Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXV

by contributors, various

I was still there, trying to pull air into my lungs, when the cyclone passed. Lady Lammet was first to my side.

  "Did it?" she asked. "Is..."

  I didn't know. Still kneeling, I pulled my cloak back slowly. Mifrav was breathing, so at least I hadn't killed him.

  Lammet stroked his hair.

  His eyes opened, pale, but focused.

  His wife sobbed and held his hand. His fingers moved, but he hadn't the strength to close them around hers. I stood. The room was full of silent witnesses. Except for a few guards who were quietly snuffing fires started by smashed lamps, no one moved.

  "Healer Ulfir," I whispered. "I stand aside in favor of your gifts."

  He moved to the table, head bowed, then beckoned the six other healers, who joined hands around Mifrav and Lammet for what seemed an eternity. At last, he broke the circle and turned to those who waited.

  "Lord Mifrav will live."

  Elves are only quiet because they wish to be. The roar that went up must have been audible to the far end of the village. I wondered if Simon could hear it. He should have been there; he deserved it.

  I nodded to Ulfir; he bowed in return and smiled.

  Yes, it was a night of magic. It was not, however, my night. I slipped out the ruined door opening and made my way to the barn. Clean straw and deep, dreamless sleep beckoned.

  The Jiyel were welcome to celebrate in my borrowed quarters for as long as they wished.

  I wouldn't hear a thing.

  * * * *

  "Ma'am? Wizard, Ma'am?"

  Simon's voice pulled me from sweet darkness. It couldn't be time to rise already.

  "You said to come in the mornin' an' the sun's up. Are you all right, Ma'am? Some people said they saw lightnin' and such flashin' over this way last night."

  "I'm... fine." At my age, a few extra aches in the morning were not worth complaining about. "Have the elves gone?"

  "No one here now." He grinned. "The fish are still swimmin'! You did it, Ma'am! The sick elf man?"

  "The Jiyel healers say he will recover."

  Simon whooped and jumped into the air, but his smile faded quickly. "Will you be leaving now, Ma'am?"

  "Soon. There is still work to be done; the spring to be cleared. Perhaps tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow?" The word was full of defeat.

  "Or the day after. Let's worry about the day when it comes, eh? Right now, I must make myself presentable; then we will pay our respects to Lady Lammet. Would you draw two buckets of water please?"

  I picked straw off of my dress as I watched him trudge away.

  Night-soil hauler indeed.

  * * * *

  Lady Lammet appeared outside the broken door just as I was fighting a comb through what, until last night, had been neatly braided and coiled hair. Fortunately, I had had time to make use of both buckets of water and change to clean clothing.

  "I'm sorry if I am intruding," she said. "I come with news of my husband."

  "No intrusion, Lady, I had planned to visit you." I invited her in. "The news is good, I pray."

  "Oh, yes! He is speaking a little this morning, and drank broth."

  "Excellent!"

  "Ma'am, what —" Simon stopped short in the doorway. "Sorry, Ma'am. I didn't know that..."

  Lammet smiled at him. "I came to thank Mistress Rennik, but I would be remiss if I did not thank you as well. You are a fine assistant."

  "Thank you, Lady," he was addressing his toes, "but I'm not really an assistant, I'm only a 'prentice from the village."

  "Merchant Kobalg, correct?" she said. "Yes, I have heard much about Merchant Kobalg. Tell, me, Simon, if you could do anything in the world, what would it be?"

  "I... Anything? I—I couldn't, Lady. I... Sorry for interruptin'." He fled toward the barn.

  She perched on the edge of the table that had held Mifrav the night before. "Go ask him the same question, Mage. I think you know the answer, but you must hear it from him." She smiled up at me, head tipped. "And remember I owe you a boon."

  * * * *

  "No!" Kobalg crossed his arms. "He's my apprentice and you're not stealin' him!"

  Simon stood stiffly at my side; Lammet and two bodyguards stood a few paces behind us.

  "No theft, Merchant; I'm offering to buy your half of his indenture agreement, and offering a good price, too."

  "Agreement's between his sister's husband and me."

