One of my early short stories, first published in Luna Station Quarterly.
Information about my other writing can be found here as well as at the bottom of the page.
Happy reading!
Everafter
Acres
Happily ever after isn't always perfect,
but dark knights can be illuminating.
Sir
Peregrin was always good-humored, and even dour mornings with
grudging dawns made him cheery. It was very trying.
As
always, much too shortly after daybreak he strode to the window,
flung aside the draperies, threw wide the casement and leaned out
beaming as he drew a deep breath, thoroughly satisfied. “Zounds,
verily ‘tis caliginous this day. Right lowering. What think you, my
heart’s divinity?”
Lady
Calantha stifled a groan as she sat up in the great four-poster bed,
blearily regarded the gray world outside the diamond-patterned panes,
and replied curtly in the vernacular.
“For
heaven’s sake, Grin, do close that.”
Her
lord lapsed into the vernacular as well, but left the window open as
he reveled in the view, blithely oblivious to his lady’s tone.
“Dirtiest weather we’ve had for a while. Think I'll take a gallop
around the north woods to check for griffins―they love this sort of
murk. Wear that purple velvet thing of yours, won't you, m'dear?”
Calantha
tried not to whimper as she huddled in the covers. “I’d really
rather not ride all the way to the north woods on a day like this.
And besides, my purple gown doesn't fit just now.” It hadn't fit
for ages, but she wasn't about to let her lord know.
Peregrin
laughed in his tryingly hearty way. “Blame the sweet wine and
suckling pig at everyone’s feasts, m'dear. A good stirring rescue
will give you some exercise."
Calantha
shuddered as much at the notion of yet another rescue as she did at
the misty chill invading the chamber, and somehow managed not to give
the Reply Querulous, which would have reminded her lord that his
armor had very recently been altered with roomy gussets to
accommodate his expanding paunch. Instead, she regarded the back of
Peregrin’s head, remembering the golden mane that had fallen just
past his broad shoulders in days gone by. Now the shoulders stooped,
and what little hair he had left was becoming as gray as…well, as
her own. “Suckling pig’s such a fad lately. And feasting’s
getting as tiresome as…” She almost said ‘tournaments,’ but
managed to stop herself in time.
Peregrin
didn’t notice. “Speaking of feasts, that reminds me―it’s our
turn to give the next one.”
“Wonderful.”
Resignedly Calantha wrapped a shawl over her shift and joined her
lord at the window, shutting the casement with a jerk that rattled
the glass. With no enthusiasm she surveyed the view of bumpy little
hills each with its own little castle, each castle neatly framed by
the window’s diamond panes. Her listless gaze narrowed on one in
the near distance, that was very showy in a sinister way, with
attenuated towers pointed sharp as arrows, and black swans in its
moat. “Sir Bors' accursed mastiff bayed me awake all night.”
“Probably
smelled a troll lurking around the walls. They’re pungent.”
Peregrin seemed to muse, an unusual thing for him. “He’s a good
fellow, is Bors. Bit of a standoffish loner, but he’ll never let
you down in a fight.””
Calantha
noted the pennons on the black castle’s towers―black pennons,
each emblazoned with a red heart stuck full of arrows, all of them
now hanging limply in the drizzle, to her admittedly snide
satisfaction. “And he’s sworn champion to the fairest maiden in
the land…who certainly puts him through his paces.”
Peregrin
chuckled. “Can’t say I envy Bors his lot. I’ve heard
Blanchefleur needs to be rescued at least three times a day or
there’s no putting up with her. Speaking of which, we should get
ready, don’t you think?”
Calantha
sighed. “Grin, this is hardly the ideal weather for a lady of my
years to be tied to a tree and fought over. Besides, you'll only rust
your armor and catch a cold."
Her
lord sighed too, but very briefly. “You never want to be rescued
these days.” He suddenly looked perplexed, and contrite. “Am I
doing anything wrong, my love? Would you like more excitement when
it’s going on? More activity?”
“No,
no.” Calantha felt a twinge of guilt. “Your rescues are always
perfect. I mean that.”
