A Free Story Sampler
from
Third Person Press
Three stories from
Undercurrents
Airborne
Unearthed
Compilation © Third Person Press 2012
Cover Artwork © Nancy S.M. Waldman
“Winter Bewitched” first appeared in Undercurrents, published in 2008
“Mind Drifter” first appeared in Airborne, published in 2010
“Mud Pies” first appeared in Unearthed, published in 2012
Copyright in the individual stories remains the property of the authors.
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This book contains works of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, entities or settings is entirely coincidental.
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~ Ken Chisholm, Cape Breton Post
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“Airborne contains ghost stories, vampire fiction, future-gone-wacky tales and traditional hard-core science fiction...There’s no lack of fascinating stories in this book, with contributions from first-timers and seasoned pros.”
~ Elizabeth Patterson, Chronicle-Herald
Table Of Contents
Title Page
Reviews
Winter Bewitched
Mind Drifter
Mud Pies
End Matter
“Winter Bewitched” is from Third Person Press’s first anthology, Undercurrents. You can find the links to purchase any of our anthologies at the end of this free sampler, or by clicking to www.thirdpersonpress.com
Winter Bewitched
by Sherry D. Ramsey
We were six days out of Salabad when we crossed the sudden border into winter. One moment the air was warm and dry blowing down from the steppes, and then a frigid breeze sprang up, a rime of frost appeared on the trail ahead, and the sky darkened to the colour of yesterday’s gruel.
I reined in the mare to slip my warm Surcyian cloak over my head, and Gemmin scampered ahead. When his paws hit the frost he turned back, a look of unmistakable dismay on his feline face. Three leaps took him from the ground to my shoulder. He kneaded his long toes into the collar of my cloak as a lock of my hair blew over the crown of his head, giving him a comical auburn topknot.
Enchantments, Jalia, he nuzzled into my ear, in a tongue few mortals would have understood. Gemmin was most comfortable conversing in the words he’d taught me, the language of the strange, inaccessible place of his birth.
I nodded. “A witch, a curse, the usual sort of thing,” I told him. “If you can believe tavern tales told by a half-drunk barkeep.” We were still in the steppes, and at least another fortnight’s travel from the higher altitudes where snow might normally be expected.
Jalia wrote it down? Gemmin asked.
“Of course I did. What kind of scribe lets a good tale go to waste? At any rate, a frosty ground means we’ll have to find lodgings for tonight, whether we can afford it or not. I doubt we’re still being pursued. It was only the price of a meal, after all.”
Jalia beckons trouble always, Gemmin chided me, his whiskers and hot breath tickling my ear.
“I do not,” I retorted, trying to nudge him off my shoulder without taking my hands from the reins. “You know what happened wasn’t my fault.” I sighed and shrugged, but Gemmin would not dislodge.
Instead, Gemmin snorted delicately. I knew what he was thinking. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to get ahead. I called it bad luck; Gemmin ascribed it to bad planning. I twitched the cloak tighter around my shoulders and we rode in silence until the glow of street torches gleamed through the trees ahead. It was none too soon. The further we advanced into the eerie, unending winter of Aleram, the colder the wind nipped.
It seemed the weather was keeping folks at home, and the inn had rooms open. Curious about the curse, I ate with little attention to the thin, lumpy stew and unblushingly sent Gemmin to eavesdrop on the nearby conversations. He’s a great talent at pretending to do inconsequential, catlike things while he’s really on a more complicated mission, and few folk notice that—while he is certainly catlike—he is most certainly not a cat.
Spoke of the witch, he told me later, when we were ensconced in a great featherbed under arching whitewashed beams, he curled up on the pillow beside me. How to bring the end of the winter.
“Are they hatching a plan?” I asked, because I wasn’t certain I’d want to be in town when a pack of local oafs confronted a witch who had the power to control the weather. “Why hasn’t the Keliph done anything?”
Gemmin yawned widely, the sides of his rough pink tongue curling past dagger-sharp teeth. I hoped he’d retain his cat-form tonight. Gemmin never meant to frighten me, but sometimes his dreams caused an involuntary shapeshift. I didn’t enjoy waking to the companionship of a giant spider or many-toothed, otherworldly beast.
No plan. Empty talk. Keliph’s fault, but too proud to admit it. So folk think.
They were probably right. Back home in Minstoke he would have been called “Duke,” but in any language the peerage wasn’t noted for its humbleness.
Gemmin blinked sleepily and dropped his head down to nestle on his paws. Keliph’s offered reward, he added.
“Really? How much?”
Not enough.
“Humph. Since when are you in charge of the purse strings?”
Magic involved. Jalia is no sorceress. Jalia should do what Jalia does best. He closed his eyes, ending the conversation.
