* * *
"I like you, Belden,"
Clarissa said as she dropped a handful of whiteberries into the basket.
"You're not like the others."
"I know." Oh, yes,
he knew, all right. Not a day passed that he wasn't reminded.
"That's not what I
meant. You're so...alive. Real. Almost..." she glanced sideways at him
and
smiled becomingly, "...almost dangerous."
He snorted, allowing
one corner of his mouth to quirk upward. "Me. Dangerous. Right."
"Well, you could be.
I don't think you're as clumsy as they say you are." She blushed. "I didn't
mean it that way."
"But I am," he said
flatly, pulling a handful of berries from the bush with such force that
they
crushed. "No matter how much I want to, I can't be an elf." He studied
the pale smear of juice on his
hand and wiped it against his leggings.
"Silly, I know you're
not an elf. But, stars, you're certainly not an orc."
"Thank someone for
that. If I was, Elwyndar and Jelina would have dropped me in the river,
or
just left me to die."
"They didn't, though.
I mean, just 'cause you're not elven doesn't mean you're useless."
"Might as well be,
here."
"How come you don't
go to archery and swords class with the others?" She popped a berry in
her mouth and closed her eyes. "Mmm. I love whiteberries. Here." She
held a berry to his lips.
He almost pulled back,
but opened his mouth and accepted the berry. Her fingers brushed his
lips. He shivered, wanting to seize her hand and kiss it.
"You know what would
happen if I went to swords class," he said, pulling his head back. "No
one would want me there and they'd all laugh and make fun."
"You should, though.
I think you'd be better than all of them."
He shrugged and picked
a few more berries. Down deep, he knew she was right. He could be
better than Leander and his friends. Clarissa moved to the next bush,
leaving him with the basket as she
filled her apron with berries. He ate another, savoring the sweetness.
Though, somehow, this one was
not as sweet as the one she had given him.
A bright rosebird
flew past, a streak of pink against the forest. Clarissa turned to watch
it pass,
and Belden was struck by the way the light and shadow played across
her face.
I will do it, he vowed
to himself. I will practice until I drop. I'll beat Leander at swords,
archery, anything. And maybe, someday, even if I am human...
The thought was only
half-formed; vague impressions of himself and Clarissa as adults, a home
of their own, a happy life in the elvenwood. He shook his head and
laughed softly. If he had friends, they
would surely tease him for getting mushy about a girl.
"Something funny?"
she asked.
"No, just my thoughts,"
he said, coloring slightly. She flashed him a quick smile and reached
for more berries.
A soft noise disturbed
him, and he glanced swiftly at the surrounding trees. His keen eyes
picked out a small form moving away through the woods. Clarissa's sister,
what was her name? All he
could remember was that some of the kids called her Sparrow.
They picked whiteberries
until the basket was full, then he walked her home through the
deepening dusk. She paused at the gate, thanked him prettily, and brushed
a soft kiss aginst his cheek
before slipping through the gate.
* * *
(Seven Years Later)
Winter's artistry gave Crystal
Falls a new beauty, dusting the woods with snow and hanging
glittering daggers of ice from the bare boughs. The falls for which
the elven city was named froze into a
crystalline spectacle reflecting rainbows against the pale sky. Breath
plumed out in frosty clouds, and the
elves of Crystal Falls hurried about their errands with a briskness
unusual to the calm race. They only
paused to admire the handiwork of Lady Noelle, goddess of winter, before
heading home to revels and
song.
One person in Crystal
Falls did not let the season change his habits. Rain or shine, snow or
summer's heat, Belden kept to his routine as he had for the past seven
years. He rose at dawn and crept
down the stairs of his foster parents' home with a catlike quiet that
not even elven ears could detect. Out
of respect for the bitter cold, he donned a fur-trimmed tunic and low
boots. He snuck half a loaf and a
chunk of cold venison from the pantry and let himself out through the
back door. The back garden was
hidden under an even fall of snow, his foster-mother's prize roses
hidden for the winter. He stood on the
porch and puffed several quick breaths into the frosty air, stuffed
the food into the pouch at his belt, and
ran across the yard. So fast and lightly did he run that he seemed
to skim the surface, only kicking up
small puffs of snow and leaving tracks discernable to only the sharpest-eyed
hunter. He jumped the low
fence and sped through the woods.
The going was easier
under the canopy of snow-laden branches. He covered the short miles to
his retreat rapidly, and arrived in the glen barely winded. His nose
and cheeks were bright red from the
cold.
The glen was a small
nook bordered on two sides by the steep rocks that eventually rose to
become the Glissfarren Heights, on one side by a tangled deadfall of
old wood and briars, and by the
woods on the last side. A spring dribbled from one of the rocky walls,
now frozen into an icy sculpture
resembling a dragon's head complete with long teeth. Between two large
boulders was a shallow cave
with a hard-packed dirt floor. Belden had to duck to enter the cave,
which made him grin. When he had
first found this place, he had walked straight in with a foot to spare.
Now, he had to duck, but he
suspected that Leander would miss the overhang by at least two inches.
The cave was sparsely
furnished. There was an old bearskin sleeping fur that he'd rescued from
the rag-bag years ago, a stack of wood for the stone-ringed firepit,
some old wooden utensils resting on a
natural rock shelf, and a carefully-wrapped oilskin bundle beneath
the sleeping fur. Belden sat on a
smooth stone and balanced the bundle on his knees, unwrapping it to
reveal a smooth longbow, a quiver
of black-fletched arrows, and a length of wood carved and weighted
as a practice sword. He ran his
hands over the weapons, checking for warps and flaws. He hated leaving
them out here in the cold
winter, but he had nowhere else to keep them. If "Mother" Jelina found
him with weapons on one of her
unscheduled snoops, his secret would be out. He wasn't ready yet. He
wanted to show them all in his
own time.
He took the weapons
out into the clearing and set them carefully out of the way as he subjected
himself to rigorous calisthenics and a grueling acrobatic routine that
he had seen the weapons master
teaching Leander and friends. He pushed himself until his bones and
muscles wept, and if anyone had
happened upon his clearing they would have found him a frightening
sight. His hair was pulled back to
keep it out of the way, his eyes hard as stone, teeth clenched. He
drove himself until he couldn't go on,
and collapsed to the cold ground, panting. When his bones stopped complaining
about the pain and started
complaining about the chill seeping into them, he jumped to his feet
and stretched, shaking out his arms
and hands. He took the wooden sword and practiced the fencing techniques
he had learned by spying on
the swords class. Thrust and parry, lunge and swing, he fought his
invisible opponent until the tendons in
his arms were singing. Then he set down the sword and walked until
his breathing returned to normal.
The cool air on his
sweat-drenched body forced him into the cave, where he built a small fire
and sat on the bearskin to eat. He was pleased with his progress, and
thought it would soon be time to
show that pompus Leander a thing or two. It would have to be soon,
since more and more people were
beginning to comment on the changes in him. He was taller than all
the elves in Crystal Falls, and,
though lean and wiry by human standards, was broader in shoulder and
chest than any elf. By secretly
watching them over the years, he knew he was quicker and quieter than
the group who used to torment
him as a boy. And still did, whenever they got the chance. He avoided
the worst of it by spending so
much time here, or with Clarissa. None of them dared say a thing about
him when she was around.
He leaned back and
smiled, chewing thoughtfully on a hunk of bread. Clarissa Wintermoon, of
all people. He knew that his human blood held a passion and fire uncommon
to elves, but even a dry old
man would have to appreciate the way Clarissa had blossomed. At seventeen,
she had not yet reached her
full potential, but she was still a sight to keep a young man awake
nights. She could have had her pick of
any elf in Zelan. Her attraction to Belden, a human foundling, was
a great mystery to the elves and a
great concern to her wealthy parents. Lord Clarystar wanted a powerful
match for his daughter, not some
scruffy human that Jelina of House Topaz had found wailing in the forest.
The scruffy human in question
grinned ruefully at the memory and rubbed a hand against the side of
his face. Another difference twixt
me and thee, he thought. He tried to keep himself clean-shaven, but
it was a constant battle against a
beard that seemed determined to grow in rich and full. He wondered
what they would all say if he just
decided to let it grow.
"Probably run me out
of the kingdom," he said to the empty cave. "But they're apt to do that
soon enough already. Why force it?"
Clarissa reacted to
parental disapproval by flaunting her rebellion and spending as much time
with Belden as she could get away with. Their encounters had become
incresingly intimate, and several
times Belden had to plunge into the river after walking her home, to
soothe his burning ardor and racing
pulse. A few minutes with Clarissa by the footbridge was more of a
workout than his morning routine.
By Ariel, she was a tease, and by Ariel, he loved it and hated it at
the same time.
Thinking about Clarissa
was quickening his breath, so he slapped himself on the cheek and went
back outside. He picked up the bow, lovingly caressing its curves as
he longed to caress Clarissa's...
He scooped up a handful
of snow and dashed it in his own face. Chunks of it tumbled down the
collar of his tunic. His mind was abruptly clear and focused. He shook
his head, exhaled heavily, and
strung the bow.
For an hour he practiced
shooting the various targets he'd set up around the clearing. He was
pleased with his marksmanship. It wasn't the best, but it was a sight
better than most. He grinned in
anticipation of showing up Leander. The handsome elf, son of a wealthy
Vala, was Lord Clarystar's first
choice for a son-in-law. Clarissa flirted with him regularly, driving
both Leander and Belden slightly
insane. Things were building to a confrontation quickly.
He finished his target
practice and put away all of his gear, dousing the fire and leaving the
cave
as he found it. He left the clearing by a route that would eventually
bring him to the place where he and
Clarissa usually met. As he strode silently through the snow-bound
woods, he heard a low and pleasant
voice singing. He crept to a large tree and peeked around.
An elven maid knelt
in the snow, gathering iceflowers and singing a sad ballad to herself.
She
looked familiar to Belden, though he could not immediately place her.
She was pretty in a shy sort of
way, with soft brown hair floating around her shoulders, wide grey
eyes, and skin so fair it was almost
transparent. She was wearing doeskin trimmed with white rabbit fur.
He watched her, trying to
remember where he had seen her before. She was really quite pretty,
though not in the same way as
Clarissa.
Clarissa! That's it,
he thought. The girl was Clarissa's younger sister. He groped for her name
and couldn't find it. Everyone called her Sparrow, and he could see
how she got the name. Still, he was
surprised at himself for not having noticed her before. He had developed
a fine eye for the female form
in his years of surreptitious observation of the elves. And her voice
was beautiful. Why didn't she sing at
the festivals?
His foot cramped and
he shifted to relieve the pressure. His movement dislodged a small fall
of
snow, and Sparrow whipped around. Her song died in mid-air as her startled
eyes met his. In her sudden
fright, she was completely lovely.
Then she was gone,
scattering iceflowers as she ran, fleet as a deer. Without thinking, a
trait
that would become common to him, Belden raced after her. The thrill
of the chase pounded in his blood,
and he did not pause to wonder what he would do if he caught her. He
was the hunter, she the prey.
