Anthology 1: The Far Corners

by Frank Tuttle

Have I truly grown so old, so tired?

  Lyric smiled. "Neither," she said. "But you have walked a weary road, of late. And, after all, you did come to my rescue, not so long ago. So when I saw you here, bobbing like a melancholy cork, I thought perhaps to rescue you."

  Jere's heart, much to his surprise, began to pound. Just like in a song.

  "I ask for nothing," said Jere. "Standing up to axe-wielding bullies -- why, that's just a clever Tirlish way of avoiding the rigors of old age."

  The air shimmered. The mermaid stood before him. Keena laughed. "Look me in the eye," she said. "You need not fear."

  Jere looked. Her eyes took him in.

  "You gave me the gift of your courage," she said. "I give you the gift of my magic."

  Her eyes flashed, filled Jere's mind.

  "What is your heart's desire, Jere of Tirl? Would you be harper to a court -- or Bard, to a world?"

  Jere clenched his jaw and looked away.

  "Finnipolis is not so far away," said Keena. "But to be a Bard -- why, you could spend the rest of your life on one road or another, searching all the Fair Lands for songs worthy of the name. Is that not so, Harper?"

  "It is so."

  Jere felt the mermaid smile, though he did not dare her eyes.

  "You are weary," she said. "Even I know weariness, and know it well. The Duke's position at Court -- it seems a rare good turn, and perhaps it is." Keena lifted her hand to Jere's cheek. "But, Harper, even good fortune can be a thief. Is it truly your time to quit the road? Is it truly your time to trade in your Vow for spacious new lodgings?"

  Jere had no reply, though he did consider making a swift kick at his harp, which was making barely-muted noises of agreement.

  "Only you can decide this," said Keena. "And yet, I owe you a debt, and your tale I judge worthy. So --"

  Keena lifted her hands, trilled a Word, and for the tiniest slice of a moment Jere was engulfed in utter darkness.

  "Done," said Keena, and the sun shone again. "My debt is paid."

  "I --" began Jere. Keena lifted a hand. "Choose," she said. "Be Harper to the court at Finnipolis, or rejoin your search for the thirty songs. Choose, and speak aloud the words."

  "How?" said Jere, looking up. Keena's eyes shone and glittered, the color of waves and spray and sun. "What words?"

  "Carefully considered words," Keena said. "Speak aloud your choice, and it will be done." Keena paused. "Almost immediately."

  Jere managed to blink. "Almost?" Keena shrugged. "After you hear the song, of course," she said. "The first song you will sing -- or would have sung -- as Bard. The Song of Jere the Tirl."

  Jere stepped back. "Will sing, or would have sung? Which is it, Lady?"

  "Would have. Could have. Shall, and never. Fate has more roads than the Empire, Harper. I seek to show you what lies at the end of but a single one." Keena smiled and fanned her hair to the sun. "It's a lovely song, Harper. A song for the ages. If, indeed, it is ever sung at all."

  Jere's breath caught in his throat. "You mean," he said, "I do become a Bard, one day?"

  "Yes," said Keena. "And no. I speak of might-be and could-have-been, of one possible destination plucked from among ten thousand journeys." She spread her hands and smiled a small smile. "This is my gift of magic, Harper. A peek through the fog, to one lost at a crossroads. Choose well. Such choices are rare. And know this, Jere of Tirl. Whatever you choose, wherever you go, I will remember you fondly, and wish you well."

  Jere bowed.

  "Thank you," he said. "Will all this make sense, after I choose?"

  Keena shook her head. "You will remember none of this," she said. "By sunrise tomorrow, you will forget my gift, and forget your choosing."

  "The song?" said Jere.

  "Especially the song," said Keena. "If you choose Finnipolis, it would only haunt you. And should you choose the path of the Bard -- what good is it to seek that which you already bear?"

  Jere met the mermaid's eyes again. "Will I remember you, Lady?"

  "You will not," she said. "Unless you think back to a day on the road, when a serving girl gifted you with a sausage for felling a giant."

  Jere laughed, and Keena's eyes flashed, and she leaped and twisted and was gone, with only the tiniest splash and the least glimpse of silver.

