The Best of Deep Magic- Anthology One

by Jeff Wheeler

  Mentally, Danai curled up into a ball and cried out in thought, “I will not give up my life to save eight if it means you will spend a lifetime using my body to commit the atrocities I know that you have done and would do again.”

  That thought brought up more images, but Danai refused to see them. Whether they came because Merdrid wanted her to see what she had done, was capable of doing, or as an involuntary response to what Danai had said, Danai did not care. She was done letting this beast of a woman control her life. She realized her eyes had been closed. She forced them open and saw Merdrid’s face contorted into a mask of rage, mouth in a snarl, teeth bared and gnashing. Her eyes were the most terrifying part about her, they seemed rolled back into her head, showing nothing but the whites.

  Danai forced her hands to move, defying the pain ripping through her mind. She grabbed the pendant and tried to raise it.

  “No!” howled the older woman. Merdrid lunged over the table with unbelievable speed and force, arcing into the air with her rotund body behind her and bearing down with the stout-bladed knife in her right hand.

  Danai was frozen with fear, worrying that her mind would not move her limbs fast enough. All she could do was hold her hands up to ward off the attack, still holding the pendant cord. As Merdrid landed on her, the cord slipped around the old woman’s head and the blade of her knife sunk into Danai’s left shoulder.

  Pain seared into the shoulder and her arm went limp.

  Merdrid was up in an instant. Her ancient, hideous form was back and the rage on her face was feral and evil. “You want me to see the truth of anything? I know the truth. You think I need protection from your vosang? You have none!” She mocked, spittle spraying with each sentence. Then she stopped, cocking her head to one side.

  The coldness in the room receded. The sense of dread and hopelessness lifted a little.

  The creature that was Merdrid clawed at the pendant, trying to rip it off her head. Danai still held the cord with her right hand. She held fast and pulled down as Merdrid tried pulling up. The old woman howled and ravaged at Danai, but the younger woman took the blows and scratches. Soon, the attack weakened and waned. The older woman aged before her eyes. Her skin cracked and her eyes seemed to sink into her skull.

  Danai coughed and said, “This bloodstone not only shows the truth, but also protects the wearer from the vosang. Apparently, it protects you even from your own.”

  Before Danai had finished the words, Merdrid’s shell of a body crumpled to the ground beside her, all the vosang extending her days beyond what nature would allow sundered.

  Danai’s body ached and stung where she had been scratched and battered. Her shoulder pulsed with sharp pain. The knife was still buried in the flesh. Even though she hurt all over like she had never hurt before, her mind was clear and her own. It was free of fog, and Merdrid was gone from there too. She gripped the handle of the knife and pulled it quickly out. The pain dropped her to the ground, and she stanched the flow of blood with the cloth that had been wrapped around her wrist.

  Danai looked down at the dress and laughed. It felt odd to laugh, but that was the sound coming out of her. She would never do the tavaranga in that dress. The fabric was scratched, torn, and soiled with blood and other things she could not immediately identify. Danai wadded the stanching cloth into a ball and placed it under the fabric of the dress covering her shoulder, to hold it in place.

  Panic gripped her for a moment, and she checked the worktable for the cure and the black bottle she needed. With relief, she saw them still on the tabletop. Merdrid must have leaped completely over the table, without touching anything on it. Small, tender mercy, she thought.

  Danai was less pleased to see the mortar still in place, holding flecks of gold suspended in a mixture of blood. She considered throwing the whole thing in the fire of the stove, but she really did not want to touch it at all. Using her right hand, Danai lifted the black bottle to her mouth and bit into the cork. With a turn of her head, she pulled the cork free and poured some of the liquid into the earthen bowl holding the pasty concoction. The liquid smelled of oil and spices. She did not know the exact amount to add, but relied on instinct to decide when she should stop pouring. It took several tries and a lot of wrangling using her knee and body to pin the bowl, but eventually Danai was able to stir the mixture thoroughly with a wooden spoon.

