Diversity Is Coming Read online

Diversity Is Coming

  The days of unified culture and singular Great Kingdoms are over. In their place, bold new visions are redefining the world of fantasy. Eight authors tackle stories with a focus on diversity, finding heroism outside the familiar boundaries of farmhands and prince's castles.

  Including original fiction from Nicolas Wilson, Carole McDonnell, Michelle Browne, Mags Carr, William Lenoire, Rachel Savage, Kirstin Pullioff, and Gail Villanueva, this collection goes where GRR Martin and Terry Brooks couldn't.

  Table of Contents

  World Map

  Ayana, by Nicolas Wilson

  The Witch's Curse, by Kirstin Pullioff

  Seven Weeks, by Gail Villanueva

  The Herders of the Roof of the World, by William Lenoire

  The Reed-fish Girl of Comara Cove, by Michelle Browne

  Vergreva, by Mags Carr

  The Girl In The Dim, by Carole McDonnell

  Children of Scale, by Rachel Savage

  Afterword by Nicolas Wilson

  Worldmap

  Ayana, by Nicolas Wilson

  My mother named me Ayana, which means journey. It's the only thing my father's ever told me about her. His name's Banto- and he hates that I call him that- and for as long as I can remember he's been a playwrite.

  He tells me most playwrites can't feed a family, and that we've been very fortunate. One of his characters, the monkey prince Húsūn, has become quite popular locally, enough that he was able to build a small playhouse on the edge of town.

  He's written a few other things, but people weren't interested. They like Húsūn. I can't blame them. I remember the first story my father told me about the monkey prince. I had a single female friend, and we were beaten by a group of girls from the center of the city. The deeper into the city you got, the wealthier the inhabitants were.

  I wanted him to teach me how to throw a punch, how to fight dirty. Instead, he told me a story.

  Húsūn was a renowned warrior, who traveled with several other heroes, including a tikbalang, and his princess bride. They fought many evils across the kingdoms, and while traveling through the area near Folei, he was contacted by a village of tauzak herders. They had trouble with raiders attacking their village, and offered Húsūn's party a bounty to deal with them. That night, Húsūn encountered an elderly woman on the road. She implored Húsūn not to attack the raiders; she knew that such an attack would only cause more bloodshed, that the remaining raiders would swear a blood oath to wipe out the village, until the last of each struck one another down in the rain.

  Húsūn asked how she could know this. She explained that she was Kiritru, mother of the tauzak, and she would defend her herders, until the time she could secure a lasting peace for all. Húsūn returned the bounty the next morning, and told them that they had Kiritru's protection, and she would show the raiders the Way. They didn't listen. But the Goddess kept her word for Húsūn's abstinence. Perhaps the raiders would have been defeated, for a time, either way. But their acceptance of the Way guaranteed peace in the Roof of the World.

  I was still young enough I didn't have much time for allegory. My father told me the story's point was that there are times when the wisest warrior does not fight. Even at that young age, I didn't believe in Kiritru, or any of the various gods. I think Húsūn simply realized that a war ends in destruction, so he chose not to start one.

  The story did teach me that talking could be just as potent as a fist. So when next I saw the girl who attacked us, I spoke with her. At first, she put on a brave face, and tried to menace me. But the facade slowly crumbled, until there was only a crying girl. She didn't know why, exactly, but her father's business was doing poorly, and that made him act angrily. He hurt her.

  We told Banto, and he agreed to have a talk with her father. The beatings stopped. I don't know what he said. Back then, I thought he told him a story about the monkey prince; now that I'm grown I'm not so sure.

  My father says I've 'blossomed,' though aside from the bloom in my cheeks whenever Chitran smiles at me I don't think I really understand it. I know I'm old enough to ask questions. Like why aren't women allowed on the stage? Father mumbled something about dignity, and decency, before finally stating, “Some folk have got a problem with women.” Then he hobbled away on his one foot.

  He's told me a dozen different stories about how he lost his other foot. Most were mundane, that it was trampled by a herd of tauzak, crushed working in a mine on Halbazo. On a few rare occasions, when a friend bought him too much ale, he'd tell wilder stories, how it was cursed by Aliashe, cut off by a tikbalang who, having only four hands to walk on, felt feet unnatural. My favorite was when he told me he traded it to the fae for a favor, and when I asked the favor he said, “You,” and touched my nose. That answer warmed me the way he said ale warmed him.

  Whenever I confronted him over his shifting story, he'd grin. But if I called him a liar, he'd stop smiling and say, “Writing is lying through truth; lying is how a playwrite practices.”

  I think my father felt badly, that women couldn't be on his stage, so he hired them for anything else that he could. Female carpenters, stagehands, whatever else we needed, he hired women, many of them widows who would otherwise test their fortunes on the street.

  I knew how strict the laws were, in that regard. Several times a year, our humble theater was raided by the authorities because someone believed the men on stage were women. My father considered that a point of pride, a testament to his casting and direction. To aid in the illusion, my father hired pretty young boys, with soft features, and red, rosy cheeks. Boys like Chitran.

  He had hair like flax, but that shined like the blade of a nobleman's sword, lips as full and fluffy as clouds ready to burst with rain, and eyes bluer and deeper than the Khilei Ocean. My father took me there to swim once, and reminded me that we were fortunate, for many of our neighbors could not take a day from work to swim. Dive though I did, I couldn't reach the bottom.

  I found Father scribbling with his quill in the office above the theater. He wanted to be done with Húsūn; he'd said so many times. He had contemplated killing the character off. But every time he tried something else, people refused to come to see it. “And you have to give the people what they want,” he concluded. But this time he insisted, “I've reached the end of Húsūn's journey.”

  “It'll cause a riot if you kill him,” I said idly. I was used to his manias, and usually he came to his senses largely on his own.

  “He doesn't die, at the end,” he said.

  “Then how is it an end?”

  “It's an end to the adventures,” he said. “His princess bride is killed, and he is grievously wounded.”