  "Lady!" shouted Jere, but his voice fell, and he knew at once he was alone on the Sea once more.

  The raft rocked and bobbed, and it seemed to Jere suddenly very small and desperately lonely.

  A gull cried out, far above. Jere stepped to edge of the raft, and stared down into the blue-green depths. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you."

  Sunlight glinted on the waves, but nothing stirred below them. Jere looked up and away, idly turning toward Finnipolis.

  "It seems we have a choice to make," he said, after a while. His roadharp was silent.

  Jere padded to the center of the raft, wrapped a scrap of sail over his head, and sat down beside his harp. "Let's watch the sun set, you and I," he said. "We'll watch the sun set, and at dusk I'll choose. Perhaps, by then, I'll know what words to speak."

  Jere patted the harp's case. "And either way, we'll hear a song," he said. "Might-have-been or will-o-the-wisp. It's the Song of Jere the Bard, either way. You will play along, won't you?"

  The roadharp strummed a gentle yes.

  "Thank you," said Jere. "I have always suspected," he added, "that I have better friends than I actually deserve."

  His harp chuckled and mocked the sound of the raft on the Sea.

  "Save one," said Jere. "But now -- look at that sky, will you!"

  * * *

  Jere awoke, enshrouded and tangled in his cast-off scrap of sail.

  His roadharp strummed and rang, stopping and repeating and hesitating as though confused -- or dreaming.

  Jere struggled to free himself from his makeshift blanket. "Wake up, old wood," he shouted, from within the folds of canvas. His harp fell silent. "You were dreaming," said Jere. "Pretty song, though. What was it?"

  His harp played three bars of "Lost and Forgotten."

  "Pity," said Jere, casting off the tattered sail-cloth, stretching, and rubbing his eyes. "Seemed oddly familiar." Jere yawned and made for the netted barrels. "Breakfast-time," he said. "I think I'll have brackish water and stale oat-cakes and . . ."

  Jere froze.

  Trees and sand and land. Sweet, firm, solid earth.

  The raft bobbed gently in the foam, a stone=s throw from a narrow white beach.

  Two long rough-hewn canoes, each painted with fierce red eyes and bright yellow clan markings, lay in the sand above the tide-line. Beyond the canoes lay a path, wide and well-trodden, that wound and vanished amid the shore-oaks.

  Jere sank to his knees. "Land," he said. "Land and inns and food and drink."

  His harp rang out a merry tune. Jere laughed and studied the clan-markings on the canoes and after a moment rose.

  "Those are Doma clan-signs," he said, scratching his head. "That means this must be the Wild Coast."

  His harp made puzzled strums.

  "I don't know," Jere said. "Something nautical, I suppose. Currents? Tides?" He shrugged. "We're half a world away from Finnipolis," he sighed. "Goodbye, Duke. Have a lovely wedding."

  The raft wallowed lazily toward the beach. Jere took a drink, and gathered his pack together.

  His harp played a few bars of the dream song, then trailed off in disgust.

  "Don't despair, old wood," said Jere, pulling on his boots. "We'll finish your song, right enough. Plenty of time, on the road."

  Jere rose, threw his pack over his shoulder, gently caught up the road-harp's battered case, and stood waiting for the raft to reach the shore and deliver him once again to -- where?

  The harp began to play its broken song. So familiar, Jere thought. What, though, are the words?

  The Wild Coast drew near. Jere smiled, cast a handful of oat-cakes out onto the Sea, and began to hum softly along with his harp's odd new melody.
/>   Waking the Master

  by Frank Tuttle

  The House shuddered and trembled. In the master's study, three books of Avish fire magic fell shrieking from the shelves; in the first floor kitchen, a row of five iron stew-pots leaped from their hooks and clattered down to the cold granite floor. Everywhere, dust arose, writhing in the shadows as it billowed and spread.

  The House cursed the dust with a loud creaking of stairs. The seclusion spell slipped again, shaking the House anew. More dust rose.

  The stairs popped and groaned until the shaking ceased. Then, with a long rustling sigh of ruffled draperies, the House set the mice upon the dust. Tiny chittering silver things, the mice leaped from their dens in the walls and began to cris-cross the floors and furniture, leaving thin swaths of dust-free House in their wake. The House made a series of computations and decided the dust removal project alone would take seven hundred and ninety-three days.