  I had lingered an extra day to visit the far end of the island. Simon's sister was pleased that her orphaned brother would have a chance to "better himself"; her husband was pleased with the silver I offered for his cooperation.

  "I already explained; that obstacle has been removed."

  "No. Apprentices are hard to come by around here."

  For Kobalg, perhaps. "I can offer you a little more, but not much. I am not a wealthy woman, Merchant."

  "Too bad. Go away. Leave the boy."

  "Excuse me..." In the two days since her husband had been declared safe, the lady had fully recovered. She almost glowed in the morning light of the market. "Merchant Kobalg, I think further explanation of the situation is required."

  "No it's not. You go away too, and take your little men with you."

  Her guards stepped up to flank her, bows ready. She held up a hand to stay them. "You have no manners, Merchant."

  I saw not even a flick of a tiny finger, but the striped canopy of Kobalg's stall burst into flame. His neighbors sprinted for buckets.

  A roll of fine cloth jumped from its stand and unrolled across the path of a muddy-wheeled cart.

  A rack of pottery swayed wildly. He grabbed it. "All right! What do you want?"

  "Mage Rennik has made you a generous offer. Since you have, yourself, often proclaimed the boy unworthy of his position here, wouldn't it be a wise decision to accept that offer?"

  Kobalg looked at the ruined cloth and the smoking, striped tatters, then at Lammet. He swallowed. "I accept."

  She folded her arms. "There is one more condition."

  His eyes narrowed. "What?"

  "Mistress Rennik and Simon will be leaving for the mainland; I will not. When you find another apprentice, Merchant, see that you treat him well. You will be watched."

  He turned red. "That's ridiculous! That's illegal! That's—"

  A swarm of bees circled him.

  "That's fair! All right! It's fair! I agree!"

  The bees hummed off for more attractive employment.

  I paid what I had offered and we walked away. There was scattered applause in the market.

  Lammet's guards helped her into my rented wagon. I was driving, so Simon and I took the front bench.

  When we stopped outside the cottage where Mifrav would convalesce, Lammet leaned forward. "There's nothing else you would ask?"

  "Nothing, Lady. I am in your debt."

  "Nonsense! I enjoyed every minute!"

  "Has there been any progress on determining who poisoned the spring basins?"

  She sighed. "I fear it was Jinther, as you suspected. He was Mifrav's rival for my hand and he often spoke of how strong I was, how resistant to human disease—and of how our children would strengthen his family line."

  Poisoner, perhaps. Poet, no.

  "He had reason to want me widowed; Mifrav confirms he drank from a spring basin but Jinther did not; and it seems that Jinther has no relatives on the mainland. We don't know, yet, who provided the spell. It was far beyond his knowledge of magic. I expect when word of my husband's recovery reaches him, he will never return."

  "I agree," I said. "If he were stupid enough to face that risk, he could not have devised such a plan. It was nearly perfect."

  "Except for you," she said.

  "Except for Simon's fish." The boy looked ready to float off of the plank bench.

  Attendants emerged from the cottage. She was helped from the wagon. "I hope you will visit in the future," she said. "That is not a mere pleasantry. I am interested in following young Simon's progress."

&n
bsp; "We will." When the path was clear, I flipped the reins on the horse's back and we pulled slowly away. There was no rush; everything was already packed in the back of the wagon and our boat wouldn't sail until after high sun.

  Simon stopped waving and turned forward. "Will we really come back?"

  "Of course. It's not so terribly far; the mainland is almost close enough to see when the weather is clear, and the capital just a day's easy journey inland after that."

  "That would be nice, Ma'am." He fidgeted a bit as the horse clopped along.

  "What's on your mind?"

  "Am I your apprentice, now, Ma'am? You're a wizard and I can't even read common tongue. How can I learn anything? All those books..."

  "Let's just say you're an assistant for now, shall we? You can learn to read—but not Latin yet—and you can find out how much of magic is dull, solitary work. If, after that, you're still interested, you can become an apprentice. We have four students right now, but only one boy, so Toby will be glad if you choose to go on; but it's something you must really want. Fair?"

