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Decision Point (ARC)

Page 20

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt


  had already started dating Katie Clark. Although she was happy

  to hear from Roshanda, Allie found she hardly cared that Ian had

  gotten over her so quickly. She was so preoccupied with worry

  about the fate of the princess, that she couldn’t imagine being

  upset by such small concerns.

  Allie checked the mailbox every afternoon. Her mother even

  expressed amusement at how excited Allie seemed to get “when

  there’s usually only junk anyway.” Day after day, Allie’s anxiety

  built. She wondered how Avienne had resolved her dilemma.

  Had she relented in the end and agreed to marry cruel old

  Warlord Morwolf? Allie couldn’t imagine kissing anyone with

  only seven teeth—probably brown and crooked ones. And how

  could anybody decide on their life’s mate at age fifteen?

  It was possible that the princess had chosen instead to accept

  exile, to leave her beautiful kingdom. Even an unknown and

  mysterious land sounded better than a place called “Fleamarsh.”

  Or had she decided that her best chance was just to be locked

  inside a nunnery, never to speak a word again, surrendering all

  hope of returning to the outside world and freedom? Allie

  shuddered.

  She had thought her own life was terrible just because she

  had moved to a new place and had no friends. Though she still

  longed for a companion, someone with whom she could share

  her thoughts and her dreams, Allie realized that her problems

  were vanishingly small compared to those of the princess.

  Avienne’s enchanter friend Mythwell had been wounded;

  maybe he was even unconscious or dead by now. What options

  did the princess truly have? Allie wished she could be there to

  comfort her friend, even if it meant sitting in a dank dungeon

  with her.

  It was cloudy on Saturday when Allie took Merlin out to walk

  and to check the mailbox again. She had already tried twice that

  afternoon, and either the postal carrier was late, or they hadn’t

  received any mail at all today.

  Of course there were no postal delivery trucks from fantasy

  land. She wouldn’t see anyone drive up, so she would simply

  keep checking.

  The black lab frolicked, delighted as usual to be outside. He

  pulled on his leash and bounded around the mailbox as Allie

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  opened it. She was startled to find not a rune crystal, but a

  smallish parcel wrapped in crinkly brown parchment and

  covered with arcane symbols. Still, the distinctive runes on the

  wrapping told her who had sent the package. Allie caught her

  breath. She had had so many disappointments over the past

  several days that she had almost given up hope. This might not

  be one of Avienne’s beautiful holographic letters, but it was

  something to be treasured, nevertheless.

  When Allie reached for the package, she felt immediately

  how strangely heavy it was. What had the princess sent her—a

  lead box?

  She had to use both of her hands to slide it across the

  corrugated bottom of the mailbox, and the instant she pulled it

  free, it abruptly felt as if she had lifted a hundred pounds.

  Struggling to hold onto the package, Allie lowered it as quickly

  and gently as she could to the ground. Merlin sniffed at it with

  excitement.

  Allie straightened and noticed that the parcel was obviously,

  and rapidly, growing. She took a step backward. As the package

  continued to expand, parchment tore away to expose a glittering

  crystalline crate as tall as Allie herself. A milky mist swirled

  within it, and more runes were etched across every exposed

  surface. Shadows moved in the depths of the mist, and Allie

  heard sounds coming from the box: a thump and then … a bark?

  Suddenly the crystalline cover of the crate dissolved, and a tiny

  white dog pranced out of the mist.

  Not at all what Allie had expected. The dog looked, for all

  the world, like an oversized dandelion puff that had sprouted four

  legs, a nose, and a tail.

  Merlin stepped forward and greeted the diminutive visitor by

  exchanging thorough sniffs and nose touches. Then the two dogs

  faced the open crate and barked. Its sparkling walls evaporated,

  and the mist cleared, revealing a startled-looking girl with raven

  hair, smudged cheeks, and a filth-encrusted velvet gown. “Are—

  are we truly here?”

  Allie gasped. “Princess Avienne?”

  The girl smiled. “No longer ‘Princess,’ I fear. Merely a

  ‘normal teenage girl,’ like you.”

  Allie laughed with delight and threw her arms around

  Avienne, ignoring the grime and the smell. She released her

  friend and stepped back to marvel at what had happened. This

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  was no illusion, no sparkling hologram. Avienne was as real and

  solid as Allie herself. “You escaped? So you chose exile, after

  all.”

  The ex-princess gave an elegant shrug. “How can it be exile,

  when I have chosen to be in a beautiful land with those who mean

  the most to me?”

  “But—” Allie said. “What about Mythwell?” The dandelion-

  puff barked twice.

  Avienne stooped to pick up the little white dog and hugged

  it. “He had only enough time and strength to send one such

  enchanted parcel. This was the only means by which he could

  escape with me.” She scratched the dog’s head. “It is enough that

  we are alive and together. Can you tell me, dear friend, where we

  can earn food and shelter?”