I said nothing more, since Gemmin is more likely to keep to his comfortable form when he’s not agitated. He’d transformed into some terrifying things since we’d met. Fortunately, I could tell it was still Gemmin by looking to his eyes. Eyes are intrinsic, unchanging, he’d told me once to reassure me. Forms alter, eyes remain. I shivered despite the press of woolen blankets. It unnerved me when he shifted, whatever the circumstance.
There in the dark after Gemmin’s breathing had settled into the steady rhythm of sleep, the idea of assisting the Keliph rattled around in my brain for a time. True, I was no sorceress, had no magical power to command, but I did have Gemmin.
Exactly what Gemmin is I’m not certain. I suspect he belongs to a cadre of supposedly mythical creatures called cawnnin. He has the shapeshifter’s gift, and a few others besides. I hadn’t guessed, the day I found him near death and used my meagre healing skills to save him, how much I would come to value his companionship. The business of the day, however, was to find out more about the Keliph, the witch, and the perpetual winter she’d called down. I pondered what might persuade her to change her mind. If a winter could be witched, after all, it could be unwitched. And I’m a
great believer in persuasion.
In the chill morning we set off for an audience with the Keliph.
The Keliph’s house was a grand three-storey affair, but the drooping silk trees that flanked the entry, their leaves curled tight against the cold weather, lent it a forlorn look. The Keliph received me after only a brief wait.
“Well-met, Scribe Jalia,” he said in a voice like flawed silk. He offered a florid hand. It was chill to the touch, which wasn’t a wonder as the whole mansion was cold. He had unpleasant eyes, yellowish and bulging, like ripe berries on a bead tree, but his manner was warm. He glanced once at Gemmin, who sat like a stone carving at my feet, only the tip of his twitching tail revealing any life. “I fear I have no scribing work for you at this time.”
I smiled. “It’s not scribing I’ve come about,” I said. “I’m enquiring about your misunderstanding with a certain witch.”
He lowered himself heavily into a brocaded divan and drew his brows together under his turban. “Looking to write the tale down, are you? I’m not keen to have this story recounted about the countryside.”
“Not at all, your Grace,” I replied. “I’m not only a scribe. I’ve solved more than one difficulty for payment in coin; whether by quill or by blade, it makes little difference to me.”
“Ah.” He crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head to consider me. “A common mercenary, then. You don’t look the part, if I may say so.”
“That,” I said, crossing my own arms in mimicry, “is because I am not so common as you might expect—and neither are my methods. You have heard, perhaps, of Lady Serling of Dow’s missing sapphire necklace?”
His eyes widened at that. “You retrieved it from that—that was you?”
I smiled slowly. “Would you care to tell me about your difficulty with the witch?”
“I’d hear your price first,” he countered.
“What would you think fair to rid your land of winter’s curse?”
He thought for a moment, taking his time. “Twenty gold Surcins,” he said finally. “Thirty if you can expel the witch from Aleram for good.”
It was a rich sum, but I kept a serene face. “Five in my hand before I leave today, on the undertaking that I will make my best attempt,” I suggested. “Whether I meet with failure or success. If I succeed, the five may be counted toward the total fee.”
“Done.”
I settled more comfortably in my chair. “And now, your Grace, please tell me the tale from start to finish.”
Alas, it was not as interesting as I’d hoped, and in only one respect original. The Keliph’s nephew (who was also his ward) was enamoured of, and wished to marry, a maiden of the middle class. The Keliph forbade it; the boy rebelled. The Keliph put him in confinement. Then came the twist in the tale. The maiden in question turned out to be a witch, threw a curse of perpetual winter over the entire country of Aleram in retaliation, and retreated in high dudgeon to a cottage in the nearby foothills. Now the Keliph’s citizens were near to an uprising and faced the spectre of starvation if they couldn’t put in crops soon.
When he finished, I raised an eyebrow. “If you’ll pardon my frankness, your Grace, you are in a pickle.”
Gemmin made a sound that could have been a sneeze, but to my practiced ears was a laugh.
The Keliph sighed and tapped two fists together distractedly. “I know.”
“You won’t consent to the marriage?” I pressed.
The Keliph leaned forward and stared at me earnestly, the whites of his eyes as transparent as half-cooked egg. “I would, now. Danzeyn’s useless. But I won’t appear to have been forced into it. When an elephant is down, even a frog will kick him. Every knight with ambition would be raising an army to try and take my seat. For a bent copper piece, I’d send a troop of men-at-arms to slay the hag.” He sighed. “But even if they succeeded, that would likely bring down the wrath of any number of her coven sisters, and we’d be worse off than before. I’ve had dealings enough with witches to know they stand together.” He sat back slowly, shaking his head. “Oh, no, whatever’s to be done must be by subterfuge.”
