FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  Mason didn’t reply. Air hissed raggedly through his lungs as the numbing set in.

  Olivia’s smile pulled against the swollen lump around her left eye — the single lucky blow Mason had managed to get in. Garron was right: it was much better to allow her victims to live, to let them bargain for their lives. In fact, she found the defeat in Mason’s eyes to be rather … satisfying.

  “What are you going to do with me?”

  The hand that clutched his wound was already going limp. She listened to the soft tips of his fingers as they scraped down his sleeve … as his arm went numb and the venom tightened its hold.

  “Well, I suppose we could talk for a bit. It seems a shame for you to pass in silence.”

  A shining film covered Mason’s eyes; his shoulders sagged at their sockets. His tongue lolled helplessly between his teeth for a moment before he managed to whisper: “Don’t want … to … die …”

  Olivia smiled as she crouched beside him. She ran a hand through his dampened curls and cupped him gently under the chin. “Then why don’t we talk about your deal with the chancellor? If you’d be willing to lower your price … I might be willing to give you an antidote.”

  Chapter VIII

  A Name Lost

  THEY RODE THROUGH THE AFTERNOON and well into the evening. Garron’s stallion thundered ahead of her, the rain darkening his shanks. His long stride was every bit as practiced and powerful as his master’s. Olivia’s gelding had a difficult time keeping up.

  They wove their way through the forest path, cutting beneath the trees and around the bends at Garron’s purposeful pace, until they came to a small village marked simply as Lakeshore.

  “Evening, Mr. Shrewd!” one of the guards called as they entered.

  Garron nodded absently in his direction — lips pursed against a name Olivia knew he loathed. They slowed to a trot as they navigated Lakeshore’s narrow streets. The tiny houses sat in a clearing, their walls lined with grayed wood and rusted nails. Behind them yawned the opened mouth of a rather large lake.

  The rain had finally ceased and the clouds had relinquished their hold on the evening sky. They parted above the lake and the sun’s dying light scored it red. The waves that slapped against its sandy shores were much smaller than those from the seas, but Olivia still found comfort in their rhythm.

  As they left the village and picked their way through the woods that hemmed the waters’ edge, Olivia found herself glancing often at the dancing of those gentler waves. The lake lay contentedly in the forest’s embrace. Its skin glistened as it rolled, shifting in its bed. The scent wafting from it was denser than that of the seas. If the seas were refined in their scent, the lake was surely muted. It filled her lungs with the breath of the earth, its fumes as simple as pies and ales.

  Still, she rather liked it. There was something about discovering so large and tame a beast hidden inside the forest’s maw that made her smile. It should’ve been a blemish, a scar — a creature that broke the forest’s pace. But for some reason, she liked the idea that the woods held such a secret. It was surprising.

  And Olivia rather liked surprises.

  “What is it you wanted to show me?” she called, after their horses had plodded for several long moments in silence.

  Garron half-turned and replied: “Patience, madam. We’re nearly there.”

  He led them a little ways from the shore and up a sloping hill. The hill’s jutting edge was bald, its view unfettered by the trees. There was a small stream running along its back edge and a thick carpet of grass surrounding it. Garron leapt off his stallion and the great beast plodded over for a drink. When Olivia dismounted, her gelding followed.

  “This way,” Garron said as he strode to the hill’s edge.

  Olivia had to trot to keep his pace, trying desperately to hold her excitement at bay. What was it about him that made even the simplest things so … intriguing? Perhaps it was his unbothered stare, or the way he could treat even the most astonishing things with a cool disregard. Consequently, she never knew what to expect from Garron.

  He was quite a surprise, himself.

  When he stopped at the hill’s end, Olivia stood by his side. She followed the line of his finger to the land beneath them, where the ruins of an old house lay at the water’s edge.

  It’d been taxed by the sun, split by the rain — nearly overtaken by weeds, but its stout walls still rose above them. The house was probably as large as Garron’s, and there were smaller servants’ houses scattered around it, each more ruined than the last.

  A set of docks, sagged and drooping into the waves, branched from the rocky shore at the house’s front. The skeletons of fishing boats lay half-risen out of a stretch of murky water. Their sides were ragged, chewed by the waves as much as by the thick moss that grew across their skin.

  It was strange … but for some reason, Olivia felt as if she stood before a grave’s marker — as if the bones of this small village now lay in monument at the lake’s edge. It made her fingers curl into fists … made their tips go cold.

  “What is this place?” she whispered.

  Garron clasped his hands behind his back and leveled his gaze at the ruins. “The man who lived here was our neighbor, many years ago. He was a man of the seas who found considerable success in supplying the forest taverns with fish for their tables. He was especially successful in the winter season, when most of our meat digs a hole and hides.”

  “A fishmonger?”

  “Yes.”

  Olivia stared at the ruins, trying to understand what it was that Garron wanted her to see. She was certain he wanted her to learn something — nothing he did was without purpose. But though this lake and those distant shores clawed at the frayed edges of her memories, she couldn’t recall anything about the house.

  “What happened to the fishmonger?”

  “The bandits got him, supposedly,” Garron said around pursed lips.

