Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXV

by contributors, various

  "More than anywhere else," nodded Bren. "He would have been fairly young at the time—" He paused, realizing perhaps that she was pumping him. The smile barely flickered. "So does this match up with any of your family stories?"

  As she shook her head, she stepped back and studied his costume, as though it had just caught her eye. "I hadn't heard of kilts being an Arburg tradition."

  "Oh, they are," he assured her. "Does it remind you of the Pactish Highlands, Cousin Cathlin?"

  "Only in part—and certainly not at Midwinter." She gave his kilt another studied glance, then abruptly realized she had just more or less admitted a firsthand familiarity with a specific bit of geography. It wasn't a critical slip, but the fact that she had slipped at all made her uneasy. The whole conversation was turning into a slippery eel with both of them trying to control it through the same tactics. The redirected question, the subtle transition, the disarming smile.

  The Gift of Guile they had called it in her time. She had used it often enough to step Clan Arburg through the twisted skein of clan rivalries and bloodfeuds. And Bren had inherited it all. He was probably at this moment taking stock and questioning why Cousin Cathlin wasn't melting before his charms.

  It was almost a shock to realize Bren might prove perilous in a way she hadn't anticipated. In truth, blood of her blood.

  "Bren! There you are." Melisande, Heir Arburg, pushed her way through the crowd. "You disappeared so quickly after you introduced yourself to—" Her sentence died as she saw Cathlin. "Good Festival, Cousins," she finished, flushing furiously.

  "Good Festival, Melisande," said Bren, throwing a friendly grin at the young girl.

  A bit too young for his games, Cathlin thought.

  "Please join us for—" Bren continued.

  "I'm only a stranger," interrupted Cathlin, "but I've heard the household has a recipe for Midwinter cider that's second to none. Are they serving it yet, Mistress Melisande?"

  "Yes," The girl nodded. She looked faintly confused. "May I bring you some?"

  "You do me great honor," Cathlin smiled.

  As Melisande moved off into the sea of faces, Bren gave her a knowing look that made him suddenly look much older. "No room for rivals, eh, Cousin?"

  She parried with a look of unruffled innocence. He didn't realize he was courting an early grave. The old tales warned against physical union between revenants and living mortals. She could drain his lifeforce, usurp his place in life, but that wasn't what she wanted. She had lived a full life. Another she didn't need. Surely that wasn't why she had been called back.

  A fanfare from the instruments interrupted her musings. The Great Hall took on a different character as people cleared the center of the room to provide dancing space. Two lines, male and female were already forming there. By default, she and Bren were joining the dancers without moving a step.

  "It appears we've been coupled," he said with a lift of one eyebrow. "I hope you can dance, Cousin." He made it into a challenge.

  Cathlin replied with an ironic curtsy. If he wanted to shift the challenge to the dance floor, she would follow that lead and dance him under the table. "The Reel Tambaric," she said, recognizing the pattern.

  "Always the first dance of Midwinter," he said. "It's known then—along the trade routes?"

  "At least a form of it."

  "A truer form, I hope, than you'll see here tonight." The contempt in his voice was obvious. "I fear people today are too lazy to learn the steps right." He offered his arm, escorted her to the end of one line, then took his place across from her.

  The beat began slowly on the tabors and both lines swayed in tempo. Cathlin found the sense of yesteryear almost overwhelming. She could have been back at her last Midwinter Festival, when she was still Lady of the Hall.

  The music picked up tempo as the shawms and flutes added melody atop the rhythm. The lines of dancers whirled, crossed, and formed a corridor for the first couple to pass between. Bren had been right, she noted. The steps of the solo couple were much simplified from what she remembered. The object in her day had been for each couple to try to outdo the others in grace and complexity of movement.

  The first pair reached the end of their solo and faded back into their respective rows. The lines took up the beat, swaying and whirling in unison before settling to frame the progress of the second couple. Again Cathlin was disappointed. She guessed all the solos would be the same—pleasant but passionless. She caught Bren's eye across the corridor and wordlessly offered a temporary truce. He took it. They'd be at each other throat's again later, but for now they would show the clan a true Reel Tambaric.