He
actually believed her. “Good!” His still-brawny arm half-wrapped
Calantha’s waist, giving rather too firm a squeeze. “Perhaps more
girth there than in days of yore, but what of it? You’ll always be
my queen. If you don't feel like being rescued, maybe you should
write one of those ballad things, or get out your harp. You never
play your harp anymore."
Calantha
disliked her lord's fingers assessing her superfluity, and moved
away. “I’m not in the mood, Grin. That accursed dog's barking
again. Perhaps I'll take up archery."
“Ah
well, I'll ask Ubald and Knute to join me for a bit of hunting. Three
knights against a griffin is decent odds.” Peregrin brightened, and
beamed. “I'll bring you back its head. What do you say to that?”
Calantha
suppressed a wince. “I never know what to do with griffin heads.
They just sit around until I have to throw them out.” Realizing
what she’d said, she felt a stab of regret. “I’m sorry, Grin. I
don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.”
Peregrin
had indeed looked disappointed, but as usual only momentarily. “You
just need a visit to the wise woman, m’love. She'll give you a
potion, or a philtre, or something that'll set you right.”
It
took all of Calantha’s self-control to keep her expression sweet,
and she only partially succeeded. “Elspeth is annoying lately, and
won’t mind her manners. And I never like riding about in the woods.
There’s always a monstrosity lurking.”
“Well,
but one of the lads will show up to save you. That you can count on.”
“Oh,
yes. That I can.”
Oblivious
to his lady’s tired tone, Peregrin kissed her with his usual blend
of gallantry and relish, and hastened off to set about his day. That
most of his days were exactly the same never seemed to bother him.
Sir
Bors' dog howled anew, making Calantha yearningly remember the
lake-moated keep she had called home for so many contented years
before it became too big to look after, and too isolated, and too
damp. The attractions of Everafter Acres were, at the outset,
obvious: new construction with modern conveniences, less
dust-gathering square footage, no annoying apparitions, and safe
walls that made private armies unnecessary. All of their friends had
moved there. It was only later, as more years passed, that Calantha
realized that castles were never meant to be built so close together,
and these weren't very well made compared to the strongholds of yore.
Moreover, far too many of them were garishly designed, with overdone
crockets and crenellations and innumerable ornamental gargoyles.
But
the real problem was that Everafter didn't include much Happily.
Later
in the morning Calantha gifted her purple velvet to her maid, donned
a new and blessedly roomy green replacement, pinned on a wimple, and
gave order to have her palfrey brought round.Tying a bag to the
saddle-horn, she set off to visit the wise woman.
As
she rode through the woods that led to Dame Elspeth's cottage,
Calantha kept a sharp eye on the the world around her. Stepping
outside Everafter’s walls always meant adventure in all its
life-threatening variety. A flash of golden light amid the mists
accompanied by a slightly bawdy bit of song only put Calantha more on
her guard.
In
another moment Lady Blanchefleur rounded a bend, caroling the latest
love-ditty as she cantered up on her smart little palfrey of dappled
grey with trailing pastel ribbons in its mane. Calantha’s
apprehension vanished, but her gloom darkened. Only an extreme effort
produced the requisite appearance of glad welcome.
The
two ladies reined in and greeted one another courteously in approved
Everafter fashion, bending from the saddle to almost-kiss one
another’s cheek, then inquiring as to the state of each other’s
health with the requisite thees, thous, and forsooths, then lauding
the beauty of the not especially praiseworthy day as a matter of
form. Those prerequisites done, Blanchefleur dropped into the
vernacular with evident relief.
“There’s
a troll lurking about,” she said, indicating the thickest part of
the woods with a delicate diamonded forefinger. “Just thought I’d
warn you.”
“Thanks
awfully,” Calantha replied. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
“You’re
on your way to Elspeth, I daresay. I just left her. That hag’s
prices are absolutely criminal, but still…” Blanchefleur held up
a little vial. “It'll keep the milk and roses in my hue or my money
back. Care to try a drop? That shade of green is such a trying color,
even for youthful years. Not to mention that wimples look so
nunnish.”
