FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy

by Mercedes Lackey

  “Say no more, sir. I’ll make your excuses for you,” he promptly left.

  After an hour, a knock at the door interrupted my thoughts, and for a moment I was hopeful that perhaps Penny had forgiven me for frightening her. Opening the door, I found Dorian outside with a tray of food. “I thought you might be hungry,” he said.

  The sight of fresh bread and cheese reminded me that I had missed breakfast. My stomach rumbled. “Dorian come in, I could use a friend about now.” I put my depression aside and put on my broadest smile for him.

  I ate everything he had brought and soon found myself collecting the crumbs from the plate. Now that my belly was relatively more at ease, I felt more able to talk, so I spent some time describing my woes to Dorian. He was suitably impressed with the depths of my folly. “You sure don’t do things by halves, Mort,” he remarked.

  I had to agree.

  “At least you got to escort Lady Rose to the parlor,” he remarked. My friend has always been easy to read.

  “Ok let’s hear it,” I said pointedly. “I saw you watching her as we came in. Do you know her somehow?”

  He looked embarrassed, “You remember when I was fostered out last year?” It was a common practice for the sons and daughters of nobility to live for a year or two at another lord’s estate. It helped them learn more about the handling of the kingdom, gave them a broader experience of the world, and forged ties with other members of the ruling class.

  “I do, someplace in Albamarl wasn’t it?” Then I remembered, Highcastle’s home was in the capitol. “Ohhh...,” I articulated. I have a remarkable vocabulary when I put my mind to it. Finally a concise sentence came to me. “You were smitten, huh?”

  “Basically,” he replied. “We didn’t speak very much though, so I doubt she even remembers me.”

  “You might be wrong there,” I said, remembering her glancing at him earlier, but I didn’t say anything more about it. We talked for a while longer before he left. But neither of us had any decent ideas regarding my problem with Devon Tremont.

  Once he had gone, I headed to the library to retrieve the third book, A Grammar of Lycian.

  Chapter VI

  RAREST OF ALL ARE THOSE born with both a high emittance and a high capacitance. How many are born so is uncertain, probably no more than one among thousands, and few of those survive past adolescence. The reason for this is that their talents are extremely dangerous, more so to themselves than others. A good analogy for this would be a child given a razor blade or other dangerous implement; they are more likely to harm themselves than learn to use it properly. Those few who do survive to adulthood, find themselves alone with little guidance in the proper use of their gifts, unless they are lucky enough to be found by someone of knowledge. Due to these unfortunate facts, truly gifted mages, or wizards as they are often called, are quite rare, and usually solitary, except in some very populous cities.

  ~Marcus the Heretic,

  On the Nature of Faith and Magic

  It was late as Penelope Cooper walked down the hallway. Her duties had kept her overlong, and she was tired. All she could think of was getting to her quarters and finding some much deserved rest. As chance would have it, she passed through the same corridor that led to the library. Had she passed through only five minutes earlier she would have encountered Mordecai, and things might have gone very differently.

  As it was, she was alone in the hallway and wrapped in her thoughts. She felt guilty for her behavior earlier. She knew Mort hadn’t meant to frighten her, but she had been completely unprepared when that fiercely brilliant ball of light had blinded her in his room. That had not been what she had expected when he had her draw the curtains and sit next to him on the bed. Truthfully she was not certain how she would have reacted if he had made a pass at her; she had much less experience with men than he seemed to believe.

  The subsequent darkness followed by Marcus’ abrupt appearance had thoroughly unnerved her and thrown her into a panic. Her reaction had left her abashed, and she hadn’t known how to respond when he had looked at her in the sun room earlier, which made her feel worse.

  She was interrupted in her reverie by a door opening as she passed.

  “Miss, would you mind helping me for a moment?” Lord Devon stood in the doorway looking upset and anxious. Terrific, she was exhausted already and now it seemed her sleep would be delayed even longer.

  “Certainly, Your Lordship, how may I be of service?” she responded in her most pleasant tone. She took pride in her job and wouldn’t let something like fatigue spoil her performance.

  “Did you clean my room earlier? After my bags were delivered?” he asked.