  “Supposedly? You aren’t convinced?”

  “No. There was a tribe of bandits living over there,” he said, pointing to the opposite shore. “But this fishmonger had a rather exceptional talent for words. And instead of driving the bandits out, he would often trade with them. I heard he even gifted them a portion of his catch each week, so that their children wouldn’t go hungry. My father said this fishmonger loved the wild things — said he was never interested in a trade that didn’t have a heavy edge of danger sewn in, said he preferred the savagery of the earth to the lies of men. I wish I would’ve gotten the opportunity to know him better.

  “But I was only a child the night this fishmonger’s village burned,” Garron said heavily, tightening his hands behind his back. “A few of his guards managed to reach Pinewatch, begging for our aid. And my father rode out immediately. I stayed at the house and helped the servants tend to the villagers. I remember the fishmonger’s wife was among them … she was gravely wounded. I’m afraid by the time she reached us, she’d already slipped beyond our help.

  “She wailed all through the night. I’ll never forget it.” Garron’s chin jutted out fiercely; his eyes sharpened. “She cried for an infant daughter — a child she was certain hadn’t escaped the blaze. She cried until she finally passed in the cold watches of the night. When my father returned, he said there was nothing left of the fishmonger’s village. I told him about the child … but though his men searched for days, they never found her — neither among the living nor the dead.”

  It was only when Garron stopped speaking that Olivia realized just how loudly the forest screamed. The little creatures that watched over the night came alive, shrilling excitedly as the sun died, reveling in the slow trickle of its blood.

  Olivia focused on the screams. She kept her gaze fixed on the sun’s smear across the lake — and away from that ruined little village.

  “When I first heard the story of how you became Lord Basset’s ward, I’ll admit that I wondered. There’s no way to ever know for certain, of course,” Garron allowed. “An
d in truth, I meant never to tell you. I thought it would only upset you. But when you told me the story of your fishmonger, I thought you might —”

  “Who owns the lake, now?” Olivia said. She tried to ignore how sharply the words came out, but their ends still rang inside her ears.

  Garron’s brows rose as he considered her question. “Well, as the fishmonger was a child of the seas and had no heir to succeed him, the law required his lands be turned over to the free people’s council — though they had a difficult time getting rid of the bandits. Spent years hunting them down …”

  Tristan.

  Olivia smiled as The Poison rushed in — numbing her body, thrilling her veins …

  “I don’t like that look, madam,” Garron said severely.

  “There’s nothing to worry over. I assure you I’m completely under control.” She rolled her shoulders back, forced the mask into place. “See? Just a brief moment of weakness … surely you won’t hold that against me.”

  When Garron grumbled that he wouldn’t, Olivia turned back to the village. “I’ve decided to marry Lord Basset.”

  Garron sighed heavily. “That would be the most advantageous arrangement, to be sure. I’m certain you won’t regret it. And it’ll be a pleasant thing to longer have to worry about your blasted boots scuffing up my floors.”

  “I’ll miss you, as well,” Olivia said, smirking at his frown. Then she sauntered closer. “Perhaps you ought to give me something to remember you by.”

  “No. Out of the question.”

  “Please? You wouldn’t send me off to be married without allowing me one final … adventure, would you?”

  He frowned. “Yes, I would. And speaking of that sort of thing — I suggest you make certain Lord Basset’s goblet is filled throughout the wedding party. We both know you to be a rather tarnished flower, madam. The less your husband remembers, the better.”

  He was probably right. He was always right.

  Olivia sighed, resigned to the fact that she would have to give up on Garron … for now. Well, at least until she’d taken care of Tristan. It would be a much slower game than the ones she liked to play. But if she married Lord Basset, she could convince him to ship ingredients in from nearly anywhere: the desert, the plains, perhaps even the Unforgivable Mountains.

  Somewhere across the Kingdom, there would be a plant or root that weakened his powers, some formula that Tristan couldn’t withstand. She would gladly spend all the years it took to discover it — The Poison wouldn’t let her rest until he was dead.

  Even now, its groans filled her chest. She stared down at the ruins of the village, and one final question came boldly out: “What was the fishmonger’s name?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t recall his first name, only the family name.”

  “What was it?”

  Garron squinted up at the shadowed clouds. “I believe it was D’Mere.”

  By the time she made it into Pinewatch, Olivia felt as if she’s smiled the whole way.

  A light rain washed down her oilskin and mud spattered across her leggings as her mare thundered through the woods. The creature’s deep, panting breaths matched the swells that crashed inside Olivia’s chest — the thrill that numbed her toes and shook her grip on the reins.

  Oh, there was no feeling quite like this, no excitement possibly greater. It was a freedom that made the blood rush hot through her veins.

  Once she’d returned her horse to the stables, Olivia sprinted up the road. She was certain she would never get used to the feeling of being able to move as fast as her legs could carry her. The soreness that’d once invaded her limbs at even the lightest jog was gone, driven out by practice and refined through trial — hardened until the muscles that coiled beneath her skin could bear her up hills and over streams with ease.

  Garron had taught her well.

  When she arrived at the house, she pushed through the doors and charged straight down the hall. She didn’t stop until she reached the study. “I did it,” she gasped as she entered.