The door to the room opened and a blonde woman stepped inside. She was finely dressed in an emerald velvet cloak, her head circled by a matching green silk rolled scarf. A double strand of pearls hung from the sides of the scarf in a graceful curve below her chin. “I’m off to the noon market, Feydin,” she said, then caught sight of me. “Oh, good day. I apologize, I did not realize you had a...guest.”
“My wife,” the Keliph said stiffly, “Emeraude, Keliphas of Veliyor. The Scribe Jalia.”
She nodded, barely registering my face, I could tell. Giggles wafted in through the open door, and a shrill of “Emmy? Are you coming? All the best silks will be picked over by the time we get there.”
“Good day, then,” Emeraude said to the room in general, and followed her friends. She didn’t close the door behind her.
The Keliph’s lips were pressed together in a thin white line, so I asked, “May I consult with your nephew?” I wanted those twenty gold coins. They would see us comfortably through the next few months. Of course, thirty would be even better, but I had to know more before I’d feel at ease engineering the witch’s exile.
The Keliph shook himself, then sighed. “I suppose. He’s quite well, I assure you. Simply sulking.”
I hastened to reassure him. “Oh, I suspect no maltreatment. I should like to question him about his personal knowledge of the witch when they were...close.”
“Very well, then.” He pulled a long braided cord and a servant appeared in the doorway. “Take Scribe Jalia to see young Danzeyn,” the Keliph commanded. He nodded to me. “I’ll instruct my bursar to pay you the five Surcins before you leave,” he said. “And I trust I’ll hear from you soon.”
I followed the servant down a long corridor hung with varicoloured silks, carrying Gemmin to keep his insatiable curiosity in check. Our path led up a double flight of stairs. It wasn’t exactly a tower, but it was the topmost floor.
The servant unlocked one of the heavy oaken doors with a silvery key. “Scribe Jalia to see you, Master Danzeyn, at the request of your uncle.” He stepped back to let me pass.
The shades were drawn, throwing the room into murky shadow. The mournful echo of a lute hung in the air, as if a song in progress had been beheaded when the door opened. A heavy sigh followed.
“If you’ve come to write down my songs, it won’t do you any good,” a quiet voice said from the depths of a shadowy corner. “They’re for one set of ears alone, and if she can never hear them, no-one else shall, either.”
“Songs, Master Danzeyn? No, I haven’t come about your songs. I’ve come about the mess you’re in, and how we’re going to get you out of it.” I allowed Gemmin to leap down from my arms. Then I crossed to one of the windows and threw open the curtains. Dust snowed down around my head, but I ignored it, looking around instead for my quarry.
He sat blinking on the floor, slouched back against the wall with the lute cradled on his lap. Not a bad-looking lad, if you discounted the face as mournful as a cow’s and the shaggy hair that begged for a good barber. His clothing, while not as dusty as the draperies, was bedraggled and wrinkled. I settled myself in a worn velveteen chair near enough to him that we could speak in low tones. Gemmin sniffed tentatively at Danzeyn’s boots.
“So, Danzeyn.” I regarded him for a moment. “I had no idea you were a bard. Your uncle was remiss in not mentioning it.”
He pulled a face. “My uncle discounts my talents. He thinks I should be learning the running of his estate, as befits his heir. He is childless, as you may know.” He turned his face to one of the windows and squinted into the chill grey sky. “I have no interest in such things. I appreciate my uncle’s generosity, but I believe I would die being tied to a plot of land. I long to be free, to take my words to the folk of this land and others. Shirina understood that.”
I nodded sympathetically while my mind raced. I’d had
no idea Danzeyn was a possible heir to the Keliph’s title.
“Tell me about Shirina,” I prompted.
He strummed a few notes on his lute in answer, and sang;
Shirina takes the garden
Like a knight upon the field
And her stunning grace and beauty
Are the weapons that she wields
Her lips so soft and red they put
The blushing rose to shame
Her eyes so blue the azure sky
Should bow before her name
Her golden hair outshines
The nodding head of daffodil
But on her iv’ry brow descends
No hubris or ill-will
For she is gracious on the field
As charming as a queen
My heart is vanquished, and my lance
stands awed before her mien.
It was rather dreadful. Danzeyn had a decent singing voice, and his fingers made no missteps on the strings of the lute, but a lengthy apprenticeship to an established bard would do him no end of good.
“It’s obvious you love her dearly,” I said gently, avoiding critical comment on his composition skills. “It must have been a terrible blow to discover she was a witch.”
He leapt up, eyes blazing. The lute tumbled to the floor with a twang of protest. “Shirina is no witch! She has nothing to do with this plague of a winter, and she hasn’t a vengeful bone in her body. I’ve told my uncle so endlessly but he turns a deaf ear! And I’ve no duty to listen to such accusations from you, whoever you are! Out! I’ve no more to say to you!”
