Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXV

by contributors, various

  Baylin gestured to the food, still outside the wall. "How is he supposed to get that?"

  "Shh, cousin. Just watch."

  Several long and increasingly tense minutes passed before Prince Salace noticed the food. With his wave the wall opened, and the tray slid in. The boy started his ritual of walking around the tables and chairs.

  "What's he doing?" Baylin asked.

  "No one knows," Kyrlia sighed. "He's odd, remember?"

  As they talked, and as Prince Salace worked his way to the food, Raccan's fingers twitched. The linen bird slowly rolled to the edge of the table and fell to the ground. There, hidden from the boy's gaze, it fluffed back into shape. While the boy stuffed food into its mouth, the bird flew up to a high shelf, where it waited until the boy went back to his reading.

  Then with a flap of cloth wings, the bird flew down and landed on the boy's head.

  "Turtles!" Prince Salace jumped and flung out his arms. He looked around frantically, overlooking the napkin on the floor. He took a deep breath, circled all the chairs and tables, and settled back down to read.

  Again the bird climbed high, and this time flew down to the boy's shoulder. Its beak tapped Prince Salace sharply on the neck.

  "Turtles!" The prince slapped empty air behind him. He shoved a pile of books to the floor. "Turtles, turtles!"

  Raccan did not wait for the boy to settle down, but sent the bird to the boy's other shoulder.

  "Turtles, turtles, turtles, turtles!" The boy knocked over his chair as he stood, and started at the crash. Now red-faced, he picked up a chair and swung it around his head.

  "Why turtles?" Baylin said out loud.

  Prince Salace stopped, apparently noticing his audience for the first time. He looked straight at Kyrlia, his face twisted with distaste. Chair still raised, he rushed toward her—but the amber wall stood between them.

  And then it didn't.

  "Turtles!" he screamed, swinging the chair.

  "The spell! Now!" Raccan shoved the parchment into her hand while raising his staff. Wood met wood with a resounding crack.

  The Prince stumbled back, caught his balance, and lifted the chair again.

  Kyrlia focused on the words. Three more times the chair met the staff; then Raccan fell back. Prince Salace swung the chair again. Kyrlia could see the pattern of the wood grain as it came close, even as she heard an eggshell crunch. The boy's angry face stiffened and froze, but the chair flew on.

  A blade flashed before her eyes, knocking the chair off course. It splintered against the wall.

  "Learn to duck, will you," Baylin grumbled, sheathing his sword. "Just a typical woman, can't even move when a chair comes at her head."

  "She was spellcasting." Raccan snarled. He picked up his staff. "It's your job to protect the spellcaster."

  Baylin turned purple. "You dare to tell me what my job is?" His sword came out.

  "Certainly, if you don't seem to know what it is."

  "And you know all about being a fighter, shut away in your castle in the middle of nothing?"

  Raccan gripped his staff. "Do you wish to see what I know?"

  "You threaten me with a scrap of wood?" Baylin sneered.

  Raccan glowered back.

  This confrontation wouldn't end until there was blood on the floor, Kyrlia saw. Edor, moving to support his brother, left Raccan outnumbered. Or were they? Whipping out her rapier, she stepped in front of the wizard.

  "What are you doing?" Baylin asked.

  She looked her cousin straight in the eye. "How do you plan to finish this job if you get yourself killed?"

  "He's going to kill me? That—pansy?"

  She felt Raccan stiffen behind her, but kept her gaze on Baylin. "Have you forgotten who killed my husband?"

  "I haven't," Edor said quietly.

  Baylin lowered his blade and slowly sheathed it. His face was rigid, promising that the next time she challenged his authority, he wouldn't back down. Things would be tense with her cousins from now on, she realized. But they needed her more than she needed them. She was the one who could read maps and contracts. "Shall we take the prince home?"

  "The sooner the better," Baylin snarled, slamming his sword into its sheath.

  * * * *

  As Baylin and Edor carried the stiff form of Prince Salace out of the keep, Kyrlia felt a hand on her arm. "Stay with me. I have so much to show you."

  She shook her head. "We have to return the boy. We took the coin, and we must finish the job."

  "You as well?"

  She nodded. Even without looking at him she could feel the calming blueness of his eyes. A spell, or a trap, or maybe something simpler. Still, "I took a coin. I'm a mercenary; I go where I'm paid to go."

  "Would you stay if I hired you, and your cousins?"

  Baylin thought Raccan an evil wizard—but gold tended to change his mind. "We can't stay, but we might return. I will tell my cousins of your offer."

  "And if they refuse it?"

  She dared to look at him, to be swept up in his smile and calming eyes. She knew her duty, yet she was allowed some joy. She smiled at Raccan. "If they refuse, then I think you may be right. Freedom is not being in debt to others. Perhaps I will return—to learn about Fullmich and his world, of course."

  "Of course," Raccan smiled back. He lifted her wrist to his lips and kissed it gently, then released her. "Travel well and sure."

  Killing Stars

  Robin Wayne Bailey

  There's an old saying: "Be careful what you pray for." Being careful whom you pray to is a good idea as well.

  Robin Wayne Bailey is the author of numerous novels, including the best-selling DRAGONKIN series and SHADOWDANCE. He's written over one hundred shorter works for various magazines and anthologies, as well. His short story "The Children's Crusade" was a 2007 Nebula nominee, and one of his earliest stories, "Child of Orcus," appeared in the first volume of SWORD & SORCERESS.

  Mr. Bailey is a past president of the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America and was also key player in the 1996 creation of the Science Fiction Hall of Fame.

  An effulgent moon rose slowly over the desert. One by one, the peaks of the rolling dunes caught fire with its coppery glow while the valleys turned black and filled with shadows. A scorpion burrowed down into the warmth of the sand, and a cobra wrapped itself around a rock for the night. The wind stopped. The world became still and cold, and the moon continued to rise, shedding its copper color for silver.

  Out of the chill gloom of the deepest valley, a figure appeared. Clad in white, cloaked and hooded with a shimagh scarf over its face, it seemed to shimmer as it made its way up the slope of the tallest dune and lingered at the crest. For a long moment it stood listening and studying, as still as the night with the moon at its back, and it cast a shadow that stretched far across the sand and up the next slope.

  Trailing near the moon, three stars burned with icy fire, each shining and vivid despite the larger orb's dominance. The figure held up two fingers, then three, and sighted with one eye down the length of its arm to measure the distance between each object. Then it glanced again at the huge lunar light and considered its progress.

  After a while, the figure resumed its trek, shallow craters in the sand marking its course along the dunes and through the sullen valleys. A trio of desert wolves appeared briefly silhouetted in the moonlight. One of the beasts let go a long mournful howl, sniffed the air, then turned red eyes on the figure below. The three descended the dune at an easy lope and began to follow.

  Heedless of the wolves, the figure paused once again atop another dune. In the distance, a city rose up at the edge of an oasis. The moonlight gleamed upon its stark walls and ramparts where watch fires burned in huge black kettles. Tiny torches moved about, marking the movements of guards and sentries. Yet there was an odd frenzy to the movement, and despite the late hour the gates stood wide open. The music of mizmar and oud, dumbek and dazz drums spilled faintly across the sands.

  B
ehind, on the summit of another dune, the wolves howled again. They numbered five now, and the shadows they cast as they followed were long and grotesque. Unperturbed, the figure descended, and the sand slithered away from booted feet with a soft, cascading rustle.

  "I've been waiting for you."

  A tiny voice spoke from the darkness at the bottom of the dune. A little girl sat cross-legged, drawing patterns in the sand with one finger, her head hanging low between small shoulders, her face obscured by thick red hair. She wore little clothing and shivered in the desert chill.

  Hesitating, the figure in white stared, but then approached the little girl and knelt down. From beneath the white cloak a slender hand appeared and pushed back the deep white hood. The shimagh scarf came away to reveal the strong but feminine features of a young, dark-haired woman and a thin silver circlet inset with a pale moonstone.

  "Little girl, what are you doing out here so far from the city?"

  The child stopped drawing patterns and looked up. The red hair fell back from her soft, but tragic face. A dirty black bandage was tied over the girl's eyes, and thin traces of crusted blood still trailed from beneath it to stain delicate cheeks.

  "Lady, what are you doing out here so far from nowhere?" the little girl said. "I know your name. The wind whispers it to me. You are Frost, the last Esgarian, called by some the Woman who Loved Death."

  Frost licked her lower lip as she cast a glance around. The sand did not stir as far as she could see, nor was there any hint of wind. Leaning closer, she studied the child's bandaged face. The wounds were not fresh, but neither were they very old. She waved a hand before the little girl's eyes, drawing no reaction.

  "I haven't been called that in a very long time," she said.

  The little girl smiled. "Still, your name is Frost," she insisted. "I know it. My eyes are gone, but I see many things. I knew that you would come."

  Frost brushed one finger over the child's face, loosening the black strip of cloth and pulling it away to reveal the sightless eyes. Suspicion rose up within her. Here was some mystery, this blinded babe in the desert night, this child who somehow knew her name. Every instinct warned her to be wary.

  Yet, it was a child. She moved closer to the little girl, wrapping one fold of the white cloak around the small shivering body, pulling her close. The little girl stiffened for a moment, then relaxed and laid her head upon Frost's shoulder.

  "I'm safe now, aren't I?" the child whispered.

  Frost rocked the small bundle gently and tried hard not to remember her own long-dead children. "Who did this terrible thing to you?"

  "My mother," the child answered in a calm, small voice. "Dagoth only wants perfect children for his sacrifices, and a blind girl is not acceptable."

  Frost clenched her jaw and looked over her shoulder at the sky. The moon had begun to rise over the rim of the dune at her back, and with it the three bright trailing stars, Rothul and Hacrit and blue-shining Pyrt, all creeping toward a rare astronomical alignment.

  Then, a silhouette moved against the lunar disk, a great gray wolf watching from atop the dune. Sniffing, it fixed its gaze on Frost. Two more shapes joined it, and behind those two came still more. The leader stretched its neck and shoulders and howled one long howl before it lunged powerfully down the slope with the rest of the pack following.

  "No matter what, keep still," Frost whispered to the child. "But tell me your name quickly."

  Another tight smile turned up the corners of the little girl's lips, and her face seemed to shine as the moonlight touched it. "Mirella."

  The wolves charged toward them. Claws scratched and dug for purchase in the sand, and the sounds of their harsh panting preceded them. Setting Mirella down, Frost rose to her feet and drew a pair of swords from beneath her cloak. She turned to face the beasts. The pack leader, first down the slope, slid suddenly to a halt and regarded her with hungry caution. The others, ten in all, fanned out on their leader's flanks, their ears perked forward, silvery fur bristling on their backs.

  The leader growled and opened slavering jaws to show the full deadly potential of its fangs. The beast was huge, massively muscled, and old, a warrior and a survivor among its kind. It regarded Frost with red eyes, shoulders bunching as it prepared to leap.

  Frost met its gaze without flinching, but in a deliberate slow motion, never taking her gaze away, she drove the points of her swords into the sand and stood empty-handed. The other wolves howled, but they didn't matter, only this one gray leader. It sniffed, and the others fell silent again. Then it took a pace forward and stopped before Frost. She might have touched it, scratched it between the ears, but it shook its head as if to warn against such a gesture.

  "What are you saying to them," Mirella whispered.

  At the sound of Mirella's voice, the wolf-leader moved around Frost. It sniffed at the child, but nothing more. It circled her once, and then at a leisurely pace loped away into the desert darkness. The other wolves followed, and the pack vanished.

  "What did you do?" Mirella asked again.

  Frost retrieved her blades from the sand and sheathed them. "I convinced them to seek an easier feast."

  "I might have been their dinner," Mirella said with a shiver.

  The moon continued to rise. Its light crept down the side of the dune and bathed the desert with its glow. Frost knelt down and wrapped her arms around Mirella again. The child spoke so calmly of the cruelty done to her. "Did your mother abandon you here?" Frost asked.

