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It was a very unhealthy habit to disappoint a blood blade.
Sidra held the blade carefully and said, “Gannon, I would not ask this.”
“You did not ask. Do it. I have often been curious.”
She laid the blade tip against his arm, and it bit deep into muscle. The wizard winced but stared as the blade wiggled in the wound like a nursing calf.
Sidra pulled Leech free of the wound, and the sword said, “Ah, good, yumm.” Gannon ignored the sword and stared curiously at his wound as the edges knit together. Soon there was nothing but a whitish scar.
She sheathed the short sword and turned to Bardolf. “Are you willing to cure the bard now?”
Bardolf nodded weakly. “Anything you want. Just keep that sword away from me.”
Leech chuckled.
Gannon stood on one side of him and Sidra on the other. Then Gannon released the spell hold, and Bardolf nearly fell. With Gannon steadying him against the dizziness, they teleported to the inn.
The three appeared in front of Milon’s bed. His skin was gray, his eyes sunken and black-smudged. If he was breathing at all, Sidra could not tell it. The healer gasped.
Sidra’s heart felt like lead in her chest. “Are we too late?”
The healer shook her head. “There is time.”
Sidra pushed Bardolf forward against the bed. “Cure him or the blood blade will taste your soul.”
Bardolf half-fell to his knees beside the bed. He laid a hand on Milon’s forehead and over his heart. The curse-maker’s face went blank. It was the tranquility Sidra was accustomed to seeing on a healer’s face. She found it strange for a curse-doer.
Milon took a deep, shuddering breath, then his chest rose and fell. Bardolf stood up, looking relieved. Gannon forced him to stand back from the bed.
The healer touched the bard’s forehead. “The fever has broken; he sleeps. With a few days’ rest, he will be well.”
Sidra asked Gannon, “Can you take that one to the jail?”
“I think I can manage.” Gannon placed a hand on Bardolf’s forehead and spoke one strange syllable. The curse-maker’s eyes went blank, and he followed obediently as Gannon moved to the door. He turned back and asked, “What of our feline friend?”
“Do as you think best.”
Gannon smiled, a broad cheerful smile. “I will attend to it with pleasure.” He left with Bardolf following behind.
Sidra knelt by the bed and smoothed the sweat-darkened hair from Milon’s forehead. The healer moved a short distance away, giving them privacy. Sidra whispered to the bard, “I did not let you die.”
Leech was singing softly in its sheath. The words came up faint and hollow. “Lord Isham went a-riding, a-riding, a-riding. On his great bay stallion he went riding over his land. First he met a milkmaid, a milkmaid…”
Sidra asked, “Leech, have you ever tasted the blood of a province lord?”
The sword stopped in midsong and whispered, “Never, but I hear they’re quite tasty.”
“We will be visiting Lord Isham.”
Leech asked, “When?”
“Very soon.” Sidra fought the urge to smile. One should never smile when contemplating another’s death. The sword giggled, and Sidra found herself laughing with it. She saw the healer make the sign against evil. Sidra sighed. Evil had many faces. Some were just more obvious than others. She brushed her lips on Milon’s forehead and whispered, “Very soon.” She made it sound like a promise.
GEESE
This is the only story that I ever wrote through pure inspiration. My first apartment in the St. Louis area was on the edge of a lake. It had Canada geese on it. I took the trash out one night with the sunset spread across the sky and the geese settling down for the night. I stood there in the coming darkness, watching the geese, and the first line of the story came into my head. By the time I got back inside to the computer, the first paragraph was in my head. All I had to do was sit down and type fast enough to write the story. It was amazing, this rush of ideas, character, a whole story from beginning to end. I have never had this happen again. I’ve had moments of inspiration, but never so complete.
THE geese lay in the long shadows of afternoon, gray lumps, with rustling feathers and flapping wings. I dozed, long neck tucked backward, black bill buried in my feathers. I watched the other geese through black button eyes. Soon I closed my eyes and gave myself to the peace of the flock.
Perhaps I had been a goose for too long. Perhaps it was time to become human again, but the desire was hazy. I was no longer sure why I wanted to be human. I could not quite remember the reason I had hidden myself among the geese.
I realized I was losing my human identity, but it had borne so much pain. This was better. There was food, the freedom of wings, the open sky, and the comfort of the flock. I did not remember humanity as being so simple, so peaceful, so restful. I had lost the desire to be human, and that should have frightened me. That it did not was a bad sign.
Beside me, head nearly lost in the feathers of his back, was Gyldan. That was not his real name, but a human name I had given him. One of the last things to leave was this need to name things. It was a very human trait.
In my own mind I still called myself Alatir. As long as you had a name, you were still human.
Gyldan was a young gander, but he had been with me for two seasons. He was a handsome bird; jet black, cloud gray, buff white, all markings distinct and artificial in their perfectness.
He had chosen me as his mate, but I offered only companionship. I was still human enough not to wish to bear goslings.
He had stayed with me, though there were other females who would have taken him. We had spent long summers on empty lakes, claiming our territory but never going to nest. If I did that, I would never be human again. The thought came that I wanted to be human, someday, but not today.
The children came then, peasant children with their dark hair and eyes. They came from a prosperous household, for they fed us scraps of vegetables and bread. They had almost tamed us, almost.
The oldest was a girl of about fourteen, her black hair in two thick braids around a slender face. The next oldest was a boy of perhaps eleven. The rest were all sizes, with laughing brown eyes and gentle hands.
I had flown over their father’s mill many times. I had watched them help their mother in the garden and play tag in front of their house.
They came earlier by human standards, for the days were growing autumn short. By geese standards, the sun was in the same place.
The bread was day-old, crisp, and good. I remembered other bread, formed in curves and sculpted for feast days. Gyldan did not press me to share my bits of bread. He sensed my mood and knew my temper was short. There was a sound of horses riding along the road. All of us craned our necks to hear, to see danger. The oldest girl noticed it and asked us, “What’s wrong?” as if we could speak.
We thundered skyward as the horses rode out beside the lake. The children were still stunned by our beating wings, afraid. The girl recovered and screamed, “Run, hide!”
The children scattered like wild things. The girl was cut off by one prancing horse, and the oldest boy would not leave her.
I circled back, Gyldan beside me. I settled at a safe distance and listened. It took magic for me to hear them, and I found the knowledge to stretch my senses came easily.
The men wore the livery of the Baron Madawc, a white bull on a background of silver, a sword through its heart. I knew Lord Madawc well. Human memories tore through my mind. Blood running between my mother’s dead eyes. My father’s chest ripped open, so much blood. I had been but newly made a master of sorcery when Madawc slaughtered my family and took over our lands. Five years ago, I had been a child, though a powerful one. Lord Madawc had mocked me when I challenged him to a duel. He had let me live and put a geas on me, a geas to kill him, thinking that it would surely mean my death. Having a geas-ridden child seek the death of a powerful sorcerer amused him.
So I had hidden myself in a form that the geas would not touch. My human mind roared through my animal body. I remembered. I remembered.
One soldier had placed the girl across his saddlebow. “Our lord will be pleased with this.” He slapped her buttocks. She was crying.
The boy said, “Let go of my sister.” Another soldier swooped down on him and carried him, struggling, to the front of his saddle. He said, “There are those at court that like a bit of little boy. You can come along if you like.”