He stood with a quivering finger pointing to the door, his face suffused with a horrid purple. I nodded and stood to go. Inwardly, I cursed the Keliph. Why hadn’t he told me that Danzeyn clung to this belief? Gemmin stalked ahead of me with his tail at a haughty angle. The servant must have been standing close enough to the door to overhear Danzeyn’s outburst, as it swung open at my approach.
I stood indecisive in the hallway for a moment. Should I speak further with the Keliph? I thought not. There was little else he could tell me at this point. I should have to go to the source of the problem: the witch, Shirina.
§
Gemmin was angry. Already Gemmin said, Jalia is no sorceress, he muttered in my ear that night. Jalia should do what Jalia does best.
“I don’t think it will be dangerous,” I said, “not the first time I go to see her, anyway. Look, she either truly loves Danzeyn, or she wants to marry him for his title. Either way, she’s likely to listen to someone who wants to help mend the rift, don’t you think?”
Gemmin growled. Trust not witches.
“I didn’t say I was going to trust her,” I said. “I said I was going to talk to her. Anyway, you’ll be with me.”
He made a snuffling noise that I’d come to recognize as his laughter. Witches do not fear me. ’Twas a witch who left me as you first found me.
My heart clenched; that meant bloody, battered, and near death. I shook off the memory and tickled him under the chin, something he tolerates only when the two of us are alone. “Not all witches wield that much power. We’re just going to talk to her. All right?”
He turned his back on me and lay down on the quilts. Through his fur, I could see the scars from his last encounter with a witch. I felt a stab of guilt about what I might be asking of him.
§
I easily obtained directions to the witch’s cottage, although I sensed people making warding signs behind my back as I walked away. Gemmin hung back, constantly straying from the path and then catching up to me distractedly. I refused to pick him up and carry him. It was probably exactly what he wanted.
In due course we reached the cottage. It looked pleasant enough—no rotting timbers or walls leaning askew. Just a neat and tidy house, in good repair, with an herb garden nestled inside the gate. I turned to give Gemmin an I-told-you-so look, but he’d disappeared into the underbrush again.
There was a gate bell, which I duly rang. The curtains at a front window twitched, and then the door opened to reveal Shirina.
At this distance, I couldn’t make a judgement on her beauty, but the golden hair Danzeyn had mentioned was in evidence, twisted in a long plait that hung over one shoulder.
“Yes?” she asked, in a voice that was not at all hag-like.
“My name is Jalia, a scribe,” I answered. “I’ve come to speak, if you will, about Danzeyn.”
She frowned. “Do you bring a message from him?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I’ve been retained to try and find a resolution to this situation, hopefully to the satisfaction of all involved.”
Shirina stepped outside the door and closed it behind her. Her full sherwal trousers billowed in the wintry wind, and her long-sleeved crimson tunic curved open in the front to reveal a bright yellow comis beneath. Her feet, below the sherwal, were shod in red silken slippers. It was not exactly winter garb, but she didn’t seem to notice.
She folded her arms over her chest. “Can you convince the Keliph to set Danzeyn free and offer his blessing to our marriage?”
“I’m not sure what I can do just yet. That’s why I’m here to speak to you.”
“Why would the Keliph hire a scribe? Do you plan to write down my tale of woe and profit from it?” Her voice was as cold as the frozen ground beneath my feet.
“I doubt it,” I said honestly. “The Keliph would like to see this matter resolved quietly.”
She cocked her head to one side. “And without damage to his pride, I’ll wager.”
I risked a grin. “He did mention something of the sort.”
I felt Gemmin rub up against the side of my leg, but Shirina took no apparent notice of him.
“Come inside then, and we’ll talk. But I make no promises.”
“Fair enough. Neither do I.” Gemmin was close at my heels as I followed the witch inside.
The cottage was warm, thanks to a fire that crackled in the hearth. If it was conjured by magic, it cast heat as efficiently as the real thing. I glanced around, curious about the interior of a witch’s abode. The walls were cleanly whitewashed and the air pleasantly heavy with the scent of the dried herbs hanging like bats from the ceiling. Shirina seated herself on a chair next to a small wooden table and gestured me to another. A long-haired calico cat appeared from another room and hunkered down in the doorway, its gaze fixed unblinkingly on Gemmin.
I began, “I visited Danzeyn yesterday. He spoke fondly of you.”
“How was he?” she asked, but it seemed a perfunctory question.
“Melancholy,” I said. Up close, I could discern the beauty that had moved Danzeyn to commit love poetry. Her eyes, though, seemed hard. “He makes no move to leave the rooms to which the Keliph has confined him.”
“The Keliph,” she spat suddenly, “is interested only in having an heir for his estate, so that his greed can extend even after his death. He cares little who or what he damages to attain that goal.”
“Danzeyn seems to have scant interest in the prospect of such an inheritance,” I said carefully.