  The House shook again. The dust-removal figure doubled. The House slammed a dozen doors, moaned through three chimneys, creaked stairs in every wing--still, the master slept.

  The House sighed and began the arduous task of returning the stew-pots to their hooks on the kitchen wall. It had replaced only two pots when the seclusion spell lurched and failed and the House plummeted back into the valley it had only partly occupied for more than three millennia.

  The shock of re-entering the low spaces cracked plaster and toppled lamps, but it did not waken the master. The House raged, determined to make a din sufficient to bring the old man shuffling out, befuddled perhaps, but awake and in charge at last. Books fell, then crept across the floor to take refuge under tables and chairs. In the master's laboratory, glassware cracked, loosing slow smokes and colored vapors that coiled and writhed about the windowless room, seeking cracks at the door-frame or gaps in the copper mesh that covered the walls. The hated dust rose up in great clouds, which the House saw but ignored.

  Still, the master slept. The House remembered the old man's last words--"Old men need their sleep, you know."

  The House's tantrum raged for three days, until the House detected deterioration in the nine remaining maintenance spells. With a final shout of groaning timbers and slamming doors, the House cried out for the master to waken.

  Silence. The House counted to ten thousand, to twenty thousand -- no master.

  Drawers creaked and hinges squealed as the House muttered and set about repairing the damage it had inflicted upon itself. Silver mice and jewel-eyed spiders chittered and raced, righting and shoving and cleaning, though the House paid them little mind. Instead, the House prodded the spinning tatters of the failed seclusion spell.

  The spell, noted the House, had two ends. One end twisted away out of sight, coiling about the spaces between the spaces until it vanished. The House knew the spell terminated in that place the master preferred, a place of no up or down, no light, no shadow.

  The near end should have been tethered to the master's valley. Instead, the spell flopped and spun, twisting in the sky like a nest of frayed ropes in a windstorm. Why?

  The House opened a shutter a finger's width and peeped outside.

  The shutter snapped shut with a small bang. No wonder the spell had failed! The master's valley was gone. Another valley was in its place.

  The House summoned books, which shuffled reluctantly forth, filling the study floor with ranks and ranks of rapidly fanning pages. The House found a new word, tasting it with a rattling of door-knobs and tiny popping of tiles.

  Changed. The valley had changed.

  The House pondered this. The master's shaded, gurgling brook had become a wide, foaming, blue-and-white river. The gnarled old oak trees were gone, replaced by towering green pines that soared easily above the House's tallest turret. Snow dusted the riverbanks and the trees and the shiny rimes of ice on the rocks; the House resisted a sudden urge to send forth the mice and set about clearing the snow.

  Change. The master's valley had gone away. The seclusion spell could no longer anchor itself to a place gone away.

  The shutter opened again. The House reached out, concentrating, squinting, window-frames popping. The seclusion spell terminus twisted and spun, slipping from the House's frail grip again and again. Finally, the House caught hold, and a gossamer filament of magic stretched taunt while the others flopped away.

  The House selected a solid-looking boulder well out of the river and pushed the filament near. With a shove, the spell-end coiled about the boulder and stuck fast, pulsing once before fading from the House's sight.

  The House reached out again, slamming a door as it grappled with the elusive spell. Eighty-seven more filaments remained.

  The chittering of the mice and the spiders grew silent as the House worked.

  Five days passed. A heavy rain that began on the third day sent water dripping onto the canopied beds in the east wing guest chambers; the House sent the big ruby-eyed spiders into the attic, where after two days of work they managed to plug the hole with glass and pitch borrowed from the master's store-room.

  The rain streamed down from a leaden sky for another day, but not a drop defiled the master's newly-dressed beds. The House beamed, and with a warming of hearthstones it found a new word.

  Pride.

  Only three filaments of the seclusion spell lacked binding. The House grappled patiently with them, sending the spiders back into the attic as it worked. The seal still held; the House grew warm with pride. The master will be pleased, it mused, hearthstones smoking and hissing. The master will smile and pat the handrail on the grand staircase and say "Well done, old timbers, well done."