Swift and silent as a wolf, he followed her through the woods. Her
tracks were easy for him to spot, and
he could hear her pelting through the brush. He passed a few mounds
of fallen snow and waving
branches that marked her flight. Her sounds stopped, and he wondered
if he had lost her, then realized
that she had probably assumed she had lost him. Just as he reached
that conclusion, he burst through a
thin screen of branches and crashed into her.
She had time for a
small scream that came out as more of an "Eeek!" before they fell in a
snowdrift. Sparrow landed on her back. Belden landed halfway across
her. Snow caved in from the sides
of the hole and powdered them both.
Her faces was only
inches beneath his, and he could feel the rapid flutter of her heart against
his
chest. Her skin was whiter than the snow that surrounded it. He saw
his reflection in the twin pools of
her eyes.
"Hi," he said. She
jumped, causing more snow to cascade over them. Her throat moved as she
swallowed nervously.
"Hello," she managed,
in a weak and whispery voice. She tried to move away, but he caught her
slim wrists in his hands.
"Wait. Don't run off
again." He gave her a charming lop-sided smile. "I just caught you."
"What do you want?"
She tugged against his hands. He could feel her trembling, and not from
the cold.
"Oh, stars, I'm not
going to hurt you."
"Why did you chase
me?" Her eyes flicked to his face and away again, as if she was afraid
to
meet his eyes. He considered kissing her, and found the idea quite
pleasant. He lowered his head.
"You've got such a
beautiful voice," he breathed, freeing one of her wrists so he could turn
her
face toward him. "I was listening to you sing, and I wondered why I'd
never heard you before."
"You were listening
to me?" Sparrow seemed horrified. "Nobody ever hears me sing."
Belden touched her
cheek and held her gaze. "I did. It was lovely."
She closed her eyes
and turned her head away. "Please let me go," she whispered. It was almost
a plea, almost a sob.
Puzzled, he drew back.
She scrambled out of the drift and stood in the snow with her hands
clasped at the base of her throat. Belden rose to his knees and held
out a hand.
"What's wrong?" he
asked.
She seemed about to
speak, then visibly changed her mind. "I have to go," she whispered, and
hurried down the path.
"Sparrow!"
She paused at the
base of a massive oak, splendid in its winter foliage of sparkling ice.
"What's your name?
Your real name."
For a long moment
the only sound in the winter woodland was the far-off cry of a bird and
the
feathery voice of the snowflakes that began to drift down from a silver
sky.
"Daenaria," she said,
and was gone.
* * *
Spring in Zelan began
with the New Year, but the height of the favorite season of the elves was
Ariel's Hunt, a yearly festival coinciding with the three-day meteor
shower caused by the elven star
goddess hunting her prey among the constellations. Belden was looking
forward to the event for several
reasons. He would be eighteen a few days after the festival, and had
decided that it was time to show
Leander what a human could do. A series of late-winter storms had made
it difficult for him to meet
Clarissa, so he was anticipating being able to spend more time with
her. And, though he would hardly
admit it to himself, he was hoping to see Sparrow again.
"I like strong-minded
women," he said to his reflection in the pond. "Clarissa certainly knows
her own mind. She's forthright. She may look like a lily, but she's
tough."
His reflection nodded
wisely.
"But there was something
about Daenaria...she was scared, and shy, and...I guess innocent is
the word I'm looking for. Vulnerable. Made me feel strong, like I was
in control. I don't feel like that
with Clarissa."
His reflection looked
at him, and he could almost hear the other Belden: "Aren't you making a
lot from one chance meeting in the woods?"
"Right. Oh, stars,
I don't know." He dipped his hands into the pond, causing the other Belden
to
ripple and distort, and splashed his face.
His tunic, leggings,
and boots were new, a Yuletide gift from "Mother" Jelina. The tunic was
made of dark blue soft leather with mithril-grey trim at the collar
and cuffs. It fit snugly across his chest.
The boots matched, and the leggings were dark grey. He also had a new
fur-lined cloak. His long hair
was pulled back and tied loosely with a strip of dark blue leather.
He buckled on the new belt and knife
that "Father" Elwyndar gave him, slung his quiver on his back, and
picked up his bow.
The festival was taking
place in Crystal Square, in the center of town. It was not quite dusk,
but
the cobbled streets were filling with excited elves. Belden strode
through the crowd, a head taller than
everyone, used to the sidelong looks and the whispers behind cupped
hands. Now, though, he told
himself that they were surprised by his adult appearance than his human
features.
In the center of Crystal
Square was a beautiful fountain made of rose-colored crystal, white
marble, and hammered silver. Magical lanterns illuminated the streams
of water in rainbow colors and
lined the square. A group of young elves stood by the fountain, and
as Belden got closer, he recognized
Leander and the others.
"Here comes the human,"
one of them said, loud enough for Belden to hear. He drew out the
word 'human' and made it an insult.
"He's so clumsy, are
you sure he's not part dwarf?" an elf named Gaermin sneered.
They broke out in
loud, cruel laughter. Instead of clenching his fists and ignoring them,
Belden
smiled broadly and walked up.
"Haven't seen him
in a while," one said. "I was hoping he died."
"His kind is pathetically
short-lived," Leander replied. "Alas, it seems as though our luck is not
in. He looks healthy enough, if slow."
"Silver Lady, how
much taller is he going to get?"
"Plenty taller than
you, squirt," Belden said amiably.
They gaped at him
in universal astonishment. He was a bit surprised himself, since he'd
scrapped with them often but never actually talked back.
"Why you little--"
the offended elf began, but Belden cut in smoothly.
"You're the little
one," he explained, and patted the elf on the head.
The world narrowed to the fountain, the elven youths, and Belden.
The music and laughter from
elsewhere in the square faded to background noise. The melody of the
fountain seemed impossibly loud.
"I'll--" the elf said.
"Jairhic," Leander
cut in. "It's festival. If we make a scene, the Elders will send us home."
"Did you see what
he did? I call insult!" The elf was nearly purple in rage.
"We can't fight him,"
Gaermin said, "but we can at least show the whole world how stumble-
footed he is. The routine?" He looked to Leander for confirmation.
"Yes! The routine!"
cried the others.
"Stand back, leadweight,
and watch."
After a moment of
conference, the young elves began a complicated acrobatic routine. A crowd
gathered, applauding the agility of the young men. A stern elf that
Belden recognized as the weapons
master stood to the side and watched with a slightly disapproving frown.
The elves leapt and
spun. Belden felt a light touch on his arm and glanced down into Clarissa's
anxious face. Behind her was her sister, who drew back when she saw
Belden looking at her. She seemed
to make herself disappear.
"Are they on you again,
Belden?"
"No," he said in a
loud voice. "They're just showing off. They think they're pretty good."
The elves near him
all looked at him in shock. One of the acrobats stumbled and nearly fell.
Leander halted and approached Belden, storm clouds in his eyes. He
glared at Clarissa, then snarled,
"Think you can do better,
you human dog?"
The crowd gasped.
Clarissa let go of his arm. He was dimly aware of Sparrow taking a half-step
forward as her sister fell back.
"Oh, I'm sure I could
never match your elven--" he sneered the word--"grace. But I might as
well try and give you a chance to laugh at me."
The acrobats stepped
back and one made a mocking grandiose gesture to the open space. Belden
nodded to him and turned to Clarissa. She looked at him, horrified.
He handed her his bow and quiver.
"Hold these, would you,
love?" Lord Clarystar was not the only elf in the crowd who bristled at
the
word.
He quelled his nervousness
and moved out in front of the crowd. There is nothing to worry
about, he told himself. You've been practicing this routine as long
as they have and a lot harder. This is
what you've been waiting for all your life. Do it.
He looked at the fountain.
Sudden inspiration struck, and he stepped up on the eight-inch-wide
raised edge. It was rose crystal, glistening with spray. An incredulous
murmur swept the crowd. He took
a deep breath and began the routine.
The footing was bad,
and he was sure he was going to fall in the fountain and make a fool of
himself, but he was grimly determined. He forced his body through the
muscle-wracking series of flips
without slipping, striving to make it look easy, and ended by leaping
into the air, tucking himself under
for two turns, and landing cat-light on his feet in front of the stunned
Leander.
The square was silent.
Someone began to clap. Later Belden was sure it was Sparrow, but he
never found out. Someone else joined in, and a few more, and then they
were all clapping except
Leander and his friends. And Lord Clarystar, who glared at Belden with
a look that would sour milk.
Clarissa ran up to him and threw her arms around his waist.
"Oh, Belden, that
was wonderful," she cried. Over her head he caught a glimpse of Sparrow
slipping away through the crowd.
The weapons master
came up to them and shook Belden's hand. "I am Talverrin Linvara," he
said. "Why haven't I seen you in my classes?"
* * *
He gazed in wonder
at a blurry green world that moved as he swung back and forth. He was
aware of dim sensations, warmth, a full tummy, the lingering taste
of milk. A strange sound disturbed his
ears and he automatically turned his head toward it. It was a sort
of a whoop and a howl that he would
later recognize as orcish war-cries. The smooth rocking motion shifted
into a bumpy jostling. His tummy
rolled and he voiced his displeasure in an loud and indignant cry.
A huge face peered
down at him, bristling with curly brown hair. The dark eyes were wide and
the brows drawn together in a worried frown. Cooing, he mimicked the
face. The face opened its mouth
and words came out.
"Hush, little one.
Hush, now." A hand, almost as big as he was, moved in and tucked a soft
fur
around his neck. The hand pulled back and moved something to make it
dark. The jostling began again,
faster.
Muffled sounds reached
him. The whooping howls, growing louder. A labored puffing and
heavy thumps that coincided with the bumping. Under it all, a rapid
splashing and bubbling.
He began to cry again,
a wail of fright more than discomfort. Another sound cut through, a
single clear note. The bumping turned into a wild swoop and a final
jarring thump.
Light streamed in
as the dark thing was moved. The face looked in and smiled through the
wiry
beard. More words came out.
"You'll be safe here,
little one."
The hand came in and
touched his cheek. He turned toward it, opening and closing his mouth in
expectation of food. The hand left.
Belden woke with a
start, sitting up in the bed that was too short for his long legs. The
furs were
tangled around him. He shook his head. He hadn't had that dream in
years. Usually he dreamt of a girl, a
girl his age with long dark hair and blue eyes, who lived on an island
with a tall man and a beautiful
woman.
His room was still
dark. It was not yet morning. He got up and smoothed the furs, stretching.
His neck was stiff. His muscles also ached, but it was a pleasant ache.
He looked over at the practice
sword propped at the foot of the bed.
In the morning, he
was to attend swords class. Talverrin had spoken to Elwyndar and made the
arrangements. Belden went to the window. Overhead, the Great Wolf stalked
the Stag. A bright streak
shot across the sky. Belden leaned out, looking skyward, hoping but
not really expecting to see Ariel
riding the night on her silver-winged unicorn.
He noticed a rectangle
of light spilling into the street from one of the downstairs windows.
Someone was in the sitting room. It was past the usual time that the
house retired. He swung a leg over
the sill, slid out the window, and carefully climbed down the side
of the house. He heard voices coming
from the room and stopped, clinging to the wall like a spider. He recognized
them.
"We've been over this
and over it again, my lord and love," Jelina said. "Talverrin wants him
in
class. We should be glad. Your brother's son waited for years to be
accepted."
"You saw him today,
starlight. He was showing off to antagonize Vala Perrintyl's son. If we
let
him take swords class, he'll make enemies of the other youths."
"Elwyndar, have you
been blind? The others cannot bear his company. No, I am wrong. They
enjoy his company, by teasing him and tormenting him. You never saw
him the times he would come
home covered in dirt, the scrapes and bruises on his poor little skin.
They played with him, true. But as a
toy, my love. A toy."
"All the more reason
then to forbid him the lessons. If they hate him already, it will be worse
when they..." Elwyndar's voice trailed off.
"So that's it!" Jelina
laughed shrilly. "By the Lady, El, you're not ashamed of Belden. You're
ashamed of Leander, and Gaermin, and all of them. You don't want him
in swords class because you
know he'll be better than any of them."
"It isn't right! He's
not one of us, he never has been, and he never will be. When you first
insisted on bringing him up as our son, I was willing to humor you.
I thought that he would live and die
as a human does and not cause any trouble. He would be nothing but
a memory to us soon, and our lives
would go on as always. Yet in only eighteen years, he has turned our
lives upside-down."
Belden closed his
eyes. He could hear Elwyndar pacing, perhaps waving his arms as he talked.
Jelina would be sitting by the table, probably tying intricate knots
in her scarf.
"Lord Clarystar wants
him gone," the elven man continued. "Had I forseen this strange
involvement with Clarissa, I would have made you leave him. The orcs
would have found him before he
could have starved."
Orcs, Belden thought,
remembering his dream. Or was it a memory?
"Clarissa is a child,"
Jelina said. "I'm sure her relationship with Belden is based on nothing
more than a desire to upset her father. She'll come around in time."
No, he thought. Clarissa
loves me. I know she does. He dropped silently to the ground, pausing
as Jelina spoke again.
"Let him study swords,
and archery if he wishes," she said. "Soon he will yearn for his own
kind, especially once he realizes that he will grow old and die while
we remain unchanged. He will seek
a life among men. Not elves."
"You are wise, my
wife. Very well, I will allow him the lessons if it will hasten his departure.
Time drags by while he is here."
"It would have been
different if we'd had children of our own," she said wistfully.
Elwyndar chuckled.
"It is never too late to try."
The light went out.
Belden stood in the starlit yard, shaking with pent-up emotion. He fiercely
blinked back hot tears. "They don't want me," he muttered to himself.
"They never have. Why didn't
they just leave me to the orcs?"
"No!" He slammed a
fist against his thigh. "I am of Zelan. I am!"
He ran through the
dark streets of Crystal Falls. Though human, his night vision was superb
and
he made his way easily to the mansion of Lord Clarystar. He circled
the house and stopped under
Clarissa's window. The house was dark and still. He gathered some pebbles
and pitched them gently
against the window. A few moments later, a pale light came on and a
girl drew back the curtains. She
peered out.
"Clarissa!" he hissed,
waving.
She opened the window
and leaned out, her platinum hair tangled from sleep. "Belden?" she
called softly. "Is that you throwing pebbles against my window?"
"I know it's silly
and overdone," he called back, "but I really need to see you, Clarissa.
I really
do."
"It's the middle of
the night," she protested. One hand went to her hair. "And I'm a mess."
"You're always beautiful.
Please. Come down."
"I can't. My father..."
"Clarissa. Please."
She bit her lip and
looked over her shoulder. "No one," she said. "I was just getting some
fresh
air." She listened. "Thank you. Good night."
Belden melted back
against a tree, willing himself to become one with the shadows. Clarissa
turned back to the window and peered around.
"Belden," she hissed.
"Belden!"
"I'm here," he whispered,
stepping out of the shadows.
"All right, I'll come
down. But you've got to be quiet!" She left the window and the room went
dark. He waited nervously, half-expecting her father to burst out and
demand to know what he was
doing. The front door did open, but it was Clarissa who stepped out,
clutching a filmy gown around
herself as she picked her way barefoot down the gravel path.
"Ooh, my feet," she
said as she reached him. The moonlight touched her hair and turned it
white. "You woke up my sister."
"At least it wasn't
your father," he said. She giggled against the back of her hand. He took
her
arm and led her across the grass.
"Now, what was so
important it couldn't wait until morning?"
"Not here," he said.
"Come with me."
They walked through
the grass until they came to a secluded corner of the gardens. The
moonlight glimmered and danced in the leaves. Belden took her by the
shoulders and looked down at her.
The breeze molded her silky
nightgown to her body. He almost forgot what he was going to say.
"What is it?" she
asked.
"Do you love me, Clarissa?"
he blurted.
She touched his cheek.
"Of course I do," she said, smiling shyly.
"Oh, Clarissa." He
pulled her against him and kissed her. The whisper of silk on her skin
was
maddening. He started to lower them both to the ground.
She broke away, crossing
her arms over her chest. "What are you doing?"
He knelt on the velvet
grass, pulse racing, mind fevered. She was so beautiful, so close. He just
wanted to reach out and grab her, make her his right there in the grass.
He ached with the wanting of
her.
"Marry me," he said,
holding out his hands.
"What?" she cried,
dancing back a few steps.
"Marry me, Clarissa.
You said you loved me, and I love you with all my heart. We belong
together. Say you'll be mine, and you will make me the happiest man
alive."
"I can't marry you,"
she cried, her eyes huge and stunned. "I have to marry Leander, or Jairhic,
someone of high family."
"Why?" he practically
screamed.
"You know why. My
father has no sons, just me. I mean, just me and Sparrow. He'll pick our
mates. You don't understand." She buried her face in her hands and
turned away, weeping.
He leapt to his feet
and embraced her. "I'll prove my worth," he said wildly. "I'll make such
a
name and fortune for myself that your father would not dare refuse
me."
"How?"
"I'll...I'll...I know!
I will kill the evil Spider Sorceress and reclaim all that she has taken
from
our people!"
Clarissa stopped crying
abruptly and stared at him. "Are you mad? The Spider Sorceress? She'll
kill you!"
"No she won't," Belden
said, almost believing it. "I'm better at swords and bow than anyone,
and I haven't even been trained. I'm certain I can do it. If I get
rid of her, find her treasure, and rescue
all those elves she's kidnapped, I'll be a hero."
"Oh, Belden," she
said, wondrous light dawning in her eyes. "You will, won't you?"
"I will," he said.
"And if I do, will you? When I come back a hero, will you marry me?"
"Will you give me
a ring?"
"The biggest diamond
from the witch's hoard shall grace your finger, even though it will never
compare to your beauty."
She blushed. "Well...yes!"
"Yes? Really?"
"Really," she said,
smiling up at him.
He swept her into
his arms. This time she did not pull away when he pressed her to the ground,
but responded eagerly to his kisses. The fire of his human blood set
them both ablaze, and if she grew
frightened and protested, he ignored her. The thin fabric of her gown
tore away easily, reveling her in all
her glory to the silver moon. His clothes fell unheeded on the grass.
In his passion he was rough, making
her cry even as her arms held him tightly. He had waited too long to
make her fully his. He was
stronger, he would be a hero, and he would not be denied.
* * *
At the southern tip
of the vast Zelan Wood lived a mysterious woman known only as the Spider
Sorceress. She was a regular fixture in tales used to frighten elven
children, and over the past fifty years
a dozen disappearances were credited to her malice. Giant spiders roamed
the web-filled reaches of her
realm, making travel through the southern forest dangerous. Trade with
the human kingdoms of Irendia
was restricted, and contact with the humans was rare.
To the east of Zelan
lay the mighty Old Kingdom Mountains, ancient home of the dwarves. The
Old Kingdom was believed to be the only civilization that had survived
the long-ago Cataclysm
unscathed. The elves did not have much to do with the dwarves, due
simply to vast cultural differences.
North of Zelan was the cold Northern Sea, an endless expanse of ice-clotted
water. Part of the Northern
Sea curved down and formed the Glass Inlet between Zelan and the human
lands of Ember and Dalanar
to the west.
Zelan was isolated
from all save the dwarven kingdom, and the elves liked it that way. They
lived their long, long lives in relative peace, disturbed only occasionally
by roving bands of orc raiders.
The emergence of the Spider Sorceress as a threat to the elven people
was new by their standards. The
tales said she was human, and most of the elves believed that in time
she would die and cease to be a
bother. Those better versed in the ways of sorcery knew that there
was magic capable of prolonging life,
even for humans. A few secret meetings had been held to discuss the
problem, and three of the missing
elves had been dispatched as spies.
Belden knew little
of this. As a child, he had heard tales of the Sorceress and her evil deeds
and
great treasure rooms. He set off in high spirits, anticipating the
thrill of adventure and enjoying taking
action for the first time in his life. He was disappointed but not
surprised by his foster parents' reaction
to his decision. They were relieved that the problem was finding its
own solution. He could tell that they
did not expect him to return.
They think I'll die
at the hands of the Spider Sorceress, he thought. Or, more likely, that
I'll
turn coward and keep going south until I come to human lands. How many
times will I have to prove
them wrong?
He shifted his pack
on his shoulders, wincing. The straps felt as if they were digging trenches
in
his flesh. His quiver bumped his leg softly as he walked. He carried
his bow in his hands, ready to string
and draw at once. A new knife, a parting gift from the starry-eyed
Clarissa, hung at his belt. He had no
sword, but was confident that knife and arrow could meet any threat.
The forest was alive
around him. A doe strolled casually through a meadow on his left, and he
grinned to see the fawn prancing behind her. Birds swooped from branch
to branch. He glimpsed a flash
of red and spotted a fox slinking through the brush.
He walked south for
days, living off the land, sleeping under giant oaks or beside rippling
streams. He was relaxed and at peace with himself. It was good to be
alone, without the strict customs
and disapproval of the elves hanging over him all the time. He hadn't
realized how stifled he had been.
By the time he reached the
wide river, he had become a new person.
He laughed out loud.
A small grey sparrow scolded him and darted away. He grinned. Ariel,
but he felt good! He set down his pack and looked south.
On the other side
of the river, the forest seemed darker. Sunlight did not sparkle on the
leaves,
which were unstirred by breeze. The shadows beneath the trees were
not cool and inviting. They seemed
heavy, expectant. At the fringes of his vision, things seemed to be
moving in the darkness. In the
distance, rising from the treetops like a grim sentinel, stood a black
tower.
"This must be the
place," he said.
There was no bridge,
so he would have to swim it. He prowled the riverbank, looking for a
suitable place to cross. The river was wide, but not very deep, and
flowed slowly. He found some old
stone pilings that may once have been a bridge, but they were too far
apart for him to use as stepping
stones. A fallen log gave him an idea. He could swim, but did not favor
the idea of winding up on the
other side, in what looked like distinctly hostile wilderness, soaked
through with soggy gear. He
rummaged through his pack. Before leaving, he had stuffed it with items
he thought might be useful, and
the one he was after was of course at the very bottom. He pulled out
the leather cloak, oiled to a shiny
waterproof coating. The rest of his things he put back in the pack,
including the clothes he was wearing.
