Trevelyn stopped them. “Rudelle is not a healer.”
“Then what is she?” his mother asked.
“A woman and my wife.”
Neither parent understood, then his mother said, over slowly, “You…mean…she…has…no…magic?”
“Correct.”
She flopped down into a dust-covered chair. “You married a non-magic, a non-person? She can’t even vote.”
“She can vote because she is married to me.”
“But if she wasn’t your wife, she would be a non-person. A peasant.”
“Mother, please remember, she is my wife, and I love her.”
His father added, “Son, why, why did you do this?”
Trevelyn took Rudelle’s hand and drew her aside. “This could take some time, my beloved. Why don’t you go out in the garden for a time?”
“No, I will stand beside you.”
“It will be an argument. An argument with my parents means magic. I would rather have you settled in a few days before being turned into a frog.”
Rudelle’s eyes widened. “They could really do that?”
“My parents? Without a word or a gesture. Most sorcerers have to at least say a spell, to help their concentration, but not my parents.”
Rudelle swallowed. “I’ll remember that, and go wait in the garden.”
She paused before a blank wall and asked, “How do I get there?”
He kissed her then, hard and full on the lips. “Enjoy the garden. Mother, if you please, teleport her gently into our garden.”
His mother looked unhappy but waved her hand and the world vanished for a moment.
Rudelle appeared in the garden. Two teleports so close together were too much for her stomach. She vomited into the grass. At least she hadn’t thrown up in front of anyone, but she decided then and there that she did not care for teleportation.
The garden was a contrast to the house. Neat, trimmed fruit trees formed a small orchard in the west. An herb garden formed an intricate green-leafed knot around a small garden. Flower beds were isolated and planted to be viewed from every side: carnations in pink and scarlet, delphiniums in shades of royal blue, and brown speckles over all, the pure white of crystal stars on their dainty nodding stems.
A vegetable patch opened behind a screen of hedges. Never had Rudelle seen such perfect red tomatoes, crooknecks so large and glossy yellow that they did not seem real. Bees hummed among the bean blossoms. The bean plants were rainbows of bean pods; purple, spotted and streaked, bright yellow and pale pink. Two short rows and every color Rudelle had ever heard of, and some she had not. No one grew them like this, for the eye’s beauty more than the harvest.
Then Rudelle came to the rose garden. She stopped and simply stared. There was nothing else to be done. The reds were an eye-searing scarlet, pinks from the palest dawn’s blush to deep coral, yellows the color of goldfinches and buttercups, and whites like crystal shining in the sun. Then she came to one of pale lavender. Another was orange like the rare fruit itself. The scent on the afternoon breeze was almost intoxicating. Then the sound of humming came to her ears. For a moment she thought the roses were singing, then she spied a young girl kneeling among the bushes.
Long yellow hair blew free in the wind. The white and silver of a party gown was bunched underneath her knees. She was working with a small hand trowel in the soil underneath a yellow rose.
Rudelle cleared her throat quietly. The humming stopped abruptly, and the girl turned, flinging her hair from her eyes. There was a smudge of fresh dirt on one cheek. Her eyes were the startled blue of an autumn sky.
They stared at each other a moment, then Rudelle said, “I am Trevelyn’s new wife, Rudelle.”
The girl smiled. “I am Ilis, his youngest sister.” Ilis stood, bunching the silk of her dress in muddy hands.
Rudelle asked, “Do you always garden in a party dress?”
The girl smiled down at the ruined cloth. “Well, sorcery can fix it instantly, so it’s not ruined. It is the last clean dress I have. Mother and Father have both been terribly busy with their research as of late.”
“Trevelyn tells me you’re an earth-witch.”
“Yes.”
“And you made this garden.”
“Helped it.” Ilis stroked a rose bud, and it opened instantly, bursting with color and scattering scent both rich and welcoming.
“That rose, it opened when you touched it.”
“Of course, it did. I am an earth-witch, and this is my special bit of ground.” Ilis looked at her new sister-in-law critically for a moment. Then she laughed, “You aren’t magic, are you?”
“No.”
“Oh, Mother must have had a fit.”
