But at last, it had happened. Zana's good eye had settled upon her while she was unaware. In the past six months, Aerise's body had filled out again, becoming replete with the abundance and comeliness that Zana had often said she wished she had more of.
Zana stared. Blinked. Stared again. And finally a tear crept down her face.
Aerise began to cry as well.
Zana sat on the bench beside her. "Throw a little more water on the rocks," she said.
Aerise scooped the dipper into the barrel and splashed the hot cobblestones, sending a new dose of steam into the lodge's interior. Zana inhaled deeply.
"Do you miss your old home, cooper's wife?" Zana asked.
"This is my home," Aerise replied softly. "This is the place where my happiness lies."
Zana nodded. A short time later the other women in the lodge happened to leave. When they were alone, Zana reached out and grasped her sister's hand.
They sat together, the sweat of their palms mingling.
* * * *
Morel was waiting by the hearth when Aerise returned. She could tell he had assumed solid form a moment before, when he had heard her footsteps approaching. He wore only the blanket he had thrown over himself.
"I expected you ere now," he said.
"All is well," she said. "I believe the end of your service is nigh."
A brightness came into his eyes. It reminded Aerise of the emotion he displayed whenever he bounced his daughter in his arms. She had not seen that gleam in all the three seasons they had dwelt in Nine Vineyards.
To her surprise, she wished he had showed a trace of wistfulness.
"Tell me," he said.
She told him of her encounter with Zana. When she was done, he nodded. "As you say. Soon you will be free of me, and I of you. Here is how I propose to do it."
They talked deep into the night.
* * * *
A fortnight later, in the brightness of a springtime afternoon, a solemn knock resounded on the door of the cottage.
Aerise answered. Outside stood the vintner and the headman. Both hung their heads, avoiding eye contact, and shifted from foot to foot. The headman coughed. "Lady Cooper..."
"What has happened?" she asked with alarm.
"Your husband went fishing today at the rapids with a group..."
"Yes. I know."
The headman cleared his throat. "He slipped on a wet rock and fell in. He did not come back up. The men are still searching, but they have not found his body, but it has been too long now to hope. He...he has drowned."
Aerise let her face contort more and more with each word. When the headman said "drowned," she whirled, fell to her knees just inside the cottage, and pulled at her hair, wailing at the top of her lungs. The men hovered over her, trying to mutter condolences. She blocked them out, concentrating on her performance. Try as she might, she could not summon tears. She had not expected to. Not for him. But the rest of the act came surprisingly easy. She heaved and thrashed and wailed. They could not see her face to observe the lack of weeping, and they were only males. She knew they accepted her reaction as true grief.
And soon, so would the whole village.
* * * *
The vintner told her she could stay in the cottage until the replacement cooper was hired, and assured her that would not be for many months. Out in the fields the grape canes had barely started to show green growth and the crush was months away. There were plenty of barrels on hand until then—the late cooper, the vintner remarked with appreciation, had been an industrious tradesman and had prepared plenty of stock.
Aerise had no fear that she would find new living arrangements by then. Though not with Zana. The one thing that might stir certain elders to recall one Aerise daughter of Makk would be a sudden acceptance of a Baymouth cooper's wife into the household of another daughter of Makk.
The only hardship remaining was that she was still obliged to drag about, pretending to mourn. It was many weeks before she allowed her step and posture to display the verve that churned within. As soon as she did so, village bachelors began "accidentally" crossing her path. They offered to do small favors for her, from repairing her hen coop or splitting fresh cord wood for her hearth, and bit by bit she said yes to some of these overtures, preparing food for them in exchange.
She judged it best to wait a year before she wed. But it was apparent that as far as the community was concerned, less than that would not be taken amiss.
* * * *
She saw Morel only one more time. On midsummer night, she slipped away from the solstice celebration in the town center and made her way down to the river.