  “So it's a tragic ending?” I asked, suddenly perking up.

  He smiled. “Not at all,” he said, and touched my face. “Their daughter lives. It gives him time to raise her into a woman. It's a sad ending, because he loses his wife, but it's also a happy ending, because he gets to focus on building a life for his daughter.”

  His description made me tingle, and I knew his work was always stronger when it connected so directly to his own life. But I'd also lived long enough in the theater to recognize that one person's resonance was another's irrelevance. “Do you think it'll play?” I asked.

  “I think it connects to death, and renewal,” he said. “It will make those who've experienced the former sad, and give those who've known the latter hope; to most everyone, it will give both.”

  “Can I read it?” I asked. He didn't like to let anyone read his work; it was instructions for actors less so than poetry.

  “It isn't finished,” he said. That went doubly for a work in progress. “But perhaps it's time I teach you the family business.”
<
br />   “You think I could be a playwrite?”

  “You could be whatever your heart desired. But being a playwrite is something I could show you how to do.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  He rolled out the parchment. It wasn't the first time I'd seen a play, but every time before it had been with the purpose of coaching the actors, usually reminding them of their lines. This was different, because the page was filled with possibilities. That awkward wording on the twenty-fifth line, I could change. For a moment I felt like a god, only for the weight of those decisions to come smacking down on me.

  “Go ahead,” he said, and handed me his quill.

  I got lost in the words. I made small notes in the margins, but mostly the dialog and action pulled me forward, until I reached the last uncompleted line. I wanted to know- I needed to know- where things proceeded from there. I knew from experience that he wrote as well and as fast as he did, and pestering him only made him move more slowly, with less certainty, so I tried to calm myself. But as that hot urgency faded, I was left with something else. I had always liked the character of Vaidehi, Húsūn's warrior bride. But as I grew into a woman, I felt her flaws more deeply. Too often she was made the subject of fun, but not a pursuer of it. Here she wasn't, and I asked my father why.

  “She's never been written for comedy,” he said, and he seemed almost sad. “Vaidehi was a warrior, as skilled with a sword as Húsūn, but twice as cunning, and fourfold as comely. The comedic... embellishment has always come from the actors. I fought constantly with her first actor, and threatened to pay him not a dime unless he did the lines as written. The night of that first performance, he didn't. His portrayal proved popular, so much that as I would have loved to fire him, I couldn't. He stayed for five successive plays, by which time the... unflattering mannerisms were considered canon by anyone not privvy to the words on the page.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “the problem was always that men took the role. That they could not find her strength inside her compassion, or the wisdom beneath her love.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, and smiled. “And I hope the plays will last long enough to be performed again, with a more... faithful presentation.”

  “What if we weren't to wait?” I asked. He frowned at me. “I could do it.”

  “And flout the obscenity laws?” he asked with a wry grin.

  “She's worth it,” I said, and was surprised by the emotion in my own voice.

  “Even were I to agree, the part already has a master, promised and paid.”

  That was true. “I could be his understudy.”

  “He's never missed a show, and you've never acted before,” he said.

  “I could try,” I said. “What's the harm?”

  “Okay,” he said. “But a final decision hasn't been made. If Chitran can't go on, then we'll decide whether to put you on? All right?”

  I hugged him, and ignored the caveat, because I doubted that if the time ever came, he could deny me.

  The next day I did another pass. This time I was less enthralled with the story, so I was able to make more substantive suggestions. He pursed his lips, reading above my shoulder. “Well, this will never do,” he said. He held up one of the pages of the manuscript. “I can barely comprehend the direction- and I wrote it. We'll need to write out another copy, incorporating your suggestions so the players can begin rehearsing the first act. And by we...” he handed me the quill.

  I wanted to balk at the suggestion; it felt like a punishment for pointing out the flaws in his work. But I also knew he'd rewritten a hundred manuscripts a dozen times each. It was a test, yes, but a test to see if I could stick with the work, even the unglamorous portions. I took the quill from him, and looked into the well. “We'll need more ink,” I said.

  “I'm going to the market for supplies. Add it to the list, and I'll fetch some.”

  I wrote and I wrote, until every one of my fingers ached from the scribbling. I wrote until the sun went down, then continued until my candle burnt out. In the morning I woke with the sun, and began writing again. I heard my father wake, and shortly after smelled breakfast cooking. He brought it to me. It smelled heavenly, but I could feel the pressure of finishing the draft; the players began today, and they would need the manuscript.

  He looked over my shoulder at the work, and smiled. “You needn't hurry further,” he said. “It will be days before they catch up. Now eat. We wouldn't want this to be your last play for starvation.”

  I set aside the parchment, and took up a wooden plate. I tried to shovel an egg into my mouth, but my fingers refused to close properly around the spoon. I switched hands, and while my weak hand was more clumsy, it still had the strength to grasp enough to get the bite to my mouth, even if it detoured slightly at my cheek.

  “That's how you can know a playwrite from his dining- or hers,” he said, with a smile, “she eats with her off hand, messily.” I put my tongue, still caked in eggy flecks, out at him. His expression turned momentarily serious. “I'm going to need you, today. Fittings.”

  “Fittings?”

  “An understudy has to be able to fit in the costume, too. Lenor will make the necessary adjustments.” I didn't like Lenor, or maybe I didn't like the way my father looked at her. With my mother gone, I'd grown accustomed to hoarding his affections for my own.

  “When?” I asked.

  “Before lunch,” he said, “but not too far past breakfast.” I frowned at him. “Don't want to let it out too far, or hem it too tightly.”

  I finished eating, then went back to rewriting. After an hour, my father came in and took the first act for rehearsal.

  About midday, Lenor knocked upon the door. “Come in,” I said. She had one of Vaidehi's battle dresses folded over her arm.

  “Put this on,” she said, and handed it to me. She turned around, and closed the door, and kept her eyes averted while I changed.

  “Done,” I said. But as she looked I became suddenly self-conscious, and examined the dress more critically. “It's much too long,” I said, and frowned.