“Something like that, yes.”
“Where are you from?”
“Calthu.”
“Oh, no. No magic. You’ve never seen it, have you?”
“Not really.”
The girl laughed and grabbed Rudelle’s hand. “Come. I’ll show you some real magic.”
Rudelle had to laugh. A feeling of such warmth, health, wholeness came through the girl’s touch.
She let her pull her along the grass paths until they came to the center of the rose garden. There they stopped, still hand in hand.
There was a white painted arbor with a bench underneath. A rose climbed and fell and curved over the wood until it was like a small house. The roses were the size of cabbages, white like frost, the lip of each petal kissed with the palest pink, and outlined and ribbed with silver that sparkled metallic in the sun.
The girl walked forward, leaving Rudelle to gawk. Ilis touched the bending flower, larger than her own face. The flower nodded in response, moving all on its own. It rubbed against her cheek, like a cat.
“It moved.”
“This,” the girl said, “is real earth-magic. Not just every earth-witch can animate a growing thing. It took me three years to get flower color and size, and only the last month has she lived for me.”
“She?”
“Yes. Blinny.” Ilis held out her hand. “Come. She’ll like you.”
Rudelle approached slowly, noticing now how the flower heads wavered independent of the wind. The ruffling of petals was a soft, sibilant sound. A half-opened rose nodded over her and touched pink-tinged lips to her face.
“Oh,” Rudelle said.
A lightning bolt struck near Rudelle. She screamed and Ilis dragged her to the ground.
Ilis tried to hide Rudelle underneath her, as a sound of explosions and lightning cracks got closer.
Rudelle struggled to raise her head and asked, “What is happening?”
“Elva and Ailin are having a quarrel.”
“What…”
There was a roaring whine overhead; Ilis dragged Rudelle to her feet and screamed, “Run!”
They ran, Ilis leading them toward dubious safety, as fire rained down from the sky. They huddled at the base of a small oak tree. Now Rudelle could see the combatants.
A young woman of about seventeen was shooting balls of greenish flame toward a boy of about ten. The green flame splattered harmlessly against nothing that Rudelle could see, as if there were an invisible shield around the child. The boy was flushed and sweating; the girl calm and unstained. She waved aside his attacks with a careless hand. Then, laughing, she vanished.
Ilis let out a sigh and slumped against the tree trunk.
“Where did the woman go?” Rudelle asked.
“Elva? She teleported. She’ll stay gone until Ailin cools down.”
“You can’t teleport, though?”
“No.”
“How do you hide from your brother when he’s angry?”
“I stay out of his way as best I can.”
The little boy was furious. His pale face was flushed, and his hands balled into fists at his side. Rudelle could see him trembling with rage.
There was no sound in the garden but the boy’s labored breathing. Then the climbing rose moved; a mere wh
isper of silken petals, but it was enough. Ailin pointed one small fist at the bush and began to chant.
Ilis cried, “No, Ailin, no, please!”
Rudelle was uncertain what was happening, then fire like a furnace blast swallowed the climbing rose. Half the bush melted like hot wax.
Ilis screamed, wordlessly, and hid her face in her hands.
Rudelle was numbed at the careless cruelty of it. She wondered, briefly, if she had drawn attention to herself, if the boy would have melted her. Then she stood and strode toward the child.
Ilis called, “Rudelle, don’t!”
Ailin turned, still angry.
Ilis called, “Ailin, this is Trevelyn’s new wife, your sister-in-law. She doesn’t mean any harm. Don’t hurt her.” Ilis got to her feet, uncertain what to do.
Rudelle wasn’t certain either, but one thing she knew, no ten-year-old boy was going to bully her. And no one had the right to destroy such harmless beauty.
Ailin said, “I can blast you, just like I did that stupid rose.”
Rudelle kept moving.
“I can change you into a toad. I bet Trevelyn wouldn’t like you so much then.”
Rudelle ignored the threats and kept coming. She was furious and let the anger show on her face.
Uncertainty showed in his eyes. “I’ll do it! I’ll change you!”
