by Unknown
“She disobeyed you and went to Kam again.”
Luc filled in the events after I’d executed Samael and passed out. He returned to the city after he searched for me and spotted a demon watching the road. He gathered as many wardens from the temples as he could. Katarina insisted on accompanying the rescue party.
Which turned out to be fortunate, or unfortunate from my point of view, since she kept me alive long enough for them to return me to Orrin and find a trained healer.
The senior physician of Orrin insisted she become his apprentice since Master Jovis had released her. Samael’s death dissolved the demons’ compulsion on Jovis, who denied he’d terminated her contract willingly. Just another civil matter on the docket.
Luc’s companions hadn’t found the grimoire Samael used at the abandoned manor house. The Temples of Thief and Wilding worked together and tracked the blasted thing to Lord and Lady DiMara’s estate. They had been captured after a brief fight between their household retainers and the temple wardens.
“And me?” I whispered.
“Technically, you’re under house arrest for the murder of a member of the royal family. The Reverend Mother of Balance arrives later tonight. The trials will be tomorrow.”
~o0o~
The noise from the crowds that thronged outside of the Temple of Balance echoed in the cavernous interior until the Reverend Mother ordered the main doors closed. A trial for treason outside of the capital was unusual. Two on the same day was unprecedented. In such severe matters, the highest-ranking priest or priestess of each of the Twelve temples of Orrin sat as one.
Like the DiMaras, I stood in the accused box, stripped of all accoutrements of my rank. Instead, I wore a plain gray shift. No hood covered my face this time. The whispers were equally divided by the DiMaras’ attempt to seize the throne through dark magic and my appearance. Even the wardens guarding us looked uneasy.
I could feel Luc sitting with the rest of the spectators, but I didn’t dare look in his direction. The milky white eyes of the Reverend Mother bore into me for a moment before she banged the hilt of her sword on the altar to begin the proceedings.
The first trial took less than a candlemark.
Brother Kam stood and read the verdicts. The only thing that saved Lord DiMara from a death sentence was he didn’t know about the demons, and he certainly didn’t know his wife had stolen the grimoire from Samael. They had convinced her she was a much better overlord than the sorcerer.
Lord DiMara hung his head and wept quietly as the wardens escorted him from the court. Lady DiMara screamed obscenities until the Reverend Mother ordered her taken to the back of the temple.
“As the persons immediately wronged by the actions of the guilty, I hereby order that all titles, possessions and estates of the guilty, minus the tithe to the crown, pass to Marco and Katarina DiMara.” She leaned back in her chair. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”
I closed my eyes and sent a prayer of thanks to the Twelve for watching over the two lovers.
“Anthea DiLove, you have been charged with treason by way of murder, specifically Lord Samael DiRoy, third cousin to our beloved liege.”
I opened my eyes and raised my chin. I’d done what I had to save Marco from being forced into temple life as Luc and I had been. Or worse, eaten by the demons. I wouldn’t—I couldn’t—change a thing.
“Lady Justice, may I speak on behalf of the accused?” There was a twinge of nervousness in Marco’s voice.
“Both Brother Luc and Anthea DiLove have given their statements in this matter, Lord DiMara.” Unlike the boy’s, the Reverend Mother’s tone was ice cold and steady.
“As have I, m’lady.” He crossed from the witness area to stand in front of the judges. “If it weren’t for Justice Anthea’s quick thinking, we’d be neck deep in another demon war. Surely this court can take the good of her actions into account. Justice should be tempered by mercy.”
“Do you presume to lecture me in my own hall?”
Everyone, including the rest of the judge’s panel cringed at the echoes against the marble.
“No, m’lady. I ask for clemency. Orrin has been without a permanent justice for a quarter of a year. I swear responsibility if you would appoint Justice Anthea.”
“No!” Nausea threatened. Surely the demons had hit Marco on the head as well.
The gallery of spectators erupted at my outburst. The Reverend Mother pounded her sword pommel repeatedly for order before the crowd settled.
“Do you understand what you are offering, child?”