  "Yes, Ma'am! I'll work hard, Ma'am. Were you really 'prenticed once? To a seamstress?"

  "I promised you that story, didn't I? Very well." The path was clear and we had it to ourselves. I let the reins lie loose across my lap. "Once upon a time..." I caught his expression of concern. "Don't worry, boy, this tale is true. Once upon a time, there was a seamstress's apprentice. She was underfed and often beaten for offences that were mostly imaginings of her mistress—a woman who could make vinegar by walking past an orchard. The worst part, though, was doing the same tasks—cut, pin, sew, sew, sew, over and over, day after day. She thought she would go mad."

  "Did she run away?"

  "She tried once and still carries scars that misadventure earned her." The horse had drifted to a stop. I shook the reins and we moved on. "Then, one autumn morning, a mage from the King's court came through the village..."

  Homecoming

  Jonathan Shipley

  It was the one night when ghosts could walk among mortals, and Cathlin had returned to her old home to join the Midwinter festivities. She knew that she had to take care in her dealings with those still alive lest she drain their lifeforce, but there was one young man who was so handsome, and such a good dancer...

  With this appearance in SWORD & SORCERESS, Fort Worth writer Jonathan Shipley comes full circle. His first professional publication was in Marion Zimmer Bradley's FANTASY MAGAZINE in 1992. Since that time, his short stories have appeared in Weird Tales, Dragon Magazine, and a dozen speculative fiction anthologies. However, he is actually a novel writer at heart and spends most of his writing time on a vast story arc that ranges from Nazi occultism to vampires to futuristic space opera. The Arburg Clan Gather in "Homecoming" is a setting that has been used in other short stories and in several of the novels.

  I shouldn't be here, Cathlin thought as a great bonfire crackled to life in the courtyard outside. I've been dead too long.

  She stood at the window, staring at the flames that lit the deepening twilight. It could only be a few moments past sunset, yet she had no recollection of seeing it. Only the dusk.

  The icy draft seeping around the edges of the window frame chilled her—physically chilled her, as if she truly lived again. That as much as the snow-capped roofs of the buildings across the court told her the bonfire marked the beginning of the empty time between the end of one year and the beginning of the next.

  Midwinter.

  Between the heartbeats of what was and what would be, all things were possible—even this breach of death itself. She knew the lore, but had never given it much credence. Now she herself was a revenant, drawn back to her ancestral hall. It felt askew, this sudden foray into the corporeal world. Being here was none of her doing, but she doubted it was without purpose.

  Cathlin turned from the window, recognized that she was in the gallery overlooking the Great Hall. Much was unfamiliar. The chairs were heavily padded in a manner unknown in her day. The portraits of unrecognized generations confirmed that it was centuries, not years, since she had last trod here.

  Yet the smells were the same—the mustiness of damp plaster, the beeswax on the furniture. And wafting through it all, the indefinable smell of home.

  The next moment, the outer door opened and a great throng crowded into the Great Hall below, bringing with them the unique spicy-smoky scent of the Midwinter bonfire. It was Festival, the Clan Gather, and they were eager for the festivities.

  Cathlin found herself yearning to be among the Clan once more. Whatever her purpose for being here, she would not forswear this chance to see what the centuries had wrought in her bloodline. She had lived and died for the Clan and needed to know that it thrived. It was all she asked of this time so far distant from her own. Just this one night of well-being and homecoming.

  She was dressed for Festival in a gown of green velvet trimmed in gold, traditional Clan Arburg colors. The full skirt, layered with petticoats, was made to swirl on the dance floor but was next to impossible to sit in. It was a silly thing, but very like other green-and-gold gowns she had worn long ago. It made her remember the music and dancing, made her glad she had returned in her prime and not as the dowdy matron she had been at death.

  Casting one last look at the blaze of glory in the yard, she sought the staircase down to the Great Hall. For as long as the Midwinter flames burned, she would live once more.

  From the stair landing, she saw the household and guests assembling, chatting excitedly as musicians tuned their flutes and strings. As her eyes drifted from one face to another, she felt a surge of unexpected pride. The Arburg clan—her children's children—gathered together now as then. She started down the steps, then stopped cold.