  “The dress is an understudy, too,” she explained. “It's fit to Chitran, first. We need a few hems to make it fit you- things that can be quickly undone should his dress be torn or stained.”

  I doubted the idea, one dress fit to two people, especially someone as tall and lanky as Chitran, and someone like me, shorter, stouter. But Lenor worked diligently, and in silence. I imagined being Vaidehi, riding through the plains on tikbalang-back, taming the savage wilds of the Jedroi Plains, fighting beside her beloved prince.

  “And what do you think?” Lenor asked. The question tore me from my reverie.

  The illusion wasn't quite complete; at the seams you could see that the dress was a replica of the fashionable battlegown the princess wore, but still I felt her power and her beauty for an instant.

  “I think you've outdone yourself,” my father said. I hadn't heard him come in.

  “You're too kind,” she muttered shyly, as she scurried away with her kit.

  “You make me miss her,” he said to me. “Your mother, you look just like her.”

  I saw the opportunity, and grabbed it. “What was she like?” I asked.

  “Wonderful. Like you.”

  “But where did she come from? What did she do?”

  “She came from everywhere; the world was her home, and every person in it her family. And she loved, more completely, wholly and faithfully than any person living before or since.”

  “I don't want platitudes, or poetry.”

  “Then you don't want me to tell you about your mother.”

  “What were her flaws? Everybody has them. Even me.” The last part showed my bitterness; I loved my mother, unknown as she was, but some little part of me hated knowing that he held her so far above me.

  He was silent, and for a moment I assumed he wouldn't respond, but then he said, “She couldn't hate. No matter how deeply wronged, she couldn't hate. She tried, once or twic
e. But failed. She wanted so much for the world to be better, that she found ways to sympathize with even the worst of men. It caused her pain, and it pained me, too, to see her injured so.” The answer only made me more annoyed, because her 'flaw' was just a different kind of perfection. He smiled, proving he knew he was caught, and he needed to cooperate, at least a little..

  “She snored,” he said, “any time she'd eaten tauzak. And she loved tauzak, so it happened more often than you'd imagine. She was a complex woman. And I know in her absence I love her far more selflessly than in her presence. But her loss... having her, to lose her, left a mark deeper than a blade ever could. Imagine your happiest day. That was your mother, to me. We fought, at times, and more than once exchanged unkind words. I would mourn my loss every moment of every day, were it not for knowing that most aren't fortunate to love so well, however briefly. But the gods shined on my poor existence; I've loved so twice.” He touched my cheek, and I wrapped my arms around his torso.

  That made me feel closer to my father than I ever had. So did working with him. I’d always been a theater brat, hanging from the top of the curtains or crawling beneath the stage. And I helped where I could, how I could. But talking with him late into the night about the story as it formed, bending the ideas into a recognizable shape. It was a different part of him I saw, and a different part of myself that it touched.

  It also gave me an opportunity to speak to Chitran. We’d shared perhaps a dozen words in the several years he’d worked for my father, and I did feed him lines the previous year, when my father caught ill with the season’s change. But now we were working lines together. He was looking soulfully into my eyes and whispering the words I’d written to me.

  It was strange, because I was his understudy, so the lines I recited were all the wrong ones, but hearing the words aloud, they took on a life they couldn’t hold while existing only on the parchment, or in my mind. They melted on his tongue into a buttery cream that drowned me in velvet warmth.

  I’d never been in love, not truly. I frequently failed to understand the plots of my father’s plays, because when it came to love, his characters went insane. But for Chitran, I was a madwoman. I would have died for him, murdered for him. The syllables of his name made me tremble.

  Then one afternoon, I leaned across the table where the pages of the play were splayed, and I kissed him.

  He barely seemed to notice at all; his only response was a wearied sigh. “Do you think,” he began, “it proper? Does the incestuousness of it not compel you to shame?” My face became warm, and I couldn’t look up from the table. “Your only qualification in your role is as his daughter,” he said flatly. The accusation hurt; that he ignored the affection preceding it hurt more.

  “I should go,” I managed, and walked away, navigating by the slight space before my feet. That is perhaps why I knocked into my father. Had I knocked him onto his good leg, he might have caught the both of us, but instead his weight landed painfully on his ankle, and we both sprawled pitifully across the floor.

  Despite his hobble, he was faster getting up, and helped me stand. I was crying, though I couldn’t remember when I began. He waited for my explanation patiently, and eventually I was composed enough to tell him, “I kissed Chitran.”

  “And you didn’t like it?” he asked.

  “He didn’t.”

  “Ah,” he said, and looked in the direction of the stage. “Some boys prefer the company- and the kisses- of other boys.”

  The idea perplexed me, enough that my tears all but dried in that moment. “Why?” I asked.

  “Those feelings you have for Chitran- they have them, too. And he has them for other boys.”

  “Oh,” I said. I wobbled on my feet. The worst of the rejection was over, perhaps, but the fall from those heady heights had left me weak.

  He noticed. “You should rest,” he said. “A wounded heart will mend with time, but it requires the same care as any other infirmity.” He wrapped his thick arm around me, and aimed me towards my room.

  Pages from our play were scattered about, all over the covering over my bedding. He smoothed them away, gathering them with care. He kissed my forehead, and eased me down. He laid my blanket over me, then sighed, and touched my cheek. “I hate to see you hurting so,” he said, then he smiled.

  “There’s a story I’ve never told you, or anyone. But it took place long ago. Húsūn was still alone in the world, without the friends he would later meet. But already he had built a legend enough to attract the attention of the Lady of the Scale. The High Lady was beautiful and wise, and Húsūn fell for her like maidens plucked from tomorrow by the goddess,” which was what people from Huraia call falling stars. “To win her, he performed many great feats, to appease her serpent god Kurdal, and his warrior mate Aliashe. He won favor from the female deity, but no matter what he did, he could not convince Kurdal to bless the union. Húsūn eventually realized that Kurdal was protecting his priestess. For all of her appreciation of him, she did not love him, perhaps could not. The realization broke Húsūn's heart; he wondered if he would ever feel the sun’s warmth again. But not a cycle of seasons passed before he met Vaidehi, and as much as he loved the High Lady in his youth, at the peaks between valleys of their affections, that was how much he loved the princess at the end of their first day together. And every day he loved her two times more. And as much as he loved her, she loved him still more in return.”

