Bardolf whispered, “Yes.”
“I think Milon captured the essence of a blood blade in that song: dark, hungry, evil.” Leech chuckled.
Sidra drew the sword. It gleamed in the torchlight. She said, “Leech, I want you to meet Bardolf the Curse-Maker.”
The sword hissed, “Fresh blood, yumm.”
Sweat beaded on Bardolf’s face, but his words were brave. “You can’t feed me to that thing.”
“I think I can.” She bent close to him, the naked blade quivering near his neck. She held it two-handed, not trusting it. She spoke low and close to his frightened eyes.
“The duke, your father, has decreed that I can do anything I want to you. Up to and including taking your soul.”
“No, please.”
“Gannon.” Gannon unlaced Bardolf’s sleeve and began to roll it upward. The skin was pale.
Leech crooned, “Blood, fresh blood, new blood.”
The man struggled until sweat dripped down his face, but he could not move. Only his head was free to thrash from side to side.
“Please, please don’t let it touch me.”
“Tell us who hired you, agree to cure the bard, and you will live.”
“I won’t live. He’ll kill me. Or have me killed.”
“But he is not here, and I am. I’ll kill you now.”
Bardolf shook his head and closed his eyes. “Please, he’ll kill me.”
Leech hovered over the flesh and said, “Blood.” Bardolf opened his eyes and watched the blade come closer to his arm. “No!” The point bit into his flesh and he screamed. Blood spurted out from a cut artery. Leech chortled in a rain of blood. Bardolf cried, “Lord Isham! Lord Isham hired me!”
Sidra didn’t remove the sword but watched it lapping his blood.
“Get it away! Get it away!”
“Why would Lord Isham want Milon Songsmith dead?”
Bardolf swallowed, closing his eyes against the sight of the sword in his arm. He looked as if he might faint. When he finally spoke, his voice was as pale as his skin. “The song that Milon wrote about him. Lord Isham took insult.”
Sidra asked, “‘Lord Isham and the Goose Girl’?”
“Yes. Now, please, get that thing away from me.”
Sidra drew Leech back from the wound, but it did not want to come. She fought the sword two-handed as it struggled and cursed. “Not enough, not enough. Fresh blood, not enough.”
The sword was quivering, fighting against her, and she could not sheath it. Gannon said, “Sidra.” He bared his arm.
She said, “No.”
Leech stopped shrieking and began to wheedle, “Just a little more, a taste, fresh taste.”
It was a very unhealthy habit to disappoint a blood blade.
Sidra held the blade carefully and said, “Gannon, I would not ask this.”
“You did not ask. Do it. I have often been curious.”
She laid the blade tip against his arm, and it bit deep into muscle. The wizard winced but stared as the blade wiggled in the wound like a nursing calf.
Sidra pulled Leech free of the wound, and the sword said, “Ah, good, yumm.” Gannon ignored the sword and stared curiously at his wound as the edges knit together. Soon there was nothing but a whitish scar.
She sheathed the short sword and turned to Bardolf. “Are you willing to cure the bard now?”
Bardolf nodded weakly. “Anything you want. Just keep that sword away from me.”
Leech chuckled.
Gannon stood on one side of him and Sidra on the other. Then Gannon released the spell hold, and Bardolf nearly fell. With Gannon steadying him against the dizziness, they teleported to the inn.
The three appeared in front of Milon’s bed. His skin was gray, his eyes sunken and black-smudged. If he was breathing at all, Sidra could not tell it. The healer gasped.
Sidra’s heart felt like lead in her chest. “Are we too late?”
The healer shook her head. “There is time.”
Sidra pushed Bardolf forward against the bed. “Cure him or the blood blade will taste your soul.”
Bardolf half-fell to his knees beside the bed. He laid a hand on Milon’s forehead and over his heart. The curse-maker’s face went blank. It was the tranquility Sidra was accustomed to seeing on a healer’s face. She found it strange for a curse-doer.
Milon took a deep, shuddering breath, then his chest rose and fell. Bardolf stood up, looking relieved. Gannon forced him to stand back from the bed.
