Fantasy For Good: A Charitable Anthology

by George R. R. Martin

  “Flatterer!” Elveth chuckled. “And, of course, well, Golden dear, you came along.”

  “And now I’m a dragon!” Golden cried. “And I’ll horde gold and flame useless knights to ash just to build my horde!”

  “And it had never get bigger than mine, missy,” Elveth added warningly.

  “Of course, momma,” Golden replied shyly.

  “How’s your headache?” Simon asked.

  “Better.”

  “Then maybe you can change back,” Simon suggested.

  “Change back?” Golden repeated in wonder. “How do I do that?”

  “Close your eyes,” Elveth told her. “Close your eyes and think your wings away. Think your pretty scales gone and your beautiful slitted eyes turned back into small golden round orbs. Feel your hair on your shoulders and your body shrink as you become a mere human shape.”

  It took more coaxing but in twenty minutes, Golden was once again in human form.

  “Later, dear, we’ll teach you how to build clothes,” Elveth promised as Simon lent his daughter the jacket he’d worn just for the occasion.

  *~*~*~*

  That had been the beginning of dark days all around.

  “Well, I’m learning a lot,” Simon had quipped when challenged to find the good in theemotional stew that was two dragon-queens in the same house—one daughter of the other.

  Golden would wail about her mother, Elveth would shriek about her daughter and Simon would spend most of his time trying to perfect his flameproof armor and—naturally—work on creative ways to keep one or the other from escalating things into a firestorm.

  “The house is made of wood!” Simon had cried hopelessly at the beginning of their first mother-daughter, dragon-dragon spat.

  Not long after the ruins were made of ash.

  A year later, Simon was saying, “I didn’t know your flame was hot enough to melt brick.”

  It had been Golden’s flame which had reduced their second home to glowing glass slag—much to the surprise of all.

  Simon had taken to spending much time in the village tavern—they knew nothing of his home life; thinking him merely a farmer with a wife and daughter but to no avail. It had ended the night Golden had run into the inn crying and a copper dragon had flamed off the roof.

  Simon had, at least, earned much respect from the villagers when he’d stood up to the copper dragon and had sent it packing.

  Of course, as he knew, the whole family was shortly packing to find some new dwelling—not just because of Elveth’s flame tantrum but also because the villagers decided that they were better off without the services of a farmer who spoke to dragons.

  They settled many hundreds of miles away in an entirely new kingdom far in the south where, after not too much time, Simon had begun convincing princes in other lands that their greatest glory lay in challenging a flaming dragon in a duel to the death.

  Simon also learned much of the ways of daughters and mothers from those willing to share their knowledge—and there were many—and grew more and more despairing for the survival of not just his dwelling and his hide, but his family.

  It seemed like it would all end when Golden, just barely fifteen and far too young for a dragon to go a-roaming, fled the house in a flaming huff which set the far mountains aflame.

  With the flames marking a clear path, Simon knew that he and Elveth would also have to move or face uncomfortable questions and other such things—like pitchforks.

  “Pitchforks won’t hurt me!” Elveth had exclaimed when Simon brought them up.

  “I, on the other hand, am not so sturdy,” he reminded her. She had not been so distracted by the loss of her daughter to consider the impending loss of her husband unworthy of her concern and so, as Simon had urged, they fled for healthier parts.

  Fortunately, Simon was a wise man and had their destination long-planned—when living with two strong-minded dragons, it was practically inevitable that one way or the other they would find themselves relocating—so, even her family fled in her wake, Simon had the comfort of knowing that Golden would know where to find them.

  They were settled into the cold, wet north that was safely far away from their other homes for over two years before Elveth started pining for her missing daughter.

  “She’s old enough to take care of herself, dear,” Simon had staunchly assured her—trying to believe the words that he’d been telling himself for the past twenty-four months.

  “A dragon isn’t mature until her fiftieth year!” Elveth cried.

  “You were forty-five when you ate your mother,” Simon reminded her.

  “Exactly!” Elveth said. “I’m glad you take my side in this, Simon. If only you had been quicker, she would still be with us.”

  Simon wisely kept silent. The only result of his reminding his dragon-wife of her part in their daughter’s departure would be to have her grieving over the ashes of her husband… and, doubtless, complaining that that was her daughter’s fault.

  When Elveth had finally dissolved into a flood of heart-broken tears, Simon said, “There, dear, we’ll find her. She’ll be back, you’ll see.”

  “She’d better,” Elveth hiccupped, pushing herself away from her husband, her eyes slitting as she speared him with her gaze. “After all, it’s all your fault.”

  “Yes dear,” Simon had said wisely. He then excused himself on the grounds that he needed to get some water. He did not say that he intended to douse himself in it for protection. He was away long enough that Elveth was asleep when he returned, her human body slumped in her chair, head on the table. With a sigh, Simon gently pulled the chair back, lifted her up, and carried her to their bed.

  He was still drying himself off, having covered her in their blankets, when he heard wings rustling. He dropped the towel and tore out the front door.

  Out of the darkness a golden-haired girl emerged hesitantly.

  “Daddy?” Golden asked in a small quiet voice.

