“But what about the slaves?” Dena had asked. A mistake. Korinth’s stinging slap sent her sprawling across the deck.

  “They’re better off dead. Now call the storm.”

  Cheek still stinging, Dena obeyed. Her voice rose and she felt the magic come, weaving together with the cold brittleness that was Korinth. She used the song to send power high into the sky. The clouds shifted and darkened, crackling with electricity. The breeze turned into an icy chill.

  “More,” Korinth said. His sword arced through the air in a deadly dance. “Set the galleon on fire.”

  The wind tore at Korinth’s shirt and laid his back bare, revealing the thick scars left by a slaver’s whip. Dena had seen them before, but the pure, unadulterated hatred emanating from him now was something new. A storm raged in his eyes, one she had no control over.

  Korinth waved his sword at the largest ship. “I want to see that captain burn along with his ship.”

  “Hey,” Narid said. “Talk to me. You didn’t burn those ships, did you?”

  “No. All those innocent people...”

  “Good girl. I didn’t think you had it in you.” His gaze fell to her hand, which clutched the ring of protection Korinth had given her. “You saved all those people. You saved my life once. Why? And why do it if you’re just going to let us all die now?”

  I asked only one thing, and you failed me. You selfish, ungrateful bitch. After everything I taught you—

  “Don’t listen to him. You hear me?”

  She didn’t get a chance to answer before the ship dipped and jerked. Water sluiced down the stairs, soaking them both.

  “So...are you going to sing away this storm before we drown or not?”

  “I can try.”

  “You’d better do more than that.” He picked up the metal privy bucket and banged it on the bars, creating such a clamor that Dena had to cover her ears.

  It worked, though. Iryana came barging down into the hold, knife drawn. “Shut up. I don’t have time for this!”

  Narid pointed at Dena. “Let her out. She’s a sea mage. A good one. She can deal with the storm.”

  Iryana looked her over, plainly disgusted. “What good is a mute singer?” The ship lurched, and she had to grab the bars to keep her balance.

  When Dena didn’t answer, Narid glared at her. “She’s not mute. And she’s going to save us. Aren’t you?”

  She didn’t know where his faith had come from when she had so little herself. But at last she nodded. “Just let me out. I can help.”

  “So she speaks.” Light flashed outside the window, followed immediately by a shattering crack of thunder. All three of them jumped. When Iryana spoke, her voice shook. “I’ve got nothing to lose. This is as bad a squall as I’ve seen in years. Even if you fail, we’re dead anyway. Come on.”

  She let her out but left a pleading Narid locked inside. Dena followed Iryana onto the deck, which was full of sailors running to and fro. Their shouts were barely audible over the roaring thunder and waves. In seconds she was soaked through from both rain and the chill water curling over the edge of the ship.

  The rain lashing at her cheeks brought back unwanted memories of her last voyage and the way Korinth had gone sliding across the deck, crashing head first into the mast. His sword had flown from his hand, embedding itself in one of the rails.

  He’d groped at the deck. Blood trickled from his brow, only to be swept away by wind and rain. His mouth formed the word Sing, but if there was any sound, the storm wrested it away.

  All she’d had to do was sing a few simple words that would calm the storm, right the ship and keep Korinth from sliding overboard, never to be found.

  Just a few words.

  But they’d never come.

  You failed me, you selfish bitch. You let me die.

  All around her, sailors shouted and grabbed at ropes, struggling to right the tilting ship. She stood, paralyzed in the midst of the activity, managing only to compensate for the dangerous, slippery footing.

  You were always a selfish little thing.

  The hawk’s furious cry silenced the turmoil in her head. She scanned the deck, looking for its mistress, but Iryana had vanished. The hawk cried again, and this time Dena saw her.

  “Man overboard!” She pointed to starboard. Several sailors rushed to join her at the rail. Iryana, barely visible in the streaming rain, flailed in the water. The sailor threw a rope, but it fell far short the struggling tracker.

  She didn’t plead, or if she did, Dena couldn’t hear her. Iryana gazed toward the ship, struggling no more than necessary to keep afloat. There was no frantic waving. Iryana expected to die.

  You’re no good. Useless. I should never have taken you for an apprentice.

  Dena dug her nails into the slick wooden railing. If she let Iryana drown, Narid would be safe, at least until Lord Joris sent another tracker to find him. If Dena saved her, she was still within her rights to take Narid away.

  The ring tumbled out of her shirt and dangled on its chain, taunting.

  Selfish...useless...

  From the day of her birth, she’d had a kinship with storms. They were in her blood. Yet the words for calming the waters stuck in her throat.

  Useless. You always were.

  Then she heard a different voice. A kinder one: He’s the one you should be sending away.

  Narid.

  Without thinking, she yanked the chain over her head and flung the ring as far as she could. “Enough!”

  With the last physical reminder of him gone, so too went the weight of guilt and obligation. No longer would she deny her birthright out of fear that it would be used as a tool of vengeance. Her power belonged to her alone, and she was at no one’s beck and call.

  And she would not let an innocent die.

  The words rushed into her mind and she forced them out, voice raw from disuse. The first notes cracked and wavered, doing nothing to calm the storm. Panic threatened, teