Legends: Stories By The Masters of Modern Fantasy (9 page)

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Authors: Robert Silverberg

BOOK: Legends: Stories By The Masters of Modern Fantasy
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Their gasp was like cold wind passing through dead trees. Nor was all of that dismay directed toward their own precious hides. What Jenna had done was clearly far outside their reckoning.
“Then you’re damned,” Sister Tamra said.
“Such ones to speak of damnation! Stand aside.”
They did. Roland walked past them and they shrank away from him … but they shrank from her more.
“Damned?” he asked after they had skirted the
hacienda
and reached the path beyond it. The Kissing Moon glimmered above a tumbled scree of rocks. In its light Roland could see a small black opening low on the scarp. He guessed it was the cave the Sisters called Thoughtful House. “What did they mean, damned?”
“Never mind. All we have to worry about now is Sister Mary. I like it not that we haven’t seen her.”
She tried to walk faster, but he grasped her arm and turned her about. He could still hear the singing of the bugs, but faintly; they were leaving the place of the Sisters behind. Eluria, too, if the compass in his head was still working; he thought the town was in the other direction. The husk of the town, he amended.
“Tell me what they meant.”
“Perhaps nothing. Ask me not, Roland—what good is it? ’Tis done, the bridge burned. I can’t go back. Nor would if I could.” She looked down, biting her lip, and when she looked up again, Roland saw fresh tears falling on her cheeks. “I have supped with them. There were times when I couldn’t help it, no more than you could help drinking their wretched soup, no matter if you knew what was in it.”
Roland remembered John Norman saying
A man has to eat … a woman, too
. He nodded.
“I’d go no further down that road. If there’s to be damnation, let it be of my choosing, not theirs. My mother meant well by bringing me back to them, but she was wrong.” She looked at him shyly and fearfully … but met his eyes. “I’d go beside ye on yer road, Roland of Gilead. For as long as I may, or as long as ye’d have me.”
“You’re welcome to your share of my way,” he said. “And I am—”
Blessed by your company
, he would have finished, but before he could, a voice spoke from the tangle of moonshadow ahead of them, where the path at last climbed out of the rocky, sterile valley in which the Little Sisters had practiced their glamours.
“It’s a sad duty to stop such a pretty elopement, but stop it I must.”
Sister Mary came from the shadows. Her fine white habit with its bright red rose had reverted to what it really was: the shroud of a corpse. Caught, hooded in its grimy folds, was a wrinkled, sagging face from which two black eyes stared. They looked like rotted dates. Below them, exposed by the thing’s smile, four great incisors gleamed.
Upon the stretched skin of Sister Mary’s forehead, bells tinkled … but not the Dark Bells, Roland thought. There was that.
“Stand clear,” Jenna said. “Or I’ll bring the
can tam
on ye.”
“No,” Sister Mary said, stepping closer, “ye won’t. They’ll not stray so far from the others. Shake your head and ring those damned bells until the clappers fall out, and still they’ll never come.”
Jenna did as bid, shaking her head furiously from side to side. The Dark Bells rang piercingly, but without that extra, almost psychic tonequality that had gone through Roland’s head like a spike. And the doctor-bugs—what Big Sister had called the
can tam
—did not come.
Smiling ever more broadly (Roland had an idea Mary herself hadn’t been completely sure they wouldn’t come until the experiment was made), the corpse-woman closed in on them, seeming to float above
the ground. Her eyes flicked toward him. “And put that away,” she said.
Roland looked down and saw that one of his guns was in his hand. He had no memory of drawing it.
“Unless ‘tis been blessed or dipped in some sect’s holy wet—blood, water, semen—it can’t harm such as I, gunslinger. For I am more shade than substance … yet still the equal to such as yerself, for all that.”
She thought he would try shooting her, anyway; he saw it in her eyes.
Those shooters are all ye have
, her eyes said.
Without ’em, you might as well be back in the rent we dreamed around ye, caught up in our slings and awaiting our pleasure.
