FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Careless,” Garron said. He snatched the cloth away and cleaned the smudge himself, muttering as he went. Then called the maid back, returned the rag and bucket, and strode purposefully to his desk.

  Olivia followed — more annoyed than ever. “What about my punishment?”

  “What punishment?”

  “You said if I didn’t have the hallway cleaned properly, you’d make me mop the study.”

  “That would be an exercise in futility, madam. My study’s already mopped — and you would only smudge it.”

  He sat roughly at his desk; Olivia stood cross-armed and glaring at the fire.

  After a moment, Garron sighed. “I was sorry to hear about Lady Basset. You have my condolences.”

  Olivia sighed. She’d tried desperately to heal her, towards the end. She’d slipped Lady Basset every herb and tonic she could think of in an attempt to cure her cough. But nothing had worked.

  Now it’d been almost a month since Lady Basset perished and in all that time, Lord Basset had been completely inconsolable. He’d requested Olivia’s presence at nearly every waking moment, begged her to stay by his side and never let her off the manor grounds. It took a visit from Tristan to convince him to finally let her out of his sight.

  And Olivia wasn’t at all eager to go back.

  “I wish she hadn’t died … now there’s nobody to keep his lordship out of my shadow.”

  When she turned, Garron’s mouth was half-opened and his brows arched high. “Forgive me. For a moment, I thought you might actually say something sentimental,” he said dryly. “But the fact of the matter remains that the woman who voluntarily played your mother all these years has passed on. And she deserves far more than your annoyance.”

  “I am sorry to have her gone,” Olivia said, trying to sound sincere. She inched towards Garron as she spoke: “I mean, the woman raised me as her own child when she certainly didn’t have to. If I sound harsh, it’s only because I care so very deeply for her. I miss her so very much. And you know me, Garron …” she dropped her voice to a whisper as she came to his side, “you know I’m not very good at … expressing, things. Perhaps …” her hand brushed his shoulder, dragged slowly to his neck, “perhaps if you’d hold me for a moment, I might find the courage to face it.”

  His chin lifted from his papers and jutted up to her face — where his eyes narrowed into points. “Do you see the word fool embroidered upon my tunic, madam?”

  “Well, no …”

  “Then don’t treat me like one,” he snipped, pulling her hand away from his collar buttons. “Now, you say Lord Basset has become rather more protective of you since his Lady’s passing?”

  “If by protective you mean he’s all but bloody locked me up inside his bloody manor, then yes,” Olivia grumbled as she slumped back to the hearth.

  “Interesting.” There was a creak and a scrape as Garron pulled his chair around to face her. “Do a turn for me, will you?”

  Olivia glanced over her shoulder to ask what he’d meant and saw his eyes running very boldly down the length of her. Finally.

  She spread her arms and turned, reveling in the pressure of his gaze. “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “I’m eager to hear what you think.”

  Garron’s lips pursed against his finger as his eyes made one final pass. “I think he means to wed you.”

  Olivia’s arms fell back to her sides. “Who means to wed me?”

  “Lord Basset. That’s why he’s been so particularly interested in you, of late.”

  She sighed to mask her disappointment. “Oh, I’m sure he does. Every man in the whole seas means to wed me. But I won’t be wed.”

  “Then I’m afraid you’ll have to find someplace else to call home. Do you honestly think Lord Basset will allow you to stay in Greenblood if you refuse him?” Garron said when he saw her surprise. “He won’t, madam. In fact, I believe he means to use your home as part of the arrangement. You’ll be offered the choice of wedding him and keeping your island, or you’ll have to live elsewhere.”

  Something uncomfortable twisted inside her middle. “But where would I go?”

  Garron shrugged. “That depends. If you choose to wed, you’ll have your pick of holds across the forest and seas. But if you insist on living freely, I think you’ll find your options rather severely limited. Very few men would allow such a desirable creature to live under his protection unwedded,” he added with a wry smile. “Though I think Chancellor Tristan would gladly offer you a place in his castle.”