Elspeth’s
potions, Calantha had learned from long experience, were at their
best insipid, and at their worst pernicious―rather like
Blanchefleur. Declining with thanks a little strained, Calantha would
have changed the subject, but Blanche beat her to it.
“You’re
giving the next feast, aren’t you? I hope you’ll have suckling
pig. I adore it.”
As
Blanche launched into a rapturous litany of favorite dishes, Calantha
inwardly bristled. It was bad enough that Blanche considered herself
invited as a matter of course, but even worse that since she was
single, with little more than a tower for a dwelling, she never had
to endure the bother of providing food, drink, and minstrelsy for
several score lords and ladies exceedingly fond of good cheer. As if
that weren’t enough, Blanche gloried in the type of figure that
always stayed a damsel’s no matter how much she ate, and hair that
made gold seem detritus. Her blinding tresses fell in silken
profusion to a waist almost impossibly slender, set off by a gown of
watchet samite so perfectly fitting and obviously costly that it took
one’s breath away. Although she was of fully the same years as
Calantha, she was as beautiful as an angel in a missal.
“I’m
thinking of bringing hennins back in style,” she was saying.
Calantha,
who had been too rapt with her own thoughts to pay much attention to
whatever Blanche was saying, started at the mention of that hideous
headgear, and reflected that Blanchefleur would look divinely fair
even with her glorious locks scraped under a cone. The thought was
infuriating. “It's quite a chilly day,” she all but snapped. “I
fear you'll catch cold in that gown, my dear, although it is a shame
to veil so faultless a bosom.”
Blanchefleur
glanced down with complacent admiration at her snowy decollete, which
was extreme almost to indecency. “Oh, I never feel the weather; no
worries.” Contemplation of her temptingly rippable bodice seemed
to inspire a change of thought. “By the way, there’s a new
romance going the rounds. I’m next in line to read it, and you can
have it after me if you like.”
There
was always a love-manuscript written by some bard or other being
passed about among the Everafter ladies. The stories could be relied
upon to provide lubricious and horrific thrills right up to the
inevitable happy ending, and were decorated with illuminations that
spared the imagination any undue effort. By the time the book reached
the last lady’s hands, it could be counted upon to be dog-eared,
underlined, margin-scrawled and creatively stained, with most of the
illustrations missing. Blanche was suspected to be a frequent
offender in that regard.
Before
Calantha could refuse her friend’s offer with the observation that
romances were tedious and predictable and she hoped to never read
another again in her life, Blanchefleur’s cerulean orbs gazed past
her and became animated for the first time since the mention of food.
“Why, there’s Bors!” And dealing Calantha a perfunctory wave of
farewell, she dug an exquisitely spurred heel into her palfrey’s
side, sending the horse prancing away into the deep woods, exactly in
the opposite direction of the dark-armored knight just coming into
sight down the path.
Calantha
distinctly heard the knight grumble an oath and heave a resigned
sigh, waiting a minute or so to give Blanche a good start before
urging his war-horse into a gallop. As he thundered past Calantha he
bowed from the saddle, and his eyes met hers an instant before giving
a significant upward roll.
Having
no time to react to Sir Bors’ atypical show of emotion, Calantha
watched him crash through the woods until he was lost to sight. It
was well known, or at least generally supposed, that Bors and
Blanchefleur were paramours. Both were unmarried, which was far from
usual in Everafter Acres, and although Blanche often alluded to her
maiden status, people noticed that she always made herself scarce
during unicorn sightings.
Moodily
Calantha continued her ride, and soon reached the crazy little
cottage that was Elspeth’s abode. As always, smoke spiraled from
the crooked chimney of the thatched roof, and rumpled chickens
scratched about the open door, from which issued a mildly revolting
blend of odors and the high faint whine of senile crooning.