Instead of shooting, he dropped the revolver back into its holster and launched himself at her with his hands out. Sister Mary uttered a scream that was mostly surprise, but it was not a long one; Roland’s fingers clamped down on her throat and choked the sound off before it was fairly started.
The touch of her flesh was obscene—it seemed not just alive but
various
beneath his hands, as if it was trying to crawl away from him. He could feel it running like liquid,
flowing,
and the sensation was horrible beyond description. Yet he clamped down harder, determined to choke the life out of her.
Then there came a blue flash (not in the air, he would think later; that flash happened inside his head, a single stroke of lightning as she touched off some brief but powerful brainstorm), and his hands flew away from her neck. For one moment his dazzled eyes saw great wet gouges in her gray flesh—gouges in the shapes of his hands. Then he was flung backward, hitting the scree on his back and sliding, hitting his head on a jutting rock hard enough to provoke a second, lesser, flash of light.
“Nay, my pretty man,” she said, grimacing at him, laughing with those terrible dull eyes of hers. “Ye don’t choke such as I, and I’ll take ye slow for’ee impertinence—cut ye shallow in a hundred places to refresh my thirst. First, though, I’ll have this vowless girl … and I’ll have those damned bells off her, in the bargain.”
“Come and see if you can!” Jenna cried in a trembling voice, and shook her head from side to side. The Dark Bells rang mockingly, provokingly.
Mary’s grimace of a smile fell away. “Oh, I can,” she breathed. Her
mouth yawned. In the moonlight, her fangs gleamed in her gums like bone needles poked through a red pillow. “I can and I—”
There was a growl from above them. It rose, then splintered into a volley of snarling barks. Mary turned to her left, and in the moment before the snarling thing left the rock on which it was standing, Roland could clearly read the startled bewilderment on Big Sister’s face.
It launched itself at her, only a dark shape against the stars, legs outstretched so it looked like some sort of weird bat, but even before it crashed into the woman, striking her in the chest above her halfraised arms and fastening its own teeth on her throat, Roland knew exactly what it was.
As the shape bore her over onto her back, Sister Mary uttered a gibbering shriek that went through Roland’s head like the Dark Bells themselves. He scrambled to his feet, gasping. The shadowy thing tore at her, forepaws on either side of her head, rear paws planted on the grave-shroud above her chest, where the rose had been.
Roland grabbed Jenna, who was looking down at the fallen Sister with a kind of frozen fascination.
“Come on!” he shouted. “Before it decides it wants a bite of you, too!”
The dog took no notice of them as Roland pulled Jenna past. It had torn Sister Mary’s head mostly off.
Her flesh seemed to be changing, somehow—decomposing, very likely—but whatever was happening, Roland did not want to see it. He didn’t want Jenna to see it, either.
They half-walked, half-ran to the top of the ridge, and when they got there paused for breath in the moonlight, heads down, hands linked, both of them gasping harshly.
The growling and snarling below them had faded, but was still faintly audible when Sister Jenna raised her head and asked him, “What was it? You know—I saw it in your face. And how could it attack her? We all have power over animals, but she has—had—the most.”
“Not over that one.” Roland found himself recalling the unfortunate boy in the next bed. Norman hadn’t known why the medallions kept the Sisters at arms’ length—whether it was the gold or the God. Now Roland knew the answer. “It was a dog. Just a town-dog. I saw it in the square, before the green folk knocked me out and took me to the Sisters. I suppose the other animals that could run away
did
run away,
but not that one. It had nothing to fear from the Little Sisters of Eluria, and somehow it knew it didn’t. It bears the sign of the Jesus-man on its chest. Black fur on white. Just an accident of its birth, I imagine. In any case, it’s done for her now. I knew it was lurking around. I heard it barking two or three times.”
“Why?” Jenna whispered. “Why would it come? Why would it stay? And why would it take on her as it did?”
Roland of Gilead responded as he ever had and ever would when such useless, mystifying questions were raised: “
Ka
. Come on. Let’s get as far as we can from this place before we hide up for the day.”