He set the pack on the cloak, placed the bow and quiver next to it,
and wrapped the leather into a lumpy
bundle. The sun felt good on his bare skin, and the lack of clothes
did not bother him, but he decided he
would feel even more naked going unarmed into enemy land. He unwrapped
the bundle and refastened
his belt and knife around his waist. Then he took a length of cord
from the bundle, re-wrapped it, and
lashed it to the log.
Grunting with effort,
he dragged the log to the water's edge and pushed it out into the river.
The
log, overbalanced by the heavy bundle, promptly rolled and submerged
all of Belden's belongings.
"Blast!" He jumped
into the river, grabbing for the log. The sudden cold walloped the breath
from his lungs. His feet slipped on the mossy, rocky bottom and he
went under with a loud splash.
He kicked to the surface,
sputtering. The log, with a mischevious mind of its own, swung
around in the slow current and thumped him on the head. He was thrust
back under and sucked in a
mouthful of water.
Coughing and spitting
river water, Belden fought his way back up and caught hold of the log as
it swung around again. He pushed it to shore and crawled out after
it. His skin prickled in gooseflesh
when the cool breeze washed over him. His long hair hung wet and matted
in his face.
Only a bit of water
had had time to soak through, so his things were barely damp. He muttered
a
thanks to whatever gods watch over travellers and stretched out on
the warm grass to think. He would
have felt damned foolish, drowning before he even got to the lair of
the witch. How do you explain
something like that in the afterlife, before the silver throne of wise
Lunari? "Well, sir, I died crossing a
river on my way to fame and fortune." Right. A fellow would not earn
an honored place in the Realm
Beyond with a tale like that.
He watched a branch
float by. Something clicked in the back of his mind and he jumped up and
searched the ground for sturdy limbs. He set one across the log and
lashed it into place. When he shoved
the log back in the water, the other limb floated and prevented the
log from rolling. He smiled and tied
his bundle just behind the intersection of wood. It floated and did
not tip. He waded out, pushing the log
in front of him. His skin had finally warmed from his last dip, and
shivered in protest. The rocks were
slick beneath his feet. He moved carefully, struggling to keep his
balance and control the log, which
wanted to follow the current downstream.
The bottom suddenly
dropped away. Belden's head bobbed under the water, and then he was
swimming. He held on to the log and kicked as hard as he could. He
made slow progress across, but was
drifting downstream faster. He wondered if this was the same river
that eventually plummeted down the
high coastal cliffs and gave Crystal Falls its name. He kicked harder,
though his legs were getting tired.
Just when he thought
he couldn't go on, his feet touched bottom. He plodded up the bank,
dragging the log, and collapsed in a bone-weary heap on the gravelly
beach. The sharp rocks digging into
his back and legs soon forced him to his feet. He fumbled at the cord
lashing his things to the log with
fingers grown thick and numb from the chill. Holding the bundle to
his chest, he picked his way gingerly
up the beach. The gravel gave way to larger rocks.
He spied something
glittering on the ground and stooped to pick it up. It was a rough purple
crystal, partially embedded in stone. He recognized it as an amethyst.
"Mother" Jelina had several in her
jewelry collection. He took the stone with him.
The larger rocks gave
way to boulders and low, broad-leaved plants. A short way beyond was
the dark and somehow ominous forest. Belden set down his bundle and
unwrapped it, dressing swiftly,
turning at imaginary noises. He tucked the amethyst in his pack and
shook off the oilskin cloak. Dressed,
he felt safer.
Safer, but by no means
safe. He had grown up in the forests, and was so accustomed to the
usual background of woodland sounds that he barely heard them anymore.
Until they were, like now,
absent. The forest was utterly still. The breeze that chilled his skin
on the other bank and danced in
ripples on the surface of the river died as it reached this shore.
No birdsong pierced the unmoving air.
No deer or rabbit disturbed the bushes. Belden took a deep breath,
sniffing the air. It smelled flat and
stale. Even the strange, pale flowers on some of the plants seemed
to have only the barest hint of
fragrance. He spotted a mint plant, darker and scrawnier than what
he was familiar with, and bruised a
leaf between thumb and forefinger. The minty aroma was there, but faded
and old. He touched the leaf
to the tip of his tongue. Instead of the stinging, almost painful sensation
he associated with fresh mint,
there was only a weak taste, like the lingering aftertaste that mint
tea leaves in the mouth.
Belden picked up a
rock and threw it into the river. It struck with a splash, but the sound
was
muffled. He smacked two rocks together, geting only a hollow thunk
instead of the usual sharp crack. He
was afraid to speak, for fear his own voice would come out a ghost
of its former self.
He slung his pack,
feeling the straps settle into place. It no longer chafed, and he was sure
there
were grooves worn in his shoulders. He checked his bow and made sure
that his arrows were loose in the
quiver. He glanced around again at the solemn forest, and decided to
carry his bow strung. It was bad
for the bow, but it would be worse for him if something awful came
roaring out of the bushes and he had
to waste precious seconds stringing the bow.
The forest seemed
to close around him as he entered. His breathing sounded loud in his head.
The air did not breathe well. He had to consciously draw it into his
lungs. It pressed down on him, the
heaviness of air before a storm without the sense of tension. The air
just was, hanging over the wood like
a cloak of wet wool.
He pressed on. His
keen sight was next to useless, for the shadows of the forest mingled with
the substance and made it impossible to pick out details. The soil
was black under his feet. He scanned
the ground, seeing no tracks but his own.
Something moved in
the branches overhead. Belden had an arrow nocked and drawn with a
speed that surprised him. He backed up, eyes searching the gloom above
him.
A slight rustling,
and something fell from the trees. He almost shot it before seeing that
it was
nothing but a leaf. He sensed something waiting. It was the first feeling
of presence he'd had since
crossing the river.
"Hello?" he said,
and to his relief his voice came out only slightly muffled. "Is anyone
there?"
No answer. No sound
save his own harsh breathing. He relaxed by inches, lowering the bow.
Still no sound. He eased the draw of the bow and glanced back the way
he had come.
That was when the
spider dropped from the tree and landed on his shoulder. It was the size
of a
healthy kitten, black, bristly, and disgustingly warm.
Belden cried out and
staggered back, bow falling unheeded to the ground as he brushed
frantically at the spider. It clung to him. For a brief but unforgettable
instant, he stared right into its
purple, glittering eyes.
He seized it in both
hands and ripped it loose. It twisted and wrapped its legs around his wrist,
sinking tiny needle teeth into the thin web between his thumb and fingers.
He sucked air in through his
teeth and threw the spider, intending to crush it beneath his boots.
The spider flew away
from him, then swung back. It turned and was scrambling up something
he couldn't see, an invisible line of silk. He whipped his knife from
his belt and slashed at the air above
the spider. It fell to the ground and skittered away.
Belden ran after it,
and brought a booted foot down on it. It turned under his foot at bit at
the
thick leather. He leaned all his weight on the spider. Its legs flailed
wildly. He stomped as hard as he
could. It popped like a grape, dark blood and pale webbing fluid squirting
out.
His hand was turning
red around the tiny holes, already puffing up. It did not hurt, but itched
terribly. He poked the bite with his knife and squeezed it until blood
flowed, biting his lip against the
pain. The itching went down a little. He dug through his pack, all
the while looking above and behind
him, feeling as though things were crawling under his clothes. He found
a pair of soft leather gloves and
pulled them on. Thin leather was better than bare skin against these
things, he reasoned.
Then the terror and
revulsion hit him, and he shook so hard that his teeth clicked together.
He
scrubbed his hands against his thighs, trying to get rid of the horrid
crawly feeling. His heart hammered
madly in the cage of his ribs.
He picked up his bow
and brushed the dirt from it. Sparing one last glance at the crushed
spider, he continued on his way. The forest now seemed full of stealthy
sounds. Belden could easily
imagine the trees overhead crowded with plump, furry spiders, watching
his progress with faceted
jewellike eyes. His footsteps, though quiet, echoed oddly.
A white glimmer caught
his eye. He walked on, until he reached the thick gossamer cable
hanging from a branch. It ended four feet from the ground, the top
lost in the leaves. He edged nervously
past it, not letting it touch him. It seemed to bend in his direction,
though no breeze stirred the air.
He passed the strand
and hastened his steps. Soon he came to another white cable, dangling
silently from above. The deeper he went into the forest, the more strands
he saw, until he was weaving
through a white and glistening curtain. One brushed his cheek and stuck
to him. It stung fiercely. He
batted at it blindly, ripping it from his face and tangling it around
his hand. It seemed almost to write and
twist in a life of its own. He plucked it off and dropped it to the
path.
Soon the dangling
cables formed another forest, a white one hanging from the trees like sinister
moss. Belden was forced to crawl on hands and knees to avoid them.
His clothes and hair were clotted
with a pale, sticky mass covered with earth and leaves. At one point
he looked up and saw a skeleton
snared in the cables several feet off the ground. A rusty and dented
shield lay half-buried in the dirt
below the stripped bones.
Belden scraped his
fingers around the edges of the shield and lifted it from the ground. Yellow-
grey worms and dark red beetles squirmed in the fresh earth, some clinging
to the back of the shield. He
brushed them off with one trembling hand, fighting nausea. The device
on the shield, though hidden by
rust and dirt, was still recognizeable. It was a white field divided
into four sections by a blue cross, and
in each quarter was a red rearing horse. Belden slung it on his back
and crawled onward, trying to avoid
the beetles that trundled busily around his knees.
The strands of cable
began to thin, giving way to actual webs. Again and again Belden thanked
the gods for his keen eyesight that adapted well to dim light. He could
not imagine the horror of trying to
pass this way in the dark.
The webs were small
at first, looking like no more than ordinary spider webs. Some held small
cocoons of trapped insects. Small, mundane spiders sat contentedly
in the centers of others. Belden was
able to stand and walk again. He estimated that it was long past time
to eat, but his stomach rolled
helplessly at the idea of eating anything in this awful place. Then
he had another, and much more
disturbing, idea. He had lost track of time while crawling through
that white, sticky hell, but it must be
getting late. His keen sight, which had gotten him this far, would
be useless in the full dark of night.
And night would be much darker in here, for the trees were so tightly
woven that no moonlight could
penetrate. He turned back, then stopped.
Could he stand to
crawl through there again? In the blackest night he'd ever known? With
those
foul strands brushing the air inches over his head? So far, he had
seen few living things, but he had no
doubt that they would come out at night. Untold crawling and skittering
spiders, and who knows what
other terrible things may live here? The image of himself beset by
a hoard of cat-sized spiders while
trapped on hands and knees froze him. His throat went dry and his heart
seemed to lock. No. He could
not go back. Best to be able to stand, and perhaps fight. He had flint
and steel. A torch would light his
way and might keep the denizens of the forest away from him. He went
on, warily, scouting the ground
for a length of wood that might do as a torch.
And how will you sleep?
a small voice in his head spoke up. Do you intend to just lie down
beneath a tree? He was achingly tired from his swim and nerve-wracking
journey, but there was no way
he could afford to sleep. He would have to go on and see whatever there
was to see.