  I’m sure he would, Olivia thought, her tongue curling inside her mouth. He’d like to be able to press me under his thumb whenever he wished.

  “No, I can’t stay with Tristan.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Olivia dragged her bare feet across the floor as she paced, trying to think. If she married, she would have to give up her freedom — and she couldn’t give that up. She was certain she wouldn’t survive without the rush and swells of the poison, the elation of battle, the thrill of drawing her victims’ blood.

  No, she couldn’t abandon the one thing in the Kingdom that made her heart truly pound. But if she didn’t marry, where would she go? Every copper in her pocket belonged to Lord Basset — Tristan paid her only by not revealing her secret. She didn’t have the means to live on her own.

  She didn’t know what to do, but Garron would. He always had an answer. So she took a deep breath and said: “What would you do, if you were me?”

  “I would wed. And I wouldn’t wed cheaply,” he added, eyes sweeping over her body once more. “You’re a beautiful woman with a figure made for childbearing — an asset to any man looking to spread his name. Though when you do have children, I would suggest you employ a kindhearted woman to look after them in your stead.” His lips pursed as his gaze traveled to her face. “You wouldn’t make a very good mother.”

  Olivia smiled, grateful for the distraction. “Oh? And why’s that?”

  “It’s your eyes, madam. You have a serpent’s eyes — charming … and cruel.”

  “Well if you find them so charming, why don’t you let me come a little closer?”

  His frown held her at bay. “Most men find charm to be an entrancing quality. But I’m afraid it has rather the opposite effect on me. I find charm to be highly suspicious, in a person. I don’t like charming people, and I don’t trust them.”

  “I see. And what would I have to do to make you … trust, me?”

  “I would no sooner tell you what you would have to do to gain my trust than I would tell my vendors what I could afford to pay them. Because you would swindle me, madam,” he said, when he saw the question forming upon her lips. “You would charge me precisely what I could afford until you bled me dry. Then you’d leave me shriveling in some roadside ditch along with all of your other conquests.”

  He spat that last word — spat with more force and fury than he’d ever spat before. Then he spun his chair back around, leaving a shallow, half-moon scrape across his polished floor.

  Olivia stared at the unusual red that spread down the back of his neck, trying to sort it out. This wasn’t a scolding. It wasn’t a punishment. She wasn’t sure why Garron had snapped at her. But for some reason, the air felt colder now that he’d turned his back. And she didn’t like it.

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t make a very good mother.” She said quietly.

  He snorted over the top of his scribbling.

  “I was almost a mother, once … but it turns out there’s a poison for that, as well.”

  Garron’s quill slowed until it stopped. “Do you mean …?”

  “Yes.”

  His ear turned towards her, though he kept his eyes on the doorway. “Olivia, this sort of thing … it happens. The people of the seas aren’t nearly as unblemished as you might think — you wouldn’t have been the first noblewoman to have gotten herself into such an unfortunate situation. You co
uld’ve simply married the father, and there would’ve been no shame in it.”

  “The father wasn’t a noble.”

  “Ah, well, even a merchant wouldn’t have been too —”

  “He was a fishmonger’s son.”

  Garron’s words died upon his lips. He stayed facing the wall while Olivia turned towards the flames.

  “Years ago, Lord Basset was overseeing the building of a new port on one of the small islands to our east. He was going to be gone all season, and so he brought Lady Basset and I along for company. I met the boy that very first evening … and I saw him nearly every evening after. He knew nothing of my world, and I knew nothing of his. He was rather the coarsest boy I’d ever met. I remember being shocked when I learned he couldn’t read. He was what the nobles would’ve called a simpleton. But I didn’t mind it. There are far worse things than being a bit simple.”

  Olivia spoke quietly: forcing the words out … shielding her eyes against the memories. “We were young, far too young. Love was an exciting thing — we thought we had no reason to fear it. I knew him a month, then Lord Basset gave the order to sail home. A month later, I discovered that Fate punishes the fearless. So I took my poison and went on. That was the end of it.”