Lifting
her skirts to clear it from the bare bird-fouled dirt of the
cottage’s yard, Calantha lowered her head to enter the cramped
little doorway, and greeted Elspeth with the civility due a seeress,
making sure to keep her skirts elevated since the cottage floor was
no cleaner than the trampled earth outside.
The
blear-eyed crone barely looked up from the mess she was stirring at
the hob of the hearth. “Bring me anything?”
The
bag around the palfrey’s saddle-horn held not only a flask of wine,
but rich delicacies. Elspeth had a sweet tooth―it was one of the
few in her head―and she at once began munching marzipan between
sips of malmsey. By now used to such wordless intervals interrupted
only by stifled gulps and belches, Calantha examined the arcane
oddments and pickled horrors on the room’s tables and shelves.
Elspeth
wiped her mouth on the back of her veiny mottled hand and took a
breather. “That Blanchefleur baggage was just here, craving a new
potion for that pretty phiz of hers. Will ye be wanting the same,
m’lady? I’ll have to brew it stronger and charge more, I warn
ye.”
Calantha
flinched. “No, thanks.”
“A
dye then, to get the gray out of your hair? You’d not need to hide
it under a rag, then.”
Calantha
pretended to ignore this allusion both to her faded tresses and her
spotless, intricately-pleated headdress of finest lawn. “I’m past
those sorts of things, Elspeth.” She set down the gnarled bit of
dried mushroom, or perhaps mummy, that she’d been idly
scrutinizing. “I just want something to…” She hesitated. To
what? Give her the zest of her young days? Alleviate the tedium?
Allow her to just…vanish? Tears began to gather in her eyes, and
her sinuses became troublesome.
Elspeth
regarded her with a piercing squint. “So. In the doleful dumps
again, are we?”
Calantha
sniffled agreement.
“Life
seems a bit tiresome, eh?”
“More
than a bit.” Calantha looked down at her waistline with renewed
dismay. “I used to be as lissom as Blanchefleur.”
“Lissomer.
I remember.”
“I
thought I’d be young forever. How’d this happen, Elspeth?”
“People
forgot about you.”
That
stung. “Clearly they didn’t forget about Blanche.”
“That’s
because she stayed single. It kept her interestin’. Well, there’s
always drink to keep your wits addled and happy. If not, I’ve got
this herb…”
“No.”
Calantha wiped her eyes with her flowing sleeve. “Maybe I’ll just
wander into the woods and let a griffin eat me.”
Elspeth
snorted at her client’s sullen tone, and helped herself to more of
the rare malmsey with irritating liberality. “Go see how far it
gets you.”
At
those words, Calantha felt a strange jolt that took her away from
herself a moment. “What?”
“You
heard me. I said try it.”
“You
want me to be eaten by a griffin?”
“Can’t
say as I care, but it won’t happen no matter how hard you try.”
As Calantha stood astounded, Elspeth shook the marzipan-crumbs from
her apron, which were instantly intercepted by some of the chickens.
“And don’t stare so gormless. Do you honestly think being a wise
woman is any fun around here?”
Calantha
ignored the question. “Are you saying the monsters aren’t…real?”
Elspeth
shrugged. “Oh, they’re real enough. But they won’t harm you.
They can’t. They’re stocked like carp in a pond, and have about
as much bite to ‘em.”
Calantha
remembered the loud and violent but consistently harmless griffins of
the north woods, and contrasted them with those of her long-past days
as a damsel. The latter had been absolutely, universally lethal. In
comparison, the former were little more deadly than Elspeth’s
chickens. Her heart sank. “You always knew this?”
“Yep.”
“Who…stocks
them?”
“The
management, I s’pose. Does it matter?”
“But
what made you tell me?” Calantha put a sharp emphasis on the last
word.
“Because
no one ever complains, ‘cept for you. Reckon I got tired of it.”
“You’re
lying about the monsters, you…you hag.”
Elspeth
only cackled. “Go back out to the woods and try to get yourself
killed. Try your hardest. If you live, you owe me.”
“For
what?”
“You’ll
see.” Stretching in a gaping yawn, Elspeth dropped back in her
frowsy cushioned chair, raising a faint cloud of dust. “Malmsey
always makes me nappish.” In another moment she was snoring.