  “No your lordship, I cleaned and aired all the rooms this morning before you and the other guests arrived.” She hoped this wasn’t leading up to some petulant insistence that the pillows or sheets weren’t fresh enough.

  “Perhaps you could help me then, I seem to have lost something. Would you help me look?” Despite his reputation among the castle staff, he seemed exceptionally polite.

  “I really shouldn’t be entering your chambers this time of night, sir,” she replied. He seemed harmless enough, but that sort of rumor could ruin a girl at her age.

  “I understand. I’ll leave the door open if you prefer. It’s just that I’ve lost a necklace, and I’m beside myself trying to find it. It’s an heirloom you see.” He turned his back to her and went inside, leaving the door open. With an inward sigh she followed him and he began searching through the drawers of the dressing table. “Would you check the wardrobe for me? It’s dark in there and I can’t see very well,” he suggested.

  She had no sooner opened the wardrobe and leaned in to look, when she heard the door shut, followed by the sound of a key in the lock. She whirled around. Devon was putting the key into his pocket. A cold shiver ran down her spine as she saw the look on his face. She had heard stories of maids abused by young lords before, but things like this had never happened within the walls of Lancaster Castle. Such was the Duke’s reputation that no one had dared affront his hospitality before.

  “Sir if you think to spoil me, I’ll scream. The good duke won’t stand for treating the staff like this,” she tried to keep her voice level, but she could feel panic setting in. Devon had at least fifty pounds on her, and while she was no shrinking violet, she had little doubt he could overpower her. Her eyes scanned the room frantically, looking for anything she could use as a weapon to keep him at bay. It occurred to her that if she injured a peer of the realm, she might be put to death at worst, beaten and dismissed at best.

  He chuckled, “Go ahead and scream if you like. Who will take your word over mine? I found you rifling through my possessions when I returned to my room.” As he said this, he idly reached over and knocked a jewelry case from the top of the dressing table. Rings and jewels worth more than she would ever earn scattered across the floor. “Looks like you were startled when I found you.”

  Despair crashed over Penny in a dark wave. There was no escape left to her now, in an instant she knew her life was over, her dreams dashed by this pompous and spoiled lordling. The thought made her angry, and she determined to scream anyway. If she was to be driven into the mud she would make sure as much dirt rubbed off on the bastard who had done it as possible. She took a deep breath.

  “Relax, I have no intention of harming you my dear, or deflowering you either, if that is what you fear. I simply want the answers to a few questions.” He was smiling reassuringly at her.

  “What questions?” she asked. For a second, hope lit within her and she was ashamed at how easily he had manipulated her.

  “Tell me about your friend, Master Eldridge.” That confused her utterly. Why is he interested in Mort? she thought to herself. As far as she knew, Mordecai should be completely beneath the notice of someone like Devon Tremont.

  “Pardon sir, I don’t know him at all, he only recently arrived here and...” she started, but Devon stepped forward suddenly. She paus
ed; he stood only inches from her now.

  “What was your name girl?”

  “Penelope sir, but folks here call me Penny,” she answered, hating how servile she sounded.

  “Well, Penelope who goes by Penny, let me explain something. Are you listening?” He still sounded calm, but she could hear his breath coming more hoarsely now. She didn’t trust herself to speak, but she managed to nod. If you’ve ever been confronted by a large wild animal when you were a child, you might understand how she felt. The menace was rolling off of him in waves.

  “I absolutely abhor being lied to Penny. I hate it. And I think you’re lying to me now. I know it, because I saw you watching him earlier.” Penny’s heart was beating so rapidly she felt it would surely burst from her chest. “Do you think me a fool Penny?” She kept her head down, to avoid his eyes, but he was having none of it. “Look at me Penny.” He lifted her chin. Large tears welled up and ran down her cheeks, betraying her fear.

  “Do you know Master Eldridge?”