  After digging through Merdrid’s pack, Danai found the dosing spoons, and chose the one equivalent to a thimble. Merdrid always had unusual standards of measurements, Danai thought absently. Danai scooped out a spoonful and took it to her father. She was unable to rouse him to wake, but did prop his head in an upright position and slipped the cure into his mouth. She carefully poured a little water in, and hoped he would not choke.

  Hard knocks at the entryway nearly made her drop the water bottle. She looked and saw cracks of light slipping through the door, which would buckle under any more strain.

  “Open for the Kingsworn!” A deep voice beyond the door demanded.

  Pangs of fear froze her. Was it Kleed? Did she hope it was him or not? She could not think clearly, but it had nothing to do with the vosang this time. “Give me a couple seconds. I am coming.” With care, she negotiated the room, now cluttered with things Merdrid had brought, and Merdrid’s dead body. She said a silent prayer before reaching the door.

  Kleed was about to pound on the door again when Danai pulled it open. His face, still handsome, but now fixed with stern purpose, took her in from head to toe. She then recalled how she looked in the low-cut dress, tattered in places, with a wadded cloth soaked in blood bundled at the shoulder, and wounds covering her front. Kleed’s voice was frosty. “What is going on in there?”

  Danai’s nerves hindered her mouth from forming words, but slowly they came. “You can come in . . . I will explain everything.” She meant it. She wanted to clear everything up, and face whatever consequences followed. Her only fear was what would become of her father.

  Once inside, Kleed ushered in several other soldiers. None of them were prepared for the chaos they met—clutter, death, and illness—and the room reeked of smoke from the woodstove, incense, pungent herbs, and roots, combined with the odor Merdrid’s body was exuding. On the whole, it was somewhere between unpleasant and disturbing.

  Danai tried to explain about Merdrid giving her a potion that was infused with vosang that made Kleed and her behave most peculiarly the night before, and then rendered her unconscious, allowing Merdrid to control her actions thereafter. She got no further than that when Kleed stopped her.

  Kleed shook his head, “I would like nothing more than to believe that story, but I witnessed what you did to me yourself. By your own oath, you swore for Merdrid’s honesty and said you were aligned to her unconditionally. Now you want to pin all of the evil that you did on her. My gullibility was stretched past its limit last night and will not be tested today. We are going to gather everything up from this shack and take you and whatever that is”—he indicated the husk of Merdrid’s body on the floor—“back to Brasin City and sort this out at the Grand Court.” He refused to meet Danai’s eyes, looking away contemptuously.

  A weak, whisper of a voice spoke from the corner, “Why don’t you put your pendant back on and see if what she tells you rings true.” It was Danai’s father. She hurried to the bed, tears flowing once again at seeing him speak. He was incredibly frail, but looked better than he had in five years.

  The idea was sound. Moments later, Danai helped Kleed pull the bloodstone from the head of Merdrid’s corpse. Kleed insisted the leather and stone be washed in boiling water, but while they waited, Danai’s father related the story of what happened once Danai returned at dawn. He told how Merdrid had laid a trap for her. He even told about the scrying the old woman had done in the middle of the night in the silver bowl of water. Everything he said confirmed Danai’s accounting. Once the pendant was adequately cleansed, the story was told again by both Danai and her father. It was late when they
finished.

  While they talked, the other soldiers put the room to order, cleaning out the mortar and securing the potions and concoctions in Merdrid’s pack. Danai did not object to them taking whatever they wanted, with the exception of the cure. While Danai’s father spoke, Danai was able to change out of the dress and into her last clean outfit. She needed to do laundry, and committed to doing so if she was not arrested. The soldiers even helped dress her wounds after she changed. The first good news she received was that the emissary was alive. His wound was serious, but not life threatening. He waited in the carriage outside of the home, resting in the company of two soldiers.

