Story snipped
Jun. 6th, 2009 10:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
deborahjrossHere's a partial scene from "The Casket of Brass."
The passage twisted, ever descending. At last, Maridah caught sight of a door, its plain wood somehow preserved from the damp. In the chamber beyond, she found a tiny garden, arched over with a dome like frosted glass and filled with pale, diffuse light.
Heat lay thick and expectant over the dustless benches. Not a fly buzzed, not a leaf of the trellised roses quivered, and not a single fallen twig marred the whiteness of the paving stones.
In the center stood a statue of a young man of transcendent beauty, naked to the hips. His head was tilted to reveal the perfect grace of his neck. His hands hung at his sides, wrought in stone that had the satiny sheen of marble and the warm hue of flesh. The flowing muscles of his torso ended in a block of uncut stone in place of legs.
Maridah sat down on the nearest bench and rubbed her eyes. Heat seeped along her bones, carrying a sweet, heavy lethargy like opium smoke. She was weary, so weary. She rested her face in her hands and closed her eyes. Her shoulder and neck muscles ached.
Gradually, Maridah became aware of a noise like creaking leather, faint but distinct. She dropped her hands. The statue -- surely its arms had been at its sides, fingers loose, wrists curved slightly inward, as if cradling something delicate. Now one of the statue's arms was raised, the bend of the elbow framing its head.
The rose vines quivered, releasing a burst of scent. The statue took a deep, shuddering breath.
Maridah scrambled to her feet.
The statue took another unmistakable breath . . . and groaned. Maridah's alarm vanished at the piteous sound. Moving closer, she saw a tear slip down the statue's cheek.
The statue looked at Maridah. The eyes were creamy, unmarked by any color, not even a pupil. Their blankness gave the statue a quizzical expression, as if it were astonished to find someone else in its private garden.
Maridah opened her mouth, but before she could draw breath, the statue spoke.
"Know, O Princess of a noble race, that I was once as you are. As you will soon become." The statue blinked and two more tears dripped down its face.
This was such an extraordinary way of beginning a conversation, even in the flowery language used at court, and even in a place as full of magic as this garden, that Maridah could only stand and gape. Her mind bubbled with the tales she'd loved as a child, of spells woven and broken, dragons slain, evil djinni defeated, sorcerers challenged.
"Are you under an enchantment?" she ventured. "Can I -- is there some way you can be freed?"
"Not until the seas run dry and the last dragon falls from the heavens." The statue raised its hands and let them fall, as if hope were too great a burden. "She who is my torment and my delight is as ageless as the sky."
The frosted-glass ceiling darkened, as if a shadow had suddenly swept in front of the invisible light source. The garden turned chill.
The statue glanced upward, its beautiful face distorted with anguish. It flung one arm over its face and cried like a stricken deer.
"What is it?"
"The hour of my punishment -- Ah! Not yet!"
The light steadied as the shadow passed.
"For a hundred years," the statue said, regaining its composure, "a great sorceress of old, she who carried me off on my wedding night and imprisoned me in this manner, has visited me daily. She laughs as her scorpions dig out my heart."
"Oh, how terrible!" Maridah exclaimed. "This sorceress must be wicked, indeed! Why would she do such a thing? What does she desire of it, beyond to see you in agony?"
The statue threw his head back. Shudders rippled through his graceful, muscled torso. "Ah! Will I never be free of her?"
Maridah let the question go unanswered, for she began to suspect that if this statue was indeed all that was left of a young bridegroom, he was no longer entirely sane. Tales rose to her memory, poems exalting forbidden liaisons and jealous lovers.
"Perhaps," she said in a calmer tone, "there is something this sorceress wants. She didn't by any chance object to your choice of bride?"
"I've done nothing, I tell you -- nothing!" He broke off as the garden shivered as if seized by a sudden gale. "Quickly, you must depart or be trapped here with me! Remember me when you think upon your own fate!"
The passage twisted, ever descending. At last, Maridah caught sight of a door, its plain wood somehow preserved from the damp. In the chamber beyond, she found a tiny garden, arched over with a dome like frosted glass and filled with pale, diffuse light.