  His stories always made me sleepy; I suspected he told them in lieu of giving me poppy’s milk. But one question lingered to me. “Was my mother your High Lady, or your Vaidehi?”

  “Your mother was my queen,” he said.

  “But how do you know?”

  “Because the only other woman who could ever give my life the same fullness was our princess,” he said, and kissed my forehead. “Sleep well, Ayana. The sun will rise again on the morrow.”

  I slept until deep into the night, and woke needing to use the outhouse. My father left a candle burning, and I took it down the hall. I heard a muffled commotion from the stage, and tiptoed down the steps. I recognized Chitran's voice, low, guttural. He groaned. Then I saw his chest, glistening with sweat as he gyrated. I recognized a second voice. It belonged to one of my father's other 'female' actors, a boy named Ruy.

  A board creaked underfoot and Chitran's head jerked in my direction. His face contorted, but not in anger or surprise. I gasped. Despite being on the stage, I recognized the display wasn't meant for an audience, and snuck away.

  Whatever my father's tolerance, that kind of exhibition might get us shut down for real. I resolved not to tell anyone. I felt better, after that, knowing for certain that his rejection had less to do with me, and more to do with what he wanted.

  I woke up with the sun the next morning, and got back to work. There was still a whole act to finish drafting, and my duties as an understudy had cut significantly enough into my work hours that the players were catching up.

  And while my father wouldn't have likely admitted it, we were catching up to him, too. I think he liked working with me on the play, but having to hold my hand meant that everything was taking him longer. Even though I was lagging, he was barely a few pages ahead of me.

  I don't think he slept, because when I woke up he had finished the last act.

  I pored over the pages. It was rougher than even the early drafts I'd seen from the first two acts, including a handful of elements that felt out of place. We'd discussed some of the threads, it's impossible to edit without having at least some idea of the larger tapestry. A few strands seemed to have come from wholly new cloth.

  One element in particular irked me, enough that I had to ask. “Father, why'd you make his injury a lost foot?” It felt like the kind of detail that was self-indulgent- a cripple turning his popular main character into one, too, as if to prove his own worth by proxy. It was an unkind thought, but he'd always encouraged in me a critical eye.

  “You write what you know,”
he said, and shrugged.

  “But was Húsūn always dark-skinned?” He nodded, and I frowned. I'd never really thought about it; it had never been specified in the plays, though none of the actors wore the darker paints we used to denote other dark-skinned characters.

  The hair on my neck stood, as I knew the next change was actually dangerous,and not simply a literary departure. “I thought Húsūn's rivalry with the king was about the monarch's insecurity.”

  “The king has many insecurities,” he said coyly. “Perhaps chiefly, was a feeling of superiority over the other races, one that was fragile and easily threatened. But his central trait is his conviction that he is always under siege, terrified of being outshone or outdone.” There was something else in the king, or perhaps something missing; Banto had always embellished the king with fanciful traits relating to prior kings, to lend a satirical deniability to the portrayal. This king was nakedly a parody of the current one, and that idea made me nervous.

  I was still grappling with how to broach it with my father, when we heard Ruy yell from downstairs. It brought to mind catching him and Chitran the previous night. I tried to put the thought out of my head. He yelled again. “Come, now!” we made out, even through the door. My father reacted fastest, though he hobbled down he hall. I was right behind him.

  Ruy was nearly in tears when we reached him at the stage. My father grabbed him by the shoulders. “What's going on?” he asked, his voice gentle but firm.

  “Chitran,” he said, and pointed to the front door.

  Father continued outside. As soon as we were in the street we could hear the shouting. A group of men were gathered in a circle.

  I heard Chitran's breathing, heavy as it had been on stage, but there was an edge of pain to it. On the ground between the men I saw him, trying to push himself out of the dirt. One of the men kicked him back down.

  My father pushed his way between the men. “Enough!” he yelled.

  “Beat it, bark-skin,” one of them said. Father grabbed him by the collar and hurled him out of the circle.

  “Shka!” one of the men said.

  “Leave the boy alone,” Banto said.

  “And we're going to listen to a tweeg-loving bark-skin?” another asked.

  “Meva,” the man next to him cautioned. Shka was on his feet, sneaking towards Banto, preparing to grab him.

  “Father!” I yelled. But he was already in motion. He grabbed Shka, and rolled his weight across his shoulders. He landed feet-first into Meva. The other men in the circle froze.

  “Ayana,” Banto glanced at me, “get him inside.”

  He stood watch as I knelt between them, and helped Chitran stand. He was hobbling almost the same as my father. I carried a good deal of Chitran's weight back. I thought I might collapse under the strain. I leaned him against the wall inside the safety of the theater's doors.

  I wanted to go back for Banto, but Ruy barred my way. “They'll kill you,” he said. “And I need help. With Chitran.” I glanced back at the bleeding boy. I didn't trust Ruy's assessment, but I knew that Chitran likely needed me more than my father did.

  I stayed. We moistened rags and cleaned Chitran's wounds. He had cuts and bruises all over his beautiful face. His skin was soft to the touch, and despite myself I was preoccupied with how sensual tending to his wounds was.

  He grabbed my hand, and held it, and my heart skipped a beat. “Ruy,” he whimpered, and I realized he was reaching for the other boy, not me.

  After quarter of an hour, my father returned. His mood was dour, and I followed him upstairs. I was prepared to have to dab blood from him, as well, but he was unharmed.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “We talked. And they left.” I'd heard that tone before. Whatever happened, he wanted to share no further detail of it. I'd learned from experience that pushing usually ended in both of us upset, both from whatever secret he held back, and from the hurt of forcing the issue.