The healer touched the bard’s forehead. “The fever has broken; he sleeps. With a few days’ rest, he will be well.”
Sidra asked Gannon, “Can you take that one to the jail?”
“I think I can manage.” Gannon placed a hand on Bardolf’s forehead and spoke one strange syllable. The curse-maker’s eyes went blank, and he followed obediently as Gannon moved to the door. He turned back and asked, “What of our feline friend?”
“Do as you think best.”
Gannon smiled, a broad cheerful smile. “I will attend to it with pleasure.” He left with Bardolf following behind.
Sidra knelt by the bed and smoothed the sweat-darkened hair from Milon’s forehead. The healer moved a short distance away, giving them privacy. Sidra whispered to the bard, “I did not let you die.”
Leech was singing softly in its sheath. The words came up faint and hollow. “Lord Isham went a-riding, a-riding, a-riding. On his great bay stallion he went riding over his land. First he met a milkmaid, a milkmaid…”
Sidra asked, “Leech, have you ever tasted the blood of a province lord?”
The sword stopped in midsong and whispered, “Never, but I hear they’re quite tasty.”
“We will be visiting Lord Isham.”
Leech asked, “When?”
“Very soon.” Sidra fought the urge to smile. One should never smile when contemplating another’s death. The sword giggled, and Sidra found herself laughing with it. She saw the healer make the sign against evil. Sidra sighed. Evil had many faces. Some were just more obvious than others. She brushed her lips on Milon’s forehead and whispered, “Very soon.” She made it sound like a promise.
GEESE
This is the only story that I ever wrote through pure inspiration. My first apartment in the St. Louis area was on the edge of a lake. It had Canada geese on it. I took the trash out one night with the sunset spread across the sky and the geese settling down for the night. I stood there in the coming darkness, watching the geese, and the first line of the story came into my head. By the time I got back inside to the computer, the first paragraph was in my head. All I had to do was sit down and type fast enough to write the story. It was amazing, this rush of ideas, character, a whole story from beginning to end. I have never had this happen again. I’ve had moments of inspiration, but never so complete.
THE geese lay in the long shadows of afternoon, gray lumps, with rustling feathers and flapping wings. I dozed, long neck tucked backward, black bill buried in my feathers. I watched the other geese through black button eyes. Soon I closed my eyes and gave myself to the peace of the flock.
Perhaps I had been a goose for too long. Perhaps it was time to become human again, but the desire was hazy. I was no longer sure why I wanted to be human. I could not quite remember the reason I had hidden myself among the geese.
I realized I was losing my human identity, but it had borne so much pain. This was better. There was food, the freedom of wings, the open sky, and the comfort of the flock. I did not remember humanity as being so simple, so peaceful, so restful. I had lost the desire to be human, and that should have frightened me. That it did not was a bad sign.
Beside me, head nearly lost in the feathers of his back, was Gyldan. That was not his real name, but a human name I had given him. One of the last things to leave was this need to name things. It was a very human trait.
In my own mind I still called myself Alatir. As long as you had a name, you were still human.
Gyldan was a y
oung gander, but he had been with me for two seasons. He was a handsome bird; jet black, cloud gray, buff white, all markings distinct and artificial in their perfectness.
He had chosen me as his mate, but I offered only companionship. I was still human enough not to wish to bear goslings.
He had stayed with me, though there were other females who would have taken him. We had spent long summers on empty lakes, claiming our territory but never going to nest. If I did that, I would never be human again. The thought came that I wanted to be human, someday, but not today.
The children came then, peasant children with their dark hair and eyes. They came from a prosperous household, for they fed us scraps of vegetables and bread. They had almost tamed us, almost.
The oldest was a girl of about fourteen, her black hair in two thick braids around a slender face. The next oldest was a boy of perhaps eleven. The rest were all sizes, with laughing brown eyes and gentle hands.
I had flown over their father’s mill many times. I had watched them help their mother in the garden and play tag in front of their house.