Heat lay thick and expectant over the dustless benches. Not a fly buzzed, not a leaf of the trellised roses quivered, and not a single fallen twig marred the whiteness of the paving stones.
In the center stood a statue of a young man of transcendent beauty, naked to the hips. His head was tilted to reveal the perfect grace of his neck. His hands hung at his sides, wrought in stone that had the satiny sheen of marble and the warm hue of flesh. The flowing muscles of his torso ended in a block of uncut stone in place of legs.
Maridah sat down on the nearest bench and rubbed her eyes. Heat seeped along her bones, carrying a sweet, heavy lethargy like opium smoke. She was weary, so weary. She rested her face in her hands and closed her eyes. Her shoulder and neck muscles ached.
Gradually, Maridah became aware of a noise like creaking leather, faint but distinct. She dropped her hands. The statue -- surely its arms had been at its sides, fingers loose, wrists curved slightly inward, as if cradling something delicate. Now one of the statue's arms was raised, the bend of the elbow framing its head.
The rose vines quivered, releasing a burst of scent. The statue took a deep, shuddering breath.
Maridah scrambled to her feet.
The statue took another unmistakable breath . . . and groaned. Maridah's alarm vanished at the piteous sound. Moving closer, she saw a tear slip down the statue's cheek.
The statue looked at Maridah. The eyes were creamy, unmarked by any color, not even a pupil. Their blankness gave the statue a quizzical expression, as if it were astonished to find someone else in its private garden.
Maridah opened her mouth, but before she could draw breath, the statue spoke.
"Know, O Princess of a noble race, that I was once as you are. As you will soon become." The statue blinked and two more tears dripped down its face.
This was such an extraordinary way of beginning a conversation, even in the flowery language used at court, and even in a place as full of magic as this garden, that Maridah could only stand and gape. Her mind bubbled with the tales she'd loved as a child, of spells woven and broken, dragons slain, evil djinni defeated, sorcerers challenged.
"Are you under an enchantment?" she ventured. "Can I -- is there some way you can be freed?"
"Not until the seas run dry and the last dragon falls from the heavens." The statue raised its hands and let them fall, as if hope were too great a burden. "She who is my torment and my delight is as ageless as the sky."
The frosted-glass ceiling darkened, as if a shadow had suddenly swept in front of the invisible light source. The garden turned chill.
The statue glanced upward, its beautiful face distorted with anguish. It flung one arm over its face and cried like a stricken deer.
"What is it?"
"The hour of my punishment -- Ah! Not yet!"
The light steadied as the shadow passed.
"For a hundred years," the statue said, regaining its composure, "a great sorceress of old, she who carried me off on my wedding night and imprisoned me in this manner, has visited me daily. She laughs as her scorpions dig out my heart."
"Oh, how terrible!" Maridah exclaimed. "This sorceress must be wicked, indeed! Why would she do such a thing? What does she desire of it, beyond to see you in agony?"
The statue threw his head back. Shudders rippled through his graceful, muscled torso. "Ah! Will I never be free of her?"
Maridah let the question go unanswered, for she began to suspect that if this statue was indeed all that was left of a young bridegroom, he was no longer entirely sane. Tales rose to her memory, poems exalting forbidden liaisons and jealous lovers.
"Perhaps," she said in a calmer tone, "there is something this sorceress wants. She didn't by any chance object to your choice of bride?"
"I've done nothing, I tell you -- nothing!" He broke off as the garden shivered as if seized by a sudden gale. "Quickly, you must depart or be trapped here with me! Remember me when you think upon your own fate!"
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no subject
Date: 2009-06-06 06:25 pm (UTC)Very rich--like the concluding line of this snippet.
no subject
Date: 2009-06-08 03:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-08 04:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-09 12:20 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-07 12:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-08 03:51 pm (UTC)When I was editing the first LACE AND BLADE, one of the contributors did not at first realize I was a writer myself -- it was odd and actually amusing to be seen first and primarily as an editor.