Her breath stopped in her throat. If anything happened to him it would be her fault. The red knight came forward uncertainly, into the middle of the hall, took hold of his own sword, and drew it out of the scabbard, so awkward he almost dropped it. Fioretta clenched her teeth. She knew he was no fighter. The wizard watched her and she forced herself to look away.
The wizard said, “You don’t care for combat, my lovely one?”
She gave a cracked laugh. “I prefer the music and the dancing.”
“Ah,” he said, “but this is more amusing. Watch.”
The two men faced each other, and began to trade blows. The wizard paid no heed to them, his gaze steady on Fioretta. She glanced at the two men stalking around each other, slashing with their swords; Palo slipped and missed and almost dropped his. Inside the handsome body he was still the chubby boy who stuttered. Her hands fisted in her lap. Suddenly she longed for him to be that chubby boy again, back in the village, safe.
“Not much of a swordsman, this one,” the wizard said. He laughed, with a glance at her. “Perhaps I should let him lose.”
She said nothing. Her heart was hammering. If she said the wrong thing she was destroyed. Palo was destroyed. Out there the red knight staggered backward away from the black knight, inches ahead of the slashing blade.
“Well,” the wizard said. “Does he die? Or will you save him?”
She said, “Do as you will, my lord,” and stared off at the wall. Palo dodged behind one of the pillars. The watching court laughed, and the black knight with a roar pursued him.
Palo darted around the pillar, came up behind the black knight, swung the sword flat, and swept the other man’s legs out from under him. The knight sprawled on the floor, his sword clattering away.
Palo stood back, letting him up. The wizard said, under his breath, “What, a Galahad?” His voice had a rough edge, as if the red knight’s gallantry annoyed him.
Fioretta’s heart leaped. He was brave, after all, Palo, and good. And in the wizard’s annoyance she sensed some weakness. She pretended an interest in one of her hands, admiring the perfect fingernails, and watched from the corner of her eye.
The black knight rolled to his feet and snatched up his sword again. He rushed at Palo, flailing his blade from side to side. Palo backed up, stumbled, and went to one knee, and the knight raised his sword for the final blow.
The wizard said, “Shall he die, my Io?” He was watching Fioretta, not the fight. Fioretta bit her lip. But the knight, perhaps waiting for the wizard’s command, had paused, and now Palo rolled away across the floor and leaped up, out of reach of his enemy. The black knight yelled, and chased him, but Palo held his ground, and as the other man plunged recklessly toward him, brought his own sword up with both hands and struck the other man’s weapon sending it flying.
The black knight staggered back, his arms up. “Mercy,” he cried. He went down on one knee.
The wizard stood. “Enough of this. Kill him. As you are my knight, I command it.”
Palo came forward toward the throne. “My lord, grant him mercy.” His handsome new face was solemn. He never looked at Fioretta. “Let him have time to regret his inadequacy.”
The wizard gave a harsh laugh. He shot a quick glance at Fioretta beside him. “I give no mercy here.”
“My lord,” Palo said, “for your greater glory and the glory of your queen.”
The wizard’s teeth showed. When he spoke, it was clearly against his will. “You shall have his life, then. Go.”
The black knight knelt on the floor, his hands raised, imploring. “My lord—”
The wizard jerked his hand up in command and the black knight’s men hauled him off. Palo bowed and backed away into the crowd. The courtiers in their satins and gilt and jewels flooded back onto the floor, dancing and laughing again, as if nothing had happened.
She thought, Nothing did happen, really. He made it all up, to catch me. But somehow Palo had escaped. Had won, against the wizard’s will. He had found the edge of the wizard’s power. She dared not look at him, lost now anyway in the mass of merry, dancing people.
She thought, He has found a place here. Like me.
She looked down at her beautiful clothes. A servant was offering her a fine flaky pie and a cup of wine. The hall filled with laughter and chatter.
Maybe this is good enough, she thought. But something in her had divided, and the pieces didn’t quite match anymore.
