Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #211

by TTA Press Authors

  She shook her head. Reached out, slowly, with a pale hand, and touched his chest. Cold spread through him, burning his limbs, his mind.

  "What have you done?” the woman asked, and he heard the panic in her voice.

  What needed to be done.

  Magic throbbed in the air around him, but did not touch him. He shook her off, and moved past her, into the room.

  The deer-girl, in human shape, was lying on a bed at the farthest end, her face pale, her eyes closed. A thin red line marked her right wrist. He moved closer, a sense of exultation rising through him, the magic receding as he neared his goal.

  And saw the second bed.

  An old man lay upon it, his face the colour of winter snow, with a bluish tinge. A poultice covered his chest. The sound of his laboured breathing filled the room, made Lesper ill at ease, as if any gesture might sever the thin thread of the old man's life. He knew the face, as well as his own.

  Wustan. His liege, long ago.

  The forest magic rushed out of him as he knelt before the bed, years of obedience having ingrained the gesture in his mind. “My lord,” he said, in a hoarse voice that felt as though it had not been used in years. There was no answer.

  "He has been that way for four days,” Areskia said, behind him.

  "How?” he asked.

  Areskia moved so that she stood between him and the bed. “I would have thought news would reach you, Lesper, even in that forsaken house where you live.” She was not smiling. “He rode to the hunt five days ago, chasing a boar. His guards lost him, and we combed the forest the whole night without finding anything. When we found him in the morning, he was as you see him."

  Lesper did not know why he felt such guilt, as if he had been the one who had failed Wustan. “Couldn't you heal him?"

  "A healing takes of the wizard's strength to help the body repair itself. He is so near death that any attempt would drain the wizard dry before he had any chance to begin his recovery.” She sounded weary, as if she no longer believed in anything. Four days of keeping watch by his bed. Four days of wondering when the last spark would falter and fail.

  No.

  "You hunted,” he said. And remembered, from his former lifetime, a healing spell that did not tax the wizard's strength. “For an innocent."

  "You see it at last,” Areskia said. “A bowl of an innocent's blood will lend enough strength to snatch a man from Death's claws."

  He turned, to look at Naraya, at the thin slit, already healed, on her wrist. The youngest of her kind, she had said. Of those who did not know human flaws.

  "There were others you could have found,” he said.

  Areskia's face was grim. “Yes,” she said. “Babes. That much blood would have killed them. I balk at this kind of cruelty, Lesper. My oath was of fealty to Lord Wustan, but there are limits."

  He looked at Wustan: faint colour had returned to the old man's cheeks, and there might have been a slight, very slight rise in his breath.

  "He is better now than he used to be,” Areskia said. “All I can do is wait. I had not expected a miracle in any case."

  "There was no need to kill Tarra,” he said.

  "Tarra?” Her face was blank.

  "My wife."

  "I did not kill her,” Areskia said.

  "Someone shot her."

  Her face darkened. “I gave strict orders to the contrary, and they were obeyed as far as I know."

  "On your word?"

  "On my word as a wizard and vassal,” she snapped. “But I don't claim to control every man's gestures. If you find who did this, you have my leave to repay them in kind."

  He wanted so much to believe her guilty. Because if he did not, he had to face the knowledge that Tarra's murderer would never be found. That he would never have his revenge. But a wizard's word was not given lightly.

  "What will you do?” he asked.

  "Wait,” Areskia said, spreading her hands, helplessly. “He should mend."

  She loved him. It was an odd thing to say of a wizard for her liege, but he heard it in her voice. It was more than duty that had kept her by Wustan's bed, wondering when he would die. Lesper should have been glad. She had hunted him through the wood until he collapsed, had scattered the deer-people. And now she was paying, she was experiencing grief, worry. Part of him revelled in her despair, but another, deeper part whispered that he should know what love could do. That he should forgive. He did not want to. He wanted her to suffer as he had.

