Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXII

by Cirone, Patricia B.

  Then my father died.

  * * * *

  He had diminished, not just from the seizure of his heart, but in some essential part, as if his very soul had shriveled. Had he wasted away in useless hope, waiting for his grandfather to fail and pass the Pearl on to him, only to see the treasure go to his own daughter? Or was this simply how all men looked when the vital spark had fled? I had seen carnage, most of it at my own hands, and yet I had never peered into the faces of the dead as I did my father's. For the first time, I was not afraid to see death. I saw it as a release, as a benediction.

  My own life stretched before me, seasons of killing and more killing, and soul-devouring loneliness. There would never be another lover for me. I would not dare.

  "The Pearl of Fire passes only from the hands of one who has surrendered any hope of living," my mother had said.

  The Pearl had taught me patience, so I waited. I waited to see my father buried. I waited until my mother had set aside the black veil of mourning. I waited until my brother had taken up rulership of Sharaya, now Greater Sharaya. I waited until we were alone, not in the great hall adorned with plunder from Eaglehurst and other conquests, but a moment of quiet in the stables, after riding the borders as his bodyguard.

  "I will leave you now," I said.

  It took him a moment to realize I meant more than returning to the manor house. "I don't understand. You can't leave. The Pearl cannot leave Sharaya."

  Cannot? I looked at him slantwise, raising one eyebrow. The Pearl had also taught me silence. Then I shrugged. I had never found any difficulty in crossing the borders. He spoke from his own fears. He could lose half of what I had brought to him, and still have more than any one man needed.

  I resolved, as well, that no more men would bleed away their lives for greed. Not my brother's, not mine. Not the Pearl's.

  I turned and walked away, out of the stables redolent with sweet hay and the warmth of horses, into the pooling dusk.

  "Where will you go? What will you do?" he shouted after me. Without us, he meant. Without family or home or name?

  * * * *

  I traveled by river barge as far as I could, as the forested hills I had known all my life fell away, and, at last, I reached Ixtalpi, refuge of desperate souls....

  Once I had left the mountains, I attracted considerably less notice. Here, in the wide lands of the world, a woman with a sword, even one traveling alone, was not so unusual. Several times, fellow travelers approached me with offers of employment or simple companionship. I turned them all away.

  I took a room at an insignificant inn and went walking. Beyond the city walls, the slopes of the volcanic peaks rose gently at first, then stark and steep and black. Red light flickered near the blunted peaks. Several times, the ground rumbled and shook, a vast and rancorous underground beast. Ash blackened the sky and turned the sunset a lurid crimson.

  In a strange, fey mood, I took my supper in the common room of the inn. The air was close and smoky. Greasy soot coated the rough wooden walls. I found a place at the end of the long trestle table. A scrawny lad brought me a bowl of some kind of stew and a mug of ale. The ale was warm but surprisingly good, and the stew too spicy for my taste, most likely to encourage customers to order more ale and to disguise the odd flavors of the meat. I ate the stew, called for more ale, and sipped it slowly. The blend of astringent and mellow flavors slid down my throat like a memory of summer.

  The ale softened my mood enough so that when my neighbors at the table struck up a conversation, I did not turn away. Across from me sat a grizzled, balding drover. The man and woman on either side of the table wore leather vests, faded and rubbed shiny along the seams, decorated with strings of shell, horn-bead and bone. They looked young and hungry, with hawk-keen eyes and skins tinged with copper. Neither bore any visible weapon, not like the knife prominently strapped to the drover's thigh, but I had no doubt they were armed. Mercenaries, perhaps. I did not recognize their accents, but the drover made a joke about their being from Raë on the Western Sea, and not to be trusted.

  Soon a game of dice and castles was proposed and accepted. Having no better way to pass the evening, I ordered more ale and joined in.

  Six of us made up the opening game, with the addition of two locals. The locals dropped out after the first hour and left the inn, supporting one another in their vacillating homeward path. The game went on, the stakes gradually rising. Winnings passed back and forth across the table. Ale flowed. A sense of well-being settled over me. I derived as much enjoyment from losing as from winning.

