Wintermoon

by Mercedes Lackey

  Clirando saluted both of them. She said, “Have I committed some error, Mothers?”

  The two of them gazed at Clirando. Only the older priestess smiled. “Not at all. There are matters which have just come to our attention. Now spring has driven the ice from the harbors, ships are moving, and letters have arrived in Amnos.”

  Clirando nodded. Though familiar with books, she had seldom seen a letter. Next moment she saw two. Normally they would be of folded cloth, written on, then waxed, Both of these letters were of fine paper, made from Lybirican reeds.

  “A ship’s captain brought them here this morning,” said the other priestess. “One is for you, Clirando. The other—”

  “The other was sent to us by one of the Wise Women of Moon Isle. She is over a hundred years of age, but she lives sometimes in a hut on a headland, and still she weaves cloth, for her eyes stay clear and her fingers agile.”

  “I met her,” said Clirando. She checked. “Or thought I did.”

  “The Wise Woman—she has no other name—says that something has come to her notice about a warrior girl, Clirando she is called, who was sent to the Isle to work out some inner tussel. The gods allowed her the trance of profound sleep which the Isle can give, and in the sleep various adventures, by means of which her trouble was healed. However,” the priestess paused. And Clirando’s heart paused within her. “It seems, during this time, Clirando showed strong evidence of being herself a healer and a spiritual guide.”

  Shocked, Clirando interrupted. “No, Mother—I did nothing like that—”

  Ignoring her, gently the priestess went on, “Although personal experiences on the Isle are not generally spoken of, there are two exceptions to this rule. Firstly, as perhaps you will guess, anyone may speak in secret to a priest of their own experience. This recital may naturally include mention of others who have—or who have seemed to have—been part of it. The priests, though they will answer no direct question, will nevertheless, should it be needful, afterwards pass on any insight to those others who have shared the event, providing, and this is the second exception, the insight is sufficiently profound. And so: A man, a soldier formerly with the Rhoian legions, reported the events to the Temple of the Father on the Isle. He too had been sent there to work out some penance and guilt and sorrow, and he too had the god’s trance fall on him. The priests cared for him in this sleep, as it is always done, just as the priestesses cared for you, Clirando. But when he woke, he had an unusual story to tell. It seems he found himself in a forest, and there he met a young woman, who engaged his interest at once, being, he freely says, for him the perfect type of woman, both a warrior and a girl of great grace.” The priestess smiled again, peered into one of the paper letters, and read aloud: “‘Also blessed with a passionate clear mindedness.’” The priestess allowed the letter to fall closed once more. “It seems too, that in this dream he had, and which apparently he shared with her, the woman he describes so admiringly—and whose name he gives as Clirando—that she gave him to understand she was not averse to his person. At the conclusion of their journey, she assisted him further, guiding him forward, as he describes, through a magical gateway, and so on to the mystic plains of the moon itself. Here his own difficulty was resolved, but once again Clirando remained at his side, helping him always. Now, we hear of visits to the moon, which may happen on the Isle—how else did it come by its name?—but they are rare. He insists that, had it not been for the woman, he himself would never have got there, and so never confronted what he must. Finally, when all was done, she—” the priestess again consulted the paper “—summoned a path of stars and led him home by that route to the world. But—to his horror—he lost her on the way.” The priestess folded the paper into her sleeve. She looked at Clirando. “Do you know anything of this?”

  Clirando could not speak.

  Then words came. “He is called Zemetrios?”

  “So he is. I note your heart is full of love for him. That is the Maiden’s gift to you, then. But it takes much more than love alone to work the magic you have done, my girl. And so it transpires the Maiden gave you another gift, too. For you are a healer and guide, as he has said. No, don’t shake your head. Of course you have made mistakes and blunders on this occasion. It was your first excursion into such realms. You will need training, as tough and demanding as any you’ve known in the fighter’s art. You stumbled on your gift, which till now you never knew you had. But this man Zemetrios is no fool. He insists you possess psychic powers. He has convinced the Wise Women. That’s enough for us. Such talents must never be denied.”