  He could not hate her. He understood her, all too well.

  At length Areskia turned away from the bed. “You can take her.” She gestured, and the vines binding the guards fell away. With the forest magic gone, Lesper no longer knew how to prevent her from undoing his spell, so he let her do. “The guards will escort you out. I have no further need for her. She should recover quickly; she is young, after all.” As Wustan was not.

  "I thought—"

  "That I would fight you?” She shook her head. “No. Leave me be, Lesper."

  He moved, took hold of Naraya. Areskia was sitting by the head of the bed, watching Wustan intently, her face twisted by anxiety.

  "Thank you,” he said.

  She did not answer at first. “Be careful, Lesper. The forest is a treacherous mistress, and one day you'll pay the price for using its power so liberally."

  He said nothing. He merely walked away, followed by the two guards. The last image he had of her was of a woman in white, watching silently over her Lord, and it hurt him like a knife twisted in his heart.

  * * * *

  Naraya woke soon after he brought her home. She bore no other marks than the slit on her wrist, and thanked him profusely for coming to her rescue. He felt a fraud. She had never been in danger. The well of grief within him would not close: he would have to go back to the castle and wring the truth out of those who had hunted Naraya and the deer-people. He needed to know who had killed Tarra.

  Naraya, oblivious to his musings, had rummaged in the cupboard for herbs, and was brewing him a tea. She sounded perfectly happy, as if nothing had ever happened, and was singing to herself, words he could not understand.

  At length, unable to bear her company, a mute reminder of his dead wife, he went into the garden, and sat by Tarra's grave. The arrow that marked it still quivered with magic; he reached out, on impulse, and took it. Magic throbbed within the palm of his hand.

  Magic. Areskia had to have given those arrows to the soldiers. Had to have seen the need for bringing a deer-woman down. She had lied to him. He was rising to go back to the castle, and then something else occurred to him.

  The magic in the arrow was familiar. All too familiar. It had consumed him, drained him of everything but grief. Forest magic. Areskia would not have known how to draw on it.

  He felt the tingle of magic from the arrow, let it fill him. He remembered Naraya's words: it's a matter of seeing what's true and what's not.

  What was true and was not. What was...

  The arrow wavered between his fingers, changed into something else. His grip shifted, and it bit into his skin, drawing blood: a dagger made of horn, with images of the deer-people engraved on the hilt. He remembered how, when they first had come near the pool, Naraya had knelt by Tarra's side, obscuring her for a brief moment while she drew on the power within the horn. To hide the dagger in Tarra's corpse.

  When he raised his eyes, Naraya was watching him. “So you've found out,” she said.

  "You killed her,” he said, showing her the dagger. Her dagger.

  She laughed. There was no innocence in that laughter, but a bitterness that cut him to the core. The deer-people were not meant to laugh like that.

  "Why?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “She did not love you, Lesper. She never loved you. You deserved so much better than her."

  "She wanted to come back to me."

  "Yes,” Naraya said. “You are blind, Lesper. She came to you because you took her skin, and she ran back into the fo
rest because she was young, and thought summer would last forever. She thought the herd would always be there for her, and that the winter of her life was a far away dream. When she could no longer run with us, she wanted to come back. It was unfair."

  "Unfair?"

  "She had someone to come back to,” Naraya said. Her voice broke. “Do you have any idea of what life in the forest is really like, Lesper? Not knowing from one year to the next whether the food will still be there? Growing old, and year after year wondering if the herd will still want you? If the wolves will not finally outrun you?"

  Her voice was harsh. “Why should she have everything I wanted, and throw it away?"

  "You killed her."

  "Yes."

  He wondered what he would have done, when he first found her and learnt she had killed Tarra.

  "You're a good man, Lesper,” Naraya said.

  He rose, holding the dagger, the horn dagger she had plunged in Tarra's back. “Yes,” he said. “And blind as well."

  She held herself straight, bitterly proud. “And what will you do? Kill me?"

