"It was Arthane Stormeye who cursed me. I was a shield-maid, proud and powerful, heir to this land. I declared no man should have me, save he who loved best and bravest.” She smacked fist against stones. “Stormeye put my boast to the test. He cast me into endless sleep.” She stared out through a jagged crack. Sunlight seeped in like yolk through an eggshell. “Now all the world's changed. How long have I slept? The folk of this age are strange.” She looked at Gaunt, then at Bone. “But it matters not. All my sorrow is repaid. Strange or not, the bravest heart is here."
"I did not follow all that,” Gaunt said to Bone (though Krumwheezle, observing, understood all.) “It seems our wizard was not wholly astute. Nor I. The true threat was the keep's inhabitant, not the surrounding flame."
"You wouldn't say that, had you seen the flame,” Bone said, still training his smile upon Nith.
She patted his shoulder. “I did see it, Bone."
"What does he say,” demanded Nith.
"He thanks you for your tale, but now he must rest.” Gaunt added, “Look tired,” to Bone.
"That is not hard,” said Bone, yawning, stretching, and settling back.
Nith thumped the stone with her fist, stood, and stalked out of the tower. From time to time she could be glimpsed through the gaps in the walls, pacing the ruin.
"She does not seem so dangerous,” Bone said.
"That is because you are a man,” Gaunt said.
Nith stormed back into the tower, hand on her sword hilt. “Ah-Gaunt,” she snapped. “Come."
Bone began to look alarmed, tried to rise. But Gaunt pushed him back down. “I will handle this."
"Surely she'll be reasonable,” Bone said, rubbing his bruised cheek.
Gaunt smiled. “When she discovers you are not her promised lover, she will take that oversized letter-opener and decapitate us both."
Bone thought about that. “What if I am her promised lover?"
Gaunt stared at him, shook her head in disgust, walked away.
"No, I mean that in a technical sense! Having braved the flame. Gaunt!"
Gaunt waved him off and rejoined Nith. The two paced the black ribbon where the flame once billowed.
"Am I not fair?” Nith demanded.
"Excuse me?” Gaunt said in Roil. In Old Morken: “What?"
"He fled from me. Now he feigns sleep—I am a warrior, I know the look. Am I so foul? Men once called me beautiful and strong.” Nith's gaze grew distant. “But the world has changed. Perhaps I have as well. Tell me, does a village yet stand below in the valley? Do the clanhouses rear bright with their dragon-carvings and do girls scatter alpine flowers through their hair? Do raiders launch from the sparkling fjord at left, and mountainfolk ski the shining slopes at right? Does the mead splash golden and sweet? Do skalds sing the sagas of beauty and woe? Or is all that is left ... a crumbled keep in a noxious wood ... and a rescuer who'll have none of Nith?"
Gaunt could only shake her head.
(And whether in confusion or pity, the watching Krumwheezle could not know.)
But Nith had no patience left. The distant look went hot. “Answer!"
Gaunt struggled to find words. “Time ... ends ... all."
"Is it my lot to die alone, last of all my kind? Answer!” Nith drew her sword with a smooth arm and a metallic ting. She let it catch the tropical sun. “How will he answer?"
"Krumwheezle,” Gaunt muttered. “We need you."
"I do not understand you,” Nith said. “But I suspect now that you and he mock me. Whoever you are, I will not be mocked. He will be mine, or he will die. I have waited too long."
* * * *
This was what you wanted, old wizard.
Krumwheezle let the pipe-smoke drift away on the ocean breeze, taking the vision with it. All was now tranquil.
One way or another Bone would be out of the picture. The wizard would offer comfort, and in time would claim Gaunt's heart. Whether Bone perished or took Nith's hand was Bone's affair. Fair choices for a thief.
This was what you wanted.
Krumwheezle looked down at the warm surf soaking and relinquishing his old bare ankles. When the water hissed back out, the skein of light crisscrossing the submerged sand expanded and steadied. He could see little finger-sized shadows milling among the roiling grains, then pale ghostly fish swam into vision, like tiny glass speartips. The surf foamed back in, and all became a brilliant blur.
We will never forget you.
