[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
was all she said, "The new King cares not how fast you drive on the road."
At which point the woman started to weep in joyful hysteria, and once again
ended up on the ground watering her boots. "Law is indeed merciful!" she
repeated between her sobs, "Blessed law!"
Ierulann said nothing, not wanting to spoil this one's last illusion since
there would be none tonight. Law is law, she wanted to say. It is neither harsh
nor merciful, merely new or old. But it is your position in relation to it that
makes it deadly or gentle.
I, too, am like the law, neither one nor the other.
Or, at least I had been once. . . .
And then Ierulann yawned deeply, watching the sun of morning ride up over
the stilled city. It was time for her to sleep, and possibly, to dream.
a
a
T
T
n
n
s
s
F
F
f
f
o
o
D
D
r
r
P
P
m
m
Y
Y
e
e
Y
Y
r
r
B
B
2
2
.
.
B
B
A
A
Click here to buy
Click here to buy
w
w
m
m
w
w
o
o
w
w
c
c
.
.
.
.
A
A
Y
Y
B
B
Y
Y
B
B
r r
For she also contained madness now, a tiny bit of it would harbor it forever
under her still surface, secretly helping to share the burden of the one who
was now King.
No law had required her to do that.
The city of No-Sleep is said to be old now, older than the world itself, ever
since it stopped reshaping itself every night.
But the king is young here, and sane, and filled with peaceful reason. They
say he has no memories of his past, but sleeps soundly every night, and never
dreams at all.
Miracles fill the city, for multitudes are now rebuilding their lives, and the
greatest miracle of all, contentment, stands in a cloud above the rooftops.
If you visit, you will surely find something to your liking.
But you must promise to find one woman, once a Guard of Law, now
storyteller. Supposedly, she still owns a sword and a Serpent Whip, and is the
only one who can tell you your dreams.
DAUGHTER OF THE BEAR
by Diana L. Paxson
Around the time of my second marriage, my two brothers, Paul Edwin
Zimmer and Jon DeCles, followed me into the profession of writing which
I'd been doing for about fifteen years. They began dating, and later married,
two young women; college friends, who also followed me into the family
business. One of the women was Diana Paxson. When both Paul and Jon
became writers, Diana was encouraged to try it, too, and the rest is history.
When I moved from being a writer to an editor, the first writer I discovered
was Diana; I was privileged to buy one of her first printed stories. I've
discovered many writers since, including the enormously successful
Mercedes Lackey and Jennifer Roberson, but I still feel Diana's stories have
as much quality and will endure as long as any one of the others. After the
first story, the enormously original tale of a shapechanger, "Kindred of the
Wind," she produced a fine fantasy series set in an alternate future
California, The Chronicles of Westria. She then went on to work on historical
fantasies such as The White Raven, the splendid story of Tristan and Iseult.
More recently she has been collaborating with me on the "Avalon" novels, and
working on her own Arthurian novel, Hallowed Isle. Her special historical
knowledge has greatly enriched my own work, but she still writes her own
finely crafted stories set in various historical periods. Here she tells a story
from the Viking period of which she writes so often . . .
Bera balanced with the ease of long habit as the wagon jolted over the rutted
road, but her belly was knotting anxiously. The white trunks of the birches on
the hillside glowed against the dull green of fir and pine, a few last leaves
bright gold in the sun. The thrall Haki's shoulders flexed and relaxed again as
he kept a steady pressure on the reins.
a
a
T
T
n
n
s
s
F
F
f
f
o
o
D
D
r
r
P
P
m
m
Y
Y
e
e
Y
Y
r
r
B
B
2
2
.
.
B
B
A
A
Click here to buy
Click here to buy
w
w
m
m
w
w
o
o
w
w
c
c
.
.
.
.
A
A
Y
Y
B
B
Y
Y
B
B
r r
She had been making such journeys since she was fifteen, when Groa the
Voelva took her from her father's farm to train in the mysteries of seidh-
magic. But Groa had retired to Raumsdale now, and Bera with her teacher's
thrall, her cart, and a ring from the Jarl to serve as introduction was on her
way to Vaerdale to winter with one of his chieftains, Narfi of Stav.
In the middle of the day, the autumn air was warm, laden with a tantalizing
hint of smoking meat as the wind changed. Bera lifted her thick dark hair, a
legacy from the Irish thrall-woman who had been her mother, and wound it
into a loose knot. The morning had dawned clear, but now wisps of high cloud
were beginning to veil the sky. Common sense put to flight any thoughts of
turning back. She had longed for independence she must pray now for the
power to use it well. . . .
Something crashed among the trees ahead, and Bera clutched at the side of
the wagon as Haki hauled on the reins. The changing wind brought a rank,
familiar scent as the branches shivered, and a massive brown form emerged
onto the road. Bera caught her breath, suspended between present terror and
a memory of the visions she had experienced in which bears had devoured
her the previous spring when she lay prisoned by snow in an abandoned den.
The horse snorted, trembling, and the bear turned, half rising as it peered
toward them. It was an old male, fat with autumn feasting, and more curious
than hostile or afraid. Haki shot her a panicked glance, fists tightening on the
reins. Bera gripped his shoulder in warning, knowing that any sudden move
might startle the beast into attacking them.
Slowly she rose to her feet, knowing that the taller she appeared, the less she
would look like prey. A whisper of melody surfaced in memory and she began
to
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]