The moonlight on the water became the white gleam of his body, emerging. He did not come alone. Beside him rose a girl child, looking to be about seven years old. She was robust and round-cheeked like Aerise had been at that age—not lithe like her father.
Aerise held out her hands. The girl clasped them.
How warm her hands were. Full of life's vigor. Aerise gazed until the moon hid behind the leaves of a river alder, making her offspring's features too dim and ghostly—too much like what she was.
At the last, Aerise leaned in and gave her a kiss. She smiled.
Her daughter smiled back.
"My true name is Rahella," the girl said.
When they separated, Aerise was reminded of the moment the Cursed Folk foster mothers had cut the cord, that day she gave birth by the meadow. The severed parts would never be joined again. This was surely the last time she would ever see this child of her body.
Morel waited in the shallows. When the girl reached him, he cupped her chin. Seeing the tenderness of the gesture, aware of the pride in his eyes, Aerise could not hate him. Forgive him? No. But understand him? Yes. For him, it had not been enough to bring a child into the world. It needed to be a child as fine as Rahella.
The pair became intangible and walked off across the surface of the water. From time to time, until they slipped out of sight, Rahella turned to catch glimpses of her mother.
Finally Aerise climbed the bank and made her way along the river path to the village. It was not a short walk, but it seemed so.
No braids dangled from her head, tallying the number of her living offspring. She had no husband. For family she had only one aged sibling, not long for this world. But she had youth. She had time. And she had recovered her place.
She arrived back in the village murmuring a tune, and when the blacksmith's sons asked her to dance with them around the bonfire, jostling and nudging each other to be the first to twirl her around, she laughed and said yes.
Black Ghost, Red Ghost
by Jonathan Moeller
Jonathan Moeller writes mostly fantasy — his novel DEMONSOULED was published in 2005 — in addition to some science fiction and freelance non-fiction. He says that if you wish to argue with him over the Internet, visit him at www.jonathanmoeller.com. Presumably you can also go there even if you don't want to argue with him.
I rejected the story he submitted early in our reading period. Striving for "exactly the opposite tone," he wrote this one. Sometimes that's what you have to do to make a sale.
#
The ballroom glittered with a fortune's worth of jewelry.
The guests stood in small circles, clad in bright silk and damask and fine linens. Caina watched them drink and laugh, listened to the edges of cloaks and skirts rustling against the gleaming marble floor. The Governor's guests were enjoying themselves, she reflected.
She wondered how many of them would die tonight.
A servant appeared, bearing a pewter tray, and Caina took a flute of expensive wine. She sipped, savoring the taste, and resumed her study of the room. The marble floor had been quarried from the Tauseni Mountains, the floor-to-ceiling glass windows imported from Jear, the wines and cheeses ordered from the heart of the Empire. The palatial mansion seemed out of place in the Governor's modest province.
Very strange, that the governor of a backwate
r province should have so much money.
Caina glided across the floor, taking careful steps to keep from tangling her feet in the expensive linen of her gown. She made polite noises with the other guests, exchanged empty compliments, laughed at insipid jokes. It took some time, but at last she made her way across the room to the Governor.
"Countess," Governor Druzen rumbled, planting a wet kiss on her fingers. "Truly, you do my humble house great honor." He was a paunchy man, with a broad bald head and a red face. He looked like a jovial priest, or a kindly grandfather.
He did not look like a traitor to the Empire. But, as Caina knew, appearances meant nothing.
"And you do me great kindness, my lord governor," said Caina. "When my father sent me on this tour of the provinces, I never thought to find hospitality so far from the Imperial capital."
Druzen smiled. "And I have heard fearful tales of the capital's decadence and hauteur. Who would have thought that such a charming young lady could come from there? Truly, you must come to dinner tomorrow...ah, excuse me. Duty imposes, I fear." Druzen hastened across the room to pair of Carthian merchants in white robes and jeweled turbans. Caina watched them from the corner of her eye. Were they his shadow partners, she wondered?
