"Not to recall what he had done was for Klikitagh a mercy. I state this on the basis of what I have found out. To live with recollection of such horror ... ! You must concede this."
She nodded, participating in this nonexistent dialogue.
"However, it became exacerbation of his punishment. It made his sen- tence unendurable. Indeed it was a mercy worse than none. He knew it, and condemned himself regardless."
Again a nod, tinged this time with terror.
"Yet you took pity on him!"
"Yes, I did!"-defiantly. "And I still feel the same!" "You were the first to do so in a thousand years."
For an instant she stood rigid. Then:
"I can't have been!"
"He told me so when I interrogated him, invoking a power greater than any god's. Not once, till he met you, had anyone felt pity for his plight."
"Then I weep for our sick world!" Jarveena cried-and abruptly it was true. Tears that had so long been unfamiliar to her flowed as freely down her face as they had last night.
"And well you may," the illusory Enas Yorl confirmed.
There was a pause.
"For you have worked a miracle."
"I don't understand." Snuffling, fighting to regain control, Jarveena resumed the donning of her clothes.
"How are your scars today?"
"Why ask? You cleared them, didn't you? And took away the one I'd thought of keeping!"
"Not I, Jarveena, but yourself."
She froze in midmovement, bending to strap her boots.
"Go forth, as soon as you are dressed, into the street. Do not ask why;
you will at once find out. I worked a greater magic than I knew. For the moment, then: goodbye. Don't try to call on me until I send for you. The names I give my basilisks are daily changed. Sometimes I cannot give them names pronounceable by human tongues- That's why I have not spoken words to you this morning ..."
The contact faded in a garble of discomfort that left Jarveena imagin- ing for several seconds that she had four stomachs and a mouthful of regurgitated hay.
The sensation passed. The laces of her jerkin still unfastened, she dashed down the slanting ladders that served this house for stairs and cuffed aside a sleepy apprentice who tried to stop her unbarring the main door on the grounds that Master Melilot was still asleep. Beyond, in the wan gray light of dawn, she saw a form upon the cobblestones, face turned aside, one arm outflung, chest smeared with blood still red thanks to the sharp cold: victim, presumably, of some chance robber's knife ...
"Klikitagh!" she whispered, dropping on one knee beside the ... corpse?
It was indeed. No pulse was to be felt. A rime of frost had formed upon its hair, its beard, its hands , . .
Slowly she straightened, gazing down in wonder.
"So your journey ended here, in Sanctuary," she murmured. "Well, death was what you most desired. And ..."
A thought occurred, as wonderful as it was terrifying.
"If I'm to believe what Enas Yorl asserts-and who but him should I believe in such a matter?-it follows that the worst crime in the history of the world has been committed. It was yours, my Klikitagh. And yours alone."
It was going to snow any moment. The air was so cold, the lips she licked were numb. She half expected to taste ice.
"But even you have reached the last stage of your pilgrimage in search of expiation. What now becomes of you will be no matter. Let your shroud be snow. Let dogs and thieves assail your body-you won't care.
Perhaps you should have come to Sanctuary sooner. It cannot just have been because of meeting me that you were saved! I won't believe it!"
So saying, she spun on her heel and marched back into the scripto- rium. Much relieved, the apprentice slammed and barred the door behind her. White flakes swirled down outside as she went to seek a breakfast of hot broth and dumplings.
By nightfall-for such had been the will of Enas Yorl-she cared no more for Klikitagh save in the sense that all misfortune must be pitied, and he had been least fortunate of all. He lingered in her memory as myth and symbol; meantime she had a life to lead herself.
"Mayhap," thought the wizard who sprawled across stone flags in guise but ill adapted to such human artifacts as chairs, "that snow en- shrouding Klikitagh, by his own verdict foulest villain of all time. will cover me in turn. Let it be soon!"
Whereafter he composed himself to patient meditation, tinged with regret that for the duration of their present encounter he and Jarveena would be unable to make love.
SEEING IS BELIEVING (BUT LOVE IS BLIND) by Lynn Abbey
Illyra awoke to the sound of an infant's crying and a sudden stiffening of the muscles in her neck and shoulders. She stayed that way, tense- almost cringing-until she heard the wet nurse shove her blankets aside, then stumble across the night-dark room. The crying changed to con- tented sucking sounds; Illyra closed her eyes and shrank back into Dubro's arms. He hugged her reflexively but the infant had not inter- rupted his sleep. Why should it? Children were women's work and this child was not even his.
The S'danzo seeress matched her breathing to her husband's and waited for sleep to touch her again. She listened to the wet nurse tuck the infant back into her cradle and return to her own bed where she swiftly resumed her gentle snoring. Dubro's strong arms were no longer com- forting but had become an encircling trap from which she could not free herself-tangible symbols of the weight she had felt since summer when her half-brother, Walegrin, had appeared with the newbom girl-child in his arms.
It had never seemed like a good idea. Three years ago Illyra had borne twins: a boy-child and a girl. Now they were both gone. The boy, Arton, had been taken from the mortal world. Caught up in the influence of the demigod, Gyskouras, he had sailed for the Bandaran Islands this past spring and if he returned at all, it would not be as her son, but as a wargod stranger. Worse, Lillis, her blue-eyed daughter had been hacked into pieces by ravening street gangs during the Plague Riots at about the same time. Illyra had tried to protect her daughter with her own body- with her own life-but fate had denied her sacrifice. There was a purple scar running across her belly but it went not nearly so deep as the scars mourning had left on her heart.
She had nurtured her grief and had wanted nothing to do with living or joy. She had hated that squirming bundle Walegnn had thrust into her arms. Had wanted to dash its head against the doorposts because it lived and Lillis did not. But it had wrapped its fragile fingers around hers and stared into her eyes. And Illyra had Seen that this child would remain at her side.
Strange how the S'danzo Sight worked. It rarely focused on the self, family, or loved ones but brought the abstract, the uncared-for, into clarity. Illyra did not love-would not allow herself to care for-this not- daughter they called Trevya and so the infant flashed constantly in her mind's eye where the Seeing visions grew.
Had not Trevya's legs been crippled in the prolonged birthing that had claimed her blood-mother's life? Had not Illyra Seen, superimposed over every other vision she commanded, a construct of baleen and leather guiding the infant's soft bones into a healthy alignment? Had not Dubro made such a brace, following her precise instructions, and was not that twisted little leg already growing straighter as the Sight had foretold?
Illyra had wrought a miracle for Trevya, who was not her daughter and whom she did not love. She had given Trevya freedom and built an unyielding trap for herself. Hot tears squeezed out from her eyes and puddled in the crook of Dubro's arm. The young woman who had once been a mother prayed that they would not awaken him and waited the long hours until dawn when she would be released.
This not-daughter consumed more of Dubro and Illyra's time and money than their own children had, for they kept Trevya with them in the Bazaar rather than send her behind the fortress walls of the Aphrodi- sia House where working merchants often kept their precious children. So they had had to hire a wet nurse, a woman-scarcely more than a child herself-whose baby had been stillborn and who had come to live with them alongside Dubro's forge. But there wasn't enough room for them, Trevya and the waiflike Suyan, so they'd hired workmen to make their home larger. And, of course, Suyan must have food, and clothes, and medicine when she grew sick.