“Should she commit any further offenses, I will share in her punishment.” This time, his voice rang out like a confident nobleman’s.
The Reverend Mother turned to me. “Anthea DiLove, you have tried to escape service to our goddess from the time you could use a privy by yourself. You should know by now it is not that easy.” Gleeful satisfaction danced in her words. “Unless any of my colleagues have objections?”
A collective murmur of agreement issued from her fellow judges.
“Anthea DiLove, you are hereby sentenced to serve as the justice of the Temple of Balance for the city of Orrin for the remainder of your natural life.”
~o0o~
Four days later, Luc and I were riding to Nastine. The Reverend Mother gave me a week to catch up on the town’s caseload before I was required to return to Orrin. He and I took a little used track instead of the National Road. We had too much to discuss.
“What if we took all the money we can lay our hands on and head south to Cant?” I tilted my head upward, enjoying the caress of the summer sun.
Luc laughed, a hearty sound that flushed birds from the surrounding foliage. “You can’t do that anymore than I could.”
“Someone will find out about us eventually,” I pointed out. “If you take the permanent position in Orrin, discovery is even more likely.”
“What makes you think someone doesn’t already know?” His words were so soft I barely heard them over the clomping of the horses’ hooves.
“I don’t understand.”
“Why didn’t you have Katarina flogged for impersonating a priestess?”
His change of subject threw me off. “That had nothing to do—”
“Maybe it does. So why didn’t you?”
It wasn’t a truth spell that tugged at my heart. “Maybe because I hoped someone would show us compassion someday.” Then I understood.
Neither of us said anything more the rest of the ride to Nastine.
Pearl of Tears
by Deborah J. Ross
In this story we see again the Pearl of Fire, from the story by that name in SWORD AND SORCERESS 22.
Deborah J. Ross writes and edits fantasy and science fiction. She’s a former SFWA Secretary and current member of Book View Café. Her short fiction has appeared in F&SF, Asimov’s, STAR WARS: TALES FROM JABBA’S PALACE, Realms of Fantasy, SWORD AND SORCERESS, and various other anthologies and magazines. Her most recent books include the Darkover novel THE CHILDREN OF KINGS (with Marion Zimmer Bradley); COLLABORATORS, an occupation-and-resistance story with a gender-fluid alien race (as Deborah Wheeler); and THE SEVEN-PETALED SHIELD, an epic fantasy trilogy. She's on Twitter and Facebook as herself, and you can follow her blog at http://www.deborahjross.blogspot.com.
My brother was slain by a woman without a soul.
I had loved him above my other kin, for our mother died at my birthing and Father—the Lord of Eaglehurst—had no use for a mewling, sickly daughter. When I was older, my nurse told me that my brother had looked down at me in my cradle—even now, I can picture those gray eyes so like my own, that hint of a smile at one corner of his mouth—and I had ceased my fitful wailing. “She’s beautiful,” he had whispered. And so I was, in those rainwater eyes, if in no others.
When our soldiers returned from that bleak winter battle, I went running down the steps from the great manor house, half-tripping on my skirts. What was left of our defense force filled t
he stone-paved courtyard. Father had already gone down to them, his azure cloak bright against the mud of their forest gear. Half our horses were gone and those remaining bore oozing gashes. The men were worse off, exhausted, slashed and battered, their eyes hollow.
“Where is Joram? Where is my brother?” I ran from one to the other. The first soldier I asked gave no sign he’d heard me, nor did the next. Father ignored me, bent deep in discussion with the captains. I caught a phrase, the Dragon of Sharaya, and the very sound turned my bones to jelly.
The sky opened and the clouds bore down upon us, shrouding the house and all the fields around. I went among the wounded, washing and bandaging, spooning cups of broth, and holding hands as they grew cold and still. I tried not to think about Joram, wounded or dead, with no one to comfort him. I felt nothing but emptiness, and so I filled it with work. Father shut himself up in his war room, which had once been Mother’s solarium, and plotted retaliation. I sensed his anger like a rumbling through the stones beneath my feet, growing and gnawing.