  “Then—”

  “Then, as I’ve said, you shall be taught. You will still be a warrior, but to one trade will be added another.”

  “But—Mother—I—”

  “Now, sit on the bench there and read this second letter, which has come only for you. The ship’s captain has said he wishes a moment with you then. He’s in the Little Fountain Courtyard. No doubt he expects to be rewarded for bringing such costly paper all this distance.”

  Clirando found she had sat down. She sat with the second letter unopened. All she could see or think was filled only by one face, one name. He was real, he lived, and knew her. She had guided him unknowing through forest and mountain and otherworld, her lover, her beloved, Zemetrios. And their lovemaking—though experienced in a dream—had in some manner taken place, for both. Yet now—he mentioned nothing of meeting her again—

  The flame flicked before the statue of the goddess. Her green eyes blinked, or it was only a trick of the light.

  Clirando broke the wax seal on the second letter, her mind blank as a paper never written on.

  And read this:

  They will have told you I’m dead. But I did not drown when the Lion sank. The waves and wind dragged me to shore with two or three others from the ship, and washed us up senseless at a little fisher village. Most of a year I stayed there, making a slow recovery, but a complete one. At last I set out and reached Sippini. From the port there I write to you now. I am in good health and strong again, and have engaged with a warrior band to fight honorably for the town. My former disgrace I confessed, but they have overlooked it, saying both you, and the gods, had given me a beating and let me off. Now I might turn to better things.

  Clirando, be aware that I acknowledge now the miserable wrong I did you. I hadn’t any need to lie down with Thestus, and should have resisted myself and him. For this mean act I lost your friendship always. Nor do I plead that you will change your mind, for I deserve nothing else. But the other crime I worked against you— Oh, Clirando, I regret that almost worse. To curse you—you that I wronged. At least I know that such a petty thing would never stick—it can never have harmed you, you are so strong. But I am ashamed. Forgive me, Clirando, if you are ever able, for both my faults. And think sometimes one kind thought, in tribute to our happier past, of me—

  Once your sister and comrade,

  Araitha

  The letter fluttered from Clirando’s fingers. The motion reminded her of a dove’s wings.

  Araitha lived. Araitha lived and was herself again. A hot blameless joy burned through Clirando. Standing up, she cried aloud, there in the shrine, naming the gods. It was not blasphemy, but a paean of gratitude. As such, it seemed, the goddess Parna at least received it.

  When she went out to the fountain courtyard, she had all her money left from the market wrapped ready in a cloth to tip the captain. He had brought her such news.

  The man was standing by the little fountain, looking down at the golden fish swimming about in the tank. For a ship’s captain he was well dressed and very well groomed, his blond hair gleaming with cleanness in the spring sunshine.

  When he looked up, she saw that he had grown as pale as she had.

  Clirando mastered herself.

  “So, you’re a liar after all.”

  “No lies. By the gods, Cliro, trance or waking, I never lied to you once. And if I never wrote any love words upon th
e moon, I scarcely had time, did I? Or are you angry I delayed in finding you? For a while I could hardly even be certain you were real. By the hour I’d convinced myself, winter had closed the seas.”

  “I mean, Zem,” she said, “you lied today, when you told them you were the captain of a ship.”

  “But I am. I’d sold my father’s house, remember, and given up my legion. So. I bought a ship. What better means to come here? I’ve worked on ships before in my soldier’s travels, I know them well enough. This one’s a fine one. She’s called the Brown Warrior. I named her after you with your tan skin and your acorn hair.”

  Clirando felt the yard, the town and the world draw far off from her. She stood in space, somewhere between sky and earth, and he stood facing her there, and they were alone together.

  “Well,” he said, “you helped save my mind and my soul on the Isle. But if I only dreamed you liked me, you must tell me to go. I warn you though—”

  “You’ll get drunk. Stay sober, Zemetrios. Stay with me.”