  Simon raced to her, grabbed her and twirled with her in his arms, his head pressed firmly against her shoulder, his tears flowing unabashed. “Baby!”

  They stood, entwined, for the moment that was forever. Then, because even eternity must end, Simon pulled away from her.

  “Are you staying?” he said, glancing back to their newest home and wondering how to manage the re-union and its aftermath.

  Golden shook her head and her fine blond hair shimmered around her like a gold waterfall. “I can’t.”

  Simon heard another noise rustle in the darkness and quickly pushed her behind him, ready to defend her with his life.

  A small, dark-haired, green-eyed woman shrank back from his motions.

  “This is Erayshin,” Golden said, grabbing his arm and pulling her to a halt. She beckoned with her other hand for the girl to approach.

  “Is she –?” Simon asked, his eyes wide in fear.

  Golden shook her head.

  “Does she –?”

  “Yes,” Golden said. She gestured again for the girl to join them. The girl stepped forward. She was smaller than Simon, short, and lithe. Her eyes were on his daughter. They flicked to him with worry and then back to Golden with determination. Golden’s voice hardened as she said, “They wanted her to marry a prince and she didn’t.”

  “She saved me,” Erayshin said, her voice fluid with words learned far away.

  “He brought a dowry,” Golden said, her voice filled with the sharpness and longing that Simon had first heard so many years before from his dragon wife—the voice of dragon lust.

  “There have been twelve more,” Erayshin said. An impish look crossed her green eyes and gave Simon the distinct impression that the foreign girl was just as devilish as his daughter.

  “I’ve got a rather nice horde,” Golden agreed.

  “I asked to come here,” Erayshin said, giving Simon a frank—and somewhat terrified look.

  Simon had rarely seen that look but he knew all the muscles that caused it. He waved to his daug
hter. “Why don’t you let me talk with your friend for a bit, Golden?”

  “I need to stretch my wings,” Golden said agreeably.

  “There are some nice places to the north—the far north,” Simon suggested.

  “Thirty minutes?” Golden asked.

  “That would be plenty,” Simon agreed. His daughter smiled at him, waved at her friend and walked off into the dark. Not long after a beautiful gold dragon erupted into the skies above them and raced away northwards.

  “She’s been gone two years,” Simon said in the silence.

  “I met her about six months after,” Erayshin said, moving closer to him so that she could look up into his eyes in the gloomy dark.

  “My wife—her mother—is inside, sleeping,” Simon said, waving toward the house. “I’d invite you in but… well, Elveth is jealous.”

  Erayshin smiled. “So is your daughter.”

  “She learned it from the best of teachers,” Simon told her with an answering smile. A moment later he said, “Will there be a prince who claims your heart?”

  “Will there be a woman who claims yours?” Erayshin responded. When Simon shook his head, she nodded. “I came to ask you how you managed.”

  “It will be easier for you,” Simon told her. “Without a daughter to argue with, all you’ll have to –”

  “There will be a child,” Erayshin said, her hand going to her belly. “I wanted to know –”

  “A child?” Simon interrupted in amazement. “How?”

  “Golden told me: ‘Where there is a heart, there is a way’,” Erayshin said. “It took her many months but we found a way.”

  “The child is hers?” Simon cried.

  “Ours,” Erayshin said. Her smiled turned inward for a moment. “Just once, she became a male.”

  “I must write of this,” Simon said, nearly running back to the house for pen and paper.

  “Please,” Erayshin said, reaching forward and touching his arm for the first time. “I must know—how, what, how –?”

  Simon put his other hand over hers. “You have to say yes if you say anything,” he said, glad to have this one chance to share his hard-won knowledge with someone. “You must be silent when you want to scream, be obeisant when you want to fight –”

  “I can do that,” Erayshin said, trying to sound certain.

  “You should be ready to move often,” Simon warned.

  “She has a horde, we know where to go,” Erayshin affirmed.

  “And you must never stop loving the both of them,” Simon said finally.

  “How do you do that?” Erayshin said as they heard wings in the distance flapping back toward them. “She’s been gone all this time—how did you –”

  “And you have to love them more than life itself, love them enough to let them go when they need, love who they want,” Simon told her. He moved and brought her close against him, wrapping her into a tight embrace.

  Erayshin looked up at him, her ears wet with tears. “Will you forgive me? For taking her love from you?”

  Simon shook his head, his lips quilting upwards. “You could never do that. I will honor you.”

  “For what?”

  “For the courage to love her.”

  The wings hovered near the forest, stopped, and Simon turned them to face the darkness.

  Golden rushed out into the light, paused fearfully, and then rushed into their open arms.

  While PIERS ANTHONY is most famous for his long-running novel series set in the fictional realm of Xanth, he has written more than 160 books in various genres. He’s been a New York Times bestselling author over twenty times and has won The British Fantasy award for A Spell for Chameleon.

