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Changer's Moon

OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA

THE JANJA'S PLAYERS MOVE

KINGFISHER

Hern woke disoriented, coming out of dreams not quite harrowing enough for nightmare. He reached out for Serroi, not wanting to wake her but needing to be sure she hadn't evaporated as had his dream. His hand moved over cold sheets, a dented pillow. He jerked up, looked wildly around, the not-quite-fear of the not-quite-nightmare squeezing his gut.

She was curled up on the padded ledge of the window Coyote had melted through the stone for her comfort, moonlight and starlight soft on the russet hair that had a tarnished pewter sheen in the color-denying light. Relief washed over him, then anger at her for frightening him, then mockery at his dependence on her. He sat watching her, speculating about what it was that drove her night after night to stare out at stars that never saw the mijloc. What was she thinking of? He felt a second flash of anger because he thought he knew, then a painful helplessness because there was nothing he could do to spare her — or himself — that distress. Not so long ago he'd shared dreams with her and learned in deep nonverbal ways the painful convolutions of her relationship with Ser Noris. Love and hate, fear and pleasure — the Noris had branded himself deep in her soul. If he could have managed it, he'd have strangled the creature. Not a man, not in the many senses of that word. Creature.

He got out of the bed and went to her, touched her shoulder, drew his finger down along the side of her face. "Worried?"

She tilted her head back to look up at him. For a moment she said nothing and he thought she wasn't going to answer him. Then she did, with brutal honesty. "No. Thinking, Dom. Thinking that this is the last time we'll be together."

He wrapped his arms about her. Her small hands came up and closed warm over his wrists. "You aren't coming back with us?" He heard no sign in his voice of the effort he'd taken to speak so calmly.

"That's not what I meant," she said. "I meant whole to each other, one to one, with everything, everyone else left outside the circle."

"I see. The last time until this is over."

She said nothing. He felt her stiffen against him, then relax, knew she had no belief in any afterwards even if they both survived. And he knew with flat finality that there was no place for her in his life as long as he continued Domnor of Oras and Cimpia plain. And knew, too, that each passing day made going back to that pomp more distasteful to him — that shuttered, blinded life where no one and nothing was real, where the courtiers all wore masks, faces pasted on top of faces that were no more real than masks. Like peeling the layers off an onion: when you got down to the last, there was nothing there. He looked over her head at the scatter of moons. He had to see his folk and the mijloc clear of this, but that was all he owed them. I'm tired, he thought, they've got enough years out of me. He shifted so he could slide his hands along her shoulders, moving them up her neck to play with her earlobes, back down again, flesh moving on flesh with a burring whisper. "There will be an afterwards for us," he murmured. "If you'll come with me, vixen. The world has another half to it, one neither of us has seen. You heal, I'll heave, and we'll end up as wizened little wanderers telling stories to unbelieving folk of the marvels we have seen, the marvels we have done."

She moved her head across his ribs, sighed. "That feels good."

He dropped a hand to cup her breast, moved his thumb slowly across her nipple, felt it harden. "Can't you see us, me a fat old man with a fringe of mouse-colored hair, feet up on a table — I've forgotten all my manners, you see, gone senile with too much wine, too many years. Where was I, oh yes, feet up on the table, boasting of my sword fights and magic wars fought so long ago that everyone's forgotten them. And you, little dainty creature, bowed by years, smiling at that old man and refraining from reminding him how much more necessary to the winning of those wars you were." He slid his arm under her knees, scooped her up and carried her back to the bed.

Serroi woke with Hern's arm flung across her, his head heavy on her shoulder. The window was letting in rosy light, dawn well into its display. She lay a few minutes, not wanting to disturb him. He had enough to face this day. Coyote was growing increasingly impatient because Hern hadn't yet selected any of the mirror's offerings. Today would be the last — he hadn't said so, but she was sure of that. Today Hern had to find his weapon, the weapon that would someday turn in his hand and destroy him, if what Yael-mri hinted at was true. Or destroy what he was trying to protect. The Changer. Ser Noris feared for her, but she discounted that, not because she thought he'd lied but because his passion was for sameness not change; he wanted things about him clear-edged and immutable. At the peak of his power, any change could only mean loss. She sighed, eased away from Hern. His body was a furnace. Her leg started to itch. She ignored it awhile but the prickles grew rapidly more insistent. Carefully she lifted his arm and laid it along his side. For a moment her hands lingered on his arm, then she slid them up his broad back. She liked touching him, liked the feel or the muscles now lightly blanketed with fat, liked the feel of the bone coming through the muscles. She combed her fingers very gently through his hair, the gray streaks shining in the black. Long. Too long. You ought to let me cut it a little. Clean and soft, it curled over her wrist as if it were a hand holding her.

