Friday, June 20, 2014

As the Day Turns into Night


(This is set – more or less; I’m not a very good lyricist - to Queen of Argyll.)

As the Day Turns into Night

Gather round and hear my story
Of a soldier’s quest for glory
And the perils of a life spent
On the road and in the fight.
There is treasure for the taking
And history in the making
But there’s little warmth to hold you
As the day turns into night.

(chorus)  But oh the songs they made for us,
Oh, the praise they heaped on us,
We beat them back and followed
Till there was no one left to fight.
Gems and jewels, gold and treasure,
We’ve earned those and our pleasure,
For we fought and bled and died there
As the day turned into night.

They pillaged, burned and plundered
Through towns and fields unnumbered
But we met them still undaunted
And were ready for the fight.
Lars and Corwin died beside me,
But fortune smiled upon me,
And I’ve lived to sing their dirges
As the day turns into night.

(chorus)

So now you’ve heard my story
Of a soldier’s quest for glory
And the perils of a life spent
On the road and in the fight.
I’ve a good life here to keep me
And children here who need me
And there’s someone here to hold me
As the day turns into night.

(chorus)

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Memories


Cold iron padlock. Not so different from the training locks, but oh so different in what it binds, what it means. Her fingers shaking, she manages to shift the tumblers with an absurdly thin pick; the hasp slides loose and she jerks it from the chain, throwing it aside in her haste to yank the chain free, to open the door…

They spill out past her, shoving, elbowing. The slavers’ mark is still raw on most of them, ugly black-edged red on their foreheads, and for the first time she feels the rage that Dalav and the others do…

She’s supposed to keep them gathered in the safety of her conjured mist, but they ignore her. She grabs the last of them – sweet Desna, just a child! – but the others have already fled. Out of her sight. Out of mist, into moonlight, where the rest of the team should be quietly replacing guards so they can -

And then the screaming starts.

She freezes, a rabbit under the hawk, clutching the child to her side and muffling its cries in her cloak. The mist obscures the village square as surely as it hides her, and she can’t see past it. She needs to see, needs to know, but with the child…

Biting her lip, she pulls the child against her and creeps out of the mist, following the path she should have led all of them along, shortest distance to the cover of the buildings, with the lights carefully doused. She flinches each time steel strikes steel behind her, or someone grunts or moans or screams, but keeps moving, bent over, just an old woman in a shabby dress, clutching her grandchild by the hand, fleeing death and destruction and, oh, Dalav…

Silence.

At the edge of town the team waits. Their faces – no, she won’t look, but Kalen grabs her upper arms and pulls her to a halt in front of him. Team leader. Veteran.

She breaks. “Where’s Dalav?” she demands, her hands freeing the restless child only to clutch at Kalen’s tunic. Ignoring his expression, ignoring the shake of his head, because to acknowledge it is to admit it. To accept it. And she can’t…

Kalen is a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier, but she shoves him backward and spins toward the village square. She runs a few steps but knows already, sees the blond head at an impossible angle and the red pool…

Deianira jerks upright in bed, the scream – this time – still caught in her throat. For a moment, the moonlight through her window and the tears on her cheeks leave her confused, caught between reality and memory, before reason reasserts itself. The width of Andoran and half a year separate her from that village and that night.

But there will be no more sleep for her tonight.

Monday, June 16, 2014

The Sunstorm Legacy


Turning the corner onto Bay Crescent, Deianira could see halfway down the curving street, to the newly-whitewashed house with window boxes full of improbably blue and purple flowers and a sky blue door. She paused a moment, took several deep breaths - “from the gut!” she heard her mother say in memory - and strode quickly forward. At the door, she smoothed her gown, ran her fingers through her thick black hair, and took another deep breath before knocking sharply with the brass dragon’s head.

Almost immediately, the door swung open to reveal a tall, slender woman with thick silver hair and bright blue eyes. “Cherie!” she exclaimed. “It’s been too long. Come through to the garden.”

Deianira stretched up on her toes to kiss the other woman’s cheek. “Only a week, Grand-mere,” she murmured.

She sniffed. “Three short visits after three years in the western wilds. But you’re home now. Come through to the garden, ma petite. Tea will be ready soon.” Without waiting for an answer, she sailed down the central hall, confident her granddaughter would follow.

The garden overlooked the river below, the view framed by more of Cecile Sunstorm’s signature flowers. The tea service waited for them on the small garden table for two – intime, Cecile would call it, the accent and the terms an old affectation. Deianira poured, of course; host should serve guest, but as Cecile would no doubt point out, Deianira was both granddaughter and student and not a guest.

For the first cup of tea, the conversation was light, touching on the flowers, the theatre, Deianira’s dress, the impossibility of finding good servants, and Cecile’s last ball. Deianira felt the muscles in her shoulders begin to unknot.

Abruptly, Cecile reached out and ran a finger along the silver streak of hair framing the right side of Deianira’s face. “So, cherie. This is new, and a good sign; you’re a decade late to your inheritance but I told Iloura it would come.” She smiled thinly. “She was so sure the Sunstorm blood had passed you too; silly girl.

“Now that your maman’s starlet has had her child, we can begin your training in earnest. I’ve had Chloe arrange a room for you, and Henri can move your things from the playhouse tonight.”