As far as they could turned out to be eight miles at most … and probably, Roland thought as the two of them sank down in a patch of sweet-smelling sage beneath an overhang of rock, a good deal less. Five, perhaps. It was him slowing them down; or rather, it was the residue of the poison in the soup. When it was clear to him that he could not go farther without help, he asked her for one of the reeds. She refused, saying that the stuff in it might combine with the unaccustomed exercise to burst his heart.
“Besides,” she said as they lay back against the embankment of the little nook they had found, “they’ll not follow. Those that are left—Michela, Louise, Tamra—will be packing up to move on. They know to leave when the time comes; that’s why the Sisters have survived as long as they have. As
we
have. We’re strong in some ways, but weak in many more. Sister Mary forgot that. It was her arrogance that did for her as much as the cross-dog, I think.”
She had cached not just his boots and clothes beyond the top of the ridge, but the smaller of his two purses, as well. When she tried to apologize for not bringing his bedroll and the larger purse (she’d tried, she said, but they were simply too heavy), Roland hushed her with a finger to her lips. He thought it a miracle to have as much as he did. And besides (this he did not say, but perhaps she knew it, anyway), the guns were the only things that really mattered. The guns of his father, and his father before him, all the way back to the days of Arthur Eld, when dreams and dragons had still walked the earth.
“Will you be all right?” he asked her as they settled down. The moon had set, but dawn was still at least three hours away. They were surrounded by the sweet smell of the sage. A purple smell, he thought it then … and ever after. Already he could feel it forming a kind of
magic carpet under him, which would soon float him away to sleep. He thought he had never been so tired.
“Roland, I know not.” But even then, he thought she had known. Her mother had brought her back once; no mother would bring her back again. And she had eaten with the others, had taken the communion of the Sisters.
Ka
was a wheel; it was also a net from which none ever escaped.
But then he was too tired to think much of such things … and what good would thinking have done, in any case? As she had said, the bridge was burned. Even if they were to return to the valley, Roland guessed they would find nothing but the cave the Sisters had called Thoughtful House. The surviving Sisters would have packed their tent of bad dreams and moved on, just a sound of bells and singing insects moving down the late night breeze.
He looked at her, raised a hand (it felt heavy), and touched the curl which once more lay across her forehead.
Jenna laughed, embarrassed. “That one always escapes. It’s wayward. Like its mistress.”
She raised her hand to poke it back in, but Roland took her fingers before she could. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “Black as night and as beautiful as forever.”
He sat up—it took an effort; weariness dragged at his body like soft hands. He kissed the curl. She closed her eyes and sighed. He felt her trembling beneath his lips. The skin of her brow was very cool; the dark curve of the wayward curl like silk.
“Push back your wimple, as you did before,” he said.
She did it without speaking. For a moment he only looked at her. Jenna looked back gravely, her eyes never leaving his. He ran his hands through her hair, feeling its smooth weight (like rain, he thought, rain with weight), then took her shoulders and kissed each of her cheeks. He drew back for a moment.
“Would ye kiss me as a man does a woman, Roland? On my mouth?”
“Aye.”
And, as he had thought of doing as he lay caught in the silken infirmary tent, he kissed her lips. She kissed back with the clumsy sweetness of one who has never kissed before, except perhaps in
dreams. Roland thought to make love to her then—it had been long and long, and she was beautiful—but he fell asleep instead, still kissing her.
He dreamed of the cross-dog, barking its way across a great open landscape. He followed, wanting to see the source of its agitation, and soon he did. At the far edge of that plain stood the Dark Tower, its smoky stone outlined by the dull orange ball of a setting sun, its fearful windows rising in a spiral. The dog stopped at the sight of it and began to howl.
Bells—peculiarly shrill and as terrible as doom—began to ring. Dark bells, he knew, but their tone was as bright as silver. At their sound, the dark windows of the Tower glowed with a deadly red light—the red of poisoned roses. A scream of unbearable pain rose in the night.

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