Mercedes Lackey - Lamma's Night (anthology)

Prepared to tame the power itself, she was taken by surprise at the pull of Kenlan's spirit on her own. His gratitude at her effort, his admiration of her skill, his... his love .

She struggled to pull away from him. Love, for someone he didn't even know?

But I do know you. I know you well. I've been with you all summer.

"But I don't know you!" she cried

Then learn of me now.

Bring him back, then? He wanted to come back, to break those wizardly rules and walk twice upon this earth? Her chanting lips faltered, wavering with her decision.

No! Not yet! I need your help. Churtna needs your help!

She blinked against the wind, not seeing hair that whipped into her eyes, nor feeling it snatch at her clothes. Did he know, then? Did he have answers?

Meddling with souls is no wizard's business . He whispered her own words back to her. The price is high when you blunder—and someone did . And in a quick fold of time, he showed her the night he'd died. Standing on this hill, enclosed in his own circle, lost in his own spell. She followed his loosed spirit as it traced the faint path of evil showing in the spirit shadow of the earth, marveling at his skill. As though a hunter after game, he spotted each slight sign and leapt upon it, knowing it would lead him to whatever was threatening Churtna.

She was with him when he found it, a solid core of hunger, dark and unfathomable in its need, blackness seeming to a rhythm of its own.

And you tried to stop it , she thought. But she knew right away he wasn't strong enough to do it alone. And she knew he knew—and that he had to try, for on this Lammas Night, it reached to steal the power and lifefood that the villagers dedicated back to the earth. An illicit harvester, snatching their next year's bounty.

So he tried. And... he died.

But he hadn't gone.

How could I go, and leave my village undefended? He was silent a moment, as his warmth coalesced around her like a lover's embrace. We can stop that sinkhole, that harvester of life. Now. Together.

She staggered then, in body and soul, her upheld arms jerking against the fear of knowing he was right, her unseeing eyes going wide in the sudden wash of moonlight. He was right. Nothing she did for this village would help them in the end, not as long as that harvester was still sucking away their lives. And next year would be worse than this last, and the year after that...

Dyanara , he whispered, his voice soft against her ears, tracing a shiver down the back of her neck. I know you, Dyanara. I've watched you. You can do this thing—we can do this thing. An end to the harvester...

Yes, she drought, and reached up to take his hand, leaving her body behind, just as she had left it when she'd cleared Jacoba's well of taint.

This time Kenlan knew where the harvester hid. He held her to him, guiding her, easily finding the dark presence, and then holding them both back to circle it warily.

Weave a shield, she thought, remembering the well again, and the sulphur fall she'd closed off.

Ahh , he thought, brushing up against her presence with a mental kiss. You always have those spells so close at hand . Do it, he meant, and the silent pause that followed meant they both knew it wouldn't be easy—wouldn't be anything like shutting off spiritless rock.

Do it, she told herself, and began to shape the spell with him.

And the harvester reared up, stronger than she'd imagined, a parasite with a year of nourishment in its belly. Like a great mobile splash of ink against a psychic sky, it reached for them. It lashed out, gouts of power capable of obliterating anything so frail as a human spirit. Kenlan shielded Dyanara while she tied down the frame of her barrier, then added his strength to hers while she built it—built it and rebuilt it, while the harvester destroyed what 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.

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.