  By the time both Danai and her father had completed telling Kleed everything, he was convinced they told the truth. Merdrid’s long use of a bloodstone was clear, and Danai’s lack of any use of vosang was irrefutable. Danai decided she liked the way he looked at her by the time they were finished talking. He took a break to relate his oral report to the emissary and let him decide what to do with Danai.

  She waited a long while, enjoying being by her father’s side. She helped her father drink some water and eat a little bread. Oh, how she had missed him. He was about to fall asleep when he opened his eyes and looked up into hers. “You did well, my beautiful Pugnox.”

  She even missed that horrible nickname. “I love you too, Father.” But he was already asleep.

  She was fighting off sleep herself when Kleed returned. “We will carry Merdrid’s remains to the edge of town and burn them. Some practitioners of these dark works leave threads that extend beyond death. Burning the body may help sever those. Then we will leave the valley and return the bloodstone to the king. You will have no charges set against you. However, I may have to come back and ask additional questions if the examiners request it.”

  “I would welcome you back. Thank you.” Danai realized she meant it.

  As the soldiers carried the body through the doorway, led by Kleed, something fell from the clutched hand. The soldiers did not see it. At first, Danai thought it was the knife that had stabbed her shoulder. Then, she remembered pulling the knife out herself. When she walked over, she saw the familiar gold flecks in dark gray stone of the pestle. She considered calling out to the soldiers, but did not. She eventually put the pestle away in a box that was put in a drawer. She would decide what she wanted to do with it later.

  About Brendon Taylor

  Brendon is an attorney during the workweek, a writer when he can find time, a food and camping enthusiast often, a frustrated Miami Dolphins fan each fall, and a loving husband and father all of the time. He has been at Merrill & Merrill, chartered in Pocatello, Idaho, since he became an attorney in 1999, after graduating from Washburn Law School in Topeka, Kansas. He was an original founder of Deep Magic in 2002 and has written many articles, short stories and contracts since its inception.

  IMPERIAL GHOSTS

  By Arinn Dembo | 13,000 words

  THE SEVERAN FUNERAL Garden was the planet’s largest public park. Bordered on all sides by the imperial city of Nova Roma, its grounds extended for several hundred kilometers, featuring ornamental terrain of every kind. In its green commons were thousands of monuments to the dead. Standing tombs stood shoulder to shoulder with shrines and reliquaries. Fountains murmured alone in empty clearings. The dark forests were crowded with stone angels and obelisks to mark the passing of royalty.

  It was a fine playground for a young empress, with a million places to hide. On one particular morning, a child crept through the weeds, hardly stirring a blade of grass as she prowled on her hands and knees. She was stalking an old man, who had taken shelter in the shade of the trees. A born hunter, she came silent and deadly on his right flank: the daisies nodded wisely around her head, stirred more by the morning breeze than by her passage.

  The old man watched her from the corner of his eye as she circled through the shrubbery behind him, waiting for her pounce.

  “Boo!” she crowed, leaping from the shadows.

  “Awk!” The old man clapped a hand to his chest, in the timeworn gesture of heart-clutching terror, which all old men know.

  It was most gratifying. “I scared you!”

  “You most certainly did.” The old man hid a smile.

  “Did you fink I was a ghost?” She was only four, and still struggling with the fricative sounds of the old Imperial tongue.

  “Oh yes.” It was the truth.

  “I came here to see the ghosts too. But all I found was you!”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you. Most of the real ghosts sleep during the day. They only come out at night.”

  “Oh.” She squinted up through the boughs of the trees. “I’m not allowed to stay out after dark.” The tapestry of spring leaves overhead was still broken here and there, scattering cool light over her face like silver coins.

  The old man looked up as well, pleased by the breeze and the birds high in the tangled branches. It was a good morning . . . and the garden was far more wonderful with her in it.

  She turned to him at last, remembering her manners. “What’s your name?”

  “I am Tiberius.” They had met before, although she would not remember the occasion.

  “I’m Cleona.” Even at her age, her voice rang with pride.