They came earlier by human standards, for the days were growing autumn short. By geese standards, the sun was in the same place.
The bread was day-old, crisp, and good. I remembered other bread, formed in curves and sculpted for feast days. Gyldan did not press me to share my bits of bread. He sensed my mood and knew my temper was short. There was a sound of horses riding along the road. All of us craned our necks to hear, to see danger. The oldest girl noticed it and asked us, “What’s wrong?” as if we could speak.
We thundered skyward as the horses rode out beside the lake. The children were still stunned by our beating wings, afraid. The girl recovered and screamed, “Run, hide!”
The children scattered like wild things. The girl was cut off by one prancing horse, and the oldest boy would not leave her.
I circled back, Gyldan beside me. I settled at a safe distance and listened. It took magic for me to hear them, and I found the knowledge to stretch my senses came easily.
The men wore the livery of the Baron Madawc, a white bull on a background of silver, a sword through its heart. I knew Lord Madawc well. Human memories tore through my mind. Blood running between my mother’s dead eyes. My father’s chest ripped open, so much blood. I had been but newly made a master of sorcery when Madawc slaughtered my family and took over our lands. Five years ago, I had been a child, though a powerful one. Lord Madawc had mocked me when I challenged him to a duel. He had let me live and put a geas on me, a geas to kill him, thinking that it would surely mean my death. Having a geas-ridden child seek the death of a powerful sorcerer amused him.
So I had hidden myself in a form that the geas would not touch. My human mind roared through my animal body. I remembered. I remembered.
One soldier had placed the girl across his saddlebow. “Our lord will be pleased with this.” He slapped her buttocks. She was crying.
The boy said, “Let go of my sister.” Another soldier swooped down on him and carried him, struggling, to the front of his saddle. He said, “There are those at court that like a bit of little boy. You can come along if you like.”
I could not let this happen, and I could not stop it as a bird. I hid myself in some reeds. Gyldan felt the magic begin. He hissed but did not leave me.
Human form was cold. I found myself crying. Crying, for the family I had forgotten. I huddled in the reeds, in the mud. My skin was pale; my black hair, waist-long. I know my eyes were blue, the pale color of spring skies.
I could pass for a lord’s bastard daughter just as easily as a true aristocrat. Peasant blood was peasant blood, to some.
Gyldan touched my shivering skin with his firm beak. He croaked softly at me, and I touched his feathered head. “If I live, I will be back to say a proper good-bye, I promise.”
I walked up the sloping bank toward the soldiers. He followed me on his thick, webbed feet, but he stopped before I reached the men. He launched skyward in a thrust of feathers and fear.
The soldiers saw only a naked woman walking toward them. I had grown older and was no longer a girl, but a woman. I doubted Madawc would recognize me. But because of his own magic, I was compelled to find him and slay him, if I could. Fear tightened my stomach, yet there was no time to be afraid. I had to help the children now.
“Let the children go.”
“Oh yes, my lady…” They laughed.
I gestured, a bare pass of wrist and hand. The children were set upon the ground, and the soldiers said one to another, “Children—who needs children? We will take a woman to our lord.” Freeing the children was their own idea now.
The children were frightened and huddled near me. I whispered to them, “Go home; do not be afraid. I may come there seeking shelter later.”
The girl dropped a clumsy curtsey and said, “You are most welcome, my lady. Be careful.”
I nodded, and one of the soldiers gave me his cloak as a damp autumn drizzle began to fall. It was his idea to let me ride in front of him, covered, a special gift for Lord Madawc. He was their captain, and the only one I had to control. I had been lucky that none of these soldiers was a spell caster. It would never have gone so smoothly with magic to fight.
It was miles to the castle, and by the time we arrived, the captain believed it was his idea. No magic was required to maintain my safety.
The castle gate was brilliant with torchlight. Our group was one of dozens. Many had brought children, both male and female. One little boy was perhaps six, frightfully young. He clung, crying, to the soldier that held him. The soldier looked decidedly uncomfortable. I marked him for later use, though if I needed help, it would probably be too late. Too late meant dead. I took a deep calming breath. If I panicked, I would be useless.