  An upturned face was staring at her intently. She felt a sudden surge of déjà vu, surprise coupled with misplaced recognition. Seeing her own emerald-green eyes staring back at her from a stranger's face loosed a whole cloud of emotions too complex to identify. She knew him, sensed him across the generations. This one was blood of her blood in a way none of the others were. Then he looked away and was swallowed up by the crowd.

  She kept scanning for him as she descended the steps. Something about this stranger pulled at her very being. Slowly, she made her way to the dais on the far wall. There the Lord of the Hall was receiving homage as she herself had once received homage. She dropped a deep curtsy before the dais.

  "Rise and be welcome, kinswomen," he said. There was more—ritual words of Festival, a few inevitable questions—but nothing beyond what courtesy demanded. Even while she spoke, Cathlin found her attention going to the young girl at the Lord's right hand, the station of the heir. Cathlin herself had once stood in that spot, only child of a sonless father, and knew it to be the beginning of a long fight. To be acclaimed Lady of the Hall was one thing; to truly rule the Clan was quite another.

  She moved on, letting the milling crowd take her where it would. It was enough to feel the worn stone beneath her feet and take in the smells of spice and evergreen and tallow.

  "Her name is Melisande."

  Cathlin turned as a figure detached itself from the shadows of a nearby doorway. He of the green eyes.

  Young. Very young. She studied his face and found the straight nose and high cheekbones disturbingly familiar. But he was only a youth, barely taller than she. Her gaze drifted to the auburn hair, tied back to keep it off his face for the dancing, and returned to the haunting green eyes. He made her uneasy, and that in itself intrigued her.

  "Melisande?" she repeated.

  "Lord Gareth's daughter. She seemed to hold your interest." He offered his arm. "May I have the honor, Mistress? Or should I say 'cousin'? I heard you introduce yourself as Cousin Cathlin."

  You hear and see a great deal, Cathlin thought. "Then you have me at a disadvantage, sir."

  He tendered a deep bow. "Brendan of Invarra, Cousin. Bren, to my friends." His mouth quirked into a rakish grin. "And I assure you th
at Bren is not half as bad as rumor makes him."

  Brendan, it seemed, had a reputation. Why was she not surprised? She placed her hand in his and let him lead her back into the crowd, studying his attire out of the corner of her eye. He was dressed in embroidered linen shirt, kilt, and knee-high stockings of tartan wool. He wore the outfit well, more naturally than some of the others sporting kilts.

  Heads turned as they passed through the crowd. Of course, the like stamp of their faces would arouse curiosity, but there was something else as well. Dark glances of young bravos, hastily averted stares from the girls on their arms. She noted each reaction, and Bren, it seemed, noted her reaction. As soon as they reached a quiet corner near the pastry table, he turned with a hesitant smile.

  "They're all thinking what a lecher I am—not that any of them really know." He glanced down at the floor awkwardly. "I'm twice condemned before speaking once."

  He wasn't bad. The innocent smile, the awkward pause, the slight inflection of hurt in his words. And always the face of a young angel. He seemed to know all the tricks. But she knew them better.

  "Don't be silly," she smiled, patting his hand. "I understand completely. My brother was a lecher and we got along fine—at least until he cuckolded one crofter too many."

  Bren floundered briefly, coughing behind his hand to cover his moment of confusion. An instant later, he was smiling again. "So another branch of the family," he said, starting over with a new, more sophisticated face. "What province do you hail from? Somewhere in the Hedriades, I'll wager."

  "Why no," she said. "I've never been there. Mostly I've just traveled the family trade route. This is the first place that's really felt like home."

  "But look at us"—his fingertips traced a line down the side of his face—"a matched set. The same grandfather, perhaps? Or great-grandfather?"

  She sensed an undercurrent of intensity behind the easy smile. He was probing and she didn't know enough of this time to manufacture a convincing response. "Perhaps," she said. "My father told a lot of stories about the family but wasn't precise with the facts. Tell me about your grandfather, and maybe I'll recognize him from Father's stories. You say he was from the Hedriades?"