He found a sturdy
dead branch and wrapped the end in a coarse cloth from his pack. He soaked
the cloth with oil and struck a spark. With his blazing, smoky torch,
he pressed on. He saw to his
gratification that the spiders shied away from the fire. He was tempted
to sweep the torch in a firey arc
and set the whole damned place alight. But slowly choking to death
as the smoke filled the motionless air
did not appeal to him.
He went on for perhaps
another mile, noticing that the webs grew steadily larger and the spiders
more bold. They did not scuttle from his approach, but sat in their
webs and watched him. The spiders
also got bigger. He was forced to admit that the kitten-sized one that
had attacked him earlier was on the
small side for this place. What little light there had been faded,
leaving his torch the only source of
illumination. The leaping flame caused the shadows to caper. His nerves
stretched and grew frayed. Had
a person spoken to him, he would have gone straight up to the sky.
When the first of
the truly giant spiders came trotting on its many legs out of the shadows
toward him, he first thought that he had finally lost his mind. The
spider was light brown with red
stripes. He could accept that. It had shiny yellow eyes and sharp fangs.
He could accept that also. What
he could not accept was the fact that this spider's back stood as high
as his waist, and that the bristly
brown legs spanned a circle some eight feet across.
Belden stared at the
spider, a bemused smile playing on his lips. The spider advanced, its legs
moving in a smooth and alien rhythm. Its mandibles scissored eagerly.
At once, Belden realized
that this was no dream. He yelled and backed up, shifting the torch to
his other hand and grabbing for his knife. He longed to use the bow,
but it required both hands and he
dared not drop the torch. The knife, which had seemed such a fine and
useful gift from his lady-love,
now felt puny and insignificant. He might as well be facing down this
giant spider with a spoon. He
backed into something sticky and felt something move against his back.
Trying to whirl, he
ensnared himself further in the web. The resident spider, which had seemed
huge moments ago but was really only the size of a small child, scooted
up the web. Belden slashed at
the tough cables with the knife. They parted easily and he whirled
again to face the giant brown spider. It
was right behind him, balanced on six legs while the others wove the
milky thread emerging from the
spider's abdomen into a thick strand. Belden thrust the torch at it,
singeing its fur. The spider let out a
high squeal and scrambled back. Belden swung the torch, slamming it
against the spider's side. The other
spiders cried out shrilly. The giant brown leapt at him. Its speed
was unbeleivable. Belden threw himself
to the side and rolled as the brown sailed over him. He bolted to his
feet and ran, straight down the path
from which the spider had come. He could hear it closing on him fast.
The sound of pursuit suddenly
ended, and instinctively Belden dropped to the ground. The spider sailed
over him and landed facing
away. The silence he had heard was the sound of its leap. He rose to
his knees and hit the spider again
with the torch, which was flickering and dying. He also stabbed as
hard as he could with the knife.
The blade glanced
harmlessly off the spider's hide. It spun, smoking, and snapped at Belden.
He
brought the torch up to block the blow and the spider's jaws closed
on it. The spider shrieked. The flame
went out.
Plunged into total
darkness, Belden jabbed blindly with the knife. He felt it strike something
that
gave with a wet popping sound, and hot fluid splashed his arm. The
spider's shrieks passed the range of
human hearing. It thrashed in the dirt, one of the legs striking Belden
a stunning blow that knocked him
back. He struck a tree and his left arm flared with agony. He could
hear the spider flailing about, and
hoped it was dying in extreme pain. He stood and began moving carefully
through the darkness, avoiding
by sound the wounded spider. He blundered full into another web and
hacked through it.
His arm screamed with
every jarring step. He did not think it was broken, but the pain
threatened to take him to unconsciousness. He held on grimly, concentrating
on one slow step at a time,
right hand and knife held in front of his face.
He realized that he
could see the knife, and his hand. Shadows against the night, a defined
hunk
of blackness in the midst of blackness. The light gradually grew until
he could make his way easily
through the forest. It seemed to be coming from ahead, and looked like
good, honest firelight. He
followed it, moving more swiftly now, taking a chance to examine himself.
He was matted head to toe
with dirt, leaves, webbing, and blackish ichor. His left wrist was
swollen, but he couldn't tell if it was
from the new injury or the previous spider bite. The sleeve of his
tunic was shredded, and a long but
shallow scrape skidded up his arm from elbow to neck.
The light came from
lanterns hanging along the tall iron fence surrounding the black tower
he'd
seen from the river. More light gleamed in the windows. The forest
opened on a clearing around the
tower, the ground covered with grass that looked neatly tended. Webs
choked the trees all around the
clearing, but none touched the fence or the tower itself. The tower
was quite tall, perhaps five stories,
with a conical top and a modest moat.
Belden moved carefully
along the walls of the clearing. He was hurt, hungry, and exhausted,
and he was willing to bet his last silver that the owner of the tower
was the Spider Sorceress herself. He
could not very well turn to her for shelter and assistance when he
had come all this way to kill her. And
he was in no condition to take on a sorceress. He would have lost a
fight with a chicken right now, so
worn out was he.
On the north side
of the tower he spotted something that might be the answer. It was a building,
an old carriage house or guard barracks, mostly overgrown with brush.
He approached with caution,
looking carefully for any sign of webs. There were webs, but they seemed
for the most part to be old and
deserted. He pried open the door, which gave with a squeal of rusted
hinges, and went inside.
It had been a carriage house. There was even a carriage, an old
but well-made coach suitable
for taking the lord and lady to town for the opera. The walls were
free of webs. Belden found some
musty and motheaten lap blankets and made himself a cozy nest in the
coach. He dabbed the worst of the
mess from his face and clothes, wincing and blinking back tears as
he cleaned the scrape on his arm. He
bandaged it, drank some water from his waterskin, ate some travel rations,
and slid into a deep and solid
sleep. He dreamt only once, and it was not of his recent ordeal as
he though it might be. He dreamt of
the dark-haired girl again, but she was in a different place. She was
in a grand palace arguing with a man
who looked like a king.
* * *
He woke slowly, emerging
from the dark pool of sleep by degrees. At first he did not know
where he was. He sat up, and his arm slammed him with dull pain. That
brought all the events of the
previous day back in a rush. He gingerly probed his arm. The wrist
was a smoothly-swollen column of
flesh, a deep purple in the middle that faded to spectacular sunset
reds and yellows at the edges. His
fingers were pale and cool. The scrape on his upper arm felt hot and
infected.
The light slanting
through the cracked roof was wrong. By Belden's calculations, he had slept
for maybe seven hours. But the light angled steeply down the walls,
marking the time to be late
afternoon. He had slept what remained of the night, and nearly the
full day through. No birds had called
to awaken him. He had slept for perhaps as long as sixteen hours. No
wonder he ached and could barely
move.
Fine thing for a hero.
It never happens like this in the ballads. His neck creaked audibly.
Looking like a wizened old man, he stood and tried to work out the
worst of the aches and kinks. The
spider bite on his left hand had gone down, a small blessing but a
blessing none the less. All that
remained of it were the tiny pinpricks and a slight puffiness.
He decided to stay
in the carriage house until dusk, when his chances of entering the tower
unobserved would be better. He could also use the time to limber up,
take a better look at his wounds,
and eat. His stomach suggested that some food would go down really
well about now.
The travelling rations
were tough and tasteless, and his water, taken from the river just
yesterday, tasted tinny and flat. He ate his fill and drank anyway,
then used some of the water to wash
up and bathe his scraped arm. It felt worse than it looked, but he
could tell it was infected. There were
herbal remedies for infection, as well as healing potions and healing
spells. However, he was not skilled
in herb lore, had no potions of any sort, and had no talent for magic.
It was another thing separating him
from the elves, who were all born with an innate feel for the workings
of magic. He would just have to
live with the infection until he found a healer to tend it.
He did have a bit
of willowbark amid all the junk that cluttered his pack, and he chewed
it. The
taste was bitter but after a while the aches subsided. He took out
the amethyst and turned it this way and
that, letting it catch the light and throw cool violet streaks on the
walls.
When the sunlight
streaming between the warped boards finally faded to a dull orange, Belden
got ready to go. He exercised vigorously to work the blood through
his tired limbs, and felt much better
although he jarred his sore wrist. He checked his bow for the untold
time, ran a whetstone along the edge
of his knife, and tied back his web-clotted hair in a braid to keep
it out of his eyes. The sunlight went
from orange to dusky red, then was gone. He waited another half hour
and then impatience took over.
A fat copper moon,
almost full, hung low and pregnant in the purple-streaked sky. Belden crept
quietly out of the carriage house, easing the door closed behind him.
The tower looked more forbidding
than ever. The lanterns along the fence were not lit, but a single
lamp glowed in the highest window. He
scaled the fence easily, being especially careful when swinging a leg
over the wrought iron points.
As his feet touched
the ground on the other side of the fence, the hairs on the back of his
neck
prickled. He spun and saw a plain black spider crouching on the tower
wall. They stared at each other
for a moment, then the spider crawled rapidly up the wall.
Belden drew an arrow
and aimed at the retreating spider. It was black against the black stone,
and his shot missed. The arrow struck the wall and snapped. The spider
scurried out of his line of sight.
Cursing under his
breath, Belden went around to the doors of the tower. They were closed,
and
the grey-green moat was in the way. As he stood on the bank, wondering
if he could land a grapnel in
one of the windows, something huge and unspeakable rolled beneath the
slimy surface. With a gasp,
Belden leapt back just as a moss-colored tentacle slipped dripping
from the moat and waved blindly in his
direction. It hovered uncertainly, giving him a glimpse of pale tooth-ringed
suckers lining the underside,
then slid back without a ripple.
He released the breath
he had been holding and took a few more steps back. He hadn't wanted
to swim it anyway, and this decided him for sure. He took the folding
grapnel from his pack and
unfolded the curved arms, then tied a rope to the loop in the bottom.
He twirled it a few times, getting
the feel of it while judging the distance. He had enough rope, and
his aim was usually good, so he should
be able to lodge it securely with rope to spare.
He gripped the end
of the grapnel, whirled it, and let fly. It arced toward the window but
fell
short, grating on the wall and splashing into the moat. Belden yanked
on the rope, trying to pull it back,
and something tugged from beneath the water. It jerked him forward,
one, two, three large and
stumbling paces and would have pulled him in had he not let go. The
rope disappeared steadily into the
water, the end twitching once, like a snake's tail.
Belden shuddered.
He felt like a fish that slipped the hook just before being hauled ashore.
Only
this time the fisherman was under water and the fish stood on dry land.
Without his rope and
grapnel, gaining entrance to the tower became much more of a challenge.
He might be able to jump the moat, but there was no bank on the other
side. Only the smooth wall of the
tower curving down into the slime. He could probably climb the wall,
but he doubted he could leap and
catch hold of it without falling in. No trees grew near enough to bridge
the moat with a limb.
Could I jump high
enough to grab that windowsill? It was a possibility. The acrobatic routine
he
had performed incorporated some high jumps. He did not think he could
do it, at least, not unaided. A
long, straight branch would give him the extra height he needed.