Somehow I would kill Madawc. Even if it meant my own death.
We were escorted through the main hall, where there was a party going on. I heard one of the soldiers murmur, “Pigs, all of them.”
The captain whispered, “Don’t let Madawc hear such talk. He’ll skin you alive for entertainment.”
Another said, “I’m leaving this foul place when my contract is up.” There was a lot of head nodding.
Five years without my father to stand guard against him had not made Madawc popular.
The place smelled of spilled wine, vomit, and sex. Drunken voices, both male and female, called out bawdy suggestions. There was a young man of about fifteen, chained to the center of the room. A line of silk-clad ladies were taking turns with him.
I turned away, and the captain jerked me roughly forward. Fear knotted in my belly, and for the first time I felt naked under the cloak. I had magic, but so did Madawc, and he had beaten me before.
The little boy was given over to an older man. The soldier looked near tears himself as he pried the boy’s fingers from him. The old noble offered the child sweetmeats and held him softly. He would gain the child’s confidence first. I recognized Lord Trahern. He had been thrown out of my father’s court for being a child-lover.
The captain led me by the arm through the crowd. Hands pulled at the cape, saying, “A beauty, did you taste her before you brought her here?”
He ignored them and went to the front table. Madawc had not changed, except to grow thicker around the middle. His black hair was dark as any peasant’s, but his eyes were the cool blue of autumn skies.
Anger flashed through me warm and whole. Hatred. Memories. My mother’s cries for help. Her screams, “Run, Alatir, run!” But there had been no place to run. I needed no geas to want him dead.
The captain went down on one knee and pulled me down as well. We waited, kneeling, faces hidden from the man. Would Madawc recognize me? I was afraid and didn’t try to hide it. I was just another victim, a bit of meat. I was supposed to be afraid. Finally, Madawc said, “Yes, what is it?”
“A special treat for you, Lord Madawc.” He pulled my head back, so my face showed.
Madawc said, “Ah,
blue eyes. Did you find another one of my own bastards for me?”
“I believe so, my lord.”
He smiled and traced my face with his hand. “Lovely. You have done well, Captain. I am pleased.” He held out a ruby and gold ring. The captain bowed and took it. I was left kneeling.
Madawc pulled aside the cloak. It fell to the floor. I hunched forward, using my long hair as a screen. Fear thudded in my throat. He laughed. “Naked, all pleasures bare, as I like my women. And modest, I like that as well.” He touched my breast, and I jerked away with a small gasp. I would not let him touch me. I would destroy myself first. No, the geas would not allow that. I had to try to kill him. But I could not perform death-magic here and now. He was not drunk; he would break my concentration long before I completed a spell. I could damage him but not kill him. I needed to get away from him; I needed time.
It came to me then what I needed to do. I had been too long away from the nobility; I had forgotten how silly even the best of them could be. Even Madawc, tainted as he was, would not refuse challenge, especially from a woman he had defeated before.
I draped the cloak around my shoulders and said, “I am Alatir Geasbreaker, as you named me. Daughter of Garrand and Allsun.” I stood, cloaked in deepest blue and the mane of black hair. I was ivory skin and eyes of sapphire. I felt the magic of true challenge flow through me, born of anger, righteousness, and five years of magic almost untapped. Fear was gone in a rush of magic.
Madawc knocked his chair backward to scrape along the marble floor. “What trick is this?”
“No trick, Madawc of Roaghnailt. I am Alatir Geasbreaker, and I challenge you to battle.”
If it had been another who was trained in sword as well as magic, it would have been a foolish challenge. I knew nothing of weapons, but neither did Madawc. He was of the belief that magic was always enough. Now we would see.
A hush ran through the throng. They turned eyes to their honored lord. He could not refuse, for to do so, even in front of this silken rabble, would be to lose all honor. A lord without honor did not get invited to the king’s courts. A lord without honor became the butt of songs by bards known for their comedic talents and biting wit.
[Anita Blake Collection] - Strange Candy Page 12