It seemed to him then that all magic's bright lore was as transient as the darting of the fish, for a brief span sharp and meaningful, then lost in froth and glare.
Thank you for fixing my toy.
Snarling in a way that would have terrified the children of his village, the petty-mage of Scuttlesand flung his pipe high up the slope. And when it clattered onto a patch of bramble, he was there, cursing and coughing. And when he flung it again and it tumbled amid cacti, he was there, howling and shaking his fist. And when he flung it again, and it splashed into the water of the natural well, he was there, retching and weeping. For he was a wizard of the Old School who had never graduated. For he was, after all, a common and unworthy man, and for all his dark and secret Art, could not cut the ordinariness from his guts.
* * * *
When Krumwheezle reached the summit, scalded from steam, stained with the broiled meat of the Thing from the well, his pipe lay twisted in the charred circle, Imago Bone danced along the jagged wall, and Persimmon Gaunt crouched outside with drawn bow.
"Master Krumwheezle!” Gaunt said with relief. “Our translation was lacking. I somehow mistook the genitive for the accusative. Nith's Castle, not Castle Nith."
"The eighth declension,” he panted, “is irregular with proper names. Warned you I was rusty."
A warrior woman with blonde tresses leaned through a gap in the wall. She snarled in red-faced rage, ducked back inside.
A rock clove the air and narrowly missed Bone's head.
"That would be Nith,” Gaunt said.
"Mm."
Gaunt studied him, narrowed her eyes. “Have you an explanation for this?"
"I cannot explain the heart."
He stepped forward. There came a bellow from beyond the perimeter, and Bone stopped his dance. Slipping through a gap Krumwheezle found the shield-maid scaling the wall, mail and all. Mountain-bred, Nith would not concede Bone the high ground.
Bone waved at Krumwheezle, and began descending the other side.
Before Bone vanished, Nith removed her shield and threw.
It grazed Bone's skull. The thief fell.
Krumwheezle heard Gaunt's shout of anger.
"Nith!” the wizard cried in Old Morken. “Cease."
Nith turned, scowled, leapt to the ground. The impact sounded jarring, yet Nith seemed indifferent. She snarled, “And who are you?"
"I am a wizard ... of the School called New when your people built this keep. I can capture shadows and domesticate demons. I know how to snuff the bright fire behind the eyes. Rarely have I done such things, but I know how."
"What are you doing here?"
"I am here because I tried to be something other than what I was—a failure.” He tapped the Scruplegore at his belt, felt an icy prickle. Then he raised his hands. “Be at peace, brave Nith. Gods and wizards have played cruel games with you. Your people are gone. Your rescuer is a vagabond with no great battles to his name. I sent him hither ... not to help you, but to help myself to his lover, Gaunt. He is not for you. Accept life as it is. Let go of glory. Quench your fire."
"I—was—promised!” Nith's face was scarlet. “The great heart would be mine, the god said. Who are you to deny me?"
"I am Krumwheezle."
Nith charged him then, so Krumwheezle added, “I am wind.” And he was conscious of motion only, and of flowing away from his clothes, spreading and shifting through a dozen different cracks in the wall.
And of leaving the Scruplegore behind.
He sprawled into being up
on the pebbly earth, naked. He'd had no time for nuances. And already he heard Nith sprinting through a gap.
Options were limited. Though Krumwheezle boasted of demon-calling and soul-snuffing, in truth he'd little experience with the deadlier arts. Rising, he invoked the Algebra of Atmospheres (the temperature of the ground is a, O ground—could it not be z?) But naked as he was, the only weather he was inappropriately dressed for had to be cold, and therefore highly unlikely.
He iced over a small patch of ground.
He fled as Nith stormed into the open. He was rewarded with the sound of a gasp and a thud.
Rounding the wall, Krumwheezle came upon Gaunt kneeling over Bone. The thief's left leg twisted at an unhealthy angle.
Gaunt pulled twin daggers at Krumwheezle's approach.
"She comes—” Krumwheezle gasped.
"This one's for you,” Gaunt said, and threw.
The dagger sank into Krumwheezle's left leg. At first he was astonished at how much steel could hurt. Then he simply hurt.
He screeched and toppled, staring at the hilt jutting up from his calf.