  What they would show them, she wasn't exactly sure. Separated by hundreds of years, the chance of his steps matching hers was slight. Still, she felt it would work. If nothing else, there'd be passion.

  On down the line the dance moved. When finally she and Bren were end couple, she felt the tension of anticipation. She always loved this moment in the dance.

  She whirled from her line as Bren whirled from his to meet her. They crossed, circled each other, and locked hands. She double-stepped to the left and found to her delight that he was doing the same. He did know the traditional steps. She relaxed and let her body fall into the old sequences, secure that he could support her patterns. And he loved the moment as much as she, that was clear.

  All too soon they reached the end of the corridor and had to give up the solo. Cathlin felt refreshed, despite the physical exertion. Part of her seemed to be just waking up. Another couple—the last—followed them and took their places at the end, and the tabor beat slowed and finally faded. There was a moment of complete silence, then the lines dissolved with a rush of laughter and voices. Bren was momentarily engulfed and pushed away.

  "That was beauteous," said Melisande, cropping up at Cathlin's elbow with a raisin cake and cup of cider in hand. "It must have taken days of practice together?"

  Cathlin shook her head as she tracked Bren's movements in the tangle of couples. "That's the way the Reel used to look a long time ago. Anyone who knows the steps of the old dance patterns could do the same." Except that no one here knew the old dance patterns. No one but herself and Bren.

  "I'd love to dance the Reel like that next Midwinter," sighed the girl, following Cathlin's gaze. The look on her face left no doubt with whom.

  Cathlin slipped a hand around the girl's waist. "Then do it. Dance from the heart and your feet will follow." The irony was bittersweet. So much she might have taught the young heir, and they talked only of dance steps.

  "Do you really think that—" Melisande blushed and fell silent as Bren approached them. Cathlin felt the tension in the girl's body.

  "Well met, Mistress Cathlin," he said with a little bow. "Will you grant me the pleasure of another?"

  "Not just now, Cousin Brendan," answered Cathlin. "Perhaps later—"

  "Oh, do dance again," urged Melisande. "The two of you are such a joy to watch—like dreams from the old days. To think that both of you were strangers to the Hall a few hours ago, and now you're the talk of the Festival."

  "Perhaps the honor should go to the fair Heir Arburg," said Bren with a smile to shame the sun. He held out his arm to Melisande.

  Cathlin watched them take the floor, feeling more and more on edge. Bren a stranger here? His easy familiarity with the surroundings had made her assume otherwise. He met her gaze and she realized the truce was off. There was something predatory in his smile now. What was making him react to her so? She took the question and turned it on herself. Why was she reacting to him so strongly? It was more than the sum total of the unanswered questions he represented. He reminded her too much of herself.

  The thought brought her up cold. That was exactly it. He was almost a mirror image of herself. And she was dead.

  The second dance was a more relaxed circle dance with little opportunity for flashy footwork. Cathlin kept studying Bren's movements in close detail. Even at this slower pace, there were subtle differences
in balance and rhythm that set him apart from the others in the circle. He truly was dancing from another century.

  Questions flooded her mind. Who was he? Why was he here across time? Both the uncanny likeness and the dance style suggested he was only a generation or two removed from her own era. It hardly seemed conceivable, yet her own visitation proved that even stranger things were possible. As to why he had come, she had no answers. Only misgivings.

  At the close of the dance, Bren took Melisande by the arm and drew her off into the corner. The last trace of angel innocence vanished in a surge of heat and fire as he looked at her.

  The urge to protect the girl welled up in Cathlin. For this moment I was brought here, she thought. To fulfill the duty of one Lady of the Hall to another. Melisande's path would be treacherous enough without Bren's cross-time intrigues.

  Cathlin headed toward the corner, ready to guile or fight or whatever it took to pry him off Melisande. They both looked up as she approached.

