Marion Zimmer Bradley's Sword and Sorceress XXII Read online

  Marion Zimmer Bradley's

  Sword & Sorceress 22

  edited by

  Elisabeth Waters

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  by Elisabeth Waters

  Edra's Arrow

  by Esther M. Friesner

  A Nose for Trouble

  by Patricia B. Cirone

  Night Watches

  by Catherine Soto

  Vanishing Village

  by Margaret L. Carter

  Pearl of Fire

  by Deborah J. Ross

  The Ironwood Box

  by Kimberly L. Maughan

  Bearing Shadows

  by Dave Smeds

  Black Ghost, Red Ghost

  by Jonathan Moeller

  The Decisive Princess

  by Catherine Mintz

  Child of the Father

  by Alanna Morland

  Child of Ice, Child of Flame

  by Marian Allen

  Skin and Bones

  by Heather Rose Jones

  Crosswort Puzzle

  by Michael Spence & Elisabeth Waters

  Fairy Debt

  by T. Borregaard

  Tontine

  by Robert E. Vardeman

  The Menagerie

  by Sarah Dozier

  Kindle books in the Sword & Sorceress series

  Copyright

  Introduction

  by Elisabeth Waters

  I had forgotten how much fun it was to edit SWORD & SORCERESS. Of course, the last time I did it, I was doing three volumes at once while coping with Marion Zimmer Bradley's death, and nothing in my life was much fun at that point.

  It was great to see how many of "MZB's writers" submitted stories to this anthology. I wish I could have bought stories from all of them, but by now there are over 300 of them, and we're trying to maintain Marion's goal of discovering new writers as well as publishing stories by established ones. Trying to maintain a balance between old and new writers and between swords and sorcery makes selecting a final line-up a real challenge. In the end, what I looked for most was originality. I still had to send back some stories I would have loved to keep, so I'm really hoping we'll be doing another volume next year.

  Marion started training me to edit these with SWORD & SORCERESS 4, and I've worked on just about every one since. I miss her advice and support, but I spent two decades in her company, so her voice still lingers in my head. I hope she would be proud of this book. I know she would be glad that her legacy still continues.

  Edra's Arrow

  by Esther M. Friesner

  Esther M. Friesner is a Nebula Award winner, as well as being the author of 31 novels, over 150 short stories, and assorted poetry and plays. I remember attending a performance of one of her plays, a spoof of the medieval morality plays, at a Worldcon. The author sitting next to me, who had an extensive medieval background, laughed so hard that she actually fell out of her chair into the aisle. Esther has also edited seven anthologies—including the infamous CHICKS IN CHAINMAIL series—and her articles on writing have appeared in Writer's Market (one of MZB's all-time favorite—and most recommended—magazines).

  Her most recent novels are TEMPING FATE (how come my temp jobs were never that interesting?) and NOBODY'S PRINCESS, which is being published as I write this. The sequel, NOBODY'S PRIZE, is due in Spring 2008.

  By the time she was reading for SWORD AND SORCERESS 3 in 1985, Marion was rejecting stories where people told the protagonist that she couldn't do something because she was a woman; Marion said it should be assumed—at least for the purpose of the anthology—that a woman could do anything. But, regardless of your abilities, should you do something against the customs of your society? And what are the consequences of doing or not doing it?

  #

  The hunting was poor and had been poor for months. Edra stood alone in the great pine forest, sifting the scents of fallen needles, withered mushrooms fallen to spores and dust, and the heady smoke from the distant cookfires. Cookfires with nothing to cook, she thought bitterly. Not unless you count the few fish we've been able to catch from the lake, but they're pitiful things, more bones than flesh, scarcely enough to keep all of us this side of starvation. Fish and roots and acorn mush can't sustain so many. We need meat, real meat. And where's it to come from? Two days on the trails and nothing. There isn't even the scent of a deer here any longer, or the dream of one. Goddess, what's happened to this land, these woods? The season of blue cold will be here soon. We can't stay, but we haven't the supplies we need for the trek to the lowlands. What's going to become of us?