The next morning, when the rain had lifted, a Sharayan rider approached under a banner of truce. Unbidden, I slipped into the room where Father received him, praying for news of Joram. Perhaps if I knew with certainty that he was dead, I might be able to grieve. I might be able to hate. The message startled all of us, Father and captains and me, for it was an offer to return the bodies of our fallen.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Such a thing had never been done, or if it had, it was long ago and not by our old enemy. Sharaya was ruthless and without mercy, everyone knew that. It must be a ruse, a trap. My father did not believe the Duke would keep a truce, and so would not agree to let any enemy force approach us unhindered. After what I had seen, I did not think we could stand against the Dragon, not even if every last one of us were to band together.
In the end, however, the messenger convinced Father to set his own conditions as to time and place and who might be present. Father accepted, although the entire offer now appeared to be the prelude to a demand for total surrender. The only choice was to refuse, and not even Father at his most furious would throw away the chance to give proper rites to our own dead. So that very day, he rode out with a company of picked men to bring my brother home. I was left yet once again, not knowing what to feel or how to hope. I filled my hours with nursing and thoughts that they could not return, not so soon, surely now, what could have befallen them, what must I do if-if-if, until finally, finally, came the signal from the lookouts and the sound of hooves clattering on the courtyard stones. I rushed to the window of the infirmary chamber and threw it open.
Below, I spied two men easing a body down from where it had been slung facedown over the saddle of Joram’s horse. I could not make out the face, only the soaked clothing and the water-stained leather. The russet hair, drenched and tangled like riverweed, dripped onto the courtyard stones. In life, it had been the color of mine, or perhaps brighter.
I clenched my fingers around the window sash until my joints creaked and breath came like fire in my throat. It would have been better if I had fainted or shrieked or raged.
She’d done this, the Dragon of Sharaya. And now I had nothing to live for except to see her suffer.
~o0o~
The words were said, the rites performed, and the bodies were covered with new-dug soil. The priest recited words of peace, that Joram and the others were now beyond all pain, all sorrow. I thought, Funerals are not for the dead but the living, and did not know which I was.
Sharaya kept their word to leave us unmolested, but the armistice did not last. We’d been sore hurt in the last year, and those who came to take the place of the trained warriors were unseasoned or unsound in body. A few women, accustomed to defending their flocks and strong from hard labor, volunteered. They were not swordswomen but archers and pike-wielders, sling-throwers and sentries. I pleaded with Father to let me join them, so that I might learn to defend our home. And, although I did not say so to him, that I might have a chance, no matter how remote, to put an end to the Dragon.
He said no. Of course, he said no. He had never counted me of any worth, the daughter who had cost the life of his lady and any future sons she might bear, and he did not do so now. Stay out of the way, he meant. Keep to women’s work. Maybe the Dragon will spare you if she sees you are of no account.
I cut my hair, bound my breasts, and combed through the attic until I found a chest with Joram’s outgrown, discarded clothing. The shirt was too broad across the shoulders and the pants too long, but I had some skill with a needle and managed to alter them so that they would not attract undue attention. The fabric still bore the faint smell of wild herbs, and a few dried flower petals clung to the threads. I wondered when he’d last worn it, where he’d gone on those days when he’d come home smiling, if he’d lain on his back in a meadow dotted with blossoms, if some country girl or smallholder’s daughter had made him smile.
When I presented myself at the first training session, no one challenged me. I roughened my voice and affected an accent similar to that of the forest folk. The only one who looked at me with any suspicion, and even that was but a moment’s, was one of our few remaining officers. Herel he was named, for the small swift falcons of the highlands, and his family had served mine for generations. In peaceful times, he would already have retired to enjoy his grandchildren. He watched as each of us displayed our skill—or lack of it—with sword, bow, spear, hammer, and staff. I was too small to handle a weapon that required strength, but he could not afford to discard any resource.