  He wanted to. He ached so much with grief, with the need to do something, anything to take his mind off his sorrow. It would be easy, to stab her. She would fight, but she was still unschooled in the magic of her kind, and he could draw on the dagger's power if need be. He imagined the dagger plunging in her chest, the blood spreading across her skin in a rising tide.

  "No,” he said, letting the dagger fall to the ground. “I will not stain that blade with your blood. You are not worthy of that mercy.” The herd would reject her for what she had done, and she had no place in the human world, no matter how dearly she had wanted to be part of it. And killing her would not end his grief. Nothing would. “Go,” he said.

  Her face was unreadable. She turned, slowly, as stately as a queen. “Good-bye, Lesper,” she said.

  He watched her walk away from him. At the end of the clearing she turned, and said, “My skin is yours. I have no further need of it, and you should be able to put it to better use than me.” And then she was gone. Forever. He fell to his knees, and wept.

  Tarra. He would never know whether Naraya had been lying about his wife. He was not sure he cared any more: Tarra was dead, and he had loved her. It seemed to be the only thing that mattered.

  Inside the house, Naraya's skin lay on the bed, shimmering with a hundred colours to his eye. It promised power. He took it, and felt the voice of the forest rise in him. Come.

  There would be deer-people in the woods, who still remembered Tarra. Who could tell him something of what she had been, of her life during those fifteen years.

  He stood, holding the skin. Fifteen years of waiting for her, and the waiting was over.

  You are blind, Lesper. Despite everything, he could not bring himself to hate Naraya. She had so much wanted to be human, and it had distorted everything for her.

  Blind. Areskia had been wrong as well, to think her innocent. Not everything in the forest was innocent, just as not all men were tainted. If there ever was a fool, it was he, he who had believed good of Naraya. He who could forgive a murderer, and walk away from hunters without a thought of revenge.

  The skin rippled under his touch, filling him with strength, promising the endless cycle of seasons, springs running with the males, autumns of fleeting love, winters with the rest of the herd drawn around him, protecting him from the world he had left.

  Slowly, he laid it on his shoulders. Power settled on him like a mantle.

  One last thing, he thought. One last debt to pay.

  * * * *

  Areskia was still sitting by the bed when he came. Wustan's face was still pale; his breath still came in shallow gasps.

  "Lesper?” she asked, and then she saw his face. “No. You cannot—"

  "She did not have the power to heal him,” he said. “But I have. I have paid the price.” He held out his wrist to her. “Take what you need."

  He did not feel the cut, nor the loss of blood. Sap rose to fill his veins, and the forest was still singing to him. His skin parted like leaves for the knife, and closed around the wound.

  "Goodbye,” he said, longing already for the comfort of his kin. He no longer knew anything save the desire to lose himself under the canopy.

  He turned, never seeing colour return to Wustan's face, or Areskia's last, desperate look at him. He had made his choice.

  And the forest sang in his blood, and held him close, and consumed his grief.

  Copyright © 2007 Aliette de Bodard

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  ELEVATOR EPISODES IN SEVEN GENRES—Ahmed A. Khan

  * * * *

  Ahmed A. Khan lives and writes in Canada. He has sold stories to the Open Space anthology of Canadian SF, H.P. Lovecraft's Magazine of Horror, Anotherealm, Leafing Through and others. He recently edited the anthology Fall and Rise for Whortleberry Press. He maintains a blog at ahmedakhan.journalspace.com.

  * * * *

  Science Fiction

  "What is the strongest material known to science?” the science teacher asked her fourth graders.

  John raised his hand. “The stuff that is used to make the cables for the space elevator."

  "Correct. Can you tell me what it is called?"

  "Um ... uh!"

  "Okay, I will tell you this one time. The space elevator cables are made of carbon nanotubes."

  * * * *

  Fantasy

  "My father says it is made of unicorn hairs,” Chris said.