His hands raised, and the first word of an invocation trickled from his mouth. Rudelle hit him hard, closed fist, against the jaw. He slid to the ground, boneless as a sack of wheat.
Ilis crept closer, a look of wonder on her face. “Is he dead?”
“No, just unconscious.”
Ilis knelt beside the fallen sorcerer and looked up at Rudelle, her eyes shining.
“But didn’t you know he could have killed you?”
Rudelle shook her head. “I am the middle child of seven, all boys except for me. I am not about to start letting little boys bully me, magic powers or not. Once you let them think they have the upper hand, they do. And he doesn’t have it with me.”
Elva reappeared. Ilis introduced them. Elva said, “He’ll kill you when he wakes up. No one insults Ailin like that.”
“You speak of him as if he were a grown man; he is not. He is a little boy, and little boys respect and need discipline.”
“Ailin is a sorcerer.”
“And a little boy.”
Elva shrugged. “Have it your way, farmer’s daughter.”
Trevelyn walked through the destruction, calling for Rudelle. He hugged her when he found her. “I was worried when I saw the signs of battle.”
Ilis said, “Did you see what Rudelle did?”
“No.”
Ilis told him, the deed growing a bit with the telling.
Elva spoke to Trevelyn as if Rudelle were not there. “She won’t live out the week.”
Elva vanished.
He hugged Rudelle tighter and said, “I’ll carry Ailin inside and put something on his face to keep the swelling down.”
“I’m sorry that I hit him.”
“I’m not,” Trevelyn said.
She asked, “Ilis, can your rose be saved?”
The girl walked close to the wounded vine, tears glistening in her eyes. “Yes, but she hurts.” The girl sat on the ground, and the surviving blossoms shivered and cringed above her head.
Trevelyn motioned for Rudelle to come with him and leave Ilis to her magic.
Rudelle asked, “How are your parents?”
“Down in the caverns under the house. They have research to do and spells to prepare. They’ve neglected the magic shop. It’ll take me weeks to catch up.”
“They don’t like me very much.”
“No, but I love you, and that will be enough for them, eventually.”
Rudelle nodded, but was unconvinced.
Dinner preparations went forth in the only truly clean room in the house, the kitchen. The maid had kept up in there. Trevelyn watched through the open doorway. Ilis worked beside Rudelle. The girl wore a clean brown dress and clean undergarments. Rudelle had even shown her how to mend rips without magic.
Ailin was nursing a wondrous bruise, but the boy was peeling potatoes, something his mother could never have gotten him to do. Of course, his mother wouldn’t have been basting a turkey either.
Ilis watched everything Rudelle did with a kind of wonder. Ailin watched her with a wary and unusual emotion, respect.
Elva came to stand beside Trevelyn. “What have you brought into this house, brother?”
He smiled. “Peace, cooked meals, love, discipline.” He shrugged, “Rudelle.”
“How did you know?”
“I went to a prophet and paid gold.”
Elva laughed. “It looks like you’re going to get your money’s worth.”
He nodded. “Rudelle will see to it.”
An explosion shuddered through the house. “What was that?” Rudelle asked.
Ilis answered, “Mother or Father, they are working spells.”
“Well, my cake is going to fall if they keep doing that. Go downstairs and tell them to please not rock the house until after dinner.”
Ilis looked like she’d lost her mind.
Elva saved her. “I’ll do it. Should I tell them you said so?”
“Please do, and tell them that if they can refrain from blowing up the house, we will have layer cake, turkey with walnut stuffing, candied orange breads, potato cakes, and fresh greens, courtesy of Ilis’s magic.”
Elva grinned. “You fixed all their favorites.”
Rudelle grinned back. “Did I?”
Ailin said, “Candied orange breads? Really? But it isn’t a holy day.”
Elva gave a small bow in Rudelle’s direction. “I will tell my parents to stop rocking the house. If you can scold them like children, I can be brave enough to bear the message. Though I will have a sorcerous shield ready when I tell them.”
Rudelle said, “Thank you, Elva.”
Elva laughed and hugged her brother. “That new wife of yours may live out the week.” Then Elva vanished.