  Allie grinned. “Let’s go talk to my parents.”

  *

  Allie never found out how her father handled the paperwork

  or the explanations of why her “cousin” had come to live with

  them, but within three days, Avienne was a sophomore at Allie’s

  new high school.

  Allie never regretted the choice to share her parents with the

  gracious ex-princess. They had distinctly different personalities

  and rarely found themselves in competition with each other. That

  was why in their junior year, Avienne helped Allie become

  homecoming queen, complete with crown. In turn, in their senior

  year, Allie masterminded the campaign that got Avienne elected

  as student body president.

  Although it seemed strange to some, since the girls had

  adjacent rooms, Allie and Avienne often wrote little postcards

  and notes, which they left for each other on beds, in backpacks

  or school lockers, on dressers, and on mirrors.

  Rebecca Moesta (pronounced MESS-tuh) wanted to be an

  author since her early teens, but it wasn’t until 1991 that she

  began writing in earnest. Her solo novels include Buffy the

  Vampire Slayer: Little Things (2002) and three novels in the

  Junior Jedi Knights series. With her husband, Kevin J. Anderson,

  she wrote the Crystal Doors trilogy, the movie novelization of

  The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen under the pseudonym

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  “K.J. Anderson” (2003); a movie novelization of Supernova

  (2000); a novelization of the popular StarCraft computer game

  StarCraft: Shadow of the Xel’Naga , under the pseudonym

  “Gabriel Mesta” (2001); and a Star Trek graphic novel, The

  Gorn Crisis (2001). The team, currently working on Star

  Challengers, a Young Adult science fiction series, has also

  written two young adult Titan A.E. novels (2000), two high-tech

  Star Wars Pop-up Books, and the 14-book Young Jedi Knights

  series of Star Wars novels. They are also co-publishers of

  WordFire and can be found online at www.wordfire.com.

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  Ever since their space ship crashed and they were stranded on

  The World, Bailles and Clingerts have been enemies … never

  intermarrying … never having anything to do with each other.

  But in this classic Robert Silverberg tale, it’s Romeo & Juliet in

  space when a Baille and Clingert fall in love …

  T H E O U T B R E E D E R S

  By Robert Silverberg

  The week before his wedding, Ryly Baille went alone into the

  wild forests that separated Baille lands from those of the Clingert

  clan. The lonely journey was a prenuptial tradition among the

  Bailles; his people expected him to return with body toughened

  by exertion, mind sharp and clear from solitary meditation. No

  one at all expected him to meet and fall in love with a Clingert

  girl.

  He left early on a Threeday morning; nine Bailles saw him

  off. Old Fredrog, the Baille Clanfather, wished him well. Minton,

  Ryly’s own father, clasped him by the hand for a long, awkward

  moment. Three of his patrilineal cousins offered their best

  wishes. And Davud, his dearest friend and closest phenotype-

  brother, slapped him affectionately.

  Ryly said good-bye also to his mother, to the Clanmother,

  and to Hella, his betrothed. He shouldered his bow and quiver,

  hitched up his hiking trousers, and grinned nervously. Overhead,

  Edited by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

  Thomas, the yellow primary sun, was rising high; later in the day

  the blue companion, Doris, would join her husband in the sky. It

  was a warm spring morning.

  Ryly surveyed the little group: six tall, blond-haired, blue-

  eyed men, three tall, red-haired, hazel-eyed women. Perfect

  examples all of Baille-norm, and therefore the highest

  representatives of evolution.

  “So long, all,” he said, smiling. There was nothing else to

  say. He turned and headed off into the chattering forest. His long

  legs carried him easily down the well-worn path. Tradition

  required him to follow the main path until noon, when the second

  sun would enter the sky; then, wherever he might be, he was to

  veer sharply from the road and hew his own way through the

  vegetation for the rest of the journey.

  He would be gone three days, two nights. On the third

  evening he would turn back, returning by morning to claim his

  bride.

  He thought of Hella as he walked. She was a fine girl; he was

  happy Clanfather had allotted her to him. Not that she was

  prettier than any of the other current eligibles—they were all

  more or less equal. But Hella had a certain bright sparkle, a way

  of smiling, that Ryly thought he could grow to like.

  Thomas was climbing now towards his noon height; the

  forest grew warm. A bright-colored, web-winged lizard sprang

  squawking from a tree to the left of the path and fluttered in a

  brief clumsy arc over Ryly’s head. He notched an arrow and

  brought the lizard down—his first kill of the trip. Tucking three

  red pinlike tail feathers in his belt, he moved on.