  “What's bark-skin?” I asked.

  He sighed hotly; clearly he hoped I hadn't heard the word. “It's what stupid men call my flesh, because it's darker, and dryer than theirs. They think it's a word to hurt me; really it's just a badge of their ignorance.” He sighed, and some of the steam left him. “As an insult, it fell from favor, because civilized folk felt it beneath them. But rage drives the civility out of people, so there's nought but anger and their deepest intentions.”

  “Do I have bark-skin?” I asked.

  “No,” he said, and stroked my cheek. “Your mother was cream-skinned, in both color and texture. And your skin lies somewhere between.”

  “Might people try to hurt me for my skin?”

  “Some might,” he said. “Any fool who doesn't love you immediately isn't worthy of knowing you.”

  “Then why can't I be on stage?”

  He recognized the pivot immediately, and a little smile spread across his lips. “The obscenity law was designed by men who are afraid of women, worried what they're capable of, unshackled. It's wrong-headed.”

  “But you still don't want me on stage? Even after what happened to Chitran? He's in no shape to go on.”

  “We'll see,” he said noncommittally. But I knew I could convince him. I just knew it.

  I went to sleep that night excited, imagining how wonderful our play could be with a faithful reading of the female lead.

  I dreamed of being on that stage. I recognized my father dressed as Húsūn, in one of the first productions. I remembered him telling the story of how the actor felt the play was beneath him, that playing some local hero, a monkey prince, wasn't up to the weightiness of his usual roles. My father liked to tell how he had to fit into the leaner actor's costume, and hop around on one leg for the entirety of the play. I recognized him immediately from that story, conspicuously younger, perhaps even handsome.

  I was in that play, as the first incarnation of Vaidehi. The costuming was at once simpler and more elegant, beautiful enough to be easily confused with the real world article, yet less ostentatious than my own costume.

  Húsūn stared into me joyously. He leaned in to kiss me, but it wasn't me any more, though she looked a great deal like me. I realized that she was my mother, that it was me wrapped in cloth to form the hammock wrapped around her neck. I was nearly certain my mother had never acted, let alone in the role of Húsūn's wife.

  I felt stupid for my confusion during the dream, because as soon as the cock crowed, I readily understood the meanings.

  My father had been more than one of Húsūn's stage stand-ins- he had been the legendary warrior, himself. It seemed so natural, I suspected I'd always known, but hadn't allowed myself to believe it before.

  But I'd never focused on his original words, or seen him stand unflinching against encircling men. The previous day had left no doubt in my mind.

  I watched him eagerly as he cooked breakfast. Jerky movements I had previously attributed to a clumsiness of a cripple, I understood in a different light. The short, punctuated movements of his arms as he stirred batter wasn't a man unaccustomed to the kitchen making do in the absence of his wife, they were the motions of a man better acquainted with combat, whose warrior bride would have been just as ill-accustomed to homemaking.

  And I recognized his cooking palette, too; the recipes he knew were the kind you could cook while traveling, with little more than a morning's gathering and trading- not the food of a farmhand.

  Each bite was different, after that, because the flavors filled me of visions of all of the exotic places he'd written of, Vergreva, Leistros, and the Floating Isles of Ang’Gal.

  I helped him clean, and only when we were done did I broach what I'd been waiting to say. “When you,” I caught myself, “wrote about Húsūn fighting the Marbloom fae in the Vilgat Islands, searching for Vaidehi and his infant daughter. It was dangerous. He could have been killed; his wife and girl, too. And Vaidehi, fighting her way free of the dungeon to get back to him. The world can be a dangero
us place. But you have to take risks to protect the things- and people- you care about.”

  He sighed. “Húsūn wouldn't have been able to leave his family in that dungeon.”

  “And he also wouldn't have asked Vaidehi to sit in that dungeon, waiting for somebody else to fix everything for her.”

  “Stupidly, I raised an intelligent daughter,” he said, and kissed my forehead. “Though I'm not sure you're of an age yet to fight.”

  “And how old was Húsūn, when he struck out from his village? When he became the hero of the merfolk, forged those treaties with the fae?”

  “Barely a boy. But he's just a story.” The twinkle in his eyes told me he was lying.

  “He's an example- an ideal. Heroes show us the peak, what we can hope to achieve if we strive; they aren't a ceiling, to keep us safely sheltered from the winds of possibility.”

  “What if we're raided?” he asked sullenly. “I can't stand the thought that something might happen to you.”

  “Something will,” I said, and took hold of his hand. “There will be a street in my life where I am surrounded and beaten, and you will not be able to protect me when it comes. But we can't cower behind the threat of what might be; it falls to us to live towards what could be.”

  He sighed. “All right,” he said. “You'll perform the part. With a caveat. If we are found out, you will lie for me. You will do your best acting possible, and tell the guards it was my idea, that you were not aware that you were doing something wrong, and that I misled you. You will make me out as vile a tempter as you can. Promise that.”

  I wasn't sure I could; even on orders, how do you betray your own father so deeply? But he had taught me well how to lie, so I did that, instead. “I promise.” I wanted to go still further, to tell him, to let him know that I knew that he was the hero of his stories. But I couldn't imagine a way to tell him where he wouldn't deny it, and I knew that denial would crush me, even if I didn't believe it could be true. For the moment, it would have to be enough that I knew.

  We finished the play that night. It was odd, knowing that the words I transcribed had become my own in so short a span.

  And finally I recognized why my father had agreed to let me go on. He had never intended for the play to have more than one performance. The subjects that had been veiled over the course of the monkey prince's literary career were now on brazen display, most notably as they centered around our monarch.

  Speaking seditiously out loud about our king was different than putting pen to paper to the effect. Because I knew whatever veneer existed of fictionality on the page would disperse the instant the words were spoken aloud on the stage. They chilled me, but I knew that was right; they would have chilled Vaidehi, made her clutch her child to her breast still harder to protect the darling baby- to protect me.

