From a High Tower

by Mercedes Lackey

  She rose and turned to go, to find there was a priest coming up behind her, an inquisitive look on his face. “Is there anything you need, my son?” he asked. Giselle smiled.

  “No, thank you, Father,” she replied. “I just wanted to light a candle to my mother’s soul.”

  The priest peered a little more closely at her—no doubt because she was a stranger to his church—and then his face lit with recognition. “Ah! You are young Gunther von Weber, who won the shooting contest! That was most impressive. One of the finest exhibitions I have ever seen!”

  Giselle laughed a little. “I suspect my dear mother had a hand in my victory, Father. And perhaps the dear Virgin too, although I would never be so blasphemous as to pray to win.”

  The priest beamed his approval of such sentiments. “Well said, as well as well done. But you are very young to be so skilled.”

  Again, Giselle laughed. “I learned to shoot my rifle as soon as I was able to hold it to my shoulder,” she replied—which was close to the truth anyway. The rifle that now seemed like an extension of her arm had been heavy enough to unbalance her when she began under Pieter’s tutelage. “Mother and I were alone, and knowing a single bullet stands between you and a bear that wishes to kill your goats or root up your garden is powerful incentive to become skilled.”

  Not quite true, because Mother didn’t need mere bullets to safeguard her property from animals, but it was an answer that made the priest nod with more approval.

  “Well, I will not keep you from your well-earned celebration,” the priest said, and sketched the sign of the cross between them as Giselle bowed her head for his blessing. “Go with the good God, my son, and prosper.”

  Giselle left the church, blinking a little in the sunlight, and made her way through the Maifest crowds slowly, having to pause every now and then to accept the congratulations of one or another of those who had seen the shooting contest. Mittelsdorf was too big to be called a village anymore; “town” was more appropriate, so the Maifest was fairly large, and the shooting contest prizes well worth competing for. Of course she hadn’t signed up for the contest as “Giselle”; no one would ever have allowed a female to enter. She was disguised as a young man with her hair cut short, and ironically, in her typical hunter’s gear of worn loden green wool, she could have been the younger brother of the hunter “Johann Schmidt” who had attacked her six years ago.

  Or perhaps not. Her attacker had been dressed in a much finer and far newer version of her own hunting gear. The shabby, bastard cousin, perhaps.

  She called herself Gunther von Weber, and what brought her here to Mittelsdorf was what had brought her through a string of five towns and villages so far this month: the prize money for the shooting contest.

  Right now there were a lot of stall owners trying to tempt her to part with some of that money. The town’s only inn was overwhelmed with customers, far too many to feed, and there were plenty of stall owners taking advantage of that. The scents of grilling sausage, of hot pretzels, of roasting chicken, and of fresh pastry assailed her on all sides. And if she’d been inclined to indulge herself in other ways, there were drink tents set up with Maiwein and Maiboch, and plenty of peddlers with temptingly pretty things. She could even have bought some of those pretty things without anyone blinking an eye as long as she invented a sweetheart she was buying them for! But she was determined to keep her money in her pocket . . . and she was just glad that it was tradition for the villages and towns hereabouts to stagger their Maifests all through the month so that she could take advantage of as many shooting contests as possible.

  When Mother had died, suddenly, leaving her with no idea of where the money had been coming from that had kept them supplied with the things they could not grow for themselves all these years, she realized she had taken all that for granted. Mother had merely gone off with the horse and empty cart and returned with everything they needed several times a year. Nor had Pieter and Joachim any notion of where that money had come from. When they’d all sat down together to discuss Giselle’s future, both the old men had scratched their heads at the question.

  “Obviously she was well enough off to buy that house and then just give it to your family,” Joachim had said, doubtfully. “But where that money came from, where she hid it, and what you’re to do now, I haven’t a notion.”

  “You could come move to the Lodge and join us,” Pieter had offered.

  But she had shaken her head vehemently at that. She’d visited there enough times to know that living in the old, tree-shadowed building, with its many tiny, dark rooms and small windows, would quickly drive her mad. She needed air and light, and plenty of both. The Lodge of the Bruderschaft der Förster was not for her.

  “Then we must think of a way for you to have some money,” Joachim had said firmly. And although they did not think of it then, they did hit upon it fairly soon.

  Although not all Air Masters were expert marksmen, all Air Masters could be—in a way. The flight of an arrow or a bullet to its target was easily influenced by movements of the air, and that, after all, was what an Air Master was in control of. With sufficient cooperation from one’s Air Elemental allies, even a poor natural marksman could hit marks that experts would have difficulty with.

  And a good one, as Giselle was—well, she could be unbeatable. And so far this month, that was exactly what she was.

  Joachim had opined that if she was careful, and never worked the same festivals at the same towns without at least a year between, she could continue to carry off the crowns and the prizes. He cautioned her that, at the largest contests, she must take care never to take first prize too often—and the largest contests provided very, very generous prizes for second and third place. And she had two opportunities a year to do so: Maifest and Oktoberfest. For Oktoberfest she might even venture into one of the big cities and take the shooting prizes there; they were substantial, and second or third place would more than suffice.