He found a suitable
stick behind the carriage house, and trimmed the excess twigs from it with
his knife. He hurried, for dark and ominous clouds were building in
the east and treatened to cut off the
light of the moon.
Belden ran toward
the moat, holding the stick out in front of him like a spear. At the last
moment, he jammed the end into the earth at the edge of the moat and
jumped, aiming for the window.
His wrist, forgotten in the preparations, sent a steely bolt of pain
all the way up to his neck as his weight
pulled on it. He nearly screamed, holding it back by sheer force of
will, and lost his grip on the pole.
His momentum carried him across the moat to slam against the wall.
Bright stars burst in front of his
eyes. He skidded down the pole, flailing wildly with his right arm,
and caught hold of something. The
lower edge of the window. He let the stick fall into the moat and clung
to the sill with all his stength. His
left arm throbbed like a rotten tooth. He tried to bring it up and
grab the sill, but every small movement
made it hurt worse. The sill was also slick, and his hand was slipping.
Somehow he managed
to haul himself up by one arm far enough to drape the other arm over the
edge. He hung for a moment, his waist and legs still dangling above
the moat, expecting a cold tentacle
to wrap around his ankle and jerk him from his perch. The shield at
his back scraped against the top of
the window. He wiggled through and dropped to the floor of a dark room,
glad that nothing had been in
here to attack him.
The room looked like
a study of some sort, with a massive desk, a standing globe of the world,
and shelves lined with books. He sat on the rug and wrapped his wrist
tightly in a strip of leather cut
from the bottom of his cloak. The scrape on his arm had been torn open
by his exertions, fresh blood
soaking the bandage.
How are you going
to get out? Now you have to do what you came to do, because I don't think
they'll just open the drawbridge and let you go.
He sighed. The way
his wrist was pounding, he doubted he could hold his bow firmly enough
to
put any pull on it. That left him with one small knife. At least it
wasn't his right hand that was hurt. He
gathered his wits and got moving before someone opened the door and
caught him.
Beyond the study was
a short, curved hall with three other doors and an opening to stairs going
down. Remembering that he'd seen a light in the topmost window, he
followed the corridor to the right,
looking for stairs going up. The walls were simple grey stone on the
inside, covered with beautiful silk
tapestries. The floor was polished wood, with brightly colored rugs
scattered about. It was not what he'd
expected. At the end of the hall he found a flight of stairs climbing
into darkness.
He went up and up,
passing the other landings after a quick listen at each door. He wanted
the
top floor. The stairwell was dark, except for the dim light that filtered
in through arrow slits in the outer
wall. He rounded a bend and froze, seeing the faint outline of a door
at the top of the last flight. He
paused, straining his ears, and could barely make out the sound of
a woman's voice.
He crept up the last
steps, checking them to see if he was steping on any hidden panels or traps.
The voice continued in the room, but it sounded more like someone reading
aloud than any evil magical
incantations. He reached the door and opened it carefully with his
pained hand, holding the knife ready
in the other.
The woman turned with
a start as the door opened. She was sitting in a rocking chair by a
marble fireplace, a book open on her lap and something cradled in her
arms. Belden's jaw dropped as he
looked at her. She was young, human, and beautiful, with wide dark
eyes and flawless skin. A filmy
pink veil covered her hair, held in place by a golden circlet. Her
dress was rose-colored trimmed with
gold, and rings glittered on her fingers.
"I'm sorry, miss,"
he said. "I didn't mean to startle you."
She started to rise,
and he saw that the thing cradled on her lap was a monstrosity, a fat
greenish spider with white markings and the face of a child.
"Ariel!" Belden exclaimed,
raising his knife.
"Who are you?" said
the young woman. She set the spider-thing down and moved toward him,
holding out her hands. "How did you get in here?"
He eyed her warily,
though he was amazed by her beauty. He'd never seen a woman of his own
race before, and the attraction was powerful and immediate.
"I seek the Spider
Sorceress," he said, backing away from her. The spider-thing crawled slowly
across the floor and up the wall.
"I am she," the woman
said.
"You?" He was stunned.
He'd expected a shriveled old hag, reeking with evil, with a voice that
could shatter glass. Certainly not a fair damsel.
"Does that seem strange
to you, hero? I am shunned by my kind because of my gift. I live
alone, save for my pets." She waved a slim hand at the little monster,
which crawled into a fine oak crib
and curled up to sleep.
"You are the Spider
Sorceress?" he repeated. The information would not seem to sink in, and
he
was very flattered at being called a hero.
She drifted closer.
She was taller than the elven women, and could almost look him straight
in
the eye. He found that very appealing.
"My name is Lenore.
Who are you?"
"Belden," he said.
"That is a pet?"
"Since earliest childhood,
I have had a fondness for and an understanding of the eight-legged
folk. My family and those in my village hated me for it and drove me
out." A tear glimmered in her eye.
"People loathe spiders, think they are evil and foul. Do you know that
in some lands they believe the
spider to be a messenger of Anatole, god of the sun? But what does
it matter? They call me a witch and
cast me aside." She hid her face in her hands and sobbed.
"I'm sorry," Belden
said. He felt her pain as if it was his own, for he understood all too
keenly
what it meant to be shunned by those around you. "But why do you live
in an awful place like this?"
"Where else would
I go?" She looked up at him, her lovely face streaked with tears. "My
friends need me. Oh, but I do miss my own kind. You are the first human
I've seen since I came to this
place."
"What about all the
elves?"
"Elves? I know no
elvenfolk."
"I heard tales that
many elves vanished by your doing."
"What a horrid thing
to say!" Her tears abruptly turned to anger. "What else do they say about
me? Do I drink the blood of babies like the followers of Calaan?"
He held up his hands.
"I didn't know anything about you except those old stories," he said.
She stared at his
wrist. "What happened to you?"
"I had a fight with
one of your friends out in the woods." He fidgeted uncomfortably. "I had
to
slay it. I'm sorry."
"They protect me,"
she said absently. "I can heal that for you, if you wish. After all, I
am a
sorceress."
She took his wrist
lightly between her hands and murmured some words of magic. He started
to
pull away, then stopped as a cool, soothing feeling washed up his arm.
The ugly color faded and the
swelling went down. He flexed his wrist and it was as good as ever.
She then skimmed her fingers softly
over the scrape and he actually felt the skin draw back together and
seal tight. The redness and burning
of the infection vanished like it had never been.
"Thank you," he said,
more confused than ever.
"It's been such a
long time since I've had a visitor. Willl you stay, for a while at least?"
She
tilted her head and smiled at him.
"I...of course," Belden
said.
She led him downstairs
to a warm and cheery bath chamber and left him while he cleaned off
the rest of the webbing and grime. He settled into the wooden tub of
hot water with a sigh.
This was not what
he'd expected. This wicked Spider Sorceress seemed to be a perfectly fine
maiden, and pretty to boot. He ducked his head and scrubbed his hair.
It took a long time, but the sticky
strands of webbing came out.
Maybe she's lonesome
for more than just company, he thought. He stepped out of the tub
and
dried himself, looking at his filthy and tattered clothes with a grimace.
He got fresh clothes from his
pack, a rust-colored tunic and tan leggings. Healed, clean, and dressed,
he was a new man. He pulled a
comb through his hair.
Lenore was waiting
for him when he came out of the room. She said nothing, but took his hand
and led him to another room. She opened the door.
"Rest here," she said.
"You must be weary from your travels."
"Again, my thanks.
I feel better for the bath."
She lowered her eyes
and glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. Her eyes were dark,
mysterious, and somehow familiar. Her lips curved in a knowing smile.
"You clean up handsome,
I must say," she purred, resting her palm against his chest. Her
fingers were long and elegant. "Rest now. We shall..." she paused,
sliding her hand down to the flat
muscles of his stomach, "...talk later."
"I look forward to
it," he said, smiling roguishly.
He entered the room
and she closed the door behind him. He turned, thinking Trap!, but the
door did not lock. The room seemed to be an ordinary guest room. It
was oddly shaped to conform to the
walls of the tower, and had two windows looking out over the peculiarly
dead forest. The bed between
the windows was massive, a captain's bed, with solid wooden posts skillfully
carved into pleasing
patterns and a thick coverlet of wolfskin. A beautiful mahogany table
against the wall held a heavy silver
bowl brimming with unusual fruit. The oak floor was covered with a
rug woven of brown, white, and
gold thread. Next to the door stood a large wardrobe with painted door
panels showing hunting scenes.
Belden set his pack by the foot of the bed and opened the wardrobe.
There were clothes hanging
inside, a variety of men's styles and fabrics. His eye was caught by
a rich blue doublet heavily
embroidered in silver and sparkling with small blue gems. The boots
and shoes on the floor of the
wardrobe ranged from high suede dress boots to satin-lined bedroom
slippers. The clothes and shoes
were all different sizes. He pawed through them, disturbed. Except
for the differences in size and style,
he found only one thing that upset him. A cream-colored silk shirt
had a few droplets of a rusty brownish
substance stained on the sleeve. Blood. It had to be blood.
He crossed to the
table, body moving automatically while his mind whirled busily. Fresh fruit
in
the bowl. He picked up a ripe red fruit that did not look familiar.
Where does she get fruit? he wondered.
Nothing grows in this damned forest but spiders and spooky trees. It
looked good, sweet and juicy, but he
put it back. His unease was growing by the minute.
A tapestry hung on
the wall over the bed. He studied it. It seemed innocent enough, a tasteful
and stylish depiction of a herd of deer grazing in an emerald woodland
glade, but the longer he looked at
the tapestry, the stranger were the things he noticed.
For instance, some
of the trees surrounding the scene were white with delicate blossoms, while
other trees were white with lacy webs. He had to strain his eyes to
pick out the tiny spiders sitting in the
webs. To the casual eye, they seemed to be no more than the centers
of the flowers. And the deer. Most
seemed to be grazing happily, but didn't that stag look odd? His eyes
were too large, ringed with white.
There seemed to be a spider spinning a web amid his proud antlers.
Belden shook his head and strated to
look away, when something snared the corner of his eye and everything
clicked into place. He turned
back, mouth open in awe and shock. The tapestry was not a picture of
deer in a glade at all. It was
woven with incredible skill to look like a harmless scene, but it was
actually a picture of spiders.
Dozens, no, hundreds of spiders spinning their webs and feeding on
captured insects. The colorful
patterns on their backs and in their webs formed the image of the stag
and his hinds. It was a beautiful
and no doubt priceless piece of work, but it was also one of the ugliest
things Belden had ever seen.
She's been lying to
you, a voice in his head spoke up. Something is terribly wrong with
this
place, and you're forgetting your purpose. You're letting yourself
be beguiled by a pretty face. What
about Clarissa? What about the reasons you came through that forest
from hell?
He shook the voice
off, but the message remained. He was forgetting. He had to get back, back
home to Clarissa with the treasure he'd promised. She would marry him
then, and no one, man or elf,
would be able to make him feel out of place again.
He glanced at the
bed. It was very inviting, the silver and black wolf fur seeming to beckon
to
him. He was tempted to rest and worry about it in the morning.
