Aquasynthesis

  “De—deflower?”

  “timna won’t resist.” Though still nervous, she meant it. He had rescued her from that abusive lout and she probably owed him her life. Besides, he was as gentle a man as she could ever hope to take that which she’d so foolishly saved.

  He laughed. “I didn’t buy you for that, timna. Although you are beautiful and I appreciate your submission, I’m married. I bought your contract, your service for the next three years—that’s what I want from you.”

  Beautiful? Didn’t intend to take her? She could hardly believe her ears.

  “I don’t believe in hitting females in the face, but I can’t stand to see you wince every time I extend my hand to you. Trust is something that must be earned, so I asked for this time to start earning yours. I want you to get used to the idea that when I reach for your face, it’s not a threat.”

  “Never?”

  “Never. When one of my slaves commits an offense, I ask for her side of the story first and I let her know what the sentence is before I start. Discipline is never a surprise and never in the face.”

  timna’s mind waged war over his words. He was so impossibly kind that it was difficult not to believe. Yet, she’d never met a man that didn’t prattle sweet trifles, only to prove otherwise when mead or anger took over. Heavens, how she wanted to believe him. She nodded assent for him to touch her.

  He pressed the kerchief to her face and wiped, taking care around the bruises. “When your training is over, you’ll have a proper bath at home. This will have to suffice for now.” Gently, he washed up to the hairline and down her neck, but stopped at the abrasions where the iron collar had been.

  “Here,” he said, offering the cloth. “You can finish now.”

  She accepted with a smile and resumed where he’d left off.

  Before he leaned back, he tugged on her head cloth, and then pulled the pins from her bun. Long hair fell over her shoulders. He slid his hand down the length of it. “There. This is how I want you to wear it. No head cloth and no pins.”

  Only two classes of women wore their hair unbound in public—harlots who had no shame, and royalty, who were above it. She swallowed her pride and nodded.

  “This is not a reflection of your character, timna. Anyone who dares question your virtue because of how I ask you to wear your hair will answer to my blade. I’ve defended my Itzi slaves for even less.”

  “You fight for the honor of slaves?” She regretted her audacity as soon as the question left her lips.

  He didn’t seem to mind. “Insults to my house are a direct affront to me. I do not tolerate slander.”

  She nodded lightly, still pondering all the ramifications of his words. He smoothed her hair with his fingers and she marveled to find it comforting.

  “Until Lord Blackthorn returns, I have but one request of you, timna.”

  “Yes, Master Vahn?”

  “Rest. Soon, you’ll be in the throes of demanding training. Then you’ll have to learn the rigors of Rebono Keep. It may be a long time before you have another chance like this.”

  She was half-convinced she was asleep already and this was but a dream. If she woke belonging to Jonpur again, she’d surely die. “That’s all right. timna wasn’t jesting about working hard for you.”

  She leaned against the side of the couch and rested as he’d ordained. He continued to stroke her hair, but neither spoke for a long interval.

  He broke the silence. “The bands have to go back on now.”

  “Yes, Master Vahn.” She hastened to the table where Blackthorn left the new bands. Picking them up, she gasped. “They’re even lighter than they look!”

  “The steel is specially made here. It is not what we use for swords or plowshares. The alloy is blended to be lightweight and rustproof.”

  “timna will remember not to attempt plowing with them.”

  He laughed. She knelt again and offered the bands first and then her wrists. He banded her with the new steel, first her wrists, then her neck, then her ankles. Compared to the bulky iron, she could hardly feel them.

  He spoke as he locked them, using a formal tone. “These bands bind you to me, but they also bind me to you. In exchange for your obedience and service, I will provide shelter and sustenance. I promise to protect you as a member of my house and guard your honor.”

  Was this what he meant by “matching her pledge”? His words reverberated through her mind. If true, this young slavemaster would do more than Gil ever did. Nagging talons of past experience clawed at her psyche. She thought hard for several moments, staring at the last band he’d locked about her ankle. She lifted her head and found his hand outstretched, palm up.

  Something that she hadn’t felt since Mama died stirred deep within.

  She placed her hand in his.

  ~}~~~{~

  Gizile’s hand went to her wrist. So entranced was she, that for a moment it seemed real. Rather than cold metal, she felt only warm flesh. After vigorously rubbing her wrists, she shivered from something more than the raw wind. What was happening to her? She looked up at her mentor, hoping for an answer. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He silently directed her attention back to the pool with an open hand. As the ice formed yet again, she found herself drawn to it. Unable to look away…unable to break free. The vision began. And Gizile became consumed.

  ~}~~~{~

  The Kissing Part—Fred Warren

  A companion story to the novel The Muse

  Stan Marino settled into his desk chair and switched on the computer. His epic fantasy novel, Taron’s Crusade, was almost halfway finished, but he dreaded the next scene, a romantic interlude between his two main characters. These things were always tricky. He took a deep breath, flexed his fingers, and started typing.

  Taron flipped a pebble into the water and watched it drift downward—ten, twenty, thirty feet. The Flower Pool was a miracle of sorts, heated by fires hidden deep within the bowels of the earth. The perfectly clear, blue water of the bell-shaped spring simmered with tiny, effervescent bubbles, even in mid-winter. It was one of his favorite places for contemplation, and he had much to consider this day.