"Yes,” Gaunt said, “I heard your speech to Nith. I understood enough. All the time, you knew she was here."
Krumwheezle could only moan, looking upon Gaunt's rage.
Then Nith ran around the bend.
"Now you,” Gaunt said, and threw again.
The warrior-maid dodged, and lost an earlobe, not an eye.
She howled and bore down upon Gaunt. The poet rolled, but Nith clipped her right foot, and the sword rose again, bloody.
Then Imago Bone, who'd seemed too agonized to act, kicked savagely with his good leg.
Nith stumbled. Then she knelt and punched Bone in the face. He slumped unconscious.
But now Gaunt limped back into the fight. She grabbed Nith's arm. The warrior maid dropped her sword.
Nith seized the grabbing arm and threw Gaunt against the ruin's wall. Before Gaunt could regain her feet, Nith was upon her, kicking for the stomach. Gaunt fell and didn't rise.
Through his pain, Krumwheezle noted there was clearly a reason Arthane Stormeye once favored this warrior. The rogues could never prevail, save perhaps at night, in a blind alley. But Krumwheezle did not flee. He crawled to the fallen sword. He whispered an incantation. “Be a good horse."
The sword shot on its own accord into the undergrowth.
Nith saw it too late. In one breath she grabbed Krumwheezle by the throat. She reached down to her belt, and held up the Scruplegore.
"I believe this is yours,” she said. “Let us see what a wizard blade can do."
"Nith,” came a weak voice.
Still gripping wizard and dagger, Nith wheeled and confronted Bone.
The thief, wheezing, seeping blood from the mouth, crawled toward her. He stopped, mustered a shadow of dignity. He patted his chest, reached out his hand. “I—am—yours,” he said to Nith. “Tell her, Krumwheezle."
"I ... cannot...” Krumwheezle managed to gasp. “You ... are Gaunt's."
"You must. You know you must."
Krumwheezle sputtered in Old Morken, “Nith ... he accepts."
Nith blinked at Krumwheezle. He wondered if the words had penetrated her fury. Then she tossed him aside. She dropped the Scruplegore as well. It dove point-first into the ground by Krumwheezle's nose, as if he lay upon moist earth and not dry, pebbly ground.
The blade flickered with unearthly green light. He felt a chill upon his face.
Nith knelt and embraced Bone. “I knew you would prove true,” she said, sounding less the hellion, more the frightened young woman far from home. “I knew. So much is lost. I am so alone. The world could not be so dark. It could not be so dark."
"She believes you,” was all Krumwheezle managed.
"Well,” Bone sighed, shutting his eyes. “Here we are. We shall live here like happy warriors, eating roast snake. You'll take care of Gaunt?"
The Scruplegore's green fire steadied and brightened. Krumwheezle felt a cold, raw vitality seep into his limbs. He could sense ten years sliding away like a tattered old coat.
"I...."
He looked at Gaunt's unconscious form: she who hated him. “I will,” he said, and staggered to his feet, watching the glowing dagger.
"I will take care of her.” He turned away from the Scruplegore and knelt beside the preoccupied Nith. He pulled out the monocle ground with moonstone. He set it over her right eye.
"What ... , ” she began, then slowly grasped the monocle for herself, like a child clutching a new toy.
"See,” he hissed.
And Nith saw.
"You,” she said to Bone, eyes wide. “You are no warrior. You are strange, and like me you have lived under an enchantment. There is both youth and death about you. You are valorous in your own way. But it is your way to sneak behind life's troubles, not engage them! And you are not for me."
She turned to the unconscious Gaunt. “You ... are a beautiful soul. With your words you plant flowers at the very gates of doom. This man suits you. I am sorry we fought."
She lowered the monocle and stared at Krumwheezle. “You spoke true, wizard. All the world is cruelty and pain. I am alone, and must accept that. This man is not a monster. But neither is he for me."
"You must see the rest,” Krumwheezle said, shame goading him. “You must see the evil in me.” He reached out and raised the monocle again to her eye.
"You....” She sucked in her breath. “There is bright and dark within you, cool blue light and wild red flames. You are as fierce and proud as anyone alive, yet to claim your full power you must become wicked. And that you will not do.” She lowered the monocle. “You are not my perfect rescuer either. You are ... much like me."