She pressed her lips together as if she regretted her outburst. “Scribe,” she said, “I did not invite you in here to dance a verbal raqs beledi with you. Do you have an offer from the Keliph?”
I sighed. “Not really. I came to see if you were open to bargaining. The people of Veliyor, in fact all of Aleram, are nearing desperation. Food stores are running low, and it’s obvious no crop will grow in this winter.”
She smirked. “And the Keliph is concerned for his people? Concerned for his own hide, more like, if they rebel against him for getting them into this mess.” The calico cat leaped up on the table next to her mistress and sat down. Shirina stoked its back with long fingers.
“I don’t wish to harm the people of Aleram. The Keliph forced my hand,” she said after a moment. “Tell the Keliph that I will consider lifting the winter curse for the sum of five hundred gold Surcins. I will accept them only fr
om your hand, Scribe Jalia, or the Keliph’s own.”
I sat silent for a moment, because my throat had gone dry at her words. Five hundred gold Surcins! The Keliph would never pay such a price, I thought, even if he had such wealth at his fingertips.
“And what of Danzeyn?” I said finally. “Shall I take any message to him for you?”
She shook her head. “If he doesn’t bother to lift finger nor voice to be released from his confinement and come for me, I owe him nothing. Not a message, and certainly not my heart. Five hundred gold from his uncle is all I require now.” She and the cat stared at me without emotion, two sets of green eyes equally inscrutable.
“Danzeyn refuses to believe that you are responsible for the winter curse, you know,” I said, but if I hoped to shame her into any further response I was disappointed. She merely shrugged.
“Then I shall relay the message,” I said, standing. She didn’t move to see me out.
At the bottom of the cottage steps I bent and picked Gemmin up, stroking his fur as I walked slowly down the path. Shirina’s attitude puzzled me. If she’d been in love with Danzeyn, it hadn’t taken much to wither that love. And if she’d only been interested in his prospects, five hundred gold was paltry by comparison.
I shook my head. Men! Hadn’t Danzeyn been able to look into those eyes and see the coldness there, colder than the winter that had settled on the land? No, instead he’d written poetry about them—
Her eyes so blue the azure sky should bow before her name.
But Shirina’s eyes were green, as green as her calico cat’s.
I stopped suddenly, clutching Gemmin, who mewled in protest. When I looked down at him, he winked slyly. So he’d come to the same realization as I. Eyes are intrinsic, unchanging.Therefore the green-eyed witch was not, could not be, Shirina. Who was she?
I started walking again, quickly now. I needed time to think.
§
First thing the next morning I went back to see the Keliph. He had travelled into town to meet with the Merchant’s Guild, but his wife the Keliphas Emeraude agreed to see me. I was led to a sumptuous apartment overlooking the frost-blackened back garden, where the Keliphas was in the process of having her blonde hair curled with heated tongs by a long-suffering maid. Emeraude regarded me with the ghost of a frown and slightly pursed lips for a moment, and I hastened to assist her.
“We met briefly yesterday, when I was in conference with your husband,” I reminded her. “He’s retained me to try and convince the witch to lift her winter curse.”
“Ah, yes,” she said, obviously relieved. “And have you spoken with her? This cold weather is indeed a curse! My poor hands are chapped, and just look at the state of the garden! The jasmine should be blooming now, and this deep frost will be the ruination of the walnut trees.”
To say nothing of your people going hungry, I thought. “I did speak with her yesterday, but did not learn much. I came to ask your husband something. He mentioned in passing that he’d had other dealings with witches, and sounded none too pleased about them. Do you know what incidents he meant?”
She did not visibly start at my words, but the colour drained from her cheeks, leaving them pale as the frost on the ground outside. She shook her head.
“I am not privy to all of my husband’s dealings,” she said evenly. “Witches? I cannot imagine what my husband would have to do with witches.” She glanced down with distaste at Gemmin, who was sniffing around the hem of her gown. “Is that all you wanted to ask? I am due at the Lady Miriam’s for tirazi.”
“Yes, that’s all. Thank you anyway, your Grace.”
I left her brushing at imaginary cat hairs and snapping at her maid about a minuscule spot on her gown. “Either she knew exactly what I was talking about, or she’s had her own dealings with witches, Gemmin,” I murmured to him when we were out in the frosty air again, “or I’ll eat my best quill.”
He mewled at my feet and I bent and picked him up.
She smells of witchcraft, he agreed, then went on smugly, Gemmin always says, Jalia should do what Jalia does best.
I stopped walking and glared at him, not caring if anyone saw. “Why do you keep saying that? I’ll write it all down when we get back to the inn, but I can’t do it right here.”
Writing is not what Jalia does best, he said, although she is very good at it.
I started walking again, holding Gemmin close to let his warm fur keep the chill wind from my hands.
“Then what, may I ask,” I said finally, struggling to keep my voice even, “is it that Jalia does best?”
