Nebula Awards Showcase 2012 (38 page)

It had the coat of arms of the Keepsake family on the side. A young man stepped out. Quite handsome in his way, but also so stiff in his way that you could have ironed sheets on him. This was Roland. He hadn’t gone more than a step when a rather unpleasant voice from inside the coach told him that he should have waited for the footman to open the door for him and to hurry up, because they didn’t have all day.

The young man hurried toward the crowd and there was a general smartening-up because, after all, here came the son of the Baron, who owned most of the Chalk and nearly all their houses, and although he was a decent old boy, as old boys go, a little politeness to his family was definitely a wise move. . . .

“What happened here? Is everybody all right?” he said.

Life on the Chalk was generally pleasant and the relationship between master and man was one of mutual respect; but nevertheless, the farmworkers had inherited the idea that it could be unwise to have too many words with powerful people, in case any of those words turned out to be a word out of place. After all, there was still a torture chamber in the castle, and even though it hadn’t been used for hundreds of years . . . well, best to be on the safe side, best to stand back and let the witch do the talking. If she got into trouble, she could fly away.

“One of those accidents that was bound to happen, I’m afraid,” said Tiffany, well aware that she was the only woman present who had not curtsied. “Some broken bones that will mend and a few red faces. All sorted out, thank you.”

“So I see, so I see! Very well done, young lady!”

For a moment Tiffany thought she could taste her teeth.
Young lady
, from . . . him? It was almost, but not entirely, insulting. But no one else seemed to have noticed. It was, after all, the kind of language that nobs use when they are trying to be friendly and jolly. He’s trying to talk to them like his father does, she thought, but his father did it by instinct and was good at it. You can’t talk to people as though they are a public meeting. She said, “Thank you kindly, sir.”

Well, not too bad so far, except that now the coach door opened again and one dainty white foot touched the flint. It was her: Angelica or Letitia or something else out of the garden; in fact Tiffany knew full well it was Letitia, but surely she could be excused just a tiny touch of nasty in the privacy of her own head? Letitia! What a name. Halfway between a salad and a sneeze. Besides, who was Letitia to keep Roland away from the scouring fair? He should have been there! His father would have been there if the old man possibly could! And look! Tiny white shoes! How long would they last on somebody who had to do a jot of work? She stopped herself there:
A bit
of nasty was enough.

Letitia looked at Tiffany and the crowd with something like fear and said, “Do let’s get going, can we please? Mother is getting vexed.”

And so the coach left and the hurdy-gurdy man thankfully left and the sun left, and in the warm shadows of the twilight some people stayed. But Tiffany flew home alone, up high where only bats and owls could see her face.

~ * ~

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Knighted in 2009, Sir Terence “Terry” Pratchett is best known for his
Discworld
novel series. He has more than 65 million books in print.
I Shall Wear Midnight
was published by Gollancz, Harper.

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~ * ~

INTRODUCTION

Here’s this year’s Rhysling Award winner in the short poem category.

~ * ~

TO THEIA

Ann H. Sch
w
ader

Theia, a hypothetical protoplanet, is central to the Great Impact Theory of the Moon
’
s origin.

That you were our meant earth, & not this other

flawed marble we crawl over, cling to, dream

in fits of leaving—surely this suspicion

once wove Atlantis through us, carved out Eden

between our ribs.

That we are shattered creatures,

our sacred texts assure us, but not why

the iron that marks our blood is restless, seeking

some heart beyond our hearts.

No second impact

remains to reunite our cores: Lagrange

holds only pebbled mercies, shooting stars

not worth the wishing on.

Come summer midnights

when song dogs serenade your final shard,

we cannot help but raise our faces also

to that remotest of reflected blessings

& howl you, Theia, as the home we lost.

~ * ~

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Ann K. Schwader’s most recent collection of dark SF poems,
Wild Hunt of the Stars
(Sam’s Dot Publishing, 2010), was a Bram Stoker Award finalist. A comprehensive collection of her weird verse,
Twisted In Dream
(edited by S. T. Joshi), is forthcoming from Hippocampus Press. Her poems have appeared in
Strange Horizons, Star*Line, Dreams
& Nightmares, Weird Tales, Dark Wisdom, Tales of the Unanticipated, Weird Fiction Review,
and elsewhere in the small and pro press. She is an active member of SFWA, HWA, and SFPA. A Wyoming native, Schwader lives and writes in suburban Colorado. Her author’s website is http://home.earthlink.net/~schwader/

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~ * ~

AUTHOR
’
S INTRODUCTION

I would love to say something mysterious about myself, but I’m afraid my life is rather mundane. I live in Bakersfield, California, home of the Fighting Drillers, with my husband (I), pet cats (3), and backyard full of strays (innumerable).

When I started writing “The Lady Who Plucked Red Flowers beneath the Queen’s Window,” I was wondering whether it would be possible to tell a coherent story from the perspective of a summoned creature. Since the creature would generally only be called in crises, it would be a story that flashed between moments of intense conflict, with much of the plot missing or happening behind the scenes.

At the time, I was also wondering how one might create an anthropologically believable matriarchy. Some sociobiologists claim that the kinds of male and female sex roles we see recurring in various cultures are based on inherent differences in male and female physiology—primarily the vulnerability that comes with being pregnant and nursing small children. That seems like a pretty valid thesis as these things go, so I tried to create a society that would eliminate that effect.

It was interesting writing the perspective of a character like Naeva, who would rather hurt people than admit her black-and-white views are wrong. I tried to find the places where I related with her, too: she’s scared; she’s manipulated; she’s very powerful but often has no control. She’s not a good person, but she is a human person, or at least I wanted her to be.