  Right now, though, well, the crowds in their colorful festival clothing—the loden green wool of hunting costume, the bright dirndls and embroidered aprons, the lederhosen and embroidered bracers, and Sunday best suits—were making her uncomfortable and claustrophobic. If she hadn’t been constrained by custom, she probably would have gone straight to the inn, claimed her horse and ridden off. But she couldn’t do that. No, part of the prize for winning the shooting contest was a full barrel of Maibock. And the winner was expected to share it with all of the other contestants.

  So Giselle was making her way to the open field where all the tables and benches had been set up for eating and drinking, heading for the section near the beer stall of the barrel’s donor. The Maypole was in the center of the field; a group of children were unbraiding the ribbons so they could have a dance, and there was a little brass band tuning up to provide the music for it. There were appetizing aromas coming from all over the field, and once again, she reminded herself that she needed to keep as much of her prize money in her pocket as possible. After all, beer is food, right? It’s made from grains . . .

  As Giselle approached, her fellow contestants got up and greeted her with congratulations and backslaps. They were a mix of all sorts, about two dozen all told, from young men in their late teens to grizzled old fellows with ancient, tarnished hunting badges on their wool hats. She accepted both congratulations and backslaps with modest thanks and veiled relief; although it hadn’t happened yet, there was always the potential for someone who took losing badly. She took her place on a stool placed at one end of a trestle table, the rough equivalent of a “high seat,” and nodded to the tender of the beer stall, who made a great ceremony out of knocking in the spigot on the special keg on the counter and starting to pour the brew.

  She was rather pleased that she hadn’t needed the help of her Elementals all that much, which made the victory feel thoroughly earned. It had been a bit grueling; she’d needed every bit of h
er concentration.

  She actually didn’t remember anything much except the shots that she had taken; when she was participating in a shooting contest, she concentrated on her targets to the exclusion of pretty much everything else. This had been one of those contests with clay plates strung up on a framework and an allowance of a single bullet for each plate; that was a good bit easier than actual targets. She was the only one who had cleared her frame of every plate, every time. The last contest had been a sort of shooting gallery with an actual target pulled across the field by a clockwork mechanism. All of her shots had been grouped in the center; her opponent’s had been in the first ring.

  She settled down at the table with six of the other marksmen, who had watched eagerly while the keg was tapped and the enormous steins filled and handed round. She knew better than to just sip at hers; no man would ever take anything but hearty gulps, and she needed to make sure every one of her mannerisms was masculine. So she feigned to drink twice as often as she actually swallowed, and no one noticed because they were too busy enjoying themselves.

  She turned to a polite tap on her shoulder. “Gunther, lad! It was a damn good thing for you that each round was twenty shots!” said an older man in a well-worn hunter’s gear, with a badge of a boar’s head and a tuft of pheasant feathers on his hat. The grin on his face said that he really wasn’t being serious, which was fortunate; other marksmen bested by “Gunther” had muttered darkly about pacts and haunted clearings.

  Giselle chuckled. “What, did you think I was a Freischutz?” she asked, referring to the old legend of the hunter who makes a deal with a devil to cast seven magic bullets—the first six would hit whatever the hunter wanted, but the seventh was under the devil’s control. . . . “Well, at my eighth plate, I proved you wrong, eh?”

  “So you did!” The old man lifted his stein in a toast. “Well, aside from having an eagle’s eyes and the steadiest hand I ever saw, how did you become such a good shot so young?”

  Giselle thought about the hours and hours she had spent, not only practicing her marksmanship combined with her Air Magic, but learning to defend herself with knife, staff, club, and far more exotic weapons. Mother had insisted on that, and as it turned out, there were many Earth Elementals more than willing to serve as trainers. Satyrs in particular thought everything but pistol and rifle practice were great fun, and were expert archers, staff-fighters, and just as skilled with sword or club. And they were not in the least inclined to treat her gently on account of her sex.

  But obviously she couldn’t mention any of this. So instead, she just shrugged. “I am poor, and have been all my life,” she pointed out. “If I miss, I don’t eat.” And certainly, the worn condition of her own clothing testified to that poverty. Her gear was actually secondhand, passed down from one of the younger fellows of the Bruderschaft. It certainly lent credence to her story of poverty.

  “Ah, well then, I am glad to have lost to a fellow who is in need of the prize,” the older hunter replied, clapped his hand on her shoulder and went to get himself a refill.

  As the sun went down, the dancing began in earnest, as did the eating and drinking. Fortunately for her growling stomach, which was not convinced that beer was food, some of her fellow hunters were inclined to beer-induced generosity. A pretty serving girl brought an enormous platter of grilled sausages, fresh bread, mustard and sauerkraut that had been ordered by one of the others at the table. He magnanimously paid for it all and invited them all to share in it. Giselle picked up a fork, stabbed what looked like a fine specimen of knockwurst and got a generous slice of rye bread before it all vanished. She was very, very hungry at this point, and feeling the beer, and very much wanted something to soak it up before it really got to her head.