  He crossed the court in three strides and took her in his arms as she took him in hers.

  They muttered into each other’s mouths and necks and hair what lovers mutter at such times.

  It had been an irony, he said, that as he set off to seek her in Amnos, being one of the first ships out, it was he who ended up carrying with him the report of his own letter of her healing skills. As for her letter from Araitha, he was amazed when Clirando told him what it was.

  He did not ask if she would ever seek for Araitha in the future. Nor did Clirando ask herself. The gods who had, it seemed, allowed all this, might one day advise her by some sign.

  Four giggling novice priestesses, coming to feed the fish, dislodged the couple in the court.

  So then they walked to her house down the winding streets.

  Eshti showed great approval at the houseguest.

  “We shall have the best candles,” she told them, “and the glass goblets from the chest.”

  “Eshti decides these things,” said Clirando.

  “So I see. That’s good. It will leave you more time to concentrate on me.”

  “But when must you sail?”

  “When I want. I’m my own man.”

  She thought, He’ll ride his ship across those treacherous seas, those waters of gales and drowning. She thought, We are both fighters. Neither can curb the other’s life. The gods brought us together. Perhaps they will keep us together, now.

  The spring dusk came early. Up in the yard trees, the house doves were already arranging their nests. Which signified it would be a forward spring and summer. When the candles were lit, the polished glasses filled, she sat with him and they ate supper as if they had done so for twenty years. Tonight they would share the bed in her chamber. Where she had watched, sleepless, the unsleeping moon, now she would see him, and herself reflected in his gaze. Now she would see a future.

  The sea wind tapped at the shutters, and the lamps before the household shrines dimmed and brightened. All the jewel-eyed gods there winked at Clirando and Zemetrios.

  A trick of the light?

  Banshee Cries

  This one’s for my mom, Rosie Murphy, who wanted to know what the story with Jo’s mom was

  Dear Reader,

  In September of 2004 I got an e-mail from my agent, the incomparable Jennifer Jackson, saying she’d just spoken with my equally incomparable editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey, who wanted to know if I’d be interested in participating in a LUNA Books anthology as one of three contributing authors. The other two authors were to be (need I say the incomparable?) Tanith Lee and Mercedes Lackey.

  Not being a great fool, I said yes.

  A month of frenzied thought was interspersed with me singing, “One of these things is not like the others,” followed by a flurry of frenzied writing. The result is “Banshee Cries,” Book 1.5 of the Walker Papers. It fits chronologically between book one, Urban Shaman, which came out in June 2005, and book two, Thunderbird Falls, due out in May 2006.

  I hope you enjoy the story!

  C.E. Murphy

  1

  Sunday March 20th, 2:55 p.m.

  Cell phones are the most detestable objects on the face of the earth. Worse than those ocean-variety pill bugs that grow bigger than your head, which were on my personal top ten list of Things To Avoid.

  My life had been a lovely, cell-free zone until nine weeks, six days, and four hours ago. Not that I was counting. On that fateful day I got an official business phone to go with my bulletproof vest and billy stick. I’d even been given a gun to go with my shiny new badge.

  I wanted those things about as much as I’d wanted to bonk my head on the engine block I’d sat up beneath when the phone rang. I rubbed my forehead and glared at the engine, then felt horribly guilty. It wasn’t Petite’s fault I’d hurt myself, and she’d been through enough lately that she didn’t need me scowling on top of it all.

  The phone kept ringing. I rolled out from under the Mustang and crawled to her open door, digging the phone out from under the driver’s seat. “What?”

  Only one person outside of work had the phone number. As soon as I spoke I realized that a politer pickup might have been kosher. The resounding silence from the other end of the line confirmed my suspicion. Eventually a male voice said, “Walker?”

  I turned around to hook my arm over the bottom of the car’s door frame and did my best to stifle a groan. “Captain.”