He had the audacity to purr, snuggling up against my chest as I strode towards the inn.
Jalia gets people to talk, he said simply.
It would have given him too much satisfaction if he’d stopped me in my tracks with that, so I kept walking. But his words rang true. People told me things, whether they meant to or not. I thought furiously while I marched back through the town, and by the time we’d reached the inn, I had a plan.
§
Gemmin didn’t approve.
She is a witch. She will suspect, he argued.
“She didn’t say anything about you when we visited her the other day,” I rejoined. “The cat took more notice of you than she did.”
She will be angry. All you have is a suspicion.
“I know, but I don’t care. We need that gold.”
Jalia is suddenly very mercenary.
I sighed. “Oh, all right. If you must know, I can’t bear to think of all these people going hungry. And the real Shirina must be in trouble—where is she? I feel like I have to help.”
Gemmin climbed up on the small desk in our room and batted at my cheek with a soft paw. It is not a bad thing to have compassion.
“Humph. I thought you’d call it a weakness.”
If not for your ‘weakness,’ Gemmin would be dead.
I stroked his fur. “I didn’t do all that much. Some healing salve, a little care, that was all.”
Jalia knows that is not true. He settled on the desk with a very human-sounding sigh, curling his tail around his body like a pashmina. This is not what Gemmin intended. He meant that the Keliph and the witch should talk, he said. But Gemmin will help.
§
We arrived at the witch’s cottage early next morning. Gemmin, riding my mare and looking exactly like the Keliph except for the wrong colour eyes, rode up the trail while I skulked through the surrounding woods. I found a spot where I could see the witch’s front door when she came outside to speak to Gemmin.
Gemmin rode the mare into the yard and waited. The door of the cottage opened and the witch stepped outside, smirking.
“So you’ve come, high and mighty Keliph,” she drawled.
“As you say,” said Gemmin.
“Come to beg me, or come to pay me my due?”
The horse shifted uneasily, but Gemmin did not dismount. “You told the scribe five hundred gold. Come, Shirina, is that fair? Five hundred gold, and a country ruined, because I wouldn’t let Danzeyn marry you?”
The witch was intent on her visitor now. I crept through the trees toward the back of the cottage, and saw exactly what I’d hoped—the sloped hatch that led to a root cellar. I concentrated on moving silently toward it across the frost-hardened ground, but I could still hear the conversation at the front.
“That might be reason enough for some women, Keliph. Although I’ve never set much store by men myself. No, for me it’s a matter of honour.”
“Is it honourable to hide behind another’s name and face, when in fact your dispute with me has nothing to do with Danzeyn—or the real Shirina?”
I held my breath. This was where Gemmin and I were taking the biggest risk. After a pause, though, the witch answered.
“So you know me, Keliph? Fair enough. Five hundred gold was not our initial bargain, I’ll admit. But was your treatment of me fair? I provided you what you asked, in good faith. And you refused to pay my fee. Now you are li
ving with the consequences.”
I was easing open the root cellar door now, hoping that the hinges were well-oiled. Still I strained to hear what Gemmin would say. This was the tricky part of the script, because while deduced from what I’d observed and been told, it was still guesswork.
Gemmin lifted his voice in anger. I made a mental note to compliment him later on his acting ability. “I refused to pay, witch, because your magic did not work!”
I couldn’t hesitate any longer since I had no idea how long the argument might continue, or when the witch might begin to suspect our deception. I trod carefully down the mouldering earthen steps and into the dank cellar.
It was dark, but some sunlight followed me down the stairs. A glint in a dim corner drew me straight to it, a stray beam of sunlight catching golden hair, and I hurried over. She was dressed in muddied blue sherwal and emerald green tunic, bound hand and foot. She was also gagged and possibly bewitched, because the eyes that turned to look at me were fogged and unfocused.
But they were blue. Blue as an azure sky.
“Shirina?” I whispered.
She nodded slowly.
“I’m going to get you out of here,” I said, “but we have to be quiet.” I cut the leather straps that bound her feet and hands, and waited until she nodded again before I undid the gag. I didn’t want her screaming.
She was unsteady on her feet and leaned on me for support, clutching my cloak as we struggled up the stairs and out into the watery sunlight. I led her as silently as possible toward the nearby copse of trees, listening for the voices of Gemmin and the witch.
“—a fair offer,” Gemmin snapped.
“I have little concern now for what you consider fair,” the witch answered. “I know I cannot trust you, Keliph of Veliyor. My price is set. It will not change.”
The witch turned on her silken heel to end the conversation just as Shirina and I dodged into the trees. Two things happened then.
Shirina caught sight of the witch, still wearing the girl’s own face, and gasped, “Oh, she shouldn’t wear red with my complexion!” And her blue sherwal trousers, caught by the breeze, billowed like a flag announcing our presence.