Except for the wizard, there was no one to talk to. The other people were only shells, without conversation; they laughed, and said how happy they were, and whirled away from her into the general dance. It all looked the same as yesterday: Maybe it was all the same day. Then, at sundown, when they were all going off to bed, she saw Rosa again.
The fallen favorite had become the lamp beside the door. Her body was thin as a pole, glistening gold, her arms clasped across her middle; her white hair stood straight up, glowing. Only her eyes moved, sleek and hopeless, watching Fioretta. Wanting to be there again, to be what Fioretta was. Fioretta went swiftly up to the bedchamber, and let them undress her and put her to bed, but she lay stiff on the pallet, biting her lips and pinching herself to stay awake, until the others were all asleep.
Then she rose, threw a cloak around her, and went out.
SHE WENT STRAIGHT down into the kitchen, where she found the cook stirring a great cauldron, and the red knight, sitting on the steps.
He gave her a glancing look, his face stern. She sat beside him.
“You did very well,” she said. “I didn’t know you could fight.”
“When it’s your life,” he said, not looking at her, his voice cold, “you learn fast. You should go back. He’ll catch you.”
She said, “He’s already caught me.” She looked at the cook again, beseeching. “Tell us how we can escape.”
The cook was slicing onions, the knife so fast it was a blur. “You came here of your own will. You must stay until the castle falls.”
She groaned. Palo was watching her curiously. “You don’t want to stay—where you are so beautiful and so cherished?”
She put her hand on his arm. “You were so brave. And you were good, when he wanted you to be wicked. You defied him when you did not kill the black knight, and he had to accept it. You gave me some reason to hope I can keep on resisting him.” He had turned toward her, at her touch, and she looked into his eyes. “That was wonderful,” she said, and she kissed him.
He flung his arms around her and kissed her back. She shut her eyes, reveling in the strength of his arms, the sweetness of the kiss. If the wizard destroyed her tomorrow she would have this one real, true moment, this one real, true knight. Palo’s hand stroked her hair and she laid her head on his shoulder.
“I love you,” he said. “I will always love you.”
“You have saved me, so far—without you, I think I would already have given in to him.”
“You haven’t. Thank God you haven’t.”
“I don’t know how long I can fight him off. I’m afraid—”
“Sssh,” he said. “I’ll think of something—hush, my darling one.” He kissed her again.
The cook was watching them, smiling. Fioretta made herself draw back. The memory of Rosa flooded her mind. “That’s not good enough. I don’t know if we have much time.”
He said, “No—stay—” and grabbed for her hand.
She held herself away from him. “At any moment he can ruin us. I saw him—you saw what he did to that other woman. If he finds out—”
She faced him, her heart pounding. She had found a wonderful man to love but she could never have him. She turned and ran up the stair, a sinking feeling in her heart that in fact the wizard already knew.
SHE HAD TO sleep, and when she slept, the demon came on her, whispering. “Kiss him, will you? Want him and not me, will you? After all I’ve done for you, you heartless whore!” It ground itself on her, pinching and tugging at her breasts, poking her between the
legs, stirring her to a thick, greedy lust. She struggled against her own body, which longed so for the consummation. Palo, she thought. Palo.
She knew that to give in would doom her and Palo both. But her lecherous body yearned for the coupling, for the demon’s thrust; she could not hold out too much longer. Between her legs was damp and thick with heat, and an evil voice inside whispered, “Let him. He’ll keep me. I will be queen forever. He’ll love me, and I’ll be different from the others.” She thought, Palo. Palo. She made herself see him in her mind—as he had been before, the round untested boy. With a wrench she woke up, and lay there struggling to stay awake until the dawn came.
In the morning, the other women dressed her, and they hurried down to the court, to the senseless merry laughter and the endless wild dancing. When she came in, the wizard rose, as he had before, but this time he was scowling at her.
“Behold, the adulterous one! I name you Helen, Queen of treacherous women!” She stopped before his throne, and the court fell silent. The wizard sneered at her. “I ask one act of gratitude, and instead I am traduced. You shall not sit by my side today, slut.” Then Palo stepped up out of the crowd.
“Wizard.” He walked between her and the throne, and his voice rang out, loud and brave. “I challenge you for this woman!”
“Ho ho,” the wizard said. “You do, do you?” He came down from the throne and paced around Palo, the hem of his white gown sweeping on the floor. “You think you can fight me, you fool? Hah!” He flung one hand up. “Go back as you were, Palo!”
Fioretta cried out. Palo seemed to buckle. His red tabard flew off, and he shrank, and grew wider. His handsome face bloated into the plain round pock-marked face of the bailiff’s black sheep son. He gave a yell, and drew his sword, and the blade melted away to nothing.
The court let out a lustful howl. All at once they rushed forward, snatching off their hats and shoes to throw. Fioretta leaped forward toward the wizard, her hands pressed together.
“No. Let him live—I will do what you wish—only, let him go!”
The wizard seemed to grow taller and his eyes blazed. His voice hissed out. “Too late for that, hussy. Too late, Fioretta!”
She staggered. She felt her beautiful clothes fall away, and she stumbled on her bad leg; she put her hands to her face and felt the slick ugly scar. A shoe hit her shoulder. The crowd of the court pressed closer, their eyes glowing, their faces ugly with hate. Palo wheeled, his arms out, trying to shield her.
“Fioretta—”
Her name. She understood, suddenly, in a gust of memory, how the wizard had only spoken her name twice, and each time changed her. Something else hit her on the cheek. Palo jerked his arms up to fend off a hail of missiles. She had heard the wizard’s name, once—what was it—
He stood there, laughing. Palo clutched her, as hard things rained down on both of them, and she flung her arms around him to stay on her feet.
She shouted, “Goodman Greenough, Greengood, Greenman, Greenham, Godham—”
The wizard laughed, disdainful. She sagged under the weight of the attack.
“Greenam, Goodman, Goodgreen—”
The wizard laughed again. But he was slowly turning, spinning around in place. His white robes flew off; what they had covered was not as tall, was lumpy, green, damp, covered with leaves or feathers or scales. It spun faster and faster, and the court besetting Palo and Fioretta let out a screech.
Their target had changed. The walls and columns erupted hands, legs, bodies. The great throne behind the wizard reared up into a scrawny old man and two brawny boys, who hurled themselves on the whirling green demon. The floor burst up into waves of bodies, wild hair like spume, and the arch of shoulders rising. In pieces and as one, the prisoners of the castle flung themselves past Fioretta and Palo and onto their tormentor. Fioretta cried out. Something struck her from above, and she looked up; the roof was sagging down, as legs and hands and heads rained down from it. The floor was rising around her, breaking into a tumble of arms and legs, buttocks, elbows. She clutched Palo’s hand. In the door, through the thickening downpour of the collapsing roof, she saw the cook, laughing.
“Run,” Palo shouted in her ear. “Run!”
She turned and hobbled after him. He caught her hand and held her up. They struggled against the tide of bodies rushing at the wizard. The air was thick with some kind of damp hot green mist and she could see nothing, but she followed blindly where he drew her. Her leg hurt. Palo’s hand in hers dragged her on through the confusion. She could not breathe. The ground under her was falling away.
Then under her feet was the rocky forest floor. Suddenly she could see again. She limped along, gasping for breath, her hand in Palo’s, along the mountain path. Turning, she looked back.
Back there the last of the castle was vanishing into a clump of trees clinging to the mountainside. The screaming and howling faded. She slowed, panting, her bad leg caving in, and he slid his arm around her waist.
He said, “G-g-g-ood enough?”
She turned to him, to his plain, pocky face, smiling at her. Her one true, brave knight. He had always been there, but neither of them had known. A gust of love swept over her, warm and sweet. She still held his hand and she squeezed it tight. “Good enough,” she said, and kissed him.