  Foliage rustled at the far end of the pool, and Taron’s hand flashed to the dagger on his belt, relaxing as he saw the figure that emerged from the trees. It was an Elvish woman, tall and graceful, dressed in purple and gold, her long, silver hair bound at the nape of her neck with a shimmering jeweled clasp.

  Siri. She raised a hand in greeting.

  “Hi, Daddy!”

  Stan pushed away from his desk and swiveled around to gather up his daughter. “Hannah! How’s my girl?”

  “Okay, I guess.” She picked up a toy from Stan’s cluttered desk, a windup monkey holding tiny brass cymbals, and fidgeted with it. “Mom told me not to bother you when you’re writing, but I got bored.”

  “It’s all right. I needed to take a break.”

  “Are you stuck again?”

  Stan grimaced. “Maybe a little. This part of the story needs a woman’s touch.”

  “I’m a woman. I could help.”

  “I don’t know. It’s grownup stuff.”

  “Please?” Hannah offered her best puppy-dog eyes, round and glistening.

  Stan’s heart melted. “Well, I guess you couldn’t do any worse than me. Let’s give it a shot.”

  “Hurray!”

  She set the monkey back on the desk, its cymbals jingling in celebration. “You might have to read the story to me. Some of your words are comma-cated.”

  “Complicated?”

  “That’s what I said. Words I don’t know yet.”

  “I think we can work around that. Here’s what I’ve got so far. Taron is a king, and he’s getting ready to lead a battle against some horrible goblins. He’s sitting in his favorite thinking spot, and a beautiful lady steps out of the woods and waves at him.”

  Hannah’s brow wrinkled. “Is she a princess?”

  “Yes. She’s a warrior princess. Her name
is Siri, and her father rules the kingdom next door to Taron’s. They’ve been friends for a long time.”

  “Are they sweethearts?”

  Stan grinned. “Almost. I think they’re going to get married at the end of the story.”

  “Is this the kissing part?”

  “No…well, I don’t know. It could be. I guess that’s where you could help me. Do you think they should just talk like friends, or should they realize they’re in love and share a kiss?”

  “If there’s a big battle coming up, I think they should get some kissing in while they have the chance.”

  “Fair enough. You can help me with Siri’s part.” Stan turned Hannah around in his lap so she faced the computer screen, and he reached around her to continue typing.

  Taron scrambled through the brush bordering the pool, meeting Siri halfway around. They clasped hands.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “There are so many things I need to tell you, so much I’ve left unsaid all these years.”

  “You could start by complimenting my hair,” Siri replied, fluffing her silvery locks. “I got it fixed to make me ’specially gorgeous.”

  Stan paused and looked sharply at Hannah. “What?”

  Hannah shrugged. “You think she’s gonna kiss him if he doesn’t say something nice about her hair? Mom’s right—you don’t understand women at all.”

  “Now, hold on a minute!”

  “I’m just trying to help.”

  “Okay, okay. We’ll do it your way.”

  Hannah nodded primly. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, Siri, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you like this, when war was only a distant smudge on the horizon. You’re beautiful. Your hair shines like liquid moonlight—I’ve always admired it. I’m sorry I’ve never told you before.”

  “It’s about time. Do you like my dress? It’s real expensive, but I’m worth it.”

  “Hannah Marie…”

  “I can go back upstairs if you want.”

  “No, let’s keep writing. I’m curious about where this is going.”

  Taron lifted one hand over Siri’s head and turned her around. “This is a lovely gown. It compliments your eyes perfectly.”

  “Thank you. My shining blue eyes are one of my coolest features. Everybody says so.”

  Taron pulled her close to him. “You’ve been my friend and comrade-in-arms for so long, I never stopped to consider my true feelings for you. I love you, Siri. I’ve been a blind fool, but I’m certain now that whatever the future holds, we must face it together.”

  She was so lovely. Her eyes held him in thrall, deeper and warmer than the aquamarine waters of the Flower Pool. Taron lifted her head to press his lips to hers.

  Siri turned her face away. “What kind of girl do you think I am? I don’t kiss boys on the first date. You have to take me out to dinner, and a movie, and maybe bowling. Then we smooch.”

  “Hold on. I thought you said they need to hurry up and kiss before the battle starts.”

  “I changed my mind. It’s a woman’s purr-dog-a-tive.”

  “Prerogative.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Oy. All right. Let’s try this…”

  Taron hesitated. He was moving much too quickly. His love for Siri was strong, but leaping from friendship to passion wasn’t fair to her. The war was so close at hand, a war they might not survive.

  Siri looked up at him. “My neck is getting stiff. Either kiss me now, or take me bowling. Make up your mind.”

  Gentle breezes wafted a musical voice through the forest. “Come on, you two! Your dinner’s getting cold.”

  Siri groaned. “My mother’s calling. We have to go.”