  She knelt on the path that once had boasted the marks of so many cloven hooves that the rawest hunter-in-training could follow the herds' passage and find a respectable target. Now the earth showed a layer of undisturbed pine needles, wind-blown dust, and one or two piles of scat so old that a breath would turn them to powder. Where are the beasts? Edra wondered. It's not time for the migration. The great river's still too wild for them or us to cross, so they shouldn't have any usable route to their wintering lands. Even if the river had subsided earlier, we would have heard the animals, seen them as they traveled down to the plains. There was no warning. Stranger than that, there was no hint of their departure. They were simply. . .gone.

  Edra hunkered down, staring at the abandoned game track as if she were a fire priestess, seeking answers in flame, ember and ash. Her little silver-tipped bow rested across her updrawn knees, the string wound tightly around her right fist. If a miracle happened and the gods saw fit to let a fat buck leap out of the earth right in front of her, Edra would have her bow strung and an arrow nocked and flying true before the creature could take two steps. She was proud of her skill as archer and huntress, but all the skill in the world couldn't turn a straw target into a suitable quarry. Her people couldn't live on the ghosts of deer.

  The longer Edra stared at the barren trail, the more her head echoed with the words of her sister, Jir, who'd entered training with the old fire priestess just before the last season of blue cold: You're too stubborn, Edra. You think that no one can command you, but I know otherwise. Making you obey is easy. All I need to do is order you to do the opposite of whatever I want. No one wanted you to become a hunter. The fire goddess herself gave the first bow to her son Skel. When he died, she howled her grief so loudly that it shattered his bones into the hundred sacred arrows, the inheritance of his sons. His sons, sister! Using the bow and arrow for sport is one thing, but we women should know better than to use them for bloodshed.

  It's not forbidden, Edra countered.

  It ought to be. Jir wore her primmest expression. The gods trust us to know right from wrong and watch to see if we take the path that pleases them. They give us the privilege of choice. We should be grateful for that, not arrogant. A woman who uses a man's weapons in the hunt tempts their anger and their punishment.

  And again Edra heard her own merry voice reply: Your words would carry more righteousness, sister, if your chin wasn't shining with the grease from one of my kills!

  Oh, how Jir had blushed! How fiercely she'd scrubbed at her chin, glowering at Edra while the other women joined in the huntress' laughter! But the men stayed silent, their eyes hard and hot in the firelight, their stares hostile and piercing.

  You think you're funny, Jir spat. You think you've climbed so high that nothing can touch you. But mark me, sister, even mountains crumble. The gods
have eternity to teach you better manners.

  I'm not laughing at the gods, Edra said lightly.

  At me, then? Jir's face looked like a storm cloud. She began to mutter strange words under her breath, the seeds of a fire priestess's curse. She hadn't voiced more than a dozen of the ancient syllables before a gnarled brown hand fell from the shadows behind the firelight, closing like a hawk's talons around her wrist. Jir cried out in pain.

  A curse on your own blood? The old fire priestess, Mirani, glared at her pupil. The crone's eyes were red and yellow, like the heart of the flame she served. And for what great offense? Wounding your petty pride? Is this how you use the lore I teach you? May the goddess take my bones, I chose poorly when I chose you to succeed me. Praise be, while I live, it's not too late to unchoose.

  Jir yowled, filling the night with her pleas for forgiveness, her promises to be worthy of Mirani's teachings. She even flung herself face down on the campground earth, sobbing and apologizing to Edra for the ill she'd almost done her own sister. Mirani and the rest of the people seemed satisfied with the girl's contrition, but Edra caught a glimpse of her sister's face when Jir lifted her head at last. There were no damp smears of earth on her cheeks, no sign she'd shed a single tear. There was nothing but resentment smoldering in her eyes.