  “I told you sir, I don’t, and I only watched him because he seemed handsome...” Her head whipped back from a stinging slap, strong enough to hurt like hell, yet soft enough to avoid bruising. Something snapped and her fear turned to rage. She brought her hand up to strike him in return and so furious was she, that if it had connected, he most surely would have taken a bruise. He was ready for her though; strong and quick he caught her by the wrist and abruptly twisted her arm, spinning her around and pinning it behind her. Her arm felt near to breaking as he applied a steadily increasing pressure. Penny was helpless now, as he pressed her face first onto the mattress.

  “Now you’re starting to piss me off. Which is too bad for you, Penny. I had wanted to keep this a nice friendly chat, but you just don’t seem to want to cooperate.” He was lying across her, using his weight to keep her pinned, and worse, she felt a disturbing bulge behind her. His voice was coarse and husky in her ear as he continued, “Nothing excites me more than a girl with a fiery disposition. I’ve learned to break girls like you. Just like a young mare, sometimes you have to ride them hard to tame them to the bit and bridle. I’m sure your husband will thank me someday.” His hand was under her skirt now, relentlessly moving up her leg.

  Desperation robbed her of reason for a moment, “No wait, wait, I’ll tell you. Please stop! He’s the blacksmith’s son. He’s not important, please you can’t do this!” She was crying now, her voice thick with fear. His hand had reached the top of her thigh now and when she felt his fingers touch her there, she lost control. A primal scream of rage and terror ripped out of her throat, seeking to deny the injustice being done to her.

  The sound of it was so great that for a moment he drew back, shocked at the volume of sound coming from such a young woman. “Grethak” he barked in a tone of command, and abruptly her scream was cut off, every muscle in her body locked rigidly in place. Devon let go of her arm and rolled her over on the bed so he could see her face.

  “You really are something special aren’t you my dear? I don’t believe I have ever heard a maiden scream as loudly as you just did.” He smiled at her, “But then you won’t be a maiden for much longer will you?” Devon’s face was rapt with pleasure as he stared down at her. He reached out and began calmly trying to unlace her bodice, which soon proved to be too difficult. Taking hold of her neckline he ripped it wide, exposing her breasts.

  Penny couldn’t breathe; her lungs were paralyzed just as surely as the rest of her muscles. The only movement left to her was that of her eyes, which rolled wildly as she looked for some means of escape. Her head was pounding in time with her heart as she fought to draw breath. Devon leaned down and slowly licked her face, leaving a trail of spittle from her neck to her lips. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen such a lovely shade of purple,” he mocked. “Keltis” he spoke and touched her throat, before running his hand down to pinch her nipple rudely. Her throat opened and she was suddenly able to draw breath. She drew air into her lungs, her breath coming in great heaving sobs. She prepared to scream again, but he put his finger to his lips, warning her. Fear stopped her.

  “Now, now, let’s be a good girl. If you scream again, I might not let you have air next time. Besides, isn’t it so much nicer when you have some complicity in this? The knowledge that you could have screamed but didn’t? Sometimes it takes something like that to teach someone just how important life is; certainly it’s worth more than your maidenhead.” He leered as he began sliding her skirt up, exposing her nakedness to the light.

  Penny closed her eyes, the awful reality of it being too much to look upon any longer. Then blessed unconsciousness overtook her, and she knew no more.

  Chapter VII

  THE SKILLED USE OF AYTHAR by a wizard relies on the last of the three important characteristics, called simply enough, ‘control’. Of the three attributes, it is the only one that is able to change significantly with practice or training. Mages that survive puberty generally learn to channel their aythar using some method of symbolism and ritual, generally through the use of one or more dead languages. Although aythar may be used without language or symbols, as it often is in the young, it is quite dangerous to do so. Wizards learn the use of a language or system of rituals in order to control not merely ‘how’ their power is released, but also ‘when’. An untrained mage whose power lies purely in his thoughts is dangerous indeed, as his power may come to the fore at any moment and lend deadly puissance to unbidden thoughts.

  For the same reason mages eschew purely mental methods for channeling their abilities, use of their common tongue for the purpose is generally avoided. The best tool for the purpose is considered to be a dead language, one acquired by deliberate learning after reaching puberty. It is also believed that certain languages that have been used for this purpose over many generations serve best, as the words and phrases acquire a certain amount of power in their own right. Because of this, even individuals with a moderate to low emittance are sometimes able to effect minor spells by using language and symbols that have acquired some inherent power due to long use by mages past.