  The play also finally made clear that the king was Vaidehi's father. He never approved of her union with the monkey prince- a title I now recognized as the epithet it was. But when his other affairs produced no offspring, the king became terrified. The child was his heir, but also possibly his usurper. The heart of the play was the king's mad desire to tear both child and mother from Húsūn, to safeguard his rotting power.

  I thought to my studies, to the gossip of those far older and more worldly than I. In the intervening years, following the moments described in the play, the king's power continued to mold and fester. The king's guard were notoriously corrupt. The law they kept varied upon the quality of bribe you could afford. The villainy was so ingrained, most whispered that the king was likely himself receiving a portion.

  I knew upon finishing our first reading that the play would enflame. It exposed and demonized the king through the thinnest of veils, to the point where there was nearly no deniability to be had. That was the reason my father fought me so about taking the role. He knew we were provoking a dragon. But he also knew that the dragon needed poking; he was still too much of a warrior to let such a monster remain unmolested.

  He started to plan my escape. After rehearsals, every night we walked the city streets, and discussed the best paths to avoid men in armor. At every step I insisted he adjust his plans. If I had to flee the city, I was certainly not leaving without him. He paid lip service to my request, but always in the least convincing fashion. I began simply overwriting his plans with my own.

  His leg was an impediment, we would not be able to flee quickly on foot. So I learned the location of every nearby stable.

  And I convinced my father to sell his theater. He found a buyer, a nearby merchant who wanted to put on plays that showed off the goods he sold, and included mentions of his shop in the text. My father convinced him to silently partner for his last play- that it would be better for him to know nothing of the movements of the previous owner.

  As our opening neared, I wondered if we would have the chance at performing the play. All of the players and hands understood what we were doing. To their credit, they grumbled less than I might have guessed about being put into danger. A few lines we altered, to give greater cover to the actors involved. Except for Vaidehi. If anything, her lines become more strident, to pick up that slack. Banto argued against the course. I refused to let our play become a paper tiger, removed of even its origami fangs and claws.

  To the crews' further credit, their resolve held until opening night. When I spoke the first lines of the play, I expected for the doors to be kicked in, and the room filled with the king's men. Instead, the scene played on. At the end of the first act, when the stage was all set, and the most damning accusations against the king were already in the air, several attendees left. I wanted to club them, to keep them from informing the guards, but also for not recognizing the craft in our production.

  My father saw the tension in my shoulders. “Truth is not universal,” he said. “Our truth simply was not theirs.” He was right about that. People left the theater all of the time. Some simply didn't have the time to devote to an entire play; my father was even willing to sell tickets an act at a time, to accommodate. This was mostly so the poor could watch, as well, a decision that had saved the theater on countless occasions. Because while the merchants could afford to spend a day in leisure, there were a hundred who could not to every one of them, and they loved Húsūn- and my father, too- for giving them a chance at culture, even in such a stunted form.

  We made it through the second act, where the king's scheming laid all of the fiction bare. The pieces were set, an ambush by Ushan mercenaries lying in wait outside Húsūn and Vaidehi's encampment. Still, the guards stayed away. For a moment I allowed myself to hope we would escape the night without persecution.

  One of the stage hands splashed a cocktail of fruit juices upon my neck. I was rehearsing my death. I loved the character so deeply I was nearly in tears. The arrow that pierced her chest was supposed to be slathered in a paralytic, but the apothecary mixed it incorrectly, and instead it became a deadly poison. Húsūn was likewise struck with an arrow in his foot, and carried his bride across the desert for two days, before she succumbed to the poison.

  A tear rolled down my cheek, as I mouthed Húsūn's lines, “I might have died,” my father had written, “but for the girl crying from her place wrapped around her mother's neck. My every other instinct was to curl with my love in the dirt, and wait for the poison to take me. But the sliver of her in our child deserved to live as surely as I no longer cared to.”

  I heard the commotion while I was still waiting in the wings, the clank of armor, and the thunder of a dozen boots, though the sounds were quickly drowned by the excited march of my heartbeat in my ears.

  I looked for my father, where he'd been standing through the entire play just to the left of the stage. He was gone.

  I chanced a peek at the front of the stage. He was standing there, with his hands held out. “I won't resist,” he said. “Just leave my patrons and players be; whatever quarrel you have is with me.”

  “Father,” I gasped, loud enough he heard me.


  “Go, girl,” he said, with enough force for it to carry, but trying to hide his intent from the guards.

  “Not without you,” I said, and stepped out onto the stage. The crowd gasped. Seeing me in costume, splashed with staged blood, they immediately assumed it was all a part of the show.

  Banto sighed. Guards fanned out in the pit before the stage, and brandished polearms at him. He rolled off his ankle stump, and kicked off the edge of the stage. He landed knee-first against the exposed chin of one of the guards, and as they fell together, he whipped the guard's spear behind him, knocking another guard to the ground.

  He used the spear as a crutch to push himself up off the dirty floor, then hopped on his one foot and brought his other ankle into the shoulder of still another guard. His shoulder snapped wetly; we used the crack of wood and vegetables, in an attempt to give his plays texture, but nothing approached the horror of that sound.

  One of the guards climbed onto the stage. He walked slowly towards me. Father noticed. “Ayana!” he yelled, and threw his spear to me. Only when I caught it did I remember training with my father to use a stave as a very small child. A spear wasn't entirely the same, but I hoped the principle would carry over.

  The guard lunged at me, poking with the head of his spear. I stepped to the side, put the wooden end of my spear against his ankle, then turned. He fell backward, and his helmet made a glorious clang as he fell off the stage.

  My father already had another spear, and was fighting two men at once. One lunged at his weak side, hoping the missing foot would prove enough of a liability to catch him. He parried, and the guard's momentum carried into his comrade.

  The space was enclosed enough that without murdering the guards, we were only forestalling the inevitable. But the better my father fought, the more the crowd hollered.

  I sensed the turn the way my father had taught me to sense a change in an audience. One man stood, and barred the doors. Another shouted that the guards were lackeys, without any respect for the common man. Someone else suggested we get them something to swing by.