  Stan lifted Hannah from his lap and set her on her feet. She trotted upstairs. “Thanks, Hot Dog,” he called after her, “that’s the most fun writing I’ve had in a long time.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Stan looked at the passage they’d written together, and he smiled. He couldn’t keep this in the story, but it was priceless all the same. With a couple of mouse clicks, he saved the file. It might come in handy at her wedding reception.

  Warm arms encircled his neck. Stan’s wife, Charity, peered over his shoulder at the page on the screen, chuckling as she read. “What’s this all about?”

  “Hannah was helping me with my story. She shows real promise as a writer, but her approach to romance is…unusual. We may want to warn her first boyfriend.”

  Charity smiled. “There’s time enough for that. I think this scene is missing something, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  She maneuvered herself into Stan’s lap and rubbed noses with him. “You left out the kissing part.”

  “Would you like to help me take care of that?”

  “Yes, but you’ll have to say something nice about my hair first. What kind of girl do you think I am?”

  ~}~~~{~

  Gizile touched the nape of her neck and felt the shortness of her hair, then looked down at the brown of her robe and the bright red of her cloak that warned she was still merely a student. The sudden ache in her heart surprised her. There was so much love in that vision, as there had been a different sort of love in the vision before. What she wouldn’t give to live in that world. What would become of her once her studies were complete? Would she marry? Would any man have an orphan? She stole a look at Tok’s grim countenance; was that a gleam of amusement in his eye?

  “Child, you worry so much about the future. Your worries steal your laughter, your joy. Accept yourself for who you are.”

  She looked back at the pool, telling herself that something must be wrong with her. She was nothing special. Right?

  The wave crashed and the ice formed. A little girl looked at her…a little girl who appeared as dejected as Gizile felt.

  ~}~~~{~

  The Artist—Kat Heckenbach

  A companion story to the novel Finding Angel

  I was six when I began to understand what the whispering was all about. My parents did their best to pretend everything was fine, that I wasn’t different from the rest of them. But children are amazingly aware of their surroundings, and I had an especially keen eye for detail. Unfortunately, an eye for detail isn’t magical.

  “It’s got to show up some day,” my dad said, not bothering to keep his voice down. My parents thought I was playing in the back yard as I crouched behind the hedges below the open window.

  “Caryn’s nearly seven now, Roger. Her Talent should have shown up years ago.” I heard my mother sniff. “Maybe we should take her to the doctor.”

  “No! There’s nothing wrong with her.” A thump like a fist hitting a wooden tabletop. “She can already do magic like everyone else. Her Talent will develop in its own time. We just have to be patient.”

  I scooted to the end of the hedge and dashed across the back yard to my tree house. After I climbed inside, I crumpled to the floor and cried. My Talent was never going to show up. I would never have anything more than ordinary magic. It wasn’t fair! Everyone had something they could do better than the rest—why not me?

  My father would say, “Magic comes in bits and pieces, Caryn. And the biggest piece is always last.” But I’d known better. My cousin had shown signs of his Talent when he was only six months old. Most of my neighborhood friends were at least showing the beginning stages, like William Kleidon who carved magical wood and changed it to stone without losing the wood’s powers.

  I wiped the tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand and took a deep breath. My eyes felt puffy, and I didn’t want my parents knowing I’d been crying, so I stayed in the tree house for a while, drawing. Even at six I showed real skill, but an eye for detail isn’t magical, nor is being able to draw well.

  By the time I turned eight I’d given up. My Talent would never develop. At least I had my art. I spent every spare moment drawing or painting. It was a release for me, a compulsion. My walls were covered with sketches of plants and
animals from the forest. I gave them away to friends and family, and even sold a few in town. Everyone oohed and ahhed over my ability to capture the colors. They said my paintings “popped off the page.” But the praise was always followed by a look of pity.

  Around strangers I pretended I was one of those people who liked to keep their Talents secret. I even began to wonder if some of them were pretending, too.

  “Don’t be silly,” William said one day as we walked through the forest looking for fallen branches. At ten, he stood a full head taller than me even though his birthday was six months after mine. “It’s just that some people have really weird Talents, or they don’t see the value of them, so they keep quiet. But we’ve all been given gifts, Caryn.” He stopped and looked at me with those bright blue eyes so full of friendship and concern. “Yours is in there somewhere. You just haven’t figured out how to reach in and pull it out.”

  My cheeks warmed and I turned away. Why did he have to be so sweet? I didn’t deserve a friend like him, someone whose Talent outshone everyone else’s as far as I was concerned. He had gone beyond turning wood into stone, and could now transform any natural substance into any other. I was jealous and proud of him at the same time.

  The flush left my cheeks when I spied a branch half-hidden behind a toadstool. I reached down and grabbed it, and then held it out for William to see.

  “This one would be perfect, don’t you think? It looks like Water Maple, and it’s big enough around, isn’t it?”

  William’s face widened with a smile that crinkled his eyes. “Yes! If I carve it into a sphere, I can hollow out the middle and transform it to crystal.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” I said, as the flush returned, but on my neck now instead of my cheeks. Sometimes it seemed as if he read my thoughts.

  We spoke at the same time then—“A snow globe!”—and William grabbed my hand as we ran to his house.