  After losing three rounds in a row, the drover pushed himself away from the table. That left the two Raë and myself. The woman, Juthe, pulled out and stood, looking over her man's shoulder, one hand resting there with deceptive ease. I saw the edge of desperation, ale-tempered, in their eyes, the quick glances, the readiness to raise the stakes once again. They were gambling with assets they could not afford to lose. I thought to let them win, but the cards would not oblige me.

  The man, Culliy, and I faced each other over the table. The pile of bets went back and forth, growing larger in leaps, never settling long with either of us. Having already lost my sword, I added a small knife from my boot, on to the pile.

  The cards went against me. I grinned as he raked in the pile and started to leave.

  "Wait," Juthe said, quick as a serpent. "Stay."

  "I have nothing more to wager," I pointed out.

  She jerked her chin toward my chest. The bones dangling from her vest clinked softly. "That?"

  In the heat of the close dark room and the excitement of the game, I had loosened the ties of my shirt. The chain that carried the Pearl gleamed dully, crossing my sweat-bright skin and disappearing over my heart. I sat back, drew out the Pearl. It glowed like banked embers.

  Culliy let out a long whistle. Juthe licked her lips.

  The ale spoke to me, Why not?

  Something stirred behind my mind, restive. If I would never use it again, why not let it pass to those who might derive some advantage from it?

  Why not let the Pearl itself decide?

  I slipped the chain over my head, and, to my astonishment, it came away easily. I dropped it in the center of the table, half-expecting the wood to burst into flames. It landed with a thump and a clatter of metallic links. The skin over my breastbone, where the Pearl had lain so many years, felt tender, new. My ribs ached. I drew a breath, deeper and freer than I could remember.

  Culliy pushed forward the entire pile of winnings. We drew cards, one and then another, building our hands. I did not look at mine, for what did it matter? The ale and the wild mood owned me. Culliy glanced down at his cards. I saw the little signs, the tightening at the corners of his eyes, the faint pressure of Juthe's hand on his shoulder, the slightly slower movement as he sat back, his movements too controlled for true ease.

  There was nothing more to bet. One hand would take all.

  Culliy's face stayed stony as he laid out his cards. A good hand, but not unbeatable. I let my gaze rest on the painted designs. Then, without looking at my own cards, I slapped them down on the pile of discards.

  With a shrug and a grin, I pushed myself to my feet. "That's a night, then. Good fortune to you both."

  I did not look back until I had reached the far end of the common room, the narrow stairs leading to the sleeping chambers. Culliy had lifted the chain, about to drop it around Juthe's neck. The Pearl flashed iridescent, reflected in her eyes. Until that moment, I had not been certain that it would let me go.

  I slept that night like one dead. If I dreamed, I had no memory when I woke. The room had only a straw pallet on a wooden frame and a table with pitcher and bowl for washing, pegs on the wall for cloak, a single rickety chair. Nothing like a mirror. If I looked in one by moonlight, what would I see? If I shattered the mirror and drew one of the pieces of glass across my skin, would I bleed? I could not remember the color of my own blood, or the taste of my tears.

  * *
* *

  I left Ixtalpi the next morning. The innkeeper, having watched last night's game from the bar, gave me a free bowl of gruel for breakfast. It was last night's stew, watered down and simmered into mush, but it filled my belly. I had no idea where I would go or how I would earn my bread. I could not go home, that much was sure. I had some skill with a sword, but only for attack, not defense. In all likelihood, I would not survive the first skirmish. I found, to my surprise, that I disliked the notion.

  Heading downslope, out of the shadowed Viridian Mountains, I paused at a crossroads. East or west? I had never traveled in either direction. It came to me that for the first time in my life, I had no ties to any land or lord, nothing to keep me from going wherever my two strong legs took me. I took the less traveled road, and then, whenever it branched, the way that seemed wilder.

  The road narrowed to a trail wide enough for a single line of baggage animals. Here and there, a pile of droppings, still moist underneath, gave evidence of recent travelers. I was no tracker, but I thought there might be three or four small horses, one of them unshod, as many more men on foot, and a narrow-wheeled cart. In my mind, I spun out a story about the party, who they were, where they were going, and the songs they would sing to one another around the evening's fire.