  "Your father requests you attend him at the dais," Cathlin told the girl. It was a shallow lie, easily exposed, but it got Melisande moving across the room quickly enough.

  Bren frowned after her a moment, then shifted the heat of his attention to Cathlin. "Perhaps, Cousin," he murmured, "it's been too much dancing and too little getting to know each other. Come, let us find somewhere quieter"—his smile beckoned—"to talk."

  The come-hither in his eyes, his stance, the part of his lips was undeniable. An direct attempt to seduce her? It ought to have been laughable, but it wasn't. She might even have been tempted but for the supreme irony of the moment. Blood of her blood. The pup had inherited that, too.

  He seemed to feel his arrows going astray and leaned closer. "The delights I could show you," he half growled, half whispered. "This night is for the making of memories."

  She let a dozen sharp-edged retorts die unspoken. Spurned, Bren would merely seek out his original target, and by all signals, the girl was more than willing.

  "The making of memories," Bren repeated, pressing closer until his face was scant inches from hers. "The night is ours... this one night of fire."

  "Perhaps so," she said softly, mixing in just the right amount of hesitation. Her mind, however, raced. This one night of fire. Suddenly it was clear why Bren had only the dark hours to work his purposes. He was no more alive than she. When the Midwinter bonfire died at sunrise, they both would fade as if they had never been.

  Or was that the crux of the matter? If revenants could take on substance through physical union, it might well explain his eagerness. And to think she had been afraid of hurting him with such a liaison.

  The thought brought a bittersweet smile to her lips. Bren read that as final acquiescence and began nuzzling her neck. She let him.

  Come sunrise, he was going to be very disappointed.

  Saved by the Soap

  Susan Wolven

  I always look for something short and funny for the end of the anthology. So here is the story of Nell, a disaster as a student mage, who found her true calling as a washerwoman.

  Sue says that even after twenty five years she always looks forward to buying the newest SWORD AND SORCERESS anthology and is delighted to have one of her stories included this year. Her first professional fiction sale was to SWORD AND SORCERESS 16—she remembers getting that acceptance letter from Marion (and doing a 'happy dance' around her kitchen) as if it were yesterday. For the last ten years she has made her living as a freelance writer, making most of her income writing copy for video and DVD packaging, but she says that fiction sales are always the biggest thrill. This story was inspired by some personal soul-searching in which she realized that even small positive changes can end up having a huge impact on one's life. She lives in the San Bernardino Mountains in Southern California with four cats.

  Nell gripped the edge of the huge washing tub, her eyes darting between the two groups of soldiers bearing down on her. Their swords were sheathed, but the words they shouted at each other cut as deep as any blade. Then, as the hot, steamy air in the washroom parted before them, Nell gasped. One group wore relatively clean uniforms while the other group's muslin shirts, leather jerkins and doeskin trousers were filthy and ripped, blood from numerous wounds showing reddish-brown in the dim light.

  "By all that is holy!"

  Nell flinched as Commander Leina's voice boomed out loudly from the doorway. Washerwomen jumped out of Leina's way as she slid and almost fell on the wet stone floor. By the time she reached the back corner her hair was clinging to her neck, her uniform sticking to her body like a damp, second skin.

  "Not good, not good," Nell stuttered as she edged away from the tub.

  But at least, for the moment, the soldiers' focus had shifted from her to their Commander. Nell took another step back, trying to disappear into the shadows and steam.

  "Enough!" Leina held up her hand and the room fell silent. "With all the fighting raging along our borders I'd think you would have more important things to worry about than laundry."

  "It's a matter of life or death!" someone shouted.

  Leina ignored the shout as she turned to the group of clean soldiers and motioned their Captain forward. "Skyre?"

  "Nell washed our uniforms but not theirs," Skyre answered. "We can't help it if ours stayed cleaner during our nightly patrol."

  Leina shook her head in disbelief and turned to the dirty group of soldiers. "Captain Pela?"