Melinda M. Snodgrass
Here’s a compelling drama set in deep space that reunites lovers long parted by rank, social status, and circumstance—although, as they both soon come to realize, it may not reunite them for very long…
A writer whose work crosses several mediums and genres, Melinda M. Snodgrass has written scripts for television shows such as Profiler and Star Trek: The Next Generation (for which she was also a story editor for several years), written a number of popular science fiction novels, and was one of the co-creators of the long-running Wild Cards series, for which she has also written and edited. Her novels include Circuit, Circuit Breaker, Final Circuit, The Edge of Reason, Runespear (with Victor Milan), High Stakes, Santa Fe, and Queen’s Gambit Declined. Her most recent novel is The Edge of Ruin, the sequel to The Edge of Reason. Her media novels include the Wild Cards novel Double Solitaire and the Star Trek novel The Tears of the Singers. She’s also the editor of the anthology A Very Large Array. She lives in New Mexico.
The Wayfarer’s Advice
We came out of Fold only twenty-three thousand kilometers from Kusatsu-Shirane. “Good job,” I started to say, but was interrupted by blaring impact alarms.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Melin at navigation chattered, and her fingers swept back and forth across the touch screen like a child finger painting. Our ship, the Selkie, obedient to Melin’s sweeping commands, fired its ram jet. My stomach was left resting against the ceiling and my balls seemed to leap into my throat as we dropped relative to our previous position.
A massive piece of steel and composite resin, edges jagged and blackened by an explosion, tumbled slowly past our front viewport. It had been four years since I’d been cashiered from the Imperial Navy of the Solar League, but the knowledge gained during the preceding twenty years was still with me.
“That was an Imperial ship,” I said. My eye caught writing on the hull. I had an impression of a name, and my gut closed down into an aching ball. It couldn’t be… but if it was… I had to know. I added an order. “Match trajectory and image-capture.”
Jax, the Tiponi Flute, piped through the breathing holes lining his sides, “Not good news for Kusatsu-Shirane if the League has found them.” The alien had several of its leafy tendrils wrapped around handholds welded to the walls, and his elongated body swayed with the swoops and dives of the ship.
“I’d call that the understatement of the year,” Baca grunted from his position at communication.
Three hundred years ago, humans had developed a faster-than-light drive and gone charging out into our arm of the Milky Way galaxy. There we had met up with a variety of alien races, kicked their butts, and subjugated them under human rule. But
two hundred years before the human blitzkrieg began, there had been other ships that had headed to the stars. Long-view ships with humans in suspended animation, searching for new worlds.
Most of these pioneers were cranks and loons determined to set up their various ideas of utopia. Best guess was that probably eighty percent of them died either during the journey or shortly after locating on a planet. But some survived to create Reichart’s World, and Nirvana, and Kusatsu-Shirane, and numerous others.
The League called them Hidden Worlds, and took a very dim view of human-settled planets that weren’t part of the League. In fact, the League rectified that situation whenever they ran across one of these worlds. The technique was simple and brutal: The League arrived, used their superior firepower to force a surrender, then took away all the children under the age of sixteen and fostered them with families on League planets. They then brought in League settlers to swamp the colonists who remained behind.
But it hadn’t worked this time, because there were pieces of Imperial ships orbiting Kusatsu-Shirane. Something had killed a whole battle group. Whatever it was, I didn’t want it destroying my little trade vessel.
“Contact orbital control, and tell them we’re friendlies,” I ordered Baca.
“I’ve been trying, Tracy, but nobody’s answering. Worse, the whole planet’s gone silent. Nobody’s talking to nobody.”
“Some new Imperial weapon to knock out communications?” Melin asked.
“Are you picking up anything?” I asked.
“Music,” Baca replied.
We all exchanged glances; then I said, “Let’s hear it.”
Baca switched from headphone to speaker, and flipped through the communication channels from the planet. Slow, mournful music filled the bridge. It wasn’t all the same melody, but they all had one thing in common. Each melody was desperately sad.
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