  She crossed her arms tightly, digging into their fleshy parts with her nails. The pain drove everything else away: the care in his touch, his scent — the softness of a light that hadn’t been hunger, but awe. She dug in until all she could feel was the pain …

  Then she stopped, relieved.

  When Olivia turned, she fully expected to see Garron staring at her with his mouth wide open, all manner of shock and disgust upon his face. He had turned his chair around — though his eyes were on the hearth fire, not on her face. His fist was balled beneath his chin, his brows bent low, but not quite in a scowl. His sharp eyes moved back and forth as if he read the lines on one of his letters.

  “What happened to the boy?” he murmured after a breath.

  Olivia shrugged. “He was the youngest son of a fishmonger. I’m sure he’s been tithed to Midlan by now, and they’ve driven all the goodness out of him. Even if I were to meet him again, he wouldn’t be able to love me as he did before. So I don’t think about it. There’s no point in it.”

  Garron nodded slowly, his eyes locked onto the flames. Then quite suddenly, he stood. “I’ll have the one of the girls bring you a fresh change of clothes. You ought to have something to eat. It’s half a day’s ride from here, and I don’t want to have to stop for vittles.”

  He’d started talking in the middle of things, again — speaking as if Olivia had an ear tuned to his thoughts. “Where are we going, exactly?”

  “To the lake, madam,” he said as he strode through the door. “There’s something there I wish you to see.”

  One short month later, Olivia was back in Greenblood — pacing anxiously inside Lord Basset’s chambers.

  Perhaps it was because she’d gotten so used to wearing a tunic and breeches that her wedding dress seemed to be cinched far too tightly. She’d spent most of the ceremony trying to breathe, most of the dinner hoping her ribs wouldn’t crack under the strangling of her corset. Now she was being forced to wait while Lord Basset bid his guests farewell.

  In a few short moments, he would come charging in and likely rip it down the middle with his bearish hands. At least then she’d finally be able to breathe.

  Olivia walked slowly past the dresser table, smiling at the large decanter perched upon its top. Garron had presented it to her at the ceremony — along with a weighty look and the suggestion that she begin her wedding night with a toast. Her smile stretched into a grin as she remembered how she’d struggled not to laugh at the earnest line of his frown.

  Had he not be so insistently noble, Garron could’ve easily made one beast of a villain.

  At her next pass, Olivia scooped up one of the little ornate cups that’d come along with the decanter. It was silver inlaid with delicate, golden pines. She ran a finger down one of their slender trunks and was surprised at how quickly the scents and sounds of Pinewatch invaded her memory. And perhaps it was because she was so lost in unexpected thoughts that the tiny cup slipped out of her hands.

  She swore as she watched it roll just under the bed — swore again when the strangling grip of her corset prevented her from easing down and instead, dropped her directly onto her knees.

  The cup was about an arm’s reach beneath the bed. She leaned and dug blindly, feeling for the cool, smooth texture of the silver. But instead, her fingers brushed across something that crinkled.

  It was an envelope. Olivia drew it out and studied it carefully. The envelope wasn’t sealed, but instead merely had its tongue tucked into its mouth. There was nothing written across its front … but there was something inside of it.

  She lifted the envelope’s tongue quickly, not at all certain about what she would find. The moment she saw what lay at the envelope’s bottom, she knew it would’ve done her no good to guess … because it was something she’d never expected.

  A small number of tiny, curled roots — far less than a handful, but just enough to be deadly. They were brownish black and slender. She knew what they were even before the spiced tang of their venom struck her nose: gnarl roots. Her gnarl roots, the ones that’d gone missing nearly a year ago.

  What in Kingdom’s name were they doing under Lord Basset’s bed? How could they have possibly turned up …?

  All at once, her hands froze to the envelope. An involuntarily smile pulled at her lips — one with edges so sharp that they tested the corners of her mouth. She’d thought it odd that Lady Basset had fallen so suddenly ill. She’d wondered why her tonics hadn’t cured her. They would have cured just about any cough or cold. But Lady Basset hadn’t been ill …

  She’d been poisoned.