  "This isn't about dirt, Commander. It truly is life or death. Look at us." Pela motioned towards her soldiers. "Both Skyre's and my soldiers were ambushed this morning on our way back from our nightly patrols. At one point we fought side by side. So why are we filthy and injured while Skyre's soldiers are clean and without a single scratch?"

  Skyre shrugged. "We are obviously better fighters."

  "No," Pela shot back. "We are obviously cursed!"

  Leina stared at Pela, one eyebrow raised. "You honestly believe someone cursed your laundry?"

  "Yes and she's hiding behind you!"

  Knowing she could hide no longer, Nell stepped forward. Her heart almost stuttered to a stop as the Commander's eyes widened, then quickly narrowed. Nell looked down at the floor, fatigue and dizziness threatening to overcome her.

  She remembers me!

  "I've seen her sneak down here at night after everyone else is in their beds," Pela said, her voice low and threatening. "She's up to something."

  Nell knees began to shake as the wet boots of Commander Leina came into view before her downcast eyes.

  "Why don't you tell me what this is all about?" Leina said brusquely.

  "I'm not sure what it's about, Commander," Nell said, forcing the words past the lump in her throat.

  Pela glared at Nell, her feet braced as if holding herself back from tossing Nell into the wash water. "I'll tell you what it's about, Commander. Last time Nell washed my shirt it ended up torn in three places so I told the head washwoman that Nell was not to wash any of my soldier's uniforms. That got her in trouble so to get back at me she cursed our uniforms."

  Leina cocked her head. "And how would a simple washing girl know how to do that?"

  "Just because she trained with the head mage doesn't mean—" Skyre began.

  Pela threw up her hands. "She knew enough to blow up the mage's tower room!"

  Silence fell over the washroom.

  Leina reached out and lifted Nell's chin. "That's why you look familiar. You're the young girl who came to study with Carsille."

  "Which is where she learned to cast spells." Pela laughed sharply. "Or tried to."

  Leina waved Pela into silence then turned back to Nell. "From what I remember your spells had a tendency to go wrong."

  Nell closed her eyes. It felt as if the walls were closing in on her. Squeezing the very life out of her.

  "Nell?"

  Nell jerked her eyes back to Leina. "Yes, ma'am."

  "When Carsille asked for a new apprentice I let you stay on in the w
ashroom because you have no family to go home to."

  You are my family now! Nell pushed down her fear and nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

  "Yet here I am, dealing with your incompetence again."

  "It's not incompetence, Commander," Skyre said, boldly stepping forward. "It's luck."

  "Maybe for you—" Pela began.

  "Explain, Skyre," Leina said.

  Skyre put her arm around Nell's shoulder, pulling her close. "Nell's washing has been our good luck charm ever since we all returned unharmed from battle a fortnight ago. Since then, every time she washes our clothes we return to camp without injury. Sometimes our uniforms are barely dirty. Yet Pela's soldiers continue to suffer wounds...and get filthy."

  "Because she cursed us!" Pela repeated, jabbing her finger into Nell's cheek.

  "It's not a curse!" Nell shouted back, slapping Pela's finger away. "It's a washing spell."

  "Why you little—"

  Nell fought to catch her breath as Skyre pushed her out of the way and blocked Pela's fist.

  Nell stumbled to her knees.

  What did I just do!

  The room was suddenly too hot, almost suffocating. She knew rogue magic was forbidden and often punishable by death. Yet all she'd tried to do was make sure everyone had a clean uniform. Or at least that's how it started.

  Pela stepped back, a smug look on her face. "I was right."

  "It's a washing spell," Nell repeated, a surge of anger giving her the courage to meet Pela's condemning stare. "Since I didn't wash your clothes it wouldn't have affected you."

  Leina reached down and helped Nell to her feet, a look of amazement on her face. "What exactly does it do?"

  "Commander!" Pela said, outraged. "She struck me!"

  "Oh hush, Pela," Leina said in exasperation. She turned back to Nell. "What does it do?"

  Nell ducked her head, her cheeks flushing scarlet. "It protects the clothes so I don't have to scrub them as hard to get them clean."