  He inclined his head graciously. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  She cocked her head at him, eyes narrowing with calculation. “Are you one of my uncles?”

  “I suppose so. My sister and your father are related, although distantly.” Tiberius met her level gaze without flinching. “Why do you ask?”

  Although there was very little resemblance between them otherwise, the eyes of the old man and the little girl were very much the same: bright copper and piercingly intelligent. “I have lots of uncles. And cousins.” Her gaze was steady and grave. “Mommy says I shouldn’t trust them. Some of them are bad.”

  “Really? That’s a shame.”

  “Are you one of the bad uncles?”

  He smiled ruefully. “I suppose that would depend upon whom you ask, my dear. My own nephew was not fond of me. I mean you no harm, however—which does set me apart from most of your relations, I suspect.”

  “Someday I’ll be empress. Everyone will want to sit in my chair.” She paused. “I can’t let them, though.”

  “Yes. This is very true.” He patted his old stone bench, cracked by ivy and mottled with lichen. “This one is better. Far more comfortable.”

  “Really?” She eyed the bench dubiously. “It doesn’t look better.”

  “Why not try it?” He stood up, offering the bench with an elegant half bow.

  Cleona said nothing. With a very serious expression, she climbed up onto the offered bench and sat. She made a pretty picture there. Someone had given her a miniature naval uniform to wear, brass buttons shining and gold piping along the collar and sleeves. Her boots swung a few inches above the ground; she looked down and rocked back and forth a few times, testing the feel of cool granite.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s all right.” Her tone was thoughtful. “Hard, like chairs in a temple. I think it would hurt if I had to sit here a long time.”

  “The throne is much the same.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he held up a hand to forestall her. “It looks soft, Cleona—that’s why everyone wants to sit there. But looks can be deceiving. That golden chair grows harder the longer you sit—and it’s sometimes very hot as well.”

  “Your chair won’t ever get hot, Uncle. It’s very cold.” She looked up at him, curious. “Even though you were sitting here a long time. Why didn’t it get warm?”

  He stood in the shade of the tree and held out one of his dark hands toward her, palm up and open. “Take my hand, Cleona, and you will understand.”

  She hopped down off the bench and went to him, very slowly. Some instinct made her stop a few feet away; she reached for his extended fingers from a good distance.

  Her little fingers fli
ckered as they passed through his, disappearing within the seemingly solid boundary of his milky flesh. Her eyes went wide and her mouth popped open; she snatched her hand back and stared at her fingers in disbelief, as if they had somehow betrayed her.

  When she looked up at him again, still gaping in astonishment, Tiberius raised one eyebrow and smirked.

  “Boo!”

  The little girl ran away yelling. It was most gratifying.

  * * *

  Many years passed before the child came back. When she did, she was taller, and she carried a heavy book in her arms. The play uniform of a little girl had been traded for the tight-fitting suit of a real military cadet, and her hair had darkened from the pale yellow wool of early childhood to neat cornrows of dark summer gold. The strands closest to her brown face were plaited neatly and tucked behind her ears.

  When she saw him, standing on the broken path beneath the trees, she stood her ground. “Hello, old ghost.”

  “Hello, young niece.”

  “You can’t hurt me.” She was still afraid. She took a slow step toward him, holding the book against her washboard chest as though it were an aegis of life.

  “True,” he agreed. “Not directly, at any rate.”

  “I’ve read about you.” The sound of her own voice seemed to steady her. “You’re nothing to be afraid of—only a trick of the light. You may move and talk and seem to live . . . but you’re not alive. Not really.”

  His eyes twinkled with amusement. “Is that so?”

  She faltered. “You’re not a person . . . j-just the echo of a person.”

  Tiberius made a sour face. “Are we having a conversation, child, or are you holding a lecture?” He made an impatient beckoning gesture with one hand. “Let’s have a look at this book of yours. Sounds as if it’s full of hogwash.”

  Still young enough to be obedient to her elders—even the dead ones—she held out her prize.