NEBULA AWARD, NOVELLA

THE L
ADY
WHO PLU
CK
ED RED FLOWERS

BENEATH THE QUEEN
’
S WINDOW

Rachel S
w
irsky

My story should have ended on the day I died. Instead, it began there.

Sun pounded on my back as I rode through the Mountains where the Sun Rests. My horse’s hooves beat in syncopation with those of the donkey that trotted in our shadow. The queen’s midget Kyan turned his head toward me, sweat dripping down the red-and-blue protections painted across his malformed brow.

“Shouldn’t . . . we . . . stop?” he panted.

Sunlight shone red across the craggy limestone cliffs. A bold eastern wind carried the scent of mountain blossoms. I pointed to a place where two large stones leaned across a narrow outcropping.

“There,” I said, prodding my horse to go faster before Kyan could answer. He grunted and cursed at his donkey for falling behind.

I hated Kyan, and he hated me. But Queen Rayneh had ordered us to ride reconnaissance together, and we obeyed, out of love for her and for the Land of Flowered Hills.

We dismounted at the place I had indicated. There, between the mountain peaks, we could watch the enemy’s forces in the valley below without being observed. The raiders spread out across the meadow below like ants on a rich meal. Their women’s camp lay behind the main troops, a small dark blur. Even the smoke rising from their women’s fires seemed timid. I scowled.

“Go out between the rocks,” I directed Kyan. “Move as close to the edge as you can.”

Kyan made a mocking gesture of deference. “As you wish, Great Lady,” he sneered, swinging his twisted legs off the donkey. Shamans’ bundles of stones and seeds, tied with twine, rattled at his ankles.

I refused to let his pretensions ignite my temper. “Watch the valley,” I instructed. “I will take the vision of their camp from your mind and send it to the Queen’s scrying pool. Be sure to keep still.”

The midget edged toward the rocks, his eyes shifting back and forth as if he expected to encounter raiders up here in the mountains, in the Queen’s dominion. I found myself amused and disgusted by how little provocation it took to reveal the midget’s true, craven nature. At home in the Queen’s castle, he strutted about, pompous and patronizing. He was like many birth-twisted men, arrogant in the limited magic to which his deformities gave him access. Rumors suggested that he imagined himself worthy enough to be in love with the Queen. I wondered what he thought of the men below. Did he daydream about them conquering the Land? Did he think they’d make him powerful, that they’d put weapons in his twisted hands and let him strut among their ranks?

“Is your view clear?” I asked.

“It is.”

I closed my eyes and saw, as he saw, the panorama of the valley below. I held his sight in my mind, and turned toward the eastern wind which carries the perfect expression of magic—flight—on its invisible eddies. I envisioned the battlefield unfurling before me like a scroll rolling out across a marble floor. With low, dissonant notes, I showed the image how to transform itself for my purposes. I taught it how to be length and width without depth, and how to be strokes of color and light reflected in water. When it knew these things, I sang the image into the water of the Queen’s scrying pool.

Suddenly—too soon—the vision vanished from my inner eye. Something whistled through the air. I turned. Pain struck my chest like thunder.

I cried out. Kyan’s bundles of seeds and stones rattled above me. My vision blurred red. Why was the midget near me? He should have been on the outcropping.

“You traitor!” I shouted. “How did the raiders find us?”

I writhed blindly on the ground, struggling to grab Kyan’s legs. The midget caught my wrists. Weak with pain, I could not break free.

“Hold still,” he said. “You’re driving the arrow deeper.”

“Let me go, you craven dwarf.”

“I’m no traitor. This is woman’s magic. Feel the arrow shaft.”

Kyan guided my hand upward to touch the arrow buried in my chest. Through the pain, I felt the softness of one of the Queen’s roc feathers. It was particularly rare and valuable, the length of my arm.

I let myself fall slack against the rock. “Woman’s magic,” I echoed, softly. “The Queen is betrayed. The Land is betrayed.”

“Someone is betrayed, sure enough,” said Kyan, his tone gloating.

“You must return to court and warn the Queen.”

Kyan leaned closer to me. His breath blew on my neck, heavy with smoke and spices.

“No, Naeva. You can still help the Queen. She’s given me the keystone to a spell—a piece of pure leucite, powerful enough to tug a spirit from its rest. If I blow its power into you, your spirit won’t sink into sleep. It will only rest, waiting for her summons.”

Blood welled in my mouth. “I won’t let you bind me ...”

His voice came even closer, his lips on my ear. “The Queen needs you, Naeva. Don’t you love her?”

Love: the word caught me like a thread on a bramble. Oh, yes. I loved the queen. My will weakened, and I tumbled out of my body. Cold crystal drew me in like a great mouth, inhaling.

~ * ~

I was furious. I wanted to wrap my hands around the first neck I saw and squeeze. But my hands were tiny, half the size of the hands I remembered. My short, fragile fingers shook. Heavy musk seared my nostrils. I felt the heat of scented candles at my feet, heard the snap of flame devouring wick. I rushed forward and was abruptly halted. Red and black knots of string marked boundaries beyond which I could not pass.

“O, Great Lady Naeva,” a voice intoned. “We seek your wisdom on behalf of Queen Rayneh and the Land of Flowered hills.”

Murmurs rippled through the room. Through my blurred vision, I caught an impression of vaulted ceilings and frescoed walls. I heard people, but I could only make out woman-sized blurs—they could have been beggars, aristocrats, warriors, even males or broods.

I tried to roar. My voice fractured into a strangled sound like trapped wind, An old woman’s sound.

“Great Lady Naeva, will you acknowledge me?”

I turned toward the high, mannered voice. A face came into focus, eyes flashing blue beneath a cowl. Dark stripes stretched from lower lip to chin: the tattoos of a death whisperer.