  * * * *

  Humor

  "I don't like the space elevator,” mumbled Asha.

  "Well, you are always free to take the stairs,” the teacher said.

  * * * *

  Mystery

  After class the teacher (her name was Daniella) went home to pack. She was leaving today on a vacation trip to the moon via the elevator.

  Wish Jim and I had not separated, she thought for the thousandth time of her ex-husband. He would have enjoyed the trip.

  She was remembering her first trip. “What better place than the moon for a honeymoon?” Jim had said.

  At that time, the space elevator didn't launch directly from Earth as it did now. One had to take a shuttle to the space station and catch the elevator from there. It had been fun all the way.

  The present trip was her attempt at ... what? Catching elusive moments of happiness? Self-inflicted pain? Guilt trip? Exorcism?

  It was an impulsive decision and, irrespective of her motivation, she was sticking by it.

  She locked her apartment and stepped out of the building, her scanty luggage strapped to her back. It was a cold and windy day. She thrust her hands in the pockets of her coat, turned left on the street and made her way to the intersection. As she walked she had an uneasy feeling that she was being followed. She quickly turned her head and saw a man dressed in a long blue overcoat, face muffled in a scarf, duck behind a store entrance. Suddenly afraid, she walked faster, reached the intersection and hailed a cab.

  "Elevator terminal,” she said as she quickly clambered into the cab. The driver nodded, started the meter and the cab started moving. She turned back to see the man in blue hail a cab too.

  Who was he and why was he following her?

  Should she call the police?

  But what's the use? It would only delay her and may even make her miss her elevator. She would be at the terminal in a few minutes and after that would be out of this city, out of this world, for two weeks.

  Soon, Daniella was in the space elevator waiting for it to start its long journey. She was strapped down in her bucket seat. Another bucket seat lay vacant beside her. She looked at her watch. The elevator should be leaving in about ten minutes. She felt an excitement building up within her, a sense of adventure she had not felt since she was eighteen, ten years ago.

  For the moment she was alone in the elevator but she knew that one more passenger would be joining her soon. The elevator carried two and only two passe
ngers on each of its trips.

  I hope I have an interesting companion, she thought.

  Just then the door of the elevator slid open and her fellow traveler entered. It was the man in blue.

  "You!” Daniella shrieked when she saw his face.

  Jim smiled his characteristically impish smile as he strapped himself into the seat beside her.

  The elevator started with a jolt and the increasing acceleration pressed them into their seats.

  * * * *

  Mysticism and Spirituality

  "I had to get you alone for a few days so that we could sort out our problems without the outside world intruding upon us,” Jim explained later. It had been an hour since the elevator had left its anchor pad on Earth. The acceleration had eased off and they were nearing zero g.

  "I think it was fate. God wanted to get us together again. A month ago, I was about to enter the travel agency downtown in order to explore some vacation options when I saw you coming out of the door. You were as lovely as ever. You seemed preoccupied and didn't see me. The travel agent was my friend so when I asked him about you, he told me you were leaving for the moon. As soon as I heard this, my vacation plans were made. I booked the same elevator for myself and here I am."

  "But why were you following me today?"

  "Oh, you know me. I like playing tricks. Just wanted to scare you a bit, I think."

  * * * *

  Horror

  The space elevator gave a lurch and stopped. Both of them looked up at the view screen. It just showed the blackness of space, interspersed with pinpoints of starlight.

  The communicator came alive. “We are sorry to report that there has been a malfunction in the elevator. Please do not panic. Rescue is on its way."

  * * * *

  Sex/Romance

  Daniella looked at Jim and Jim looked back at her. Suddenly, as if by tacit agreement, she and Jim undid the straps on their chairs and were in each other's arms, kissing and being kissed passionately.

  The communicator sputtered again. “Are you okay? Please respond. Rescue shuttle is being sent out."

  The control tower must have been surprised to hear two voices, a male and a female, say simultaneously, “Don't bother."