“People certainly leave rooms quickly here,” Rudelle said.
Ailin asked, “May I have a candied orange bread?”
“Just one, or you’ll ruin your dinner.”
The boy nodded.
Rudelle handed him the treat and said, “You’ve done a wonderful job on those potatoes. You’ve been a big help, and you didn’t waste a spell on it.”
He grinned, mouth full of orange bread, and mumbled, “I don’t need magic to peel any old potatoes.”
“Of course you don’t.”
Ilis asked, “Rudelle, the water’s boiling, now what?”
“We cut up the potatoes and put them in.”
“Oh.”
Trevelyn listened to the rise and fall of voices, smelled the rich fragrance of cooking food, and smiled.
HERE BE DRAGONS
This is the only science fiction story I’ve ever completed. Hardware-oriented science doesn’t interest the writer in me. It’s the softer sciences that fascinate me on paper. Of course, just because it’s soft science doesn’t make it a soft story. One editor rejected this story by writing that it made her feel unclean. Cool.
SOME people are just born evil. No twisted childhood trauma, no abusive father, or alcoholic mother, just plain God-awful mean. Dr. Jasmine Cooper, dream therapist and empath, believed that, knew that. She had spent too many years looking inside the minds of murderers not to believe it.
Bernard C. had been born evil. He was sixty, tall and thin, a little stoop-shouldered with age. Thick white hair fell in soft waves around a strong face. At sixty, he still showed the charm that had allowed him to seduce and slaughter sixteen women.
He wasn’t your typical mass murderer. First, he was about fifteen years too old; second, until he started murdering people he had seemed quite sane. No abuse of animals, no child beating, no rages, nothing. Perhaps it was that very nothing that was the clue. Bernard had been t
he perfect husband until his wife died when he was fifty. He had raised two children, the perfect father. Everything he did was perfect, so squeaky normal that it screamed when you read it. Too perfect, too ordinary, like an actor that had his role down—to perfection.
Jasmine had studied the pictures; the basement slaughter room with its old-fashioned autopsy table. Bernard had been a mortician before he retired. Jasmine had found morticians to be some of the most stable and sane people she had ever met. You had to be pretty well grounded to work with the dead, day after day. As a mortician, Bernard had been the best, until he retired.
He brought sixteen women down his basement steps, ranging in age from forty-five to sixty-nine. He tapped them on the head, not too hard, strapped them to his table, and started the embalming process while they were still alive. Technically, most of them just bled to death. Bernard drained out their blood and pumped in embalming fluid, simple. They bled to death.
But Jasmine knew it was not simple, that they hadn’t just bled to death, that they had strained against the tape over their mouths, struggled against the straps at wrist and ankle until they rubbed the skin away and bled faster. As you grow older the skin tears more easily, thin and fine as parchment.
And Jasmine was in charge of Bernard’s rehabilitation. Dreaming. Images swimming, colored clouds floating across the mind. Brief glimpses of places, people, sharp glittering bits of emotion. The dreamer moved in his sleep, almost awake, dreams surfacing, spilling over his conscious mind. Bright memories of make-believe following his thoughts like hounds on a scent. He would remember. Jasmine would see that he never forgot.
Bernard C. woke screaming. It was the best that Jasmine could do. She had tried to make him remorseful, sympathetic to his victims, but Bernard was a sociopath; he didn’t really believe in other people. They were just amusing things, not real, not like he was real. He had embalmed sixteen women alive because he had wanted to do it. It was pleasant—amusing.
She could not make him feel things he had no capacity to feel. His emotions were a great roaring silence. But he could feel fear for himself. He could feel his own pain. So every night when he slept, Jasmine hurt him. She strapped him to his own table and had his victims bleed him dry. She buried him alive; she closed him in the dark until air burned in his chest and he suffocated. She terrorized him night after night, until Bernard did feel one emotion. Hate. He hated Dr. Cooper, not the burning hatred of a “normal” person but the cold hate of a sociopath. Cold hate never dies, never wavers. Bernard’s fondest wish was to strap Dr. Cooper to a table.
[Anita Blake Collection] - Strange Candy Page 14