  At noon the first blue rays of Doris mingled with the yellow

  of Thomas. The moment had come. Ryly knelt to mutter a short

  prayer in memory of those two pioneering Bailles who had come

  to The World so many generations ago to found the clan, and

  swung off to the right, cutting between the fuzzy grey boles of

  two towering sweetfruit trees. He incised his name on the

  forestward side of one tree as a guide-sign for his return, and

  entered the unknown part of the forest.

  He walked till he was hungry; then he killed an unwary

  bouncer, skinned, cooked, and ate the meaty rodent, and bathed

  in a crystal-bright stream at the edge of an evergreen thicket.

  When darkness came, he camped near an upjutting cliff, and for

  a long time lay on his back, staring up at the four gleaming little

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  moons, telling himself the old clan legends until he fell asleep.

  The following morning was without event; he covered many

  miles, carefully leaving trail-marks behind. And shortly before

  Dorisrise he met the girl.

  It was really an accident. He had sighted the yellow dorsal

  spines of a wabbler protruding a couple of inches over the top of

  a thick hedge, and decided the wabbler’s horns would be as good

  a trophy as any to bring back to Hella. He strung his bow and

  waited for the beast to lift its one vulnerable spot, the eye, into

  view.

  After a moment the wabbler’s head appeared, top-heavy with

  the weight of the spreading snout-horns. Ryly fingered his

  bowstring and targeted on the bloodshot eye.

  His aim was false; the arrow thwacked hard against the

  scalelike black leather of the wabbler’s domed skull, hung—

  penetrating the skin for an instant—and dropped away. The

  wabbler snorted in surprise and anger and set off, crashing

  noisily through the underbrush, undulating wildly as its vast

  flippers slammed the ground.

  Ryly gave chase. He strung his bow on the run, as he

  followed the trail of the big herbivore. Somewhere ahead a

  waterfall rumbled; the wabbler evidently intended to make an

  aquatic getaway. Ryly broke into a clearing—and saw the girl

  standing next to the wabbler, patting its muscular withers and

  murmuring soothing sounds. She glared up at Ryly as he

  appeared.

  For a moment he hardly recognized her as human. She was

  slim and dark-haired, with great black eyes, a tiny tilted nose,

  full lips. She wore a brightly colored saronglike affair of some

  batik cloth; it left her tanned legs bare. And she was almost a foot

  shorter than Ryly; Baille women rarely dipped below five-ten in

  height.

  “Did you shoot at this animal?” she demanded suddenly.

  Ryly had difficulty understanding her; the words seemed to

  be in his language, but the vowels sounded all wrong, the

  consonants not harsh enough.

  “I did,” he said. “I didn’t know he was your pet.”

  “Pet! The wabblers aren’t pets. They’re sacred. Are you a

  Baille?”

  Taken aback by the abrupt question, Ryly sputtered a

  moment before nodding.

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  “I thought
so. I’m Joanne Clingert. What are you doing on

  Clingert territory?”

  “So that’s it,” Ryly said slowly. He stared at her as if she had

  just crawled out from under a lichen-crusted rock. “You’re a

  Clingert. That explains things.”

  “Explains what?”

  “The way you look, the way you talk, the way you …” He

  moved hesitantly closer, looking down at her. She looked very

  angry, but behind the anger shone something else—

  A sparkle, maybe. A brightness.

  Ryly shuddered. The Clingerts were dreaded alien beings of

  a terrible ugliness, or so Clanfather had constantly reiterated.

  Well, maybe so. But, then, this Clingert could hardly be typical.

  She seemed so delicate and lovely, quite unlike the rawboned,

  athletic Baille women.

  A blue shaft of light broke through the saw-toothed leaves of

  the trees and shattered on the Clingert’s brow. Almost as a reflex,

  Ryly sank to his knees to pray.

  “Why are you doing that?” the Clingert asked.

  “lt’s Dorisrise! Don’t you pray at Dorisrise?”

  She glanced upward at the blue sun now orbiting the yellow

  primary. “That’s only Secundus that just rose. What did you call

  it— Doris? ”

  Ryly concluded his prayer and rose. “Of course. And there’s

  Thomas next to her.”

  “Hmm. We call them Primus and Secundus. But I suppose

  it’s not surprising that the Bailles and Clingerts would have

  different names for the suns. Thomas and Dori … that’s nice.

  Named for the original Bailles?”

  Ryly nodded. “And I guess Primus and Secundus founded

  the Clingerts?”

  She laughed—a brittle tinkling sound that bounced prettily

  back from the curtain of trees. “No, hardly. Jarl and Bess were

  our founders. Primus and Secundus only mean first and second,

  in Latin.”

  “Latin? What’s that? I—”

  Ryly shut his mouth, suddenly. A cold tremor of delayed

  alarm passed through him. He stared at the Clingert in horror.

  “Is something wrong?” the Clingert asked. “You look so

  pale.”

  “We’re talking to each other,” Ryly said. “We’re holding a

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  nice little conversation. Very friendly, and all.”

 

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