Sword and Sorceress 28 Read online

  Marion Zimmer Bradley’s

  Sword

  and

  Sorceress

  28

  Edited by

  Elisabeth Waters

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  by Elisabeth Waters

  Dead Salt

  by Jonathan Shipley

  The Rolang of Taiyung

  by Catherine Soto

  Tear-Stained Sword

  by Jessie D. Eaker

  A Variation in Silence

  by Rebecca G. Eaker

  The Tavern at the Ford

  by Dave Smeds

  The Damsel in the Garden

  by Pauline J. Alama

  Ghost Spike

  by Jonathan Moeller

  Ru’s Bad Day

  by Lorie Calkins

  The Vine Princess

  by Steve Chapman

  Trading Gifts

  by Rabia Gale

  A Drink of Deadly Wine

  by Michael Spence & Elisabeth Waters

  Promises and Pastry

  by Melissa Mead

  Where There’s Smoke

  by Michael H. Payne

  Justice

  by Suzan Harden

  Pearl of Tears

  by Deborah J. Ross

  What’s in a Name?

  by Katharina Schuschke

  Copyright

  Introduction

  by Elisabeth Waters

  I have been known to define an editor as a collection of prejudices. Marion Zimmer Bradley certainly was, and I learned most of what I know about editing from her. What this means in practice is that we, and our readers, like a certain kind of story and dislike other kinds. Zombies are popular at the moment, but I personally don’t like them. I wouldn’t buy a book about them to read myself, and it’s unlikely I’d buy a story with them for SWORD AND SORCERESS. It’s just not the kind of thing I buy—usually expressed as “this doesn’t have the feel I’m looking for.” I still have a copy of MZB’s rejection paragraphs, but it’s rare for me to use any of them, because I think many of them were unnecessarily harsh. “‘Willing suspension of disbelief’ does not mean hang by the neck until dead” may be amusing, but not when it’s applied to your story. I may not always be able to put into words exactly why I like or dislike a story, but it takes me only one reading to decide if there’s any possibility that I’m going to buy it. If I know I won’t, I send it back right away, so that the author can find a better home for it.

  I firmly believe that any good story can find an editor who will buy it. I grew up on A WRINKLE IN TIME, and later Madeleine L’Engle became a personal friend as well as one of my favorite authors. More than two dozen editors rejected her novel before it was published, won a Newbery Medal, and became a classic that is still in print and selling well more than 50 years later. She said to me once that she had asked an editor who originally rejected it if he regretted his decision. He said no; he knew it would either bomb or be a terrific success and at that time his publishing house couldn’t afford the risk of its failing. (This may be why movie theatres this year are showing Despicable Me 2, Iron Man 3, Fast & Furious 6, another Star Trek movie, another Superman movie, another Hobbit movie, another Oz movie, another Die Hard movie, and a number of recycled fairy tales.)

  Not that I’m in any position to criticise the movie industry (but how many times do they have to destroy New York?—I think Superman did more damage than Al Qaeda). This volume contains at least one recycled fairy tale, a new “Temple Cats” story, a new “Ghost” story, a new “Treasures of Albion” story, and the further adventures of Cluny the sorceress squirrel. Of course, it also contains new stories by authors who haven’t sold to us before. One of MZB’s aims when she started this series was to encourage new writers, and that’s certainly a tradition we want to continue.

  I’m sure there are many editors who would run screaming from this collection, but these are all stories I like. I hope that you will enjoy them as much as I do.

  Dead Salt

  by Jonathan Shipley

  For Jonathan Shipley’s fourth appearance in SWORD AND SORCERESS, he has written a new story about Jenna, the young exorcist with a difficult calling, continuing her adventures from “Grave Gold” in SWORD AND SORCERESS 27. Since last year, he has published three more speculative fiction short stories, with another three pending, pushing his list of short fiction towards the three-dozen mark. His World War II occult fantasy REICHSBLOOD has also been short-listed by a major New York publisher for what may be his first novel publication. I’m keeping my fingers crossed for it.

  Jonathan lives in Fort Worth, Texas, and has a web presence at www.shipleyscifi.com.

  The towers of the old Commandery came slowly into view above the surrounding forest as the wagon trundled along the pocked road.

  Pacing the wagon on horseback, their Knight-Guardian Trayn gave a little whoop. “Almost there—oh, for a hot bath and a close shave.” He took off his helmet to let loose a shaggy mass of sandy-brown hair. “And a little less mane would be welcome.”

  “I told you I can clip it,” Herrin retorted from the seat of the wagon.

  “And end up with a priest’s tonsure—no thank you,” Trayn snorted. “I have my pride.”

  “Entirely too much sometimes—”

  Jenna ignored their bickering. Her young brother and her Knight-Guardian were always arguing about something and she was too tired to care. It was the end of the road and, like Trayn, she wanted a good wash and an end to travel grit. Ah, to be back in her room in the Cold Wing with a fire roaring on the hearth. Then she shook her head.

  What did it say about her life if she looked forward to a drafty room in a haunted wing of a barracks? A few weeks of “home” and she would be ready for the road again, harsh as that could be at times. The vagabond life of riding around in an open wagon wasn’t exactly pleasant either. A month of that and she would be ready to come back to the Commandery. It was an idiotic cycle. But if she wanted pleasant, she should never have accepted the life of a Church exorcist.

  Beside her, Herrin had stopped complaining and was whistling a glum, tuneless melody. The Commandery barracks wasn’t a pleasant place for him either. A priest-acolyte didn’t fit in well with the soldiers. The only one of their trio that looked genuinely pleased was Trayn, who was a Knight through and through and fit in quite well with barracks society.

  The gray walls of the Commandery drew closer, and by late afternoon, their little caravan was rolling through the front gate. Trayn was immediately in his element, swinging down from his horse to embrace his fellow knights like lost brothers. With a sigh, Jenna and Herrin gathered their bundles from under the tarp of the wagon and headed for the abandoned north wing of the fortress. The Cold Wing.

  Passing through the main block was the expected mix of draftiness and woodsmoke and food cooking. But the moment they pushed through the heavy door connecting to the north wing, the temperature plummeted. Jenna set her jaw and kept on going, refusing to give in to the urge to shiver. In her profession, cold spots were common enough. Beside her, however, Herrin shivered violently.

  They didn’t speak until they reached the room they had claimed amidst the many empty rooms. They could have taken the biggest and grandest but had chosen small instead because heating would always be a problem in the middle of a cold spot. At least the room wasn’t directly above the old torture chambers, so the unnatural chill wasn’t as bad as other rooms.

  Herrin went directly to the hearth to build a fire. “Definitely,” she nodded encouragingly. At least the Knighthood didn’t begrudge them plenty of wood.

  “You’d think Sir Knightly Horsely would help once in a while with the bags and the fire,” Herrin grumbl
ed through chattering teeth.

  The unflattering nickname came out whenever Herrin was irritated with Trayn. The countercharge was usually “damnable acolyte.” They probably had names for her as well, but she wasn’t privy to them. It was all part of the joy of constant companionship, which could grow very thin indeed on a rough road in bad weather. “Trayn does his part,” Jenna shrugged. “He manages all the campfires when we travel, so I can forgive him not managing this one.”

  Like most of the Knights, Trayn was terrified of the Cold Wing. Considering it was haunted by souls tortured to death by the Knighthood in earlier generations, they were smart to be wary of the place. The dead did, she could professionally attest, hold grudges.

  When the fire was blazing, they unpacked their bundles from the wagon. Neither had much, just a change of clothes or two and some personal odds and ends. Jenna also had a sack of “professional equipment,” as she called the salt and knife and books that she used in her exorcisms. She also used bread with the salt, but that she acquired fresh for every exorcism. The dead might not actually care, but if she were a spirit, she would be insulted to be offered stale bread as a prelude to negotiation.

  “I suppose if we want to eat, we should go mix with the rowdies,” she said after they had sat silently by the fire for a while. “If we’re lucky, there might even be...potato soup.”

  Herrin gave a short laugh as he got up and led the way to the door. Potatoes were the staple of the Commandery diet. There might also be meat of the day or fish, but always potatoes. “See you back in the land of the living.” He flung open the door and charged into the frigid corridor.

  She closed the door and followed at a less frantic pace. Then it happened—a cloud of mist rose from the floor and hovered before her. Wisps, she called them when they had so little form. This one was less vague than many others with even the semblance of a face atop a runny body.

  “Ill met,” it wheezed at her. There was hardly enough of it left to qualify as a he or a she. “The dungeons have been opened. Stop it before it starts again...” The words faded into silence as the form faded into nothingness.

  Jenna frowned. Spirits did not make idle chitchat, and she felt obligated to take these words seriously. But later. She was tired and hungry and could not be an exorcist every moment of the day. So she hurried. Now that one had found her, others would come if she tarried. Passing through the doorway connecting the wing and main block of the castle felt like crossing the threshold of life and death. Here it was merely drafty with none of the unnatural bone-deep chill, but with sounds and the smell of potato something wafting up from the kitchens. And always people. The Commandery was tightly quartered when everyone was in residence, and not much better at any other time. Occasionally a new recruit would attempt quarters in the Cold Wing but always moved back to the cramped barracks soon enough.

  “Exorcist!” a sharp voice called from down the corridor.

  She turned and waited for his approach. Obviously an officer from the bearing and uniform, but not one she knew...and she thought she knew the upper echelon at the Commandery.

  “It’s good I caught you early so we won’t have to discuss business at dinner,” he said, coming abreast of her. He had the lean, iron-gray look she associated with long-time professional soldiers, without a speck of friendliness to his demeanor.

  “And you are?” she prompted.

  “Frant, the new Commandant,” he said briskly. Then added more deliberately, “Your new Commandant.”

  That spoke volumes in itself. As an exorcist, her chain of command went to the Exorcist-General in King’s City, not the military arm of the Church. This might not be the moment, however, to point that out.

  “Your mission here seems to have bogged down under my predecessor,” he continued. “I want it back on track with a timetable of results. Is that clear, Exorcist?”

  “No,” Jenna said with a frown. “Not at all. What mission are you referring to?”

  Frant looked irritated. “Exorcising the Amantias Wing, of course. To my knowledge that’s been pending the eighteen months since you took up lodging at the Commandery with few visible results.”

  Now Jenna was irritated. Exorcising the Cold Wing had always been a very informal task, to be worked on between her official duties. It had never been a condition of her lodging. “I manage a few more exorcisms every time I’m in residence,” she said stiffly. “I assume you’re aware of that.”

  “And at this rate, how long before the Amantias Wing is purged?”

  “About three hundred years,” she said with a certain satisfaction. “The Knighthood’s torturers created a huge population of unquiet souls over the centuries. Advise your predecessors to kill fewer prisoners, and we could all be more comfortable.”

  “Three hundred years is not acceptable,” he returned coldly. “And though you may regard this as a joke, I assure you that I do not. This is now to be your top priority.”

  “And you have that in writing from the Exorcist-General?” Jenna pushed back. “That is the only office with the authority to set priorities for me.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself, young woman, for one dependent on my good will.”

  “My job is negotiating with the dead, and often the vengeful dead. That is my only...”

  He walked off while she was still speaking. “If you have reports for King’s City,” he called back over his shoulder, “have them in my office now.”

  Jenna bristled, but held her tongue as she turned and retraced her steps to the Cold Wing. She’d already made a mess of this meeting. She knew the type, knew that she should have limited herself to yes sir, no sir. But no, she had to throw in three hundred years and get the new Commandant’s back up. Now she would have negotiate herself to calmer waters with the man. It might not be the vengeful dead, but the stiff-necked living had their own challenges.

  When she returned from her quarters a second time with a sheaf of reports to be forwarded to the Exorcist-General in King’s City, the amanuensis was not even at his desk in the Commandant’s office. No one was there. The Commandant himself was already at dinner as she should have been if not for this fool’s errand. But this attitude led nowhere good. She had to remember that there was constant frustration within the Commandery over all those empty rooms in the Cold Wing when the barracks was overflowing.

  But it was equally frustrating that the Knighthood in general—this Commandant in particular—didn’t seem to grasp the magnitude of exorcising a killing field. The dungeons have been opened. The ghostly words came back to her as she walked, making her wonder. Would this new, stiff-necked commander be so foolish as to re-open the old torture chambers? The thought sickened her. She both wanted and did not want to ask, but knew she would have to sound out Trayn on the topic fairly soon. If the dead were more restless than usual, she had to know why.

  At the refectory door, she spared a glance at the high table of ranking officers where the Commandant was comfortably ensconced, then searched the benches for Herrin. She spotted Trayn mid-table, kept looking, then her eyes returned for a second look. This was no longer the familiar, scruffy Trayn of the road. He’d evidently found his bath and shave and was looking sleek and civilized as he traded stories with his brother Knights. She tended to forget how well he cleaned up and that he was really much younger than his road-weary, battle-ready self usually looked. He looked odd out of boots and armor. Not like the real Trayn at all. But even in soft clothing, he was friend enough to field an awkward question...but later.

  She kept searching for Herrin, knowing his dark priest’s cassock ought to stand out among the brighter clothing of the Knights. Ah, there by himself on a bench in the corner, looking completely unsociable as he pushed food around on his plate.

  “Why aren’t you sitting with the others?” she demanded as she joined him.

  He shrugged. “I was told I wasn’t welcome.” He nodded at the head table. “Seems the new Commandant doesn’t care much for exorcism assistan
ts.”

  “Or exorcists,” she added in an undertone. Witch...exorcist—some people saw no difference. Stop it before it starts again. The wisp’s words echoed ominously. It seemed to be a new regime of intolerance at the Commandery.

  “Have you eaten anything at all?” she asked, nodding at his untouched food.

  Herrin shrugged. “Not much appetite at the moment.”

  “No, we traveled all day with barely a bite and you must eat for your strength. We both must. Then you’re going directly to my chamber and locking the door. This feels wrong...unsafe.”

  He looked at her with wary eyes, sensing her urgency. “And you? If I’m not safe, neither are you.”

  “I’ll join you as soon as I can. But I have to talk to Trayn first. He needs to know what’s going on.”

  ~o0o~

  The meal dragged on. Finished with her dinner and sitting alone in the corner, Jenna felt every second tick by. She had planned to simply interrupt Trayn at his table talk to tell him her concerns, but every time she stood to do that, she felt the cold eye of the Commandant on her and sat down again. There was something unnerving about that man. Finally she simply left by the nearest door. She wasn’t giving up, but she couldn’t sit there any longer. So she made the trek back to the opposite side of the building and passed through the barracks to the row of monks’ cells where she knew Trayn had his own cubicle. While the barracks was not an appropriate place for a young woman, it still seemed the best place to force a meeting. Left to himself, Trayn would never come to the Cold Wing.

  The cell itself was not hard to find. Each Knight hung his shield on the outside of his door when he was in residence, and she was very familiar with the quartered chevrons of Trayn’s family arms. Slipping inside, she waited by the single, narrow window, taking in the view of the Commandery courtyard from an unfamiliar angle.

  Eventually she heard multiple footsteps coming down the corridor and tensed as the door opened. “Aye, and the same to you,” she heard Trayn call out as someone kept on going down the corridor.