There
was no point in waking her. Calantha stared down at the cryptic hag’s
ravined wrinkles, sickle nose, and lipless mouth. Had Elspeth ever
been young? Ever been lovely? No amount of imagination could envision
her as other than she was. She had always been a part of Everafter,
always the way she looked now, except at the present moment she was
even uglier than usual.
“Liar,”
Calantha whispered. Resisting the urge to drop a nearby black beetle
into the crone’s now wide-open snaggly jowls fully as revolting as
an orc’s, she left the house, scattering chickens with the skirts
of her gown as she made for her horse.
Riding
homeward, Calantha thought with small joy of her maid now probably
glorying in her mistress’ purple velvet; of how Blanchefleur’s
eyes had gleamed avidly at the sight of Sir Bors; of her own lord
Peregrin, and how handsome he had once been, and how delightful life
had once been, full of love and peril. What was left, now that youth
and beauty had fled? If the knights had nothing to conquer, and the
ladies had no need to be rescued…what then? What would fill up the
endless hours between now and forever, if nothing meant anything?
Dismally
pensive, she let her mare find its way back to the castle, which it
soon failed to do. After a time Calantha halted, looking around her.
She was in the depths of a forest primeval, where rags of mist
wraithed among the huge trunks and caught in the massive low-hanging
boughs like cobwebs. No birds sang, but winds sighed through the
boughs like resentful ghosts. It was the kind of place where
something dreadful could occur at any instant.
Reliably,
it did. A horrific creature slithered out of a narrow cave with a
sinister rattling of scales, coiled itself on the path, reared its
ghastly head, and showed all its teeth, of which it had several rows,
in a ravenous grin.
Calantha’s
horse promptly threw her, and galloped away. The monster seemed
thrilled, and swayed its serpentine neck as its slit shimmering eyes
stared its prey up and down.
Palfreys
weren’t much larger than ponies, and the fall had been soft, onto a
bank of moss. As Calantha picked herself up, her first instinct was
to scream, but she remembered Elspeth’s revelation. Now would be
the time to test it. Accordingly she stood her ground, trying not to
tremble.
The
wyrm―it was a wyrm―threw back its head, opened its maw to the
maximum, and shrieked. The noise was truly blood-curdling, and
normally Calantha would have screamed in her turn, running away as
fast as her flowing skirts would allow. But she remembered what
Elspeth had told her. Drawing a deep breath, she turned her back on
the horror, closed her eyes and stood perfectly still, speaking
between clenched teeth.
“Go
ahead. I dare you.”
She
waited, her heart battering, for foul hot breath, then fleshy
slime-tongued damp enveloping her head, and a neck-severing crunch.
An interval of a dozen or so seconds elapsed, every one of them a
drop of boiling oil, until Calantha heard the wyrm make a noise that
sounded exactly like a confused and petulant whine before giving her
a hard headbutt in the back. Furious, Calantha spun around and
smacked its face, or rather the one spot that wasn’t either teeth,
eye, or snout.
The
wyrm’s glittering eyes blinked in what could only be amazement, and
its spiny crest wilted as it turned about and slithered back to its
den in a manner clearly nonplussed, without a backward glance.
Calantha
looked on absolutely astounded, and then uttered an oath that no lady
would use under any circumstances.
“My
sentiments more or less precisely.”
Turning
toward that dry vernacular uttered not a stone's throw away, Calantha
stared at the last person she expected to see. “Sir Bors, what are
you doing here?”
The
dark knight shrugged with a slight creaking of half-armor. “Thought
you might need rescuing. Quite apparently you don’t.”
As
always, Bors looked magnificent with an arresting touch of the
sinister. His broad shoulders showed no signs of even beginning to
bow, just as his waist had stayed as slim as a squire’s. His hair
was long, still abundant, and raven, framing his swarthy hard
features in an arresting way. He was so perfect that Calantha just
stared at him for some moments, and of course he let her; and she
couldn’t help but think, even in her jangled mental state, that
dark knights seemed to have all the luck.