She turned, and saw the hawk-nosed man in the black robe staring at her.
Caina kept her face calm, but only just. The hawk-nosed man wore a black linen robe with a purple sash, and by law only the magi of the Imperial Magisterium could wear such garb. Caina turned, hoping the magus would lose interest.
He did not. The magus set aside his flute of wine and strode towards her. Caina braced herself, smiled, and turned to meet him.
"Forgive my intrusion," said the magus. He was a man in middle age, with glittering gray eyes and tangled black hair, "but I could not help but overhear your conversation with Governor Druzen. You came from the capital, no?"
"Yes, wise one," said Caina, bowing. "I am Countess Marianna, of House Nereide."
"I am Ryther, a brother of the Magisterium, as you no doubt have guessed." He bowed and placed a brief, dry kiss on her fingers. "A curious thought occurs to me, lady. I served for some years in the Imperial Court, and yet I never met anyone from House Nereide."
Did he know? "My father's House is ancient in dignity, yet has long been poor in coin. Recently his business met with some success, and we have come to prosperity equal to our honor."
Ryther's eyes glittered. "Indeed? Most remarkable. I never met a member of House Nereide, fair lady, because House Nereide was exterminated a century past during the War of the Fourth Empire." He smiled. "Your father is truly a cunning businessman, if he bargained his way back from the land of the dead."
Caina kept smiling, but her mind raced. Ryther had seen past her disguise. Would he expose her to Druzen? Could she kill the magus? No, it was too risky. There were too many witnesses. And if the magus worked a spell before she could kill him, then Caina would die, most likely quite painfully.
And, worse, her task would fail.
"Tell me," said Ryther, his voice a soft murmur, "why has a Ghost come all the way out to Varia Province? What draws the Emperor's spies here?"
"Ghost, wise one?" said Caina. "The Emperor's Ghosts? Those are just a story."
Ryther smiled, crooked a finger, and a flute of wine floated from the tray of a startled servant to his hand. "And some fools believe sorcery to be only a story, too."
Caina's teeth clicked behind her smile. No use lying to the man. It was against Imperial law for a magus to force his way into another's mind without proper warrant, but that never seemed to stop them. Besides, the magi were sworn to the Empire, just as the Ghosts were. Perhaps he could aid her.
"For six years now, a slaving gang has operated out of the province," she said, remembering the orders the circlemaster had given her. "They kidnap peasants from the countryside and children from the towns, and sell them to Carthian corsairs." It made her blood boil. "The coastline has become a nest of piracy, and sooner or later some bold brigand will try to conquer a city for himself. Therefore the Emperor has commanded the Ghosts to bring these slavers low."
"So I see," said Ryther. "Is that not a matter for the Governor? Why send a Ghost? Your particular...expertise...is hardly common."
"The Ghosts believe Druzen complicit with the slavers, perhaps even an active partner," said Caina. "The slavers' successes are too convenient. Druzen gives an order to move a garrison, and the next day a town is attacked. Or he orders a warship to sail south, and a corsair vessel slips past. At best, Druzen may be corrupt. Or, at worst, he plans to seize Varia Province for his own, set himself up as petty king. The Emperor will not suffer it."
"So you are here to kill Druzen?" said Ryther.
"Once I have proof," said Caina. "Then the Emperor can appoint a new governor, one both loyal and strong enough to destroy these slavers." She would murder, if her duty required it, but only if she had proof.
"So I see," said Ryther. "You have done well to confide in me. I, too, share your concern about these slavers' raids. Slavery violates the highest principals of sacred Imperial law." He spread his hands. "Yet that same law shackles my power, alas. I could not take effective action."
"The Ghosts answer to the Emperor alone," said Caina. "I have no such constraints."
Ryther's lips twitched. "Indeed not. When do you plan to kill Druzen? Best to have plans, lest the province fall into chaos."