The itch escalated to unendurable. She sat up, eased the quilts off her and scratched her leg. She sighed with pleasure as the itch subsided, glanced anxiously at Hern, but he was breathing slowly, steadily, still deep asleep. She smiled at him, affection warm in her.

The light was brightening outside with a silence strange to her. All her life she'd seen the dawn come in with birdsong, animal barks and hoots, assorted scrapes and rustles, never with this morning's silence as if what the window showed wasn't really there. Magic mirror. She smiled, remembering the mirror Ser Noris made for her that brought images from everywhere into her tower room anywhere, anything she wanted to see it showed her, tiny images she never was sure were real, even later when she'd seen many of those places and peoples with her own eyes, heard them, smelled them, eaten their food, watched their lives. I wonder if that is how Ser Noris sees all of us, pieces in a game, sterile sanitary images that have shapes and textures, but no intruding inconvenient smells and noises. Not quite real. No one quite real. No, I'm wrong. I was real for him awhile. Cluttering, demanding, all edges some days, all curves another. Maybe that's why be wants me back — to remind him that he's real too. He wants the touch he remembers, the questions, the tugs that pulled us together, yet reminded each that the other was still other. He doesn't want me as I am now, only the Serroi he lost. And he doesn't even know that the Serroi be wants never quite existed, was a construct out of his clever head.

She sighed, looked down at Hern and wanted to wrap herself about him so tight he couldn't ever leave her, but she knew far better than he how little possibility for realization there was in those dreams he'd described to her. She smoothed her hand over his shoulder. He muttered a few drowsy sounds of pleasure, but did not wake, though his hand groped toward her, found her thigh and closed over it. Ah, she thought, I won't say any more to you about that. I won't say don't count on me, love, I might not be around. "I'm a weakness you can't afford, Dom Hern," she whispered.

As if in answer to that his hand tightened on her thigh; he still slept but he held onto her so hard, there'd be bruises in her flesh when he woke. His hands were very strong. Short, broad man who'd never be thin, who was already regaining his comfortable rotundity with rest and Coyote's food. She laid her hand over the one that was bruising her and felt the punishing grip loosen. Deceptive little man, far stronger and fit than he looks. Fast, stubborn, even quicker in mind than he was in body. Tired little fat man, gray hair, guileless face, bland stupid look when he wanted to put it on. She stroked the back of his hand and heard him sigh in his sleep, felt the grip loosen more. A snare and a delusion you are, my love. Mijloc didn't appreciate you when they had you, won't appreciate you when they get you back. She eased the hand off her thigh and set it on the sheet beside him. He didn't wake but grew restless, turned over, his arm crooking across his eyes as if the brightening light bothered him, then he settled again into deep slow breathing, almost a snore. She slipped off the bed, kicked the discarded sleeping shift aside and began the loosening up moves that would prepare her for more strenuous exercising.

POET-WARRIOR

She thought she was calm, resolute, but she couldn't get the key in the keyhole. Her hand was shaking. Fool, she thought, oh god. She flattened her right hand against the wall board, braced herself and tried again. The key slid in, turned. "That's one." Two locks to go. She took a deep breath, shook the keys along the ring. The Havingee special was easy enough to find, a burred cylinder, not flat like the others. She got it in, managed the left turn and started the right but for a moment she forgot the obligatory twitch and tried to force the key where it didn't go. Again she sucked in a breath, let it trickle out, then leaned her forehead against the door's cracking paint, trembling as if someone had pulled the plug on her strength.

"You all right?" A quiet voice behind her, not threatening, but she whirled, heart thudding. "There something I could do?"

The young man from the apartment by the head of the stairs — he'd come down the hall to stand behind her. Only a boy, can't be more than early twenties. He looked tired and worried, some of it about her. She remembered, or thought she did, that his friend worked as a male nurse and had a bad moment wondering if he'd seen the disease in her. But that was nonsense. Even she wouldn't know about it if the photogram hadn't shown lump shadows in her breast, if the probe hadn't pronounced them malignant. She tried a tight smile, shook her head. "I was just remembering. When I was a little girl living on our farm in the house my great-grandfather built, we kept a butterknife by the back door. I learned to slip locks early." She smiled again, more easily. "We locked that door when we went to town and opened it with that knife when we got back. No one'd even seen the key for fifty years. The farm was between a commune and a cult, you see, and no one ever bothered us." She held up her key ring. "Triple locked," she said. "Sometimes it gets me down."

He nodded, seeming tired. "Yeah," he said. "I know. Well, anytime."