You do that and you
may never wake up, the voice said. Go now and find out what this
is all
about.
"In a minute," he
muttered, and stretched out on the bed. It was soft, every bit as comfortable
as he'd imagined. He closed his eyes, not meaning to close them for
more than an instant, and he was
asleep. His sleep was deep and he did not dream. He did not stir even
when the door opened and a
shadow fell over him. The shadow stayed for a short time, then departed.
* * *
"Oh, stars, you idiot!"
Belden exclaimed into the dark bedroom, sitting up. The moon gazed at
him through the window, close to setting. He had been asleep for hours.
This was getting to be a
nuisance. He could not figure out why he was so tired all of the time
anymore. He groped frantically in
the darkness and found his knife still safely attatched to his belt,
and as his eyes adjusted, he saw his
pack and bow lying unmolested at the foot of the bed.
He got up, well-rested
for the first time in days, and feeling guilty about it. He was supposed
to
be a hero, yet he slept like a baby in the actual castle of a possible
enemy. His stomach rumbled. He
stretched, yawned until his jaw creaked, and ran his hands through
his hair.
The door was unlocked,
and the hall as bright and cheerful as it had been earlier. He smelled
meat cooking, and heard delicate music. Following his nose, he made
his way downstairs to a large,
warm hall. It was tastefully furnished, a colorful braided rug covering
the floor, and a fire blazing in a
stone fireplace. The long table was bedecked with leafy boughs and
unusual flowers. Two places were
set with fine china and crystal. Lenore was setting a covered silver
platter on the table, and turned to him
with a welcoming smile. She had changed into a pale blue gown with
ruffled lace trim. Her hair was
pinned back and tumbled past her shoulders in sunny blond ringlets.
A lace cap adorned with blue
ribbons perched on her head. She looked young and fresh, like a maiden
at a summer picnic.
"There you are," she
said. "Dinner is ready."
He smiled at her,
then his gaze was drawn to the corner, the source of the eerie but beautiful
music that had lured him here. A large harp, a masterpiece of polished
oak and gold inlay, was balanced
on a velvet-covered stool. But the strands of the harp were made of
thick white cable, and the musician
was a man-sized spider perched in a chair while strumming the harp
strings with several of its legs.
Belden shuddered and looked back at Lenore.
She was watching him
with a saddened expression. "You don't care much for my friends," she
said.
"They are...strange
to me."
"They are all that
I have. Please, accept them as you accept my hospitality."
"You are gracious,
my lady." He took her hands and bowed over them. She smelled of lilies.
His pulse quickened.
"I have prepared a
meal for you, my warrior. Alas, I fear it is a poor feast, as I was not
expecting company." She led him to the table and offered him a chair.
"Some wine, perhaps?"
"Delighted," he said.
She leaned over him as she poured, and her breast brushed his shoulder.
"I hope you like it,"
she breathed in his ear. "The wine, I mean."
He had some trouble
finding appropriate words. Several inappropriate ones sprang immediately
to mind. She took the seat across from him, moving with a grace that
was entirely un-elven but
nevertheless very appealing. He remembered enough manners to stand
and bow as she sat.
Something touched
him lightly on the arm. He turned, and jumped about a foot when he saw
a
large spider beside his chair. He had his hand on his knife when he
noticed the steaming bowl of soup it
held in its front legs. The spider set the bowl in front of him and
made a chittering sound.
He glanced swiftly
at Lenore, and saw that she was hiding a smile. For an instant, the light
caught her eyes oddly and made her seem malicious. Then she was the
shy and saddened maid again. He
was momentarily reminded of Sparrow.
"Thank you?" he said
to the spider. It chittered at him again and crossed the room to a swinging
door. As it went through, he glimpsed several spiders working in what
appeared to be a kitchen built to
accomodate them.
"Try the soup," Lenore
urged. "It is my own recipie."
Belden had serious
doubts about eating anything cooked or served by a spider, but he had to
admit that the soup smelled good. He stirred it and took a taste. It
was good, though different from
anything he'd had before. He was even able to react politely when more
spiders brought sliced bread and
cheese. The cheese was dark yellow with a greenish tinge, sharp but
not unpleasant. Lenore lifted the
cover off the silver dish to reveal a thick roast of meat garnished
with fruit and unusual flowers. A
billow of steam drifted up. Belden had lived for many days on his own
cooking, which consisted mostly
of spearing meat on a stick and holding it over the fire until it was
brown. He had almost forgotten how
good it was to eat a carefully-prepared meal. He held his plate out
eagerly as Lenore piled it with slices
of meat and herb-and-butter potatoes. The roast was crispy around the
edges, tender within, and had a
tangy, exotic flavor that was entirely new to him. He wolfed three
slices and followed them with some
potatoes and more of the wonderful bread.
"This is wonderful,"
he said, pointing at the meat as he picked up his glass. "What is it?
Venison?"
She laughed, a musical,
silvery sound. "No, I'm afraid not. There are not many deer in these
parts. That is roast caterpillar in wine sauce, with golanna pears
and limmas buds."
He froze with his
glass tilted. Slowly, he set it on the table.
"Roast what?"
"Caterpillar. They
grow rather large around here."
"Caterpillar."
"Isn't that what I
said?"
"You fed me roast
caterpillar?" He pushed back from the table, still moving with deliberate
slowness, and stood. The inside of his mouth felt slime-coated.
"Yes, of course. What
else would we eat?"
"You eat bugs?"
"Oh, my handsome hero,
do you have to make it sound so bad? What is wrong with a bug here
or there? You liked the soup, didn't you?"
"What was in the soup?"
As she started to answer, he held up his hands. "No. Don't tell me. I
don't want to know."
"What is the matter?
It's not as if I used anything poisonous."
He looked carefully
at her. She appeared sincerely puzzled and hurt, but he thought he could
see
a little bit of cruel amusement as well.
"You could have said
something," he said accusingly.
She rose and moved
toward him, her hips swaying gently. "I am sorry. It has been so long,
that
I forget. Please, will you forgive me?" She stopped right in front
of him and held out her hands as if
offering herself.
"Lenore..."
She stepped closer
and touched his face with her fingertips. Her eyes were incredibly dark,
deep, sensual. His resolve slipped further.
"Oh, do forgive me.
Stay a while more. I will see to it that everything is to your liking.
Everything." Her fingers trailed along his jaw. "I have so missed...human
contact."
"I--I forgive you,"
he managed. Her touch was driving him mad. This was no inexperienced
maid like Clarissa. He was drowning in the depths of her dark eyes.
Lenore rose on her
tiptoes and kissed him softly. His arms went around her of their own accord.
In that instant, he would have killed to possess her.
She pressed her hands
against his chest, pushing him back. "Not yet, not here," she whispered.
"Why not?" He was
trembling with the force of his need.
"Shh," she said, touching
his lips. "Soon, my hero. First, you must be fed. I shall send for food
that pleases you."
Belden sat down, breathing
harshly. He tried to regain control of his runaway desires while
Lenore went to the kitchen.
What a woman she was!
His fists clenched convulsively on the edge of the table. He drained the
rest of his wine, washing away the last of the caterpillar taste. He
supposed he could forgive her for that.
After all, it hadn't been
so bad. Kind of tasty, actually. As was Lenore. For another kiss, he'd
forgive
just about anything.
"I hope this will
suit you better," she said, coming back into the hall with a plate. She
set it in
front of him. It was strictly vegetarian, but looked appetizing.
"Thank you, fair one.
I must apologize for my rudeness."
"Let us forget our
differences." She sat beside him and rested her hand on his leg. "After
all, in
the important ways we are not so different."
"Different enough
to be interesting," he said rakishly.
"Ah, how true," she
purred, rubbing his thigh.
"I'm, uh, I'm not
very hungry."
"Now, now. Let us
be patient." She stood and straightened her gown. "No need to rush. Finish
your meal. I have a candied rum cake for dessert."
"Well, maybe I am
a little hungry."
He was. When his plate
was empty, she brought out a thick cake wallowing in syrup and cream.
He ate two helpings and finally pushed back from the table.
"Ohhh," he groaned.
"I will never eat again."
"If you can walk,
perhaps you'd like to retire to the lounge." A host of spiders scuttled
from the
kitchen at her words and began clearing the table. Belden found the
energy to move.
The lounge was a small,
cheery room with a blazing fire. Lenore settled down on a plush sofa
and patted the cushions beside her. He didn't need to be asked twice.
She snuggled against him, pulling
his arm close around her.
"So tell me, my hero.
Where do you live, and what has brought you to me?"
Her golden hair spilled
across his chest. He took some of it between his fingers and twined it
as
he spoke. "I grew up in Crystal Falls. My foster mother found me in
the woods one day and took me in.
I don't remember anything before that."
"Isn't Crystal Falls
an elven city?"
"Yes. I was the only
non-elf there."
She stroked his cheek.
"How sad, not to know your own people."
"All my life, they
talked down at me because I was human. Human, clumsy, and short-lived.
Except Clarissa, and her sister. Well, her sister hardly talked to
me at all, so I don't know what she
thought. But Clarissa...she's wonderful."
Lenore drew away slightly.
"Is she your lady?"
He paused. "No," he
lied. "We were friends, that's all. She was too highborn and, well, elven
for the likes of me." He was pleased when she cuddled close again.
He decided not to talk about Clarissa
anymore.
"I never really got
along with the other elves. Especially after I practiced and practiced
to be
better than them at swords and archery. So I came south. I'm on my
way to Irendia, I guess, to find my
place among humans."
She looked searchingly
at him, then smiled slightly. "Really? Yet you told me before that you
sought the Spider Sorceress. You asked me about elves."
He squirmed under
her gaze.
"You'd tell me, wouldn't
you, if you had come here on some foolish crusade to destroy the evil
witch?"
"Sure I would. That's
silly, though."
"Is it? Well, it doesn't
matter." She drew his head down and kissed him fully. He crushed her
against him. Unlike Clarissa, she responded to him with fierce passion.
She grasped his hands and
guided them to her breasts, moaning against his mouth as he plundered
her willing body.
"Wait," she gasped.
He almost screamed.
"Why? Don't you want to--"
"I meant 'wait, don't
tear my gown'. Help me take it off." She slid from the sofa and stood
proudly before him.
Belden got to his
feet, somewhat unsteadily. His blood was pounding through his veins. The
world had narrowed to this room, this moment, this woman.
"Do you like me?"
she whispered.
"Gods, yes."
"Then come to me."
She held out her arms.
He reached for her and she stepped eagerly to meet him. Her arms
slipped around him and held
him tightly as he fumbled for the fastenings on the back of her gown.
She rubbed her hips against him in
small, seductive circles.
Her gown started to
slide from her shoulders. He kissed her savagely, his hands running over
the smooth skin of her back. Lenore broke the kiss and nipped him lightly,
maddeningly, on the neck.
"I lied to you before,"
she whispered between nips. "There have been elves here. Elves and
other humans."
He tried to pull away
but found he could not. Her grip was incredibly strong.
"Heros, like yourself,"
she murmured. "Warriors, wizards, spies." She continued pressing her
body against him. His own body responded with a red-hot flare of passion
even as he struggled to pull
free.