"I said I might kill Druzen," said Caina, annoyed by his presumption. "But only if I have proof. It could well be another official, perhaps a legion commander, colluding with the slavers." Had she told him too much? The Magisterium and the Emperor's Ghosts were often at odds, and Ryther's goals might not match hers.
"Of course," murmured Ryther. "I'm certain you want proof before you act. Ghosts like to remain in the shadows, and murdering an innocent man might draw the attention of ghost hunters. But I am certain, Countess, that Druzen is guilty." His mouth twisted. "Yet I see the word of a brother of the Magisterium is not enough for you."
"Sadly, I am not skilled with magic spells," said Caina, "and so I must use more mundane methods to find the truth."
"Very well," said Ryther. "You can find the necessary proof in Druzen's study." He glanced sidelong at the high windows. "The north wing. Druzen has the bureaucrat's customary mania for useless paperwork. I doubt he could conspire to high treason without keeping detailed records."
"I thank you for the counsel," said Caina. "Perhaps I will use it to rid this province of slavers."
"Yes." Ryther looked both amused and unconvinced. "Perhaps you will. A pleasant evening to you, countess." He strode away through the crowd of nobles and merchants, his black robe grim against their finery.
Caina hid her scowl with a sip of wine. She never enjoyed dealing with the Magisterium. They had ruled the Empire in ancient times, and the magi seemed to think they still had the right to rule. More than once, Caina though the Empire would be well rid of the magi.
But that was a concern for another time. Caina set aside her wine flute and made her way through the mansion's deserted corridors. Paintings and statues adorned the walls, all of them expensive. At last she came to a mahogany door with polished brass hinges. Two men in servants' livery stood before the door. They seemed quite large and grim-faced for servants.
And servants didn't usually carry shortswords and daggers in their belts.
"You there," said Caina, putting the hauteur of nobility into her voice. "Is there a bedchamber through there? I'm feeling ill, and wish to lie down."
The man on the left looked her up and down. Not with lust, but with the cold-eyed assessment of a hunter contemplating his prey. "Begging your pardon, my lady, but those are the Governor's private rooms, and we've orders to let no one pass."
"Well, man, where can I lie down?" said Caina. The guards relaxed; they must have seen her as nothing more than another haughty noblewoman. That pleased her. "If I do not lie down at once, I'm certain I shall fai
nt."
"If you feel unwell, my lady," said the man on the right, "the Governor keeps a chapel with an Amathavian priest." A scar had twisted his lip into a permanent sneer. "He can say his healing prayers over you, make you feel right as rain."
"Which way to the chapel?" said Caina.
"Head down the hallway," said the cold-eyed man, "and once you pass the library, turn right and go down a flight of stairs. The chapel's right there. One of us can escort you there, if it please you."
"No need," said Caina. "I can find my own way." She left them and made her way through the maze of Druzen's mansion. But once she passed the library, she went left, not right, and emerged into a small garden. She looked up, but the windows were dark and silent.
That was good.
Caina slipped out of her gown and crossed the garden, grateful that the cumbersome thing no longer entangled her legs. She had hidden her gear behind an overgrown hedge last night. It still lay there, wrapped in her dark cloak, and Caina began to dress.
In the tales and songs, the Emperor's Ghosts were always women of perilous beauty, clad in skin-tight dark leather that left little to the imagination. That was ridiculous. Black leather reflected too much light, and was too noisy besides. Caina clothed herself in loose dark cloth, black leggings, a long-sleeved black tunic, soft-soled black boots, and black gloves over her hands. A belt with throwing knives and other useful tools went around her waist, and a black scarf hid the whiteness of her face.
The cloak came last.
It was a wondrous thing, truly. It weighed nothing at all, yet was dark as night, and flowed through her fingers like water. At night it rendered its wearer almost invisible. According to her circlemaster, the wizards of old had created it, using sorcery to fuse spider silk and shadow together in a cloak impenetrable to human eyes. Caina wrapped it around her shoulders and pulled the cowl over her head.
Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXII Page 15