She watched him go back to his apartment. He must have followed her up the stairs. She hadn't noticed him, but she wasn't in any state to notice anything that didn't bite her. She twitched the key, finished its turns, dealt with the cheap lock the landlord had provided, pushed the door open and went inside, forgetting the boy before the door was shut behind her.

In the living room she snapped on the TV without thinking, turned to stare at it, startled by the sudden burst of sound, the flicker of shadow pictures across the screen. She reached out to click it off, then changed her mind and only turned the sound down until it was a meaningless burring that filled the emptiness of the room. She kicked off her shoes, walked around the room picking things up, putting them down, finally dumped the mail out of her purse. The power bill she hadn't had the courage to open for three days now. A begging letter from the Altiran society, probably incensed about the PM's newest attack on the parks. She sent them money whenever she could. Money. Her hand shook suddenly. She dropped the rest of the mail. A brown envelope slid from the table to the floor. A story. Rejected. One she thought she'd sold, they kept it six months, asked for and got revisions of several sections. She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes and fought for control. "Oh, god, where am I going to get the money?"

With a small impatient sound, she took her hands from her eyes and dropped onto the couch to stare blankly at the phantoms cavorting on the TV screen. After a minute she swung her feet up and stretched out on the lumpy cushions.

She wasn't afraid, not the way her doctor thought. Jim wasn't really good at passing on bad news. Cancer. Still a frightening word. Caught early, as he'd caught hers, no big problem. If she had the money for the operation. If she had the money. Jim wanted her in the hospital immediately, the sooner the better. Hospital. She closed her hands into fists and pressed them down on her betraying flesh. Money. She didn't have it and could see no way of getting it.

Her independence, her comfortable solitude, these were hard won and fragile, all dependent on the health of her body. There was never enough money to squeeze out insurance premiums. Never enough money for anything extra. Not for a car, though public transit here was an unfunny joke. (Even if she could afford to buy the car, she couldn't afford the rent on an offstreet lockup, and any car left on the street overnight was stripped or stolen by morning.) Not enough for vacation trips; those she did take were for background on books so she could write them off her taxes. But with all that, she liked her life in her shabby rooms, she needed the solitude. No lovers now, no one taking up her life and energy. And she didn't miss that ... that intrusion. She smiled. Her dearly unbeloved ex-husband would be shocked out of his shoes by the way she lived, then smugly pleased. He'd been pleased enough when she stopped alimony after only a year. Not that he'd ever paid it on time. She'd gotten sick of having to go see him when the rent came due. She started her first novel and got a job in the city welfare office, wearing and poorly paid, testing her idealism to the full, but she liked most of the other workers and she liked the idea of helping people even when they proved all too fallibly human.

The last time she saw Hrald, she sat across an office table from him and smiled into his handsome face — big blond man with even, white teeth and melting brown eyes that promised gentleness and understanding. They lied, oh how they did lie. Not trying very hard to conceal her contempt for him, she told him she wanted nothing at all from him, not now, not ever again. He was both pleased and irritated, pleased because he grudged her every cent since she was no longer endlessly promoting him to his friends and colleagues, irritated because he enjoyed making her beg for money as she'd had to beg during the marriage. While she was waiting for the papers, she studied him with a detached coolness she hadn't been sure she could achieve, let alone maintain. How young I was when I first met him. Just out of college. There he was, this smiling handsome man on his way up, moving fast through his circumscribed world, expecting and getting the best that life could offer him, taking her to fine restaurants, to opening nights, to places she'd only read about, showing her a superficial good taste that impressed her then; she was too young and inexperienced to recognize how specious it was, a replica in plastic of hand-made elegance. It had taken her five years to learn how empty he was, to understand why he'd chosen to marry her, a girl with no money, no family, no connections, supporting herself on miserable shit jobs, yessir-nosir jobs, playing at writing, too ignorant about life to have anything to say. Control — he could control her and she couldn't threaten him in anything he thought was important.

He was brilliant, so everyone said. Made all the right moves. No lie, he was brilliant. Within his narrow limits. Outside those, though, he was incredibly stupid. For a long time she couldn't believe how stupid he could be. How willfully blind. Will to power. Willed ignorance. They seem inextricably linked as if the one is impossible without the other. His cohorts and fellow string-pullers — couldn't call them friends, they didn't understand the meaning of the word — were all just like him. There were times at the end of the five years when I'd look at them and see them as alien creatures. Not human at all. I was certainly out of place in that herd. Vanity, Julia. She smiled, shook her head. Vanity will get you in the end.

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Excerpted from Changer's Moon by Jo Clayton. Copyright © 1985 Jo Clayton. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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