Lamma's Night (anthology)

they created, hissing and spitting like an angry cat.

Buffeted, unused to resistance, Dyanara tired. Kenlan, wearied by a year's vigil, seemed to fade from her side. Ever hungry, the harvester reached for them, tendrils of darkness drawn by their souls.

Dyanara! Kenlan cried, echoing resolve despite his waning presence. We must finish this.

'I won't have the strength to bring you back,' she whispered out bud. Not without risking another blunder, another harvester.

We must finish this.

Dyanara thought of Jacoba's bright eyes and quick feet, and saw those eyes dulled, those feet stilled. She reached back to her own body, and she took from it—she stole from it—and she found the strength she needed. Shored by Kenlan, she threw up the walls of the shield, a quick latticework of energy that expanded and spread until it was whole. Until the harvester, trapped behind walls made of her life essence, was left to consume itself in an inevitable frenzy of hunger. Until her body, wrung dry, collapsed within its circle, empty of everything but the slender thread that still tied it to Dyanara.

She reached for Kenlan, and knew that there'd been as much gain as sacrifice. Then, too tired to do anything else, Dyanara whispered a few final words to free them both.

'Mrrp?' A quiet feline question came clearly in the still night air. The trees were quiet, and the moon shone unobscured upon the hill, silvering the gray fur of the small cat. Its feet flashed in rapid movement as it trotted up the slope to the circle of stones, and the lifeless woman that lay there. Her long traveler's legs were quiet beneath the thin fabric of her dress, and her face, full of strong lines and practicality, was softened by the hint of a smile.

Dyanara, no longer traveling.

The cat reached her and stopped, every muscle stilled but for the twitch at the tip of its tail, and the quick movement of its eyes as they followed the flutter of the ethereal, scarlet-edged bellflowers settling to the ground around Dyanara. Tokens.

Dyanara, no longer alone.

The Heart of the Grove

Ardath Mayhar

I hear strange echoes as each word falls from my lips, and outside the house the wind is rising, beating the branches of the shrubbery against the walls. Almost, the sound distracts me, as if some force from that haunted wood is trying to keep me from my task.

Before me lie the elements needed to form a new body for this lost spirit: earth and water, flame and wood. The bowl of soil stirs uneasily as if a breeze riffles its surface. The water quivers deep in its transparent jar. The blaze leaps at the candle-tip as if that wind outside reaches even here to stir it. Only the wood is motionless, as I go forward with the chanting, the ritual motions, the deed that may mean my own doom.

As I near the utterance of that final word, my lips slow as if dreading to give it voice. Does anyone know— can any being judge the cleanliness of its own spirit? Am I worthy or will I be cast as dust upon that fitful wind?

But there was no turning back, for taking no action at all was now as dangerous as the completion of my task. My voice rose, as if in defiance, as I said that final, irrevocable Word.

Reflected in the warped mirror before me were the flame of my candle, my pale face, and the table laden with elements intended to form a house for the spirit I hoped to restore. Between my face and the mirror hovered a shadow that seemed to waver between visibility and disappearance. Keighvin? It must be!

The Word hung between us for an endless moment, and it seemed even to still the wind and the whisper of leafless shrubs against the walls. The shadow was pulled toward me by some force I did not understand; the elements in their containers stirred and began rising in little spirals, as the flame of the candle went out, leaving me in darkness.

I could hear movement, sighs and groans and sloshings and crackles, but I was searching for my staff and the witch-light by which I could see what was happening. When the blue light flared into being, I stared, stunned— appalled by the thing on the other side of the table.

The shape was comely. My gaze met that of the wizard for an instant, and in his I saw gratitude—and despair. 'Save yourself!' came his cry, as some other spirit quelled his and looked out at me from those eyes.

A darkness, a hatred, a coldness like no other ever met in all my wanderings stared out at me, and I knew that Keighvin had been compelled to quench his own life in order to subdue the evil that had overtaken him among his labors. Yet the wizard was still there, drowned but still struggling in that overwhelming spirit which had conquered him at last.

I straightened, holding that commanding gaze with my own. I had proven my own soul to be strong enough, clean enough to meddle with the stuff of life. Surely the gods were guiding me, shaping me all through the years of my travels and my studies.

I would not submit to the heart of darkness or allow the warm and loving person Keighvin had been to be imprisoned and used by this monster. The body that my spell had formed would dissolve if the spirit was removed from it, and that lay within my power.

The lips, red-brown as the soil that colored them, widened into a smile, as if this not-Keighvin thought me enspelled by its beauty. The eyes sparked with life that grew with each passing moment. There was no time to tarry; I must act instantly.

I smiled in turn, moving around the table with my arms open to embrace him. The other stood, waiting confidently as I approached, the witch-light still burning from the staff in my hand.

Was I strong enough? Brave enough? Dedicated enough to accomplish this lonely and all but impossible task?