There wasn’t much time for training, only for fighting one delaying action after another as best we could. Very soon, I discovered that although I had little skill, I had no fear. I didn’t care what happened to me as long as I had an enemy in front of me. It wasn’t fury that drove me on, or desperation, but something far colder. That very fearlessness kept me alive until I attained a measure of competence at arms. I still couldn’t hold my own against a trained swordsman, but I was quick and light, more an assassin or a cutthroat thief than an honest duelist. To everyone’s surprise, I developed a talent for tracking, for moving so quietly that my presence often went unknown until I was almost upon my quarry. Such a gift served us poorly, however, for there was no need to stalk the Sharaya Dragon.
She led her forces against us again and again, bold and relentless, and each time there were fewer of us left to stand against her. She always rode in front, mounted on a horse that looked as if it had been ridden through hell. We lost more territory, and more, until we battled before the smoking ruin that had been the great house.
Herel still led us, although he had not recovered from a festering leg wound some weeks back. He sat astride one of the few good horses left to us, shouting out encouragement. In the past, I had been assigned to a party of lightly-armed fighters who fought together, harrying and skirmishing rather than engaging head-on, but as my comrades fell, I snatched up a spear from its fallen bearer and joined the others defending our captain. All the while, I searched for the figure that haunted my nightmares.
Come to me, come to me...
It seemed to me then that the tumult of fighting quieted and a path opened in the enemy forces.
I could not mistake the Dragon. Who else disdained helmet and shield? Who else raised her sword in salute even as the blood of the slain—our slain—dripped from it?
Come to me...I tightened my grasp on my spear. Likely I would have only a single chance.
Just then, just at the moment when surely she must have seen the hatred on my face and known that she was mine and I was hers, she paused. Did she sense a threat from the side? One of our best remaining fighters hurled himself forward and thrust the point of his sword under the edge of her breastplate. The stroke would have felled a raging bear, but the blade slid away, as if her very flesh were adamantine. She twisted in the saddle and beheaded him with a single stroke. His body remained upright for a terrible moment and then toppled like an uprooted tree
.
I felt the life go out of his body as if from my own. Was this how Joram had died, with so little effort, such casual slaughter?
Then, as if shaken from a stupor or suddenly disenchanted, the Sharayans took up the fight again. The heart had gone out of our own forces. I knew what they were thinking, because the same despair howled through my own mind: The great house was lost. Even without the Dragon, we faced overwhelming opposition. Our deaths would serve nothing.
“Retreat!” Herel shouted, gesturing with his sword. Retreat while we still can.
As for myself, I was glad enough to leave that place. I would have the revenge I craved, I swore to my brother’s memory, but not now. Not here.
We ran like rabbits with the hounds of Sharaya on our tails. I heard a scream behind us but did not risk a glance to see who it was. Sooner than I hoped, the pursuit fell away. They could have had us all if they had been determined, but the habit of following the Dragon was too strong. I imagined their exultation, their certainty that in time, they would trap us all.
Some hours later, Herel brought us to a stumbling, panting halt. Men and horses trembled on the brink of exhaustion. He’d taken us north, toward the mountains, but we had not yet traveled beyond familiar lands. Some of us knew these woods and the paths through them, the meadows and ravines, the caves. We sheltered in one of the caves, not deep but well-hidden.
I set to work ordering the camp, checking who was wounded and how badly, making an inventory of what little we had managed to carry away. Nobody questioned my orders; they were all too numb to think clearly, and I needed to be doing something.
Dusk fell quickly in the forest and a chill arose from the surrounding rock. A couple of the men who’d somehow escaped injury found enough fallen wood for a fire. I decided to risk it. The wounded would benefit from the warmth and the light would comfort the dying.
Gradually the others drifted off to sleep. I shifted closer to the fire, now an occasional flicker of light against the embers. I folded my arms around my knees and tried to make sense of what I had witnessed on this day. Everything I had been told about the Dragon of Sharaya—and disbelieved as superstition or battlefield exaggeration—was true. She could not be slain by ordinary means. The sword had struck true and yet had not touched her. Was she then a demon, a thing of supernatural power? A dragon in the shape of a woman?