  The trail wound upward through scrub forest, skirted running streams, and dipped into sunlit glades. A pleasant passage, I thought as I stretched out under a tree in one of these meadows for a midday nap. As I allowed myself to be lulled by the hum of insects, I thought of my gray-eyed lover, remembering now not the anguish of loss but the golden afternoons we had spent together, the joy and comfort we had of each other. In my dreams, I wandered through the great house of Sharaya, but the halls and corridors lay dark and empty. The windows were open and dead leaves skirled across the floor in the chill breeze.

  I jerked awake, sweating, to glimpse the last crescent of brilliance as the sun sank below the western hills. Shadows had already begun their slow reach, dimming the meadow. The open space no longer felt safe. I found the trail and hurried along it.

  The trail climbed higher, and the feeling of unease lessened. I began to look for a place to spend the night, some sturdy branch, overhang, or shallow cave. The moon rose, full and bright enough to cast shadows. I went on with the vague thought that my fellow travelers must surely have made camp by now, and might allow me to join them.

  Even as I was trying to convince myself of the folly of continuing on, the risk of a fall, broken bones or worse, I heard voices ahead. I could not see any lights at first, for the trail followed the twisting contour of the hillside. The voices sounded distant, oddly distorted, and they did not seem friendly. I hurried as fast as I dared, stumbling here and there over unexpected stones.

  The raised voices escalated into screaming, fell away into a moment of silence, and then wild, anguished keening.

  I rounded the bend and saw the campsite, limned in orange firelight. The cart stood in a little flat place just off the trail, cradled between two arms of rock. For an instant, the place looked deserted. Nothing moved. Then my fighter's vision picked out the pattern of fallen bodies from the scattered rubble. I had seen enough dead men to know them now.

  The sobbing came from the far side of the camp, beside the picket line. The ponies shifted, white-eyed at the reek of blood. A woman knelt there, cradling a man's body. Rocking, weeping. Juthe, it had to be her, even with her voice distorted, stretched to the breaking point around her horror and pain.

  Fools, to take on so many. Unless...unless the Pearl itself had urged her to it.

  Unless the Pearl wanted fresh blood. I had thought to pass on a gift. Instead, I had burdened them with a curse.

  Soft as shadow, I moved through the camp. I need not have taken any pains to be cautious, for she had no awareness of me, or of anything but the body in her arms. I knelt an armslength away, empty of words.

  Her shirt was torn, ripped by a dozen blades in a dozen killing strokes. Through the rended fabric, her skin shone, untouched. The Pearl rested between her breasts, glowering, sated.

  She turned to me, her eyes all tears. Had I wept like that? I supposed I had. Tears had not brought my lover back, either. The thought came to me that she might do herself harm, that she had neither kin nor oath to bind her to life. I reached out my hands. She let me take him and lay him out.

  I folded Culliy's hands across his chest and smoothed his eyes closed. His body was still warm, his muscles pliable. He would stiffen in an attitude of grace.

  As for Juthe, she would have nothing of comfort. Her grief burrowed inward like a canker worm. In time, she would grow numb, inured, even as I had. In time. But not yet.

  She stumbled through a chant in a language I could not understand, Raëth most likely. At first, I thought it was a prayer for the dead, a requiem. But there was no sorrow in it, only a wild, consuming rage.

  Her eyes changed as she reached for a knife fallen on the ground. She lifted it, pressed the flat to her forehead, then to her lips. Smoothly, she placed the point over her belly, both hands holding the hilt. She thrust again and again, grunting with the effort. The tip would not pierce her skin. Her knuckles turned white. Sweat slicked her skin.

  Juthe tossed away the knife and glared at me. "Can kill—cannot die." She clawed at the Pearl where it hung between her breasts. "Curse, is this thing! You...you knew?"

  I looked away.

  Then she was on me, her hands on my shoulders, shaking me. Her shirt was slick with the blood of the men she'd slaughtered; the smell sickened me.