  Edra snapped her thoughts out of the past, jerking her awareness sharply back into the present. What good did it do her to dwell on Jir's old anger? The memory held no clues to where all the game had gone, and the image of her sister's surly stare would fill no bellies. The huntress rested her fingertips on the ground, seeking the heartbeat of the earth, the breath of the forest. She sensed nothing but solitude, emptiness. It was as if the blue cold season had come early, casting the net of its ruthless ice storms over the land, freezing everything to the marrow, even sound. She couldn't even hear the creaking of tree limbs or the whir of insect wings.

  This is wrong, she thought. It's late in the year, but still, there's always at least one unlucky bug left behind to pipe a final note. And the birds, gone too? But the blackwings winter over comfortably, picking at carrion, and the red-crests always manage to find some way to feed themselves until spring! She stood up, her wiry young body tense in the silence under the trees. Was it like this on all the other days I returned to our camp empty-handed? I should have listened more carefully, but I was too busy filling my ears with curses over my bad luck on the trail. And I'm not the only one who's found nothing to hunt in this forest. The men have shared my ill fortune. The elders can't blame me alone for failing to bring back meat. All of us hunters must share the burden of our people's hunger.

  A dark thought stole into her mind: They haven't blamed me alone. . .yet. That doesn't mean they'll never hold me responsible for what's happening. Empty bellies breed short tempers. Everyone feels helpless. Laying blame for what's happening won't fix the trouble, but it will give our elders the illusion that they're doing something. And Jir will be there, ready and eager to support the first person who'll suggest that the gods have taken away the game because of me. She'll remind the people how badly and how often I've offended the gods. Before anyone can stop her, she'll start chanting the tale of Skel's sacred arrows and his sons', sons', sons' sole right to be hunters. She'll chant, and the people will listen, and then. . .

  Edra lifted her bow, holding it sideways at arm's length so that it became the line of an imaginary horizon of gently rolling, golden hills. She let her eyes rest fondly on the perfect curve of the tawny wood, the glimmer of the silver tips with their artfully formed lion's heads. It was a gift from the dead, a sacred trust received from her mother's hands on the day she'd stolen one of the boys' bows and killed a buck whose antlers spread wider than she was tall.

  This was your father's bow, Mother told her. It was the first and last time she spoke of him to Edra. This is your inheritance, all that he left in my care, when he died. He said, "Edra will want this. So young, yet still her eyes gauge distance like a hunter's. Her tiny hand grasps mine with the grip of a born archer. My blood is hers, and I hear it calling out for its birthright. I won't live to answer that call, but she must. When the time is right, give her this bow. May she use it to bring home all that she desires.

  She closed both fists around the unstrung bow, holding it so tightly that its golden line trembled against the dark green of the pine boughs, the silver of the ancient tree trunks...and the people will listen to Jir as she chants the tale of Skel's hundred sacred arrows, and the curse of hunger I've brought down upon us by using this bow to follow Skel's way, even though they claim it's an unfit path for a woman. She could feel the whorls of wood even through the hardened skin of her palms. The voice of the bow, she called it, though she'd never mentioned such an outrageous thing to anyone else. Who would ever understand? They'll listen to Jir, and they'll try to lift the hunger-curse by taking you from me. Edra lowered the bow. Her jaw was set, grim. They'll try. I wonder, will Jir feel any sorrow when I die, fighting to hold onto what's mine?

  Edra began to run. Her feet made no sound, though they pounded hard against the earth. She chose the trail back to her people's campsite, hating herself for returning empty-handed. Her belly knotted at the thought of what sort of a reception she'd have. Better to face it now, she thought. Best to deal with it and be done, one way or the other.