The witch screamed with rage. It was followed by a sharp sentence in an arcane tongue, and in an instant the wind pushed up against us with the force of a tide. The air filled with dizzying snow and flailing branches. Shirina gasped and fell, almost dragging me down with her, but I stayed upright and pulled her back to her feet.
Through the snow-filled air I saw Gemmin leap down from the back of my horse and run toward the witch, shifting to a huge furred shape as he ran. The witch, too, changed, letting go of her guise as Shirina. I caught a glimpse of curly brown hair, but couldn’t take the time to watch the transformation. I pushed through the trees and the howling wind, pulling Shirina behind me, but we made little headway. I whistled for the horse, trying to move us closer to the trail so the mare would see us.
Then I heard a squeal that stopped me in my tracks. I’d heard the same noise the day I’d first found Gemmin, although the battle was over and everyone else dead or vanished by the time I’d located the source of the sound. I’d hoped never to hear it again, but there it was. Gemmin was in trouble.
I pushed Shirina into the questionable shelter of a tree and fought harder to reach the trail. The mad swirl of snow ahead outlined two figures, one writhing on the ground while the other stood over it. A few steps closer, and I could make out the crackle of golden light surrounding the twisting form of Gemmin, shrunken back to normal cat-size. The witch had him magically pinned to the snow-covered ground.
“Stop!” I commanded, stepping out of the trees and onto the trail. My racing heart felt too big for my chest.
“Why should I?” screeched the witch. She was taller and older than she’d been as Shirina, and more imposing. “You tried to trick me!”
“I tried to level the field by taking that poor girl out of the equation,” I shouted above the wind, anger making me bold. “If you and the Keliph have a business disagreement then take it to the magistrate. It would not be in your interest to have Shirina come to harm in your keeping.”
“The Keliph!” she spat. “He tried to ruin me, spread the word that my magic was weak.”
“And so you were right to wreak vengeance upon every inhabitant of Aleram?”
She turned narrowed eyes on me. The golden beam imprisoning Gemmin did not waver. “What business have you to interfere?”
“The business of anyone who would rather see justice done than the innocent suffer,” I said. “You turned the Keliph’s personal difficulties to your own purposes.”
“He cheated me and threatened violence. Said he’d petition the Emperor to outlaw witchery if I, or my sisters, pressed the matter further. I couldn’t do anything openly.” Her eyes flicked toward the wood, where a flash of Shirina’s sherwals showed through the snow. “I saw a chance and took it.”
I shook my head, gaining confidence. Perhaps Gemmin was right, and getting folks to talk truly was what I did best. “But now you’re stuck,” I said. “Let Gemmin up, and let me help you settle this with the Keliph.”
She snorted. “If you had any influence with him, you’d have brought me my five hundred gold.”
“No. That was not a fair offer. That was extortion. You could probably imprison the three of us now, but it won’t get you any further toward a resolution. Let us go. I can sway the Keliph to meet with us, and settle the debt that started this mess.”
The witch glared at me, but she looked tired. “Why? What can you do?”
I risked a grin. “I can do what I do best.”
“And what’s that?” She didn’t look entirely convinced, but she withdrew the energy that had incapacitated Gemmin. Slowly he gathered his paws under him and pushed up to sit, shaking his head.
“Get folk to talk,” I said, reaching down to gather him up. He nodded at me and I knew he hadn’t been injured. “And write things down.”
§
The Keliph may or may not have been surprised by the note I sent round to his house the next morning. I asked an audience with him, his wife, and Danzeyn, and advised that he should have my fee ready.
There was a general stir in the air when we arrived, I in my best tunic and cloak, Shirina bathed, rested, and wearing clean clothes, and the witch, whose name I had discovered was Iliasta, keeping close behind me. She still wore her crimson tunic, and I had to agree with Shirina’s assessment that it suited her nut-brown hair and tanned complexion better than it had Shirina’s guise.
That stir was nothing compared to what happened when we were shown into the Keliph’s morning-room. Danzeyn and Shirina leapt into each others’ arms like two lodestones. The Keliph’s eyes bulged alarmingly at the sight of the witch Iliasta and he let loose an involuntary bark of indignation. The Keliphas Emeraude narrowed her eyes and sat down abruptly on a velvet daybed.
“Keliph, I believe you know my guest. Keliphas Emeraude, Mistress Iliasta.”
The Keliph had found his tongue. “Scribe, I don’t know what you think you’re doing—”
“Pardon me, your Grace, but I am saving your face, your country, and quite possibly your life. If you don’t want to sit quietly and listen, perhaps you’d like to read what I have to say instead.” From my satchel I pulled a sheaf of parchment. “The whole sorry tale, as I have deduced it, is told here, and I have several more copies that I’m quite certain will bring a fair price in Jiuri and Harberdin, to say nothing of the rest of the Empire. Folk are always in the market for a good story. Especially folk with an abundance of coin and visitors.”