  The guards sensed the change, too, and circled around each other in the center of the room, cowering. Despite their arms and armor, they were so hopelessly outnumbered that not a man would survive, if the crowd decided to enter the fight. There was no hope of retreat.

  I heard the heavy crack of a staff on the wood of the stage. “Hold fast,” my father said, his voice projecting like no man I'd ever seen on that stage. “These men are not your foes, nor are they mine. I have spoken against their king, a man few continue to hold in any regard. But they are not the source of our woes- they are oppressed as they are oppressors. I have been honored to know most of you as countrymen for half a lifetime. And when you rule this land, I have faith you will do so with more honor, humility, and grace, than their lord. Let these men leave, to show them we are better than our betters- let them ponder that this night.”

  The crowd murmured. No one knew which way to fall, or if the guards would try and have everyone in attendance arrested. The man at the door removed the bar, opened the door, and stepped out of the way. The guards filed out, quietly, and quickly.

  “My heart breaks,” my father continued, “for the kindness I have seen tonight. That is why the king fears you. He has ruled through fear- through hate. The people's reign shall come from hope, and charity- leaving nothing for men like him to control. But I'm afraid we must fly, my friends. The guards will return, in numbers renewed. And no man should seek recompense through violence. I bid you disperse, back to your homes, secure in the knowledge the stand you took tonight is the first of many steps towards justice.”

  To my surprise, they dispersed. As they trickled out, I realized how naïve I'd been. I felt I'd planned our escape out thoroughly, but so many things I had yet to do.

  “We should take clothes,” I said.

  “I sent away your favorite things this morning, by carriage.”

  “For you?”

  “I was more optimistic then; I have an assortment of cloaks, tunics and pants- more than enough. I have a few things I need before I leave. Secure our horses, and meet me back here.”

  “But the guards.”

  “Will wait to gather their strength. I won't be long. But it will take me half the night to make it to the stable on foot,” he said, and raised his nub in the air for emphasis. “You could be there and back in a quarter of an hour. When I'm done here, I'll start towards you.”

  “You're not staying,” I told him firmly.

  “I'm not.”

  “You're not leaving me,” I said.

  “All the king's men couldn't drag me from you,” he said, and stroked my cheek.

  I didn't like it. But every second I stood there, arguing, was another second closer we were to the guards' return. I ran to the nearest stable. The proprietor was a friend, one my father talked to about maybe needing two rides late tonight. He was waiting up for us, and I paid him and took both steeds.

  We had planned to grab our horses on the way out, so it felt backwards riding towards the theater. Every pound of the horse's hooves echoed in my mind, as I imagined guards beating my father. For an instant I allowed myself to hope that I was in time as the theater came into view around the houses. Then I saw guards standing at every entrance, and my heart sank.

  I wanted to fight my way inside, and rescue him. But I wasn't my father. I'd been lucky, earlier, with the spear. It was suicide, and while it was perhaps a noble death, I imagined the last thing my father saw being me, still held captive and suffering.

  I was crippled. I knew I should flee, or fight, but I could do neither.

  I felt a hand light on my knee, and a familiar voice. “It's time to fly,” the man said. He was wearing a cloak, and whispering. He looked up at me, and I saw the twinkle in my father's eyes.

  “I thought-”

  “I know,” he said, and squeezed my knee, before letting go. “I slipped away.” I noticed blood on his cloak. “One of the guards made it extra slippery.”

  He took the reigns of his horse, and pulled himself up onto its back.

  “What was so important you couldn't leave?” I asked. “The plays?”

  “I sent copies with our things, this morning.”

  “Then what?”

  He produced a pendant from his cloak. “It was your mother's. I'd nearly forgotten, but we sewed it into the first dress her actor wore. It was at the bottom of a pile of costumes and bolts of fabric. It wasn't until I saw you in that dress, holding a spear while towering over a fallen enemy that I remembered it. You are every bit her daughter.” He dropped the pendant into my hand.

  I put the pendant around my neck. “Every bit,” he said, smiling at me. Then he called for his horse to run.

  We rode until we hit the hills outside the town. There I could finally see him well by the moon's light, unhindered by the city's scape. The red on his cloak was bigger than I remembered- too wet to be the splash of another man's blood. “You're hurt,” I said, and touched his shoulder.

  “Don't worry,” he said, his voice soft. “Legends never die, they simply run out of ink.”

  About Nicolas Wilson

  Nicolas Wilson is a published journalist, graphic novelist, and novelist. He lives in the rainy wastes of Portland, Oregon with his wife, four cats and a dog.

  Nic's work spans a variety of genres, from political thriller to science fiction and urban fantasy. He has several novels currently available, and many more due for release in the next year. The second installations in the Sontem Trilogy and the Gambit are due for publication Summer and Fall 2014. Nic's stories are characterized by his eye for the absurd, the off-color, and the bombastic.

  For information on Nic's books, and behind-the-scenes looks at his writing, visit nicolaswilson.com.

  The Witch’s Curse by Kirstin Pulioff

  “Wazam ech trembo.” Elonia waved her wrinkled hand over the pale girl cowering in the corner. “Is i
t any better, dear child?” she asked, scrunching her lips, counting the raised welts spreading across the child’s forehead.

  The poor child trembled and slunk further into the dark corner of Elonia’s straw hut.

  “The spell should have worked by now,” Elonia mumbled, rushing beyond the girl to where a cauldron of tea bubbled above the fire. She closed her eyes and swayed, mixing in pinches of cloves and peppermint until the intoxicating aroma filled her small home. When she was satisfied with the ratios, she filled an oversized seashell with the boiling liquid and handed it to the child.

  “Drink this,” she ordered.

  The child briefly met the old woman’s stare, then her eyes drifted down, her gaze as weak as her hands. The shell dropped from the child’s grip, breaking into small shards on the hard stone floor.