  As darkness finally fell and the great bonfire near the Maypole was lit, she began thinking about getting to her horse. And that was when she felt a heavy hand fall on her shoulder, and all the chattering in the vicinity suddenly stopped. She froze, her insides growing cold. This . . . was not a well-wisher. The eyes of her fellow feasters told her that much.

  “Gunther von Weber?” rumbled a deep voice from behind her.

  She turned in her seat, and saw that the person who had seized her shoulder was dressed in an army officer’s uniform. She didn’t know enough about such things to judge what his rank was, but there was a great deal of gold braid on his shoulder, and several medals on his chest. A man of considerable girth, with a shaven head and a square, red-flushed face that looked altogether too much like a boar’s, he looked as if his spike-topped helmet was too tight for his head. With him were four more soldiers. She blinked at him in confusion. What could they possibly want with Gunther?

  “Sir, I am, and might I ask what your business is with me?” she said, cautiously.

  “I will be asking the questions!” the man snapped. “What is your age? Where are you from?”

  “Twenty—” she replied without thinking. “The nearest village to me is Leinsdorf—”

  “Ha!” the officer barked, as if he had caught her in something. “Well? Is he in the Leinsdorf rolls?”

  A fifth fellow moved into the light from the torch nearby and leafed through a large leather-bound book. “No, Captain.”

  The hand clamped down harder on her shoulder, and the captain shook her, rattling her teeth. “So, boy, why aren’t you on the rolls?”

  Startled, too startled to think first, she blurted the first thing that came into her mind. “What rolls?”

  The captain’s eyes narrowed, and he gritted his teeth. “The military service rolls! The ones you were supposed to sign when you became sixteen!” The captain actually sounded offended that she didn’t know—or—no—he sounded as if he didn’t believe that she didn’t know, and was angry. His next words confirmed that. “Don’t pretend you don’t know!”

  Well, of course she didn’t know . . . but he clearly wasn’t going to believe her. Not only that, but before she could say anything else he had hauled her up out of her seat and propelled her into the custody of his four men. Before she knew it she was being frog-marched into a building, hands bound behind her in irons, and directly into a small room with a desk with a lamp on it and an iron-framed bed just visible behind a folding screen. Two of the soldiers shoved her against the wall opposite the desk and left, closing the door behind them. The captain sat himself down behind the desk and opened another book, taking a pen out of an inkpot, as the soldiers closed the door.

  Well, this is a fine fix. She was more irritated than angry at the moment. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have a perfectly good way to get out of this mess. It would just mean she’d never be able to come back here as Gunther and take part in shooting contests. That was annoying. She’d probably have to find an entirely new district and make up a new name, perhaps even dye her hair.

  “Captain—” she began.

  “Quiet!” the captain barked. “You’re being enrolled in the Army, boy, and from this moment you’ll only speak when questioned! Now. Full name.”

  Giselle sighed theatrically, and he looked up at her sharply, anger written all over his face at her presumed insolence. “My name is Giselle Schnittel,” she replied flatly. “And you are going to find a difficult time explaining why you inducted a woman into the Army.”

  At first, his mouth dropped open and his piggy eyes bulged in shock. Then his face reddened with even deeper anger. “What do you take me for, boy?” he shouted. “Do I look like a fool to you?”

  She allowed her voice to drift up into a girlish lilt. “And do I sound like a boy to you?” she retorted. “I’m poor. I need money. Shooting contests are an honorable way to get it, but they would never let a girl enter. So I became ‘Gunther,’ and I won them fairly and rightfully.”

  His eyes narrowed, and . . . something in his expression made her blood run cold. This was not going as she had thought it would . . .

  But sh
e was not fourteen anymore, and she was not defenseless anymore either. She felt steel settle into her spine. She was not going to be a victim this time; she concentrated a moment on summoning her allies of Air.

  Within moments she had a half a dozen, all what she called “night-sylphs”—creatures that looked much like her childhood friends but were . . . more capricious. Not openly malicious, but their humor was darker, and a little cruel, and they were far more curious than the sylphs that came by day. They circled around the room a moment, then settled on the rafters. They were semitransparent, though of course they were completely invisible to anyone not an Elemental Magician; all had batwings and long, thick, dark hair, long enough that it dangled far past their feet and they were virtually clothed in it. Like her hair, when she didn’t cut it frequently. They stared down at the Captain and Giselle, waiting, with a look of keen expectation on their faces. Unlike the sylphs of the day, the night-sylphs thrived on high emotion, and there was plenty of that here.

  “Well,” the Captain said, his voice boiling over with menace. “We’ll just see how much of a woman you are. And if you are lying to me, the first thing I’ll do when you’re inducted is to have you beaten within an inch of your life.”

  He doesn’t care which I am now, because either way he’s going to get something he wants . . . he thinks.

  He got up, moving far more quickly than she had expected for such a fat man, and straight-armed her into the wall, knocking the breath out of her.