“How
long have you been watching?” she finally asked.
“Just
arrived,” Bors said. “Thought I heard a lady shrieking, but it
turned out to be the wyrm.”
“Shouldn’t
you be rescuing Blanchefleur?”
“Did
that half an hour ago, from a troll.”
“And
was it terribly exciting?”
Bors'
mouth quirked. “Not too.”
“I
believe you. It looks as if it didn’t put up much of a fight.”
“You
knew it wouldn’t.” He hesitated. “How’d you find out?”
“Elspeth.”
Calantha hesitated, too. “How'd you find out?””
“I
just felt it. Had for a long time.”
A
long deep silence fell, and it was a relief when Bors looked away and
spoke again. “Shall we be off? Nag’s getting restive.”
Bors’
horse was nearby, pawing the ground and snorting. As they approached
the animal, Calantha noted a charming wreath of autumn leaves around
its saddlebow.
“How
lovely. A gift from Blanchefleur?”
Bors
shook his head in his moody way. “I made it for her to wear, but
she didn’t want it. Said something about bugs and scratchiness and
it not being her colors.”
Calantha
took the wreath in her hands. Around a circlet of ivy,
thickly-clustered leaves of red and orange and gold seemed to glow
with inner fire in the dim light of the deep woods. The wreath was
very skilfully wrought, and Calantha tried to imagine Bors creating
it, selecting just the right mixture of colors and shapes set off so
well by the vine’s deep green, his tough fingers bending the ivy
with just enough force, careful not to break it. “Blanchefleur
indeed seems best suited to roses and lilies,” she said, as
graciously as possible; but she suddenly disliked that lady more than
ever. “Here.” And she handed the circlet back.
“I
don’t want the thing. Keep it if you like.”
“Oh,
but I couldn’t…”
“Bah.”
Bors plucked the wreath from her hands, and in another moment
Calantha was wearing it over her wimple.
“Hold
still,” Bors said, settling the circlet with care upon the fine
white linen, then critically adjusting the leaves before moving back
to inspect his work. “Hm. Very fine. You look like a prophetess.”
Calantha
had never before received so much of Bors’ attention, and hardly
knew what to do with it. “Too bad I don’t have a mirror.”
“Here’s
one,” Bors said, tapping his gleaming steel breastplate.
Calantha
contemplated her reflection only a little distorted by the metal’s
curve. “Bors, I can’t tell Peregrin about…what happened. It
would kill him.”
“Actually,
it wouldn’t, which is worse.”
That
thought made Calantha flinch within. “He really is perfect.”
Bors
nodded. “A bit over-jovial perhaps, but no harm done.”
“He’d
probably think me very odd-looking just now.” Calantha watched the
image in the breastplate give a wry reminiscent smile. “Wreaths are
meant to be worn over tresses flowing loose, by slim young damsels.
Not by―”
“Oh,
nonsense.” Bors frowned, then. “Blanche really should put her
hair up.”
“Now
that you mention it, she’s thinking of bringing hennins back into
style.”
Bors
growled an underbreath imprecation against that conical mode, and
reached for his horse’s halter. “How would you like to ride?
Withers, crupper, or led?”
Calantha
did a swift mental rejection of all three. “I’d rather we both
walk.”
“Hm.
That’s different. Do you have the shoes for it?”
“Flat
and comfy. And you?”
“The
same. Well, let’s be off.”
It
turned out to be a very enjoyable stroll, despite the dank gloom of
the woods. Calantha had feared she and Bors would have little in
common, but such wasn’t the case at all. Unlike any other knight
Calantha had ever known, Bors wasn’t his own favorite subject of
conversation, and the talk didn’t once stray to the good old days,
which were usually just about the only topic in Everafter. No
monstrosity whatsoever appeared to make itself troublesome, although
now and then Calantha noticed an ogre stealing sheepishly behind a
rock, or a chimera scuttling away abashed, or a spectre discreetly
dissipating once sighted. Clearly word had gotten around.