This Krumwheezle had not expected.
Nor the gentle touch of her calloused hand.
Nor the tinkle of the Scruplegore snapping in two.
* * * *
"It is a small village,” he told her when they sighted Scuttlesand. “Their concerns are fish, children, fish, the eccentricities of their neighbors, and fish."
"I will defend it to my last breath,” she said, her strong arm about him.
The four travelers limped into the solarium, though less painfully than they might, for Krumwheezle knew some healing Art. It was coming to seem odd, that he'd despised himself for not being able to rain fire from the sky, say, when he could mold an upside-down castle, mend broken limbs, make children laugh.
"My companions,” he said beneath the sparkling net of the wavetops, “you are welcome to stay until you feel fit to travel.” He watched Nith out of the corner of his eye, for he still couldn't believe how she felt about him. But Nith merely watched the rogues, as if he could only be referring to them. She had learned enough Roil on the sailboat to follow his meaning. Her expression said, I will be here much longer than that.
Poet and thief shared a look.
"Do you want to stay?” Gaunt said. “You were injured worst of all."
Bone's eyes met Krumwheezle's, and for a moment the wizard saw the flash of anger in them. But the thief looked away, smirked, swatted his leg. “Say it nice and loud, will you? The tale of Imago Bone, Nith's practice dummy. No, I think we will be leaving. We've much to discuss, and my favorite place to discuss is a little seaside tavern outside Palmary, where the spirits burn like sweet success, and the women,” he looked at Gaunt and checked himself, “the women are welcome."
"We do have much to discuss,” Gaunt said. “Let's consider all that has happened, good and bad, as writing upon a wax tablet. A new day's dawned, and the wax has melted. We take leave not as friends, but not as enemies either, Wizard of the Old School."
Krumwheezle bowed. “I will not use that name anymore. I am the petty-mage of Scuttlesand. Use that title when you speak of me."
And Krumwheezle looked out the solarium glass, far away to where the shards of an ancient dagger lay drowned above an inverted sea.
Thanks to Phoebe Harris for the Old
Morken poem and asides on translation.
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The Tomb Wife by Gwyneth Jones
Gwyneth Jones is the author of more than a dozen novels, including Divine Endurance, Bold as Love, and Kairos. She won the Tiptree Award for her novel White Queen and the Philip K. Dick Award for Life. She also writes books for young readers under the name Ann Halam. Her short fiction has been collected in Seven Tales and a Fable, which won the World Fantasy Award, but this, her first story to appear in our pages, is science fiction and not fantasy. Ms. Jones (who should not be confused with the Welsh soprano of the same name) lives in Brighton, U.K., and can be found online at homepage.ntlworld.com/gwynethann/.
"In Lar'sz’ traditional society,” said the alien, “a lady would often be buried with her husband. A rather beautiful custom, don't you think?"
The Active Complement of the interstellar freighter stared at him, slightly alarmed. Their companion, the illustrious “passenger” who had elected to share their vigil, liked to play games with their expectations. They never knew when he was joking. Humor glinted in Sigurt's black eyes—sharply diamond-shaped as to the rims, a curious and attractive difference from the Blue Planet oval.
"No, no! Not buried alive. Not like that, not at all. She would live in the tomb: she would retire there of her own free will, to spend the rest of her days in peace and solitude.” He reached a claw-like fingernail to scratch his ear. “Lar'sz’ nobles and peasants continued the practice well into historical times. It's the sons of the soil and the owners of the soil who preserve old cultural features, isn't it? And the dispossessed, of course. Refugees."
They were gathered in the mess: seven Blue Planet humans, vital components in the freighter's wetware: plus one celebrated alien archaeologist. The hold was laden with precious ancient artifacts from Sigurt's World, on their way to an exhibition. The Cultural Ambassadors and their staff were making the crossing in dreamtime, but this black-eyed, shadow-skinned, graceful creature preferred activity. They were not clear—they weren't good at reading the small print—whether “Sigurt” was a generic name, or whether their archaeologist was also the actual “Sigurt” who had made first contact. None of them had yet dared to ask him.
FSF Magazine, August 2007 Page 16
