooli pecked at the brown beads on the end.
"No, silly! You can't eat my Rider's beads," said Yama, laughing, and the banjooli backed off, clucking.
"Did you just call that runt by name, farm-girl?" said a human voice. "And did it answer you?"
Yama whirled to face the older Rider. "I called it nothing, Keela Safara!"
Safara looked her up and down, elegant as always and stiff with disapproval. Her dark braids, with their yellow beads, swung with the movement. The banjooli at her side didn't react. "That thing's not a pet. It's a banjooli. It used to be an enemy warrior. If it were still human it would kill you, or worse. Your job is to control it, not coddle it. Are you trying to draw the Soul-Sweepers' attention?" She glanced toward the forbidden corner of the compound where the sorcerers lived, and her expression soured further.
"We can't have that, can we, Keela Safara?" said Banjooli-Mistress Binata, hobbling up. "Such concern for discipline! Under your supervision, Keela Yama just might earn the Yellow Rank after all."
Safara looked as dismayed as Yama felt. "That's how you expect me to earn the Red Rank, Mistress? By minding the farm girl and the runt all the way across the Drylands to New Town? Why not one of the other girls?"
"If Yama's capable of becoming a full-fledged Keela, she won't need minding, just observing," said Binata, grunting as she shifted her weight off her bad leg, lamed by a long-ago banjooli kick.