  If only the master would wake up . . .

  The spiders froze. Mice halted in mid-stride. The spell filament danced away.

  The House let out its breath in a single great spasm that worried curtains and rippled tapestries in every one of three hundred and four rooms.

  Spells failed, but could be rebound. Holes appeared, but could be patched. Doors were locked -- could doors be opened?

  Even, perhaps, the master's door?

  Spiders charged through store-rooms. Mice dragged odds and ends from drawers and closets, making stacks of bric-a-brac in the study floor. Books shuffled to and fro, pages flipping and turning in long, dry discussions of locks and leverage and friction.

  On the morning of the seventh day, the newly anchored seclusion spell pulled itself taunt and faded, its suppressed energies awaiting only the trigger Word to cast the House back among the strange, high spaces the master preferred.

  The House barely noticed.

  Outside the master's bedroom door, which was the only door the House could neither open nor see through, spiders and mice formed a busy silver mob. A thousand tiny crimson eyes shone with unusual intensity as a squat tower of books, kitchen utensils, and what-nots grew and took shape.

  Books, herded into the hall from the small library on the second floor, formed the base of the tower. A long chopping board from the kitchen leaned upon the books, forming a ramp that the three ruby-eyed spiders scampered up and down. At the tower's top, level with the master's bedroom's key-hole, a dozen stout mice sank tooth and claw into door-frame and tower-top and held on, unmoving except for occasional metallic tail-lashes.

  The spiders at the top of the ramp halted, conferring with chirps and weaving forelegs.

  The House grew worried. It needed a thin brass rod of a certain length, and none could be found. Everywhere, mice rummaged through drawers and shelves, tiny scratchings growing more frantic as the day wore on. A pair of spiders even dared the master's laboratory, only to find themselves lifted and tossed about by the glowing vapors still leaking from a broken flask. The spiders escaped, one with a bent leg, one with a broken foreclaw, neither with a length of brass.

  The seclusion spell bucked, filling the valley with thunder and showers of cold violet sparks. The mice froze while the House soothed the spell. As it worked, the House idly slammed every door on the master's floo
r.

  The master's chambers remained silent and still. The doors slammed again, this time in sheer disgust. Was the old man truly that deaf?

  Hearthstones in the Great Room fireplace groaned as the House pondered the Master's reaction to finding his chambers invaded by the cleaning automata. The final stages of the House's plan involved sending a large spider inside to tug at the master's beard.

  The House expected to lose that particular spider.

  The seclusion spell's agitation lessened. The mice sprang back into action, filling the tiled halls with the tiny metallic ticking of their hurried footsteps. Spiders scurried after, eager to climb into places the mice couldn't reach.

  The seclusion spell grew erratic, and the House despairing, when a thumb-sized spider spied something gleaming in the dust.

  There, in a crack between the floorboards in an empty third-floor cloakroom, lay a finger-long brass arrow.

  The spider rose up on four legs, chittering for aid. Within moments, the arrow was free.

  Mice danced. The seclusion spell twisted suddenly but was still with a single harsh word. The toy arrow, held triumphantly aloft by a mob of long-legged spiders, sped to the top of the tower.

  The big spiders at the apex of the tower gripped their tools and waited. The House reviewed its plan; using the toy arrow and a short, flexible length of steel, simply pick the bedroom door-lock, turn the knob with the spiders, and topple the tower against the door to push it open. The door had no Power; it would neither resist nor obey spells or doorway magic -- but surely the door would open, if shoved.

  A chill passed through the halls, a thousand small creaks and muffled groans in its wake. Bookcases trembled. Window casings flexed. Doors closed tightly shut.

  The spiders moved, silver legs whirling. The House reviewed its security spells and began picking the master's plain lock in exactly the fashion all the other doors were empowered to resist.

  A day passed.

  There came a single loud click.

  The door moved. Barely. The spiders leaped upon the knob, legs scrabbling for a hold. One stuck fast; his mates caught hold of him, pulling him down, turning the knob slowly clockwise. It turned and stuck and then, at a final desperate heave, the knob turned halfway around and the master's door inched open.