He glared at me.
“Ah, yes,” I continued, “you wanted this settled quietly. Then here is the crux of the tale. You retained the services of Mistress Iliasta and then refused to pay her fee when you thought she had not fulfilled her part of the bargain. She retaliated by taking advantage of your personal difficulties with Danzeyn and Shirina to force your hand. You
were too proud to speak to her, whether you thought she was actually Shirina or knew her real identity. Iliasta has admitted that she acted rashly, and you have let your pride blind your judgement. You are both in the wrong, but the people of Aleram have had to suffer for it.”
“I’ll not be lectured by a snip of a girl,” the Keliph began, but he was interrupted by a shrill question from his wife.
“What sort of ‘services’ did you purchase from this woman, Feydin?”
The Keliph pursed his lips and said nothing.
“I believe he requested her help in begetting an heir,” I said bluntly, and all eyes turned to Iliasta. She nodded briefly.
Danzeyn’s eyes grew very wide.
“Not that way, you goose,” I said. “He purchased a spell, or a charm, or a potion.”
“Well, it didn’t work,” the Keliph retorted. “Unless Emeraude is extremely talented at keeping secrets.” He threw a glance at his wife, who flushed.
“That remains to be seen,” I said. “I’ve made inquiries; Iliasta has an excellent reputation for her skills in that particular area. However, there is no evidence that your wife is with child. Which caused me to wonder why.”
“My deduction,” I continued, setting the parchment sheets down on my lap and smoothing them, “is that the Keliphas has, in fact, no interest in bearing a child. She is quite engrossed in the many interests she indulges with her friends; exploring the latest fashions, visiting the market, taking tirazi. I speculate that, to the end of remaining free from maternal encumbrances, she retained the services of another witch.”
A glance at Keliphas Emeraude’s burning cheeks told me my arrow had flown true. “That is why Iliasta’s magic did not work. It was countered by another just as strong. A stalemate, so to speak.”
The Keliph turned and glared at his wife with a gaze so heated I would not have been surprised if she had burst into flames. But he was a Keliph after all, and he had his pride. He transferred his gaze to Iliasta.
“How much would you accept to settle our debt,” he said, his voice very even, “and to lift the winter curse?”
She hesitated only a moment. “The amount of our original agreement,” she said. “Scribe Jalia has helped me see that the curse was...ill-advised. I have retracted it.”
“Very well. I will have my bursar settle with you—both of you—before you leave here today. Scribe Jalia,” he took a deep breath and pointed to the parchment on my lap. “Will you agree to surrender all copies of that to me? With your undertaking not to create any more?”
“Of course, Your Grace,” I said. “I believe fifteen gold Surcins is the balance owed, since naturally I am not asking Iliasta to exile herself from Aleram.”
He nodded. “And now,” he said, flicking his gaze toward his silent wife and then back to me, “If that concludes our business—”
I kept my seat. “One more thing, if I may.”
His jaw clenched, but he nodded.
“Those two,” I said, tilting my head toward Danzeyn and Shirina, who still stood with arms defiantly about each other. “There won’t be any further impediments to their marriage, I assume?” I grinned at the Keliph. “I haven’t put their story to paper yet, and I’d like to know whether it’s to be a tale of love thwarted or love triumphant. Folk all over the Empire and beyond will clamour for the tale, either way, but I like to be able to keep my tales true—after a fashion. Of course I’ll change everyone’s names, to protect the...innocent.”
The Keliph wasn’t ready to return my smile—he still had his wife to deal with—but he managed to give in with good grace. “Oh, you may give them a happy ending, Scribe Jalia,” he said. “In fact, you might stay until after their wedding, since I understand Danzeyn wants nothing more than to travel the Empire as a wandering bard. He can do so with my blessing. You’d make a fine travelling companion for a young couple, I’d wager.”
“Mmm. We’ll see,” I said.
§
Wanting no encumbrances of our own, Gemmin and I left Veliyor just after dawn broke the next morning. The rising sun was warm on our backs and the ground beginning to soften, but Gemmin rode on my lap nonetheless. His battle with Iliasta had left him tired.
“Thank you again,” I said, taking the reins in one hand so I could stroke his fur with the other.
Gemmin needs no thanks, he said. Gemmin hasn’t saved Jalia’s life yet.
The old curmudgeon. I knew damn well he stayed with me out of more than just a sense of obligation.
“Oh, not for that,” I said airily. “I knew you’d help me with the witch.”
Then what?
“For reminding me what I do best,” I said.
He kneaded his paws into my leg, perhaps a little harder than was absolutely necessary, and settled down to nap.
Ahead of us, sunlight dappled the road, and in the distance, I heard birdsong like laughter in the air. The winter, unwitched, had fled, and spring surged to take its place.