  ~Marcus the Heretic,

  On the Nature of Faith and Magic

  I got to the library without meeting anyone in the corridors, which was a relief. After the day I had had, I wasn’t really looking forward to seeing people. Once inside I retrieved the book and took a moment to weigh it in my hands. It was an impressive tome weighing several pounds and covered with arcane words and symbols that glowed in my sight. Having already read a substantial part of Vestrius’ journal, I felt sure it would make the remainder much easier to understand. Mastery of the Lycian tongue was quite literally the most important knowledge I could gain, it being the means for me to control my incipient abilities.

  Feeling a little better, I tucked it under my arm and headed back toward my room. My life might be a mess in most respects, but here at least was a problem I could solve through honest application of effort. Wrapped in my own thoughts, I barely noticed the voices coming from one of the rooms along the hallway. I kept walking, wondering how late I could stay up studying and still be able to rise at the proper time in the morning, when a shrill scream cut through my ruminations. It was a sound I’ll never forget. A raw expression of fear and terror, the sort of scream you sometimes imagine but hope never to hear. The sort of sound someone might make falling to their death. It stopped abruptly, cut off before it could be completed.

  I looked around anxiously, unsure which direction it had come from. The book distracted me so I set it down against the wall to free my hands and walked back the way I had come. There. I could hear someone talking behind a door. I checked the doors on both sides before I found the correct one, and leaning in I thought I could hear Devon’s voice, speaking calmly to someone else. I almost moved on at that point; surely the person that had given that blood curdling yell couldn’t be inside, not with Devon talking in such a composed manner.

  I pulled my head back from the door frame, and then I
felt a sudden release of power. My practice over the last few days had made me quite familiar with the sensation. That held my attention. I pressed my ear firmly to the door, straining to hear his voice through the thick wood. The words that finally came chilled my blood, “Sometimes it takes something like that to teach someone just how important life is; certainly it’s worth more than your maidenhead.” I couldn’t be sure who Devon was speaking to, but it was clear that whoever it was, they were in terrible trouble.

  Unsure what to do, I drew a deep breath and used the only spell I knew that might help, “Shibal,” I intoned quietly with as much power as I had, directing my will beyond the door. I listened again, I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard someone slump to the floor, and Devon was no longer talking. Satisfied I tried the door handle.

  It was locked, of course. I had no knowledge that would get me past locked doors, and the doors in Castle Lancaster were so sturdily constructed it would take two men and a ram to batter one down. I stared at the door, angry at my own ignorance. Surely if I were better educated there would be a simple way to bypass the lock. Thinking of the state the poor girl must be in gave urgency to my anger. Placing my hand on the door, I closed my eyes and bowed my head. I took a deep breath and drew my power up as I filled my lungs, pulling in ever more, ‘till it felt as if it would be a race to see which burst first, my mind or my chest. I had never tried to do something like this before, but I knew that without proper words it would take a lot of strength. Then I began to exhale slowly, building pressure in my hand as it pressed against the door. As my breath emptied, I began to feel the door give way, and I blew the rest of the air from my lungs in an explosive rush. The result was an explosion of wood and splinters as the door disintegrated, slivers of wood flying in every direction.

  The vision I found within was one that still gives me nightmares. Devon lay slumped on the floor on the opposite side of bed, but I had no attention to spare for him. The figure on the bed riveted me in place. It was Penny, her long dark hair had come loose from the bun she usually kept it in when working, and it lay scattered about her head in dark ringlets. Her uniform was ripped open, from her neck to her belly, exposing flesh that I had previously imagined but never would have hoped to see. Her skirt was shoved up above her hips, and her legs were spread, one folded awkwardly under her, while the other was stretched out, her foot touching the floor. She looked dead. A long splinter stood out from her right thigh, blood dripping down onto the linen sheets. If I could describe the emotion that filled me then I would, but there were no words. The world went white, as if all the color had been leached from it, leaving a horror of stark white and black contrasts.