  "No," Mirella answered. She pointed to the designs her small hands had made in the sand. "I followed the patterns. Sometimes I see them clearly, and sometimes I don't. I don't really understand them yet."

  Frost picked the little girl up in strong arms and warmed her in a fold of the cloak. "I have to go on to the city," she said. "If you come with me, I promise no one will hurt you again."

  Mirella looked thoughtful and then nodded. Reaching out with small hands, she drew the shimagh up over the lower part of Frost's face and pulled the deep, concealing hood over Frost's head. "No one must know who you are," she said, "And you must be careful in the City of Sins."

  Frost started across the desert again with the sound of the drums to guide the way. "I have you now to watch my back."

  Mirella's soft breath whispered in her benefactor's ear. "Is that a joke?"

  * * * *

  The drums and music grew louder as they climbed the last rolling dune. Finger cymbals banged. The saz and oud wailed, and the shrill zaghareets of frenzied celebrants floated out through the open city gates. At the last summit, Frost stared downward into the City of Sins. The elongated shadows of dancers and musicians snaked sinuously out the gates, over the ground, up the sides of walls, onto the desert floor.

  As she started downward with Mirella in her arms, the air seemed to vibrate with the music. She felt its passionate power on her skin and in her blood, the complex and intoxicating rhythms. Just before she passed through the wide open gates she put Mirella down, though she kept a firm grip on the blind child's hand.

  Despite the late hour, people clogged the streets. Colorfully dressed fortunetellers pressed themselves upon Frost as she entered the city. With outstretched hands and wiggling fingers, they beckoned to her, waving crystal balls or shuffling cards, hawking charms and potions. Frost ignored them.

  A troupe of women wearing little more than veils and bells and jingling belts suddenly surrounded her. They shook rouged breasts and gyrated their hips, brushing against her, dancing with abandon, their tight bodies sweat-soaked, hair wild and tangled, eyes glazed from drink or drugs. They moved as if they had no bones.

  On every street corner, in every doorway, it seemed that some musician or drummer played, each feeding on the other to create a throbbing citywide score. Stringed instruments and woodwinds wove webs of music while narrow streets and buildings magnified the percussive power of drums and zils.

  In the side streets, cavorting figures danced to another music of soft groans
, loud grunts and slapping flesh.

  It seemed that every citizen was awake and dancing. Even the guards and soldiers, who seemed to be everywhere, appeared to have forsaken their duties. Laughing and pushing, they grabbed brutally at any pleasure—woman or man—who caught their eyes.

  Without warning, a veined and withered hand touched Frost's arm. "Are you mad, stranger? Get that child off the street! Hide her at once before the guards take notice!" Frost turned her head toward an old woman with frazzled gray hair, a face like nut-brown parchment, and dark eyes full of genuine fear. Yet, before she could answer, the old woman pulled away and melted into the crowd.

  Still, the encounter caught the attention of a drunken celebrant who, knocking a tumbler aside in mid-flip, made a clumsy grab for Mirella. The little girl barked a short scream before Frost's backhanded fist laid the man out in the road.

  Mirella squeezed Frost's hand. "Do you see the palace?" she asked in an urgent voice as she looked around with sightless eyes. "Look for a shining minaret. I think we should go there."

  Frost smoothed Mirella's hair and drew her close as she gazed upward. She accepted intuitively that this strange child was her guide, and she could only trust whatever fate had drawn them together. The moon had begun to peek above the city walls, and its light limned the sharp edges of every structure, but one onion-shaped dome stood out, its layered silver tiles and ornate architectures shimmering with a glow and a mystery that both invited and warned.

  "I see it," Frost answered. She touched one of the swords she wore. Then she shifted her hand to touch the hilt of a jeweled dagger on her belt. The small weapon purred as if alive against her fingertips. "Let's go knock upon the door."

  Before she could take another step, however, a pair of guards blocked her path. Nearby, a third guard on the street corner beyond took notice and unlocked his lips from a dancing girl. Pushing her roughly aside, he hurried to join his comrades. "Is that a child with you?" one of the guards snapped. The golden crest on his turban suggested that he held some rank.