  Gnarl roots thrived in the damp and the dark, kept their spores trapped inside the fibers of their skin. Too much at once, and the spores would burst and swell, filling up their space before they traveled far enough down. That was what had happened to Edwards, after all.

  But if someone were to be fed a little at a time … well, she supposed most of the spores wouldn’t be able to survive for too long. They’d probably perish quickly, strangled for a lack of air. But if any managed to survive long enough to reach the lungs … they’d find air aplenty.

  They’d grow slowly, though — fragile and restricted. They would need a supply of fresh spores to help tighten their hold on the meshy insides of the lungs … one small dosage at a time. The body would try to expel them, of course. It would fight back with sneezes and coughs, with fevers …

  But in the end, it would lose.

  Olivia laughed. Now she understood why Lord Basset had been so attentive — and why he’d always insisted on delivering Lady Basset’s tea himself.

  The Poison rose, frightening and igniting her soul. Olivia grabbed the silver cup out from under the bed and brought it back to the decanter. The gnarl roots crumbled easily beneath the cup’s bottom, ground against the dresser top. Her hands shook as The Poison reached the middle of her chest and made her head go light.

  When they’d been crushed into a powder as fine as dust, she scraped the gnarl roots into the decanter’s open mouth. Her breathing quickened as she corked it, as she watched the dark liquor swirl and devour the roots. Sweat lathered her neck by the time she’d poured two cupfuls.

  And no sooner did she have them poured than Lord Basset’s steps echoed down the hall.

  He pushed through the door and slammed it closed. His eyes were bloodshot from drink: Garron had made it a point to offer a new toast nearly every few minutes of the dinner, and Olivia had made it a point to keep Lord Basset’s goblet full.

  But even through the swells of red that arced along the veins, his hunger shone clearly. It scraped down her body, already tearing at her corset. His bearish hands curled into claws at his sides as he stumbled towards her.

  “Finally,” he gasped. He s
wayed back when he reached her, grasping clumsily for her throat. She leaned forward and he growled again as his fingers pressed against her neck. “So long … I’ve waited so long. Now you’ll never leave me.”

  “I’m pleased to stay,” she said, struggling to keep her mask in place — struggling to keep the thrill from shaking her arm as she held out one of the silver cups. “I was hoping we might begin our night with a toast.”

  “Anything,” he groaned, snatching the cup from her hand. “Anything for you, my love.”

  Olivia watched as he swallowed the liquor. Little streams ran from the corners of his mouth and stained his collar red, but he drank enough. More than enough.

  She set her cup on the dresser and turned her head away while Lord Basset grabbed her around the waist. His breath stank of drink. His lips moved clumsily against her throat. Oh, but how her heart railed, how it screamed inside her chest — throbbing at his every breath … as his breathing grew shallow.

  “So long,” he moaned, pulling her close. “So … I’ve waited … so …”

  His hands fell from around her waist; his knees struck the floor. His eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets as those bearish hands clawed helplessly at his throat. He reached for her, but Olivia stepped away.

  She leaned against a poster of the bed and watched as his face turned purple, as his eyes bulged to nearly popping free. “I should’ve killed you slowly,” she mused while the veins swelled along his neck. “I should’ve killed you the same way you killed her … you should’ve been made to suffer. But my excitement got the better of me. I rushed things — I’m always rushing things. In years to come, I’ll probably wish that I’d savored your death. But for now, I’m content.

  “You got into my poisons. How long have you known?” She pursed her lips when the purple turned to blue and his limbs started to twitch. “I suppose it’s too late to ask you, now … see? This is precisely why I ought to have done it slowly.” She sighed as his limbs grew still. “You’ve only got a few moments left, so I’ll say what I mean to: I never much cared for you, Basset. But I thought you were a decent man. In some ways, I believed you to be above most other men — at least as far as love was concerned.