  “I need you—”

  These were words that another woman might be pleased to hear from Captain Michael Morrison of the Seattle Police Department. Then again, if he was saying them to another woman, there probably wouldn’t have been the slight tension in his voice that suggested his mouth was pressed into a thin line and his nostrils flared with irritation at having the conversation. He had a good voice, nice and low. I imagined it could carry reassuring softness, the kind that would calm a scared kid. Unfortunately, the only softness I ever heard in it was the kind that said, This is the calm before the storm, which happened to be how he sounded right now. I crushed my eyes closed, face wrinkling up, and prodded the bump on my forehead.

  “—to come in to work.”

  “It’s my weekend, Morrison.” As if this would make any difference. I could hear his ears turning red.

  “I wouldn’t be calling you in—”

  “Yeah.” I bit the word off and wrapped my hand around the bottom of Petite’s frame. “What’s going on?”

  Silence. “I’d rather not tell you.”

  “Jesus, Morrison.” I straightened up, feeling the blood return to the line across my back where I’d been leaning on the car. “Is anybody dead? Is Billy okay?”

  “Holliday’s fine. Can you get over to Woodland Park?”

  “Yeah, I—” I tilted my head back, looking at the Mustang’s roof. Truth was, I’d been futzing around under the engine block because I couldn’t stand to look at the damage done to my baby’s roof anymore. A twenty-nine-inch gash, not that I’d measured or anything, ran from the windshield’s top edge almost all the way to the back window. From my vantage, thin stuffing and fabric on the inside ceiling shredded and dangled like a teddy bear who’d seen better days. Beyond that, soldered edges of steel, not yet sanded down, looked like somebody’d dragged an ax through it.

  Which was precisely what had happened.

  A little knot of agony tied itself around my heart and squeezed, just like it did every time I looked at my poor car. The war wounds were almost three months old and killing me, but the insurance company was dragging its feet. Full coverage did cover acts of God—or in my case, acts of gods—but I’d only said she’d been hit by vandals, because who would believe the truth? In the meantime, I’d already spent my meager savings replacing the gas tank that somebody’d shot an arrow through.

  My life had gotten unpleasantly weird in the past few months.

  I forced myself to find something else to look at—the opposite garage wall had a calendar w
ith a mostly naked woman on it, which was sort of an improvement—and sighed. “Yeah,” I said again, into the phone. “I’m gonna have to take a cab.”

  “Fine. Just get here. North entrance. Wear boots.” Morrison hung up and I threw the phone over my shoulder into the car again. Then I said a word nice girls shouldn’t and scrambled after the phone, propping myself in the bucket seat with one leg out the door. Bedraggled as she was, just sitting in Petite made me feel better. I patted her steering wheel and murmured a reassurance to her as I dialed the phone. A voice that had smoked too many cigarettes answered and I grinned, sliding down in Petite’s leather seat.

  “Still working?”

  “Y’know, in my day, when somebody made a phone call, they said hello and gave their name before anything else.”

  “Gary, in your day they didn’t have telephones. Are you still working?”

  “Depends. Is this the crazy broad who hires cabbies to drive her to crime scenes?”

  I snorted a laugh. “Yeah.”

  “Is she gonna cook me dinner if I’m still workin’?”

  “Sure,” I said brightly. “I’ll whip you up the best microwave dinner you ever had.”

  “Okay. I want one of them chicken fettuccine ones. Where you at?”

  “Chelsea’s Garage.”

  Gary groaned, a rumble that came all the way from his toes and reverberated in my ear. “You still over there mooning over that car, Jo?”

  “I am not mooning!” I was mooning. “She needs work.”

  “You need money. And snow tires. And more than six inches of clearance. You ain’t gonna drive it till spring, Jo, even if you do get it fixed up.”

  “Her,” I said, sounding like a petulant child. “Petite’s a her, not an it, aren’t you, baby,” I added, addressing the last part to the steering wheel. “Look, are you gonna come get me or not? It’s even a paying gig. Morrison called and wants me to go over to Woodland Park.”