  Garron was hunched over at his desk, as always — his half spectacles perched at the end of his nose. “By it, I assume you mean you brushed and cared for your horse before you charged up here?”

  “Well, yes. But —”

  “And that when you burst into my home, you thought to close the door behind you? Because you know how I loathe letting the rain come in.”

  Olivia stomped into the hallway, slammed the door shut, and stomped back into the study. “There. Are you happy?”

  “Not quite.” Garron folded the letter he’d been reading and cast it aside. The spectacles came off. His sharp blue eyes cut from her feet to the top of her head, then out the door behind her. “I don’t see how a man who’s just had his hallway used for a boot-scrape could possibly be happy.”

  There were perhaps a half-dozen prints behind her, with a few mud flecks in between. “That isn’t anything the servants can’t handle. Besides, it’ll give them something to do.”

  Garron’s eyes narrowed. “Give them something to do?”

  “Yes. If your hallways weren’t so insufferably clean, they might have more to keep them occupied.”

  Garron leaned back. “I see. And did it ever occur to you, madam, that my hallways are insufferably clean because my servants do spend so much time on them? That the last thing they need at the end of a long day’s work is to have some nobleman’s ward come tromping across their efforts in her mud-soaked boots? No,” he murmured, watching her brows as they climbed. “I don’t believe it ever occurred to you. Not even for a moment. Well … we’ll have to remedy that, won’t we?”

  At his summons, one of the maids brought a rag and bucket to the study. She set them upon the floor and swept away.

  “Mop it up,” Garron commanded. “When you’re finished, I’ll come inspect it. And if I don’t see my face shining back, you’ll be made to mop the study, as well. Oh, and you’ll want to remove those boots before you start,” he added, glaring down. “Otherwise it’ll all be about as useful as trying to shovel during a snow.”

  Olivia removed far more than her boots. She stripped her muddy garments away and cast them before the hearth until she wore nothing but her underthings. She turned, quite certain that she would finally see Garron’s stern mouth hanging out the bottom of his skull, and instead found him hunched over his letters once more — mumbling to himself as he tallied the week’s profits.

  She took a half-step towards him. “You aren’t even going to look at me?”

  “There’s much to be gained in my work — far more than I could ever gain by looking at you,” he said back, eyes roving across the page. “So I hope you’ll forgive me, but I do believe my attention is better served in studying these figures rather than admiring yours. Get to mopping, madam — and while you’re at it, you can tell me about Mason.”

  Olivia had never been made to do a servant’s work before. The wood floor pressed uncomfortably against her knees and the water in the bucket was scalding hot. But as she dragged the cloth across the muddy bits and watched the shine come back, her body began to relax.

  This rough sort of work was healing — a simplicity that drew The Poison from her veins. She’d felt it come over her the first time Garron made her unsaddle and brush her own horse: her heart stopped racing and her hands stopped shaking. Slowly, she’d calmed.

  Now she found the easy rhythm of the scrubbing to be just as soothing as the brush.

  Garron listened intently as she told him of what she’d done to Mason. Occasionally he would mumble something, or his quill would flick across his page. But for most of her tale, he stayed quiet. “You didn’t kill him, then? You controlled yourself?”

  Olivia thought controlled wasn’t exactly the right word for it. Had she not found Mason’s pleas to be so exciting, she might well have killed him anyways. But as it was, she liked the thought of being able to stare across the room at somebody who’d nearly died at her hands, being able to watch him as he strai
ghtened his collar and tried to carry on — completely unaware that his Death kept him in her gaze.

  But she knew Garron would only scold her if she admitted this. He liked to think that she was changing for the better. And so she said: “Yes, I was able to control it.”

  “Good. Very good. And I assume you were able to … convince him to sign over to the chancellor’s wishes?”

  “I gave the document to a courier at the next village. Tristan will have it in a few weeks’ time.”

  Garron nodded absently. When he looked up, his eyes didn’t even flick below her chin but stayed fixed upon the purplish bruise that arced across her brow. “And I assume you’ve come to me today because you plan to hide in Pinewatch until you’ve healed?”

  “Yes — if that’s all right with you,” she added when his chin jutted out expectantly.

  “It is. Thank you for asking.”

  He went back to his papers, and she went back to her scrubbing. They worked in silence while the minutes dragged by, each consumed by their tasks. The moment Olivia had wiped up the last bit of mud, she called Garron over to inspect it.

  She watched the sharp movements of his eyes as they scraped across the floor, listened to the rough of his hands as they dragged against her work. There was a tiny smudge at the end of the hallway.

  Olivia had left it there on purpose.

  “A nearly perfect effort ruined by a careless mistake,” Garron growled when he saw it. “You’ll mop that up at once, madam.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  Garron’s eyes snapped up her length — as they always did when he was cross. Only this time, he seemed to have forgotten she was only in her underthings.

  Red burned his face. His gaze slipped into hers and she held it, trying to pull him apart. She searched for the hunger. It was in there somewhere: she thought she could see it just flickering inside his pupils. In a moment his desire would burst free. Those eyes would scrape across her body, those hands would drag against her flesh …