"Lenore, what are
you doing?"
"Just what I did to
them," she sighed, offering her lips. Against his will, he kissed them
again,
closing his eyes.
She changed. Under
his hands, her silky skin bristled. Her body lurched against him and there
was nothing seductive in it. Her gown tore. Long, spindly arms wrapped
around him. Something sharp
bit cruelly at his mouth.
Belden's eyes flew
open and a sound, somewhere between a scream and mad laughter, escaped
him. Lenore was gone. He was embracing a spider, a lumpy, hairy, hideous
spider in a tattered silken
gown. Its black mandibles snapped at his lips. He jerked back and almost
got free, but she was too strong
for him. Four of her legs held him. The spider's eyes were dark, deep,
glittering. Lenore's eyes.
The strength of sheer
terror burst through him and he flung her away. He ran to the door. The
handle twisted uselessly. Locked. He spun around and set his back to
the door, drawing his knife.
Lenore the spider
danced toward him on her many legs. She laughed and spoke in a human
voice. "Lay down the knife." The words had the command of a spell behind
them. Reluctantly, he let the
blade fall.
She capered, rubbing
her forelegs together with a harsh rasping sound. Belden could not move.
"Ah, my pretty, pretty
hero," she crooned. "What a fine feast you will make."
The room tilted away
and the floor rose to meet him. The last sound he heard was of her
moving her bulk over him. A needle pierced his neck and he knew no
more.
* * *
"Oh, mercy me. I can't
be lost again," the fussy little man said as he peered down the dark
corridors. He flapped his hands. He adjusted his spectacles.
None of the corridors
looked promising, including the one he had come from. He took the
glowing gem from his neck and shined it down each of the tunnels, making
small, worried clucking
noises as he did so.
"Which way?" he wondered
aloud. His voice was high and reedy, plauged with a constant
nervous tremor even when he was sure of himself, which wasn't often.
His name was Caedelbund,
always slurred to Cuddle-buns by his tormentors. He was a scribe for
the Sorcerer's Fellowship of
T'lendi. He was timid around women, liked to play the flute in his
spare time, and at the moment was
hopelessly lost in the catacombs beneath the Hall of the Fellowship.
He ran a hand through his thinning
hair and tapped his fingers against pursed lips.
He was supposed to
be fetching a scroll from the Records Room. Just a typical, mundane task
of
his typical, mundane job. Reasoning that he'd taken a wrong turn previously,
he set off back he way he
had come. Or so he thought. In his ponderings, he had gotten turned
around and was now headed even
farther from where he wanted to be. His footsteps pattered hollowly
against the stones. The light on his
chest illuminated the path in front of him but made shadows dance crazily
at the edges of his vision. The
more nervous he got, the more his breath whistled in his tight throat.
"Have to talk to the
housekeepers," he muttered, realizing he was walking on a thin layer of
moss or mold or some other unnameable substance. He took long, mincing
steps, his yellow robes
bunched up so the hem didn't drag. It had a tendency to drag, as Caedelbund
was short and had a
pronounced slouch. He was so intent on keeping his robes clean, he
didn't notice when he turned down a
side passage even narrower and dimmer than the one he'd left. It sloped
gently but steadily downward.
He stepped on something
that gave softly beneath his slipper. A sickly stench surrounded him.
Looking down, he saw that bulbous white mushrooms were growing out
of the floor. The air was
clammy. The walls were streaked with moisture.
He picked his way
carefully around the mushrooms, his face set in a twist of disgust. Tiny
beetles crawled on the floor. He glimpsed shadowy white strings that
were probably spider webs. That
made him shudder. There were only two things in the world that Caedelbund
sincerely loathed, filth and
spiders. Now, confronted by both in this dank, smelly tunnel, a thought
occured to him.
"A dream! Of course,"
he said, so relieved he almost laughed. He'd had dreams of the sort
before. Certainly the catacombs beneath the Hall were not so grim.
He was having a bad dream brought
on by his nerves. Of course. The perfect explanation.
Then he saw the door.
It was small, barely noticeable. He recalled that there were lesser doors
to the Records Room. This was probably one of those. He'd just gotten
a little lost, and come all the way
around by means of tunnels that lay near the river. That would account
for the moisture and fungus. He
hurried to the door, already formulating his speech to the housekeepers
about the shocking condition of
the halls.
The door did not open
when he pulled. He looked closely at it and saw that the wood had
warped from the dampness and was stuck securely against the frame.
He held tight to the handle and
pulled again, using all of his slight weight. The door squealed and
moved a bit.
Heartened by his strength,
Caedelbund pulled again. Sweat beaded on his brow and cords stood
out in his skinny neck. The door squealed louder and opened in a series
of lurches. He was so happy to
be back on familiar territory, he rushed right in before realizing
that the room was dark. The Records
Room was kept lit and tended round the clock. His glowing gem cast
only a faint glimmer across the
depths of what looked to be a huge room.
He looked up. The
ceiling was high, vaulted, and completely covered with spider webs.
Cocoons dangled like ripe fruit. Big cocoons. Man-sized. Most were
torn open and bones were scattered
on the floor underneath.
Caedelbund quickly
clapped a hand over the gem, smothering the light. He hated being plunged
into darkness, but he didn't want his light serving as a beacon.
The darkness was total,
except for the reddish gleam between his fingers. He listened. Steady
dripping. His own frantic breathing. He tried to breathe slower. A
stealthy rustling that he hoped was his
imagination. No other sounds.
He turned back toward
the door and promptly tripped. His hands flew out and the light swung
wild at the end of the chain. Strange shadows leapt at him. He landed
on something soft, lumpy, and
sticky.
It was a cocoon, lying
in a heap beside the door instead of hanging with the others. As far as
he
could tell, lying on it in the odd light, it looked unbroken. Moving
with extreme care, he tried to get up
without tearing it. His robes were caught by the sticky strands in
several places. It was in his hair.
He kept glancing around,
sure that things were sneaking up on him. He drew a tiny knife from
his belt, a blade more suited for breaking seals and cutting string
than for battle. Carefully, one strand at
a time, he cut the webs stuck to his robes. His cautious cutting revealed
bits of color to his eyes. Rust,
tan.
He eased himself off
the cocoon and looked mournfully at his web-clotted robes. How he hated
being dirty!
Feeling bolder, since
nothing had attacked him yet, he shined his light on the cocoon. With
some of the strands cut away, he could easily make out the shape of
a man. Curiousity warred with
prudence.
How did he get here?
Doesn't matter. Get
out before whatever got him comes after you.
Who is he? That must
have been some spider!
Exactly. It could
be creeping up on you right now.
I could be a hero
if I rescued him.
That did it. He very
much liked the image of himself, Caedelbund, saving this unlucky man
from whaever evil force put him here. He knelt and began cutting through
the cocoon.
The man revealed turned
out to be young and good-looking, even with his long russet hair
matted with webs. His features were reminiscent of the people of Dalanar.
He was very pale, though.
Too pale. His clothes were rust-colored and tan, in a style that Caedelbund
was unfamiliar with. The
scribe touched the young man's neck, feeling for a pulse, and found
a reddish, swollen puffing.
A spider bite! He
was poisoned. Caedelbund checked his wrists instead and found a weak pulse.
The young man's chest rose slowly as he took a breath. His blue eyes
opened.
Caedelbund leaned
over him reassuringly, but the young man's reaction was not what he'd
expected. Moving with the reflexes of a warrior, he drew a knife that
looked much more suited to
bloodshed that Caedelbund's blade. Fortunately for the scribe, his
speed was dulled by the poison.
Caedelbund scrambled backward.
"Wait, I want to help,"
he cried.
The young man stared
at him, blinked, shook his head, and stared again. Not releasing his grip
on the knife, he said something in a fluid, musical tongue that the
scribe recognized as Zelani Elven. He
did not speak the Fair Tongue, but the young man's words had the sound
of a question.
"I am Caedelbund,"
he said, tapping his chest.
The young man looked
around frantically, patted himself, and stared with horror at the remnants
of webbing clinging to his legs. He touched the angry welt on his neck.
He spoke again, his voice low
with dread.
Caedelbund shrugged
and spread his hands to show he did not understand. Then he pointed to
himself, to the young man, and the door. Let's get out of here, the
gesture said.
The young man nodded
urgently. He got to his feet, wobbled, and collapsed again. Caedelbund
hurried to his side and offered a supporting arm. They picked their
way carefully back to the door and
Caedelbund closed it behind them.
"Now, all we have
to do is get out," he said to himself. The young man was watching him with
the look of one trying to understand by sheer force of will.
"Do you speak Dalnari?"
the scribe tried in that language. The young man did have a Dalnari
look to him. His eyes widened, as if in surprise, but he shook his
head in frustration.
It seemed they were
reduced to gestures. The young man made an inquisitive sign and motioned
at the hall. Where are we?
Caedelbund shrugged
ruefully and led the young man around the mushrooms.
Somehow, after many
a wrong turn and a pause to let the young man rest, they came to a
passage that the scribe recognized. It led to the pantries. They were
about as far from the Records Room
as possible without leaving the catacombs entirely. Caedelbund hadn't
realized until then how hungry he
was, and wondered how long he'd been lost in the dark.
They came up in the
kitchens, much to the surprise of the cooks.
"Scribe Caedelbund?"
asked one of the scullery maids, looking closely at him. "Is that you
under all that mess?"
"Yes. It's me. Oh,
merciful goodness. We made it."
The kitchen staff
gathered around, peering curiously at the young man.
"Who's he?"
"Kind of cute..."
"Strange clothes,
elven almost."
"What's all this white
gunk?"
"Where have you been?"
"I found him in the
catacombs," said Caedelbund. The young man was looking from one person
to the other so fast it was a wonder his head didn't fall off. "He'd
been bitten by some kind of giant
spider and wrapped in webs."
Excited, horrified
squeals.
"Giant spiders! How
horrid!"
"We'd better send
for a cleric."
"Get the Sorcerers
to kill the spiders!"
"Good ladies, please."
Caedelbund held up his hands, though he was enjoying the attention.
"This man is about to fall
down. Give him a chair, and fetch a cleric or healing mage. Some of the
brandy, too. I think he needs it."
A chair was brought,
and the young man sagged wearily into it. He still glanced uneasily at
everyone, but did not protest when he was given a glass of brandy.
"You," the scribe
said to one of the scullery maids. "Find me someone who speaks Zelani
Elven."
At the words, the
young man looked sharply at him. He repeated the word 'Zelani' and spoke
rapidly.
The scullery maid
scampered off. The rest of the staff gathered around, glancing at the scribe
with new respect.
"Don't forget your
duties, ladies. If dinner is delayed, we're all in trouble."
"Dinner?" said the
head cook. "Scribe Caedelbund, we're preparing breakfast."
"Breakfast?" he squeaked.
"What time is it? What day?"
She told him, and
he had to sit down. He'd been lost in the tunnels since yeasterday afternoon.
Right then and there, he decided to quit this job. A good scribe could
find work anywhere, and he
would. As long as there were no catacombs.
* * *