Deep breaths, Deianira told herself. Aloud, she murmured, “Annabel isn’t back on stage yet, Grand-mere. There’s still rehearsals and the new music to learn. I’ll be performing for the next month, at least, so I’ll be needed at the Two Swans.” And busy making plans to leave. She met Cecile’s eyes, bright-blue twin gazes, imperious facing ersatz innocence, and forced herself to breathe.

Cecile’s eyes narrowed. “You cannot keep putting this off, cherie. You need training. I can hire a carriage to take you back and forth, and I’m sure we can manage to fit these rehearsals around your studies.”

“Rehearsals don’t always run to a clock, Grand-mere. Why don’t you hire the carriage to bring me here for lessons whenever I’m free? Say, twice a week?”

Cecile smacked the table; one delicate teacup tumbled into the grass. “Daily! This is your birthright. This is your priority, not some silly play!”

“It’s waited twenty-three years; surely it can wait another month?”

Her grandmother pointed at the nearest flowering shrub. A streak of flame shot from one to the other; while it burned, she explained, “No. It cannot wait. You are not a wizard, studying books of spells, or a priest, begging for divine power. You are a sorceress, and power is in your blood. You will control it, or it will control you, and one of those choices will be extremely unpleasant.

“Henri will be at the Two Swans every morning after breakfast. Actors sleep late; you will not. I will train you every morning, and Iloura can have you after that.” She waved dismissively.

Taking the hint, Deianira kissed her grandmother’s cheek and left quietly.

Saturday, June 14, 2014

A Girl and Her Fiddle


The familiar smells of Piet’s leather workshop surrounded Deianira as soon as she opened the door. Piet greeted her with his customary grunt and reached behind him to the row of pegs. “Here’s your case, girl.” It was beautiful, too; dark blue leather, the extra-long strap she’d requested. “Don’t know why you need it – your old one’s still good.” Deianira just smiled and put her old case on the counter, opening it to gently remove the violin and bow inside. As expected, they fit perfectly in the new case; Piet was a true master. The lining of the new case – a lighter blue than the leather – was thicker, though, and she could feel the wool padding beneath the velvet. Piet sniffed. “Lot of wasted space. You don’t need all that wool.”

Deianira shook her head. “I do, and it’s perfect. As always.” She had no intention of telling Piet about her plans, but while her old case was fine for carting the violin from house to theatre and back, she’d need something sturdier to protect the instrument from the rigors of travel. She closed the new case and settled the long strap across her chest, finding the best balance against her right hip. Again, not something she’d need in town, but this would let her carry a pack as well. She handed over a not-inconsiderable portion of her savings, ignored Piet’s continued mutterings, and sailed out the door, one step closer to leaving.

Thursday, June 12, 2014

The Two Swans


“But why won't you stay?!”

By Deianira's count, that was the fifth - and most dramatic - repetition of the day. And for the fifth time, she gave the same response, “Mama, it's been six months. I told you I'd fill in for Annabel, but she had the baby four months ago; she's more than ready to get back on stage.” And I'm more than ready to get out of Almas, she added privately. Where once she'd expected to take over the Two Swans Playhouse when her parents retired, now she couldn't wait to get away. She'd thought coming home would help - Dalav had never been here, there was nothing anywhere in the theatre, or in the city, to remind her of anything they'd shared - and in part it had; she still missed him but not with the sharp, overwhelming grief that had driven her back home to begin with. But worrying about Thomas stealing Victor's girlfriend, or Lily deliberately upstaging Gemma by wearing the red dress instead of the blue one, seemed so silly now. Can't put a chick back in the egg, as Dalav might have said. Well, she hadn't fallen in love with him for his silver tongue, but he'd be right as usual anyway.

She dropped her pen, crossed the office, and hugged her mother. “I can't stay, Mama, you know that. But it's not like I'm leaving today.” She smiled. “It'll take Annabel at least a month to learn her lines.”

The distraction worked, as it always would. Iloura Sunstorm loved her daughter dearly, but the Two Swans Playhouse was her first-born child. “She'll say them in her sleep in two weeks or she'll be out the door,” she snapped. “In fact, I think we'll put her in rehearsal today instead of you.” She patted Deianira's back absently, and started toward the door.

Deianira waited till the office door closed, then threw herself back into the desk chair with a sigh. She ought to get back to revising Stefan and Arabelle, updating the old standby to reflect the current city gossip and replacing the alchemist with a tinkerer, but she'd found it impossible even before her mother's latest dramatic outburst. Just another round of revisions, followed by rehearsals and costuming and staging; a routine she'd known all her life. But since coming home she'd felt itchy, restless - “the Sunstorm blood”, her father would say, understanding but also smug that the bloodline had skipped Iloura; Cyrion only needed to worry about his wife's artistic temperament, not whatever inherited quirk sparked unexpected wildness in their daughter.

Sighing, she shoved the script aside and pulled out Dalav's map. They'd spent a year planning the route to the River Kingdoms, although they'd been planning it from much nearer Cheliax. Deianira still wasn't sure why Dalav had fixed on that as their goal, and maybe she was a fool to be following her dead lover's dream, but without any plans other than not staying tied to the Two Swans, it was as good a destination as any. She had enough coin saved to travel in at least minimal comfort, and she'd never known a wayside tavern that wouldn't give an itinerant performer a seat by the fire. Approaching this as another role to be costumed and equipped, she began scratching out a list of things to take, a little bubble of excitement pushing out both grief and irritation.