  See more of his work here: www.hipiers.com

  Mountain Spirit

  Piers Anthony

  Part One: Background, dull but necessary

  The Village of Mire was not much of a place, as its descriptive name indicated, but its denizens liked it because it had one outstanding asset: Mt. Miracle. When the villagers had a problem, they could appeal to the mountain, and the mountain would solve it. It had done so many times in past centuries. Once there had been a killing drought, and the mountain had brought copious rain. Once there was an invasion by a foreign power, and the village had been directly in the path of the marching enemy army, certain extinction. But the mountain had spewed out major rivers of lava that encircled the village, causing the invaders to hastily detour around it; later when the lava cooled and weathered it became fertile soil, another benefit. Once the king was going to set aside Mt. Miracle as a tourist attraction, moving all the villagers out and razing their houses; kings were like that. The mountain shook the ground warningly and blew out volcanic dust and clouds of villainous looking gas, satisfying the king’s men that this was no safe place for a resort. Once the village had gotten in a bad financial bind, so had asked for money; the mountain issued a lava stream of solid gold that forever solved that problem. When there was a crop blight, the mountain gave them access to blight-resistant plants on its lower slopes. The mountain always came through without stinting.

  But there was a price: a lovely sacrificial maiden. She had to be the prettiest nubile virgin available, and of good mind and character, a perfect young woman. What the mountain did with her no one knew; she was never seen again. That meant there would be one or more heartbroken young men, not to mention her family. So the villagers were cautious about asking the mountain’s favor.

  Now they had a crisis: almost all their marriage-eligible young women were gone. A recruiter had come and lured them away with the promise of fabulous notoriety and wealth as showgirls in the big city. Only homely women remained. Rather than marry them, the young men were about to go off to the city themselves to seek their fortunes. That would effectively wipe out Mire, which would slowly fade as the older citizens died out. Something had to be done.

  The Village elders cogitated and finally, by dint of much discussion facilitated by several kegs of ale, came up with the answer: they would have to appeal to Mt. Miracle. But how could they meet the mountain’s price, when there were no remaining pretty girls? It was not possible to pass off any ugly one; the mountain knew the difference and would only be annoyed if they tried. They could not risk that.

  But there was one saving grace: the recruiter had taken only girls of the age of consent, planning to return a year later to pick up some more as they came of age. There were some promising prospects, for the village was known for its lovely women. One outstanding girl had been one day short, and so was left behind, to her immense frustration. She would have to wait another year. This was Faire, smart, talented, sweet, virginal, and so lovely that mirrors brightened in her presence. Unfortunately she was also honest, so had refused to lie about her age, to the recruiter’s considerable disappointment.

  The village men clustered about her, each eager to marry her. But Faire had been bitten by the bug of fame, and no longer wanted to settle for life as the dull wife of a dull farmer, miller, or mechanic. She wanted excitement and fame, plus maybe a really hunky rich young man who would forever dote on her. Nothing like that offered in Mire. So when the Village elders approached her, she agreed to become the Mountain Spirit. That at least would give her celebrity for a day, and who knew what surprises the mountain might have for her thereafter?

  Thus it came to the ceremony of sacrifice: the village elders stood on the designated foothill of the mountain and made their case. “We beseech you, Mt. Miracle, to solve our problem: we need a coterie of nubile attractive young women to become loyal hardworking village wives. We offer in exchange Faire.”

  Some of the older denizens shook their heads. It seemed impossible for the mountain to grant this particular wish, assuming it even wanted to try. What could it do? Advertise for immigrants? Girls of that description were notoriously fickle, and were unlikely to settle for the backwoods life. In fact, that attitude was the cause of the problem.

  Faire stepped forward. If the mount
ain accepted her, it would grant the beseechers’ favor. And it did: a delicate gust of wind ruffled her skirt to show her marvelous legs, and tousled her lustrous hair, and the Spirit of the Mountain infused her. Suddenly she was twice as beautiful as before, a manifest impossibility, with an expression of rapture on her face. “Farewell, friends,” she said. “My destiny calls.” Then Faire spread her arms and floated up into the air and on over the forested slope of the mountain’s base. She glided up to the steep rocky faces, and disappeared in the swirling mist of the peak.

  The elders visibly relaxed. They had known their offering was lovely, but there was always a bit of a fog of doubt when dealing with the mountain.

  There was another part of the ceremony. If any man were able to climb the mountain to the top within two days, he could claim the girl and bring her home, and the mountain still would grant the favor. This was a compromise worked out in the mists of antiquity, so that the villagers could maintain hope that the sacrificial maidens could theoretically be rescued, though it had never happened. So there were a number of husky young louts eager to join the chase, the more fools they.

  Part Two: Challenge, as it starts to get interesting

  Heroe considered. The other young men were forging ahead, following the route that the Spirit Maiden had taken, albeit on the ground. This was bound to be mischief. So Heroe chose to walk around the base of the mountain, studying its avenues. He had two days, and a straight climb could be done in one, if unimpeded. That of course was the rub. He knew the reputation of Mt. Miracle: it did not like to be climbed. It tolerated birds on its higher reaches, and ants, but not much else. Finesse was required.

  Heroe didn’t hurry. He was passing a turnip field, careful not to step on the plants. He had a sense that there was something here for him, if he just let it catch up. What he needed was not the fastest route, but the right route. That was not necessarily purely physical.

  A mature villager fell in beside him. “You’re not from Mire,” the man said.