  Elonia frowned. Her spells always worked. The girl’s strength should have returned by now. There was no reason. Unless... Dark thoughts raced through her mind.

  “Child, tell me, has the evil touched you?” She knelt by the girl’s side, cupping her weary face, forcing her to meet her gaze. She didn’t have to mention the evil’s name for the child to understand who she spoke of. Everyone knew of the Marblooms, the twisted tribe of Fae that roamed the outskirts of shipping villages, skipping from island to island stealing blood of the innocent to enhance their magic. The only trace of their curse—painful, raised welts, was often mistaken for the common plague. She had made that same mistake. Over the years she had seen many children taken by their curse, but none since she came to this island. For the last twelve years, hers had been the only magic here.

  Elonia paled and cupped a hand over her mouth, while her other hand pointed at the spreading welts covering the child’s face, reaching down her tiny arms. She was too late. The child’s skin was ashen like her own, but not from any magical ability. This was the shade of death.

  “Oh my dear child,” she bemoaned, dropping to her knees, taking the child’s hand in hers. The hair on the girl’s arms stood on edge like thorns, and her skin puckered up in bumpy waves. “There’s not much time left. Are you cold?”

  The girl nodded, her chattering teeth echoed in the hut.

  “Does it hurt?”

  She shook her head until it flopped to the side and dropped limply on her shoulder.

  Elonia tightened her lips and smiled. At least her spell had saved her from pain. “You won’t feel any more from here on out child. I promise you. It will be over soon.” She stood, dropping the girl’s limp hands and walked back to the fire. The spicy aroma clung to the straw walls.

  “Ermo gingle moon, giddo tut runagre. Bless you child. I pray you are the only one this evil takes. I’m so sorry.” She unclasped a small vial charm attached to her bracelet and sprinkled red dust over the flame.

  The spicy aroma of her tea sweetened. Black plumes filled the small room, wafting into the tendrils of straw along the wall, towering over the trembling girl. Elonia turned away and refocused on the half empty cauldron, stirring quickly until the red dust dissolved. Elonia brought the child a new cup.

  “Drink it all, dear child. Drink it all,” she whispered.

  Holding it to the child’s lips, she tipped the shell until every drop of the overly-sweet liquid disappeared. A shrill scream followed by a soft thud resounded in the room. Elonia wiped a tear from her cheek.

  “It had to be done,” she mumbled, balling her hands into fists so they didn’t shake. “Magic that dark can’t be healed.” The words felt empty. Death always left her hollow. She had run from that emptiness for years, but not far enough.

  “We’re getting closer, I know it,” a loud voice boomed from outside. “She’s just a child, she couldn’t have gone far.”

  “Mainlanders,” Elonia whispered, glancing behind her to the door, and then to the ground where the dead child lay. Innocent, quiet, and serene. If not for the tell-tale gray complexion, she looked asleep. Dark curls hid the child’s eyes, and next to her chin, a silver snake charm necklace peeked out. Elonia swore under her breath. How had she missed that before? This girl was not an islander.

  Hot embers burned her, thick smoke choked as she poured the remaining tea over the flames. Time raced by, her beating heart pounding in rhythm, counting down the moments left.

  Not enough.

  “Men, this way. She’s got to be in here. Find her and bring the abductor to me!”

  She recognized the tone of the intruders' voices instantly. It didn’t matter how many generations had passed since her tribe’s death, the menacing intent came through clearly. She wasn’t safe.

  Scuffling sounded outside the door, followed by waves of pressure against the soft walls.

  Elonia raced to the door and slammed a wooden beam across the threshold to hold the men off, though it would be futile against the mainlander’s strength. Loud booms echoed as men pounded on the door. Strands of straw shook down from the ceiling and walls.

  Elonia glanced up at the falling straw, and then to the pulsing door behind her. She twisted one of the charms on her bracelet—a half moon.

  No. She wasn’t that desperate yet. Or that brave. She didn’t know which.

  The door flew open, slamming into her ribs. Elonia skidded forward across the hard floor, grabbing her side. Cradling her hurt ribs, she pushed herself up with her other arm, and met the gaze of the man standing up front.

  Hidden beneath a mop of blond waves, dark eyes glowered. Everything about him spoke of disdain—the narrowed gaze, slight curl to his upper lip, even the way he lingered by the door. An uncomfortable chuckle filled the small hut, followed by thundering footsteps as he walked through the room, carefully avoiding her table of herbs and charms. He waved his first two fingers to the men lurking at the door, urging them forward. They surrounded the room, flanking the fallen woman, who inched closer to the dead child.

  “You’ve cursed the wrong child this time, witch,” the man sneered.

  Elonia jerked her head toward him, narrowing her gaze. She blew a fallen strand of red hair away from her eyes, and straightened her dress.

  “I don’t know what you are talking about. The child was sick when she wandered here. I did what I could. It was too late, but I’ve done no wrong.”

  The man shuffled in the doorway and lowered his hand to the sword hanging from his hip, tapping its copper hilt.

  “Done no wrong,” he scoffed. “Witch. You are wrong. Everything you do is wrong. And this time… with this girl. You have gone too far. Men, seize her!” he ordered with another flick of his wrist.

  Four men wearing the same copper chain mail and snake emblem of Leistros marched beside her and picked up the small girl, avoiding her gaze. Before she knew what was happening another set of men grabbed her from behind and clamped a set of steel bars around her wrists.

  “You think you’ve done no wrong. I’m going to show you how wrong you are. Take her to the ship.”

  “Wait! No!” Elonia kicked at the men closest to her, but missed. “You can’t do this! Elonium sebum tegir,” she said. “Elonium sebum tegir!” she repeated, and flipped her hands over. Her spell wasn’t working.

  A cruel chuckle made her turn.

  “Take a closer look, witch. You’re not getting out of these.”

  Elonia glanced down at the iron shackles around her wrists, binding her magic. Etched copper serpents coiled together with the silver background. She sighed and lowered her hands. He was right. The pure metals bound her magic. She wouldn’t be getting out.