  It didn't take her long to return. She'd traveled the hunting paths so many times that she could find her way at top speed in the dark. The location of every rock, every downed tree, every abandoned burrow was as well known to her as the faces of her tribemates. She burst into the clearing where they'd camped since midsummer. Wood smoke hung heavy on the air, weaving through the scent of soup that held more dried-up roots than good, nourishing meat. Edra saw the faces of hunger, the old and the young, the pinched cheeks and hopeless eyes. The other hunters have had as little success as I, she thought. Why will no one claim the gods are angry with them?

  She stalked through the camp with her head high, her father's bow clenched in one hand. She did her best to keep from looking too many of her tribefolk in the eyes. At the center of the camp, Mirani stood beside the chieftain, both of them already wrapped in the fur robes that would see them through the blue cold season. Rumor claimed that Mirani and the chieftain had been lovers in their youth, that sometimes they still shared warmth. True or not, it didn't matter. The fire priestess's authority and power didn't depend on the chieftain's favor. Both were hers, both absolute and, in time, both would be Jir's inheritance as her disciple.

  As my father's bow is mine, Edra thought. Does Jir even think about how she'd feel, what she'd do if someone declared that the fire goddess is like the other gods and will listen only to men? Ah, see there! It looks like she's trying to get the feel of her fire priestess power already. She saw her sister standing just behind Mirani. Look at her! She's smiling. She knows I've failed. My cursed luck feeds her better than any meat. She fattens on it! Oh, Jir, we were true sisters, once! When did you become a stranger to me?

  She bit her lip against the pain of memories. Did the coldness steal between us little by little, or did it happen suddenly, so suddenly that I dismissed it, refusing to believe such a thing could happen? You spoke harshly to me at old Iri's burial, but all of us were raw with grief then. He was our shaman, the one who opened the path between us and the gods. Was that when it began?

  "Edra?" The chieftain's voice tugged her back into the present. "Welcome." He stretched out his arms to her. "What luck?"

  Edra did not attempt to look away. Even if she had nothing to bring to the cookfires, she refused to act as though her empty-handed return was shameful. No one can fault me for failing to bring down a quarry that isn't there.

  "The same luck every man here's had these past months," she replied boldly. "The deer are gone. The smaller beasts have vanished, too. I heard no sounds of life in the woods. It's not natural."

  "You're not natural! If the life's left the forest, it's because even the dumb beasts fear dwelling
near a monster, cursed by the gods." The voice was a man's. One of the younger hunters stepped forward. His name was Tokal, Iri's lastborn son. Edra remembered how she'd brought down three big bucks for the shaman's grave feast, the last substantial kills she'd made with her father's bow. The moon had been dark on the night Iri went into the earth by torchlight. Before she showed her full silver mask again, the game had vanished.

  "You didn't think I was such a monster when you tried to make me share your furs, Tokal," Edra replied evenly. "You didn't hesitate to ask a monster's help when you begged me to speak for you to the people, when you dreamed of taking your father's place as our shaman."

  "Lies!" Tokal's voice shook almost as much as the finger he pointed at the huntress. "I respect our ways. I know enough to keep my feet on the true paths. When my father's spirit finally chooses to speak, he will name our next shaman. How could a creature like you be of any help there?"

  "You have a short memory, Tokal," Edra said, trying not to smile at his childish outburst. "When I first refused your wooing, you sweetened your pleas with promises. You said, 'The naming of a new shaman requires only two voices: One to receive the vision, one to witness it. Be that second voice for me, Edra, and I will share my power with you for as long as we live!'"

  In spite of her best efforts, Edra's lips parted in a wide grin. "Then you tried to share your. . .power with me again. But I said no to all that you offered."

  "You said nothing!" Tokal's hands became fists. "Your mouth is full of venom, the truth dies on your tongue. As if I would ever filthy my furs with you." His rage was real, but from somewhere in the crowd came the sound of laughter.

  Bad move, Tokal, Edra thought. Our people may be hungry, but their memories are still keen and they know the truth. Many here remember how you trailed after me for weeks, like a starving dog. Many know how badly you wanted to assume your father's place and power, and how badly you failed.