  "Must die!" she shrieked. "Die in honor! Tell me how!"

  A light burned in her eyes, fire and blood and madness, reflections of the inferno within the Pearl.

  "Give it back to me," I said.

  She whipped the chain over her neck and shoved it at me. The Pearl swung back and forth. "Take! Evil bargain!"

  My fingers closed around the Pearl, stilling its motion, imprisoning it. The bronze-red globe flared, implacable. I shivered at the prospect of what I must do, to endure. It would never tire, the dragon within me, never cease to thirst. I could never use it, that much was certain. It would taint every purpose.

  I could not use it...but I could keep it from using anyone else.

  Juthe reeled away from me. I thought she fled into the night, for I heard no sound from her as I went about the camp, straightening the fallen bodies, seeing to the weapons and the animals. I ate the burned food, banked the fire, and wrapped myself in a borrowed blanket.

  The next morning, I found a spade in the cart. A little ways from the camp, I found a grassy slope, not too steep, and dug a shallow pit. I would rather have made separate graves, but I had not the strength. As it was, by the time I had dragged the first two to their resting place, I was sweating hard.

  Wordless, Juthe picked up the feet of the next corpse, and together we carried him to the common grave. We worked without stopping until the camp was cleared and the earth smoothed over. Juthe returned my sword, but I buried it with the dead.

  I found a small barrel of ale in the cart and we sipped it together, sitting with our legs sprawled in the dust and our backs against one of the cart wheels.

  "Give you back evil thing," she said. "Now, tell me how to die!"

  "You—" I stopped myself, thinking hard. "You must wait a year and a day for the spell to wear off. Then..." I shrugged, praying that I had given her grief enough time to subside.

  After a time, when she made no move to get up, I asked, "What will you do now? Will you find employ with some company of mercenaries?"

  She shook her head. "Culliy say quit, keep safe."

  Yes, and when the money ran out, they gambled, then turned raider. How could I condemn her, I who had slain so many?

  If we were together, I might be able to keep an eye on her, prevent her from getting into a situation that might test her year-and-a-day immortality. "Can you manage that cart?"

  "Farm daughter." Her gaze flickered to wher
e the Pearl lay, hidden beneath my shirt. "That?"

  Who will keep us safe from that?

  I saw what a few hours of exposure to the Pearl had done to her. What decades had done to my Great-Grandfather. What the desire for it had done to my father, my brother.

  I will keep us safe, I thought. I must and would...because only I could.

  The bronze dragon could never be beaten, never smashed, never destroyed. The mailed fist and the prideful spirit would yield at last to the lust for carnage, the seductive lure of invulnerability.

  But the Pearl had no power over the open heart of a child rushing to comfort a loveless, dying old man, nor the tender heart of a young girl dancing in a sunlit glade.

  Only a bruised and broken heart, a heart once filled with anguish and now turning toward hope, could tame the Pearl of Fire, could transform it into something else. What that might be, I could not imagine, only sense the possibility.

  I lifted my face to the day, and felt the breeze cool against the wetness on my cheeks, now certain of my course.

  My heart would guide me.

  The Ironwood Box

  by Kimberly L. Maughan

  Kimberly L. Maughan was born in Arizona, but has also lived in Texas, Illinois, Indiana, and South Carolina. Fantasy stories have been a constant throughout her wanderings—she's one of the writers who started dictating stories before she could hold a pencil. She says she is currently writing, working as a bookseller, and earning her Masters degree in Library and Information Science—"regrettably, not always in that order."

  This is her first published short story. Many people think that they're nobody special, that they have no talents or gifts, but that's doesn't mean it's true.

  #

  She'd been dreaming of the box for nearly a week now, waking each night to itching palms and a restlessness that would not subside until she'd risen from her bed, padded through the darkness to the loft where Lily slept, and cooled her hands on the fine, ironwood grain of the box. It had been a week of dreams, she knew, because every night she passed the tiny window in the loft, open to the soft spring air, and watched as the moon grew from sliver to quarter. What she did not know, and could not understand, was why she was dreaming of the box at all.