The
horse soon wandered off, taking its way back to Everafter. Relaxed in
the quiet, Calantha and Bors stopped often to examine the mushrooms
growing on fallen trunks and in shaded earth, and together they
admired the symmetry of the delicate gills, and tried to give names
to the indeterminate colors. They halted at a bend of a stream and
watched a bullfrog swelling its croak, and further on gazed up at a
great owl nearby on a branch staring back at them with its huge
yellow eyes, and they both made hooting noises to get it to hoot
back, which it did. At one point in their progress Bors tapped
Calantha’s arm, alerting her to a little troop of deer crossing the
path. And the more they walked together, and the more they saw and
enjoyed, the more the sun came out, until all the leaves on the trees
gleamed bright against the deep blue sky.
“This
is the first time I’ve ever really enjoyed the woods,” Calantha
said as they passed through an especially radiant grove. “I was
always too busy worrying about being attacked, or carried off, or
both.”
“I
never really minded for a long time,” Bors replied. “It kept me
busy. But now…”
Rounding
an outcropping of rock, they found themselves looking out over the
little castled hills of the community, and they sighed at the same
time. At that very instant Bors’ mastiff began baying.
“What
a barker that beast is,” the dark knight said. “I never noticed
before.”
Calantha
stared. “Surely you jest. He’s the terror of the neighborhood.”
“I’ll
feed him to the manticore. How does that sound?”
“You
know the manticore won’t touch him.”
“I
suppose not. Well, I’ll find a muzzle.” Bors finally broke a
longish silence. “Odd, life with no monsters.”
“Good
riddance.” Calantha gazed from one predictable set of towers to
another. “It’s my turn to give the next feast. Everyone will
expect suckling pig. Such a bother.”
“I’ll
show up uninvited, and we can dance.”
“You’re
always invited everywhere, but you never show up. And I didn’t know
you danced.”
“I
do, and not sedately. Expect to be whirled.”
“No
easy task, I warn you.”
“Bah.
They don’t call me redoubtable for nothing.”
“People
will be shocked.”
“Good.”
Bors’ thoughts seemed to stray elsewhere. “I like mushrooms.”
“With
suckling pig?”
“No,
no. Those ones in the woods. I think I’ll try to draw them.”
“I
didn’t know you could draw.”
“I
can, rather tolerably. But monsters were never very
inspiring.”
Calantha felt the warmth of the bright leaves wreathing
her brow. “I might ask you to illustrate the epic I’m planning to
write. The notion just occurred to me as we were walking.”
Bors’
eyes widened a fraction. “Will it be about mushrooms?”
“Well,
they’ll figure in the plot.”
“As
heroes, or villains?”
Calantha
laughed, and realized it’d been quite a long time since she’d
really and truly done so. As they started on the little path through
the field to Everafter’s gate, she couldn’t help a question of
her own.
“Speaking
of drawing…why your sword?”
Bors
swung his weapon’s gleaming blade in a martial salute. “For the
look of the thing, as we make our entrance. Everyone will think I
rescued you.”
“They’ll
be right. Which reminds me―I owe Elspeth a keg of malmsey.”
Bors
smiled, something he seldom did; it was always a bit startling. “I
can’t imagine mushrooms ever getting dull, can you?”
Calantha
took his offered arm. “Even if they do, there’s always owls.”
“Excellent.”
And
they lived…well, you know.
End
Carolyn Kephart's publications:
Wysard and Lord Brother, Parts One and Two of the Ryel Saga duology, acclaimed epic fantasy (available at Amazon)
The Ryel Saga: A Tale of Love and Magic, combining the duology in a single volume (available at Amazon)
Queen of Time, contemporary magic realism that takes the Faust legend in new directions (available at Amazon)
At the Core of the Happy Apple: A Mystery Solved, an essay on the inner workings of the popular 1970s Fisher Price wobble toy (available at Amazon)
PenTangle: Five Pointed Fables, a collection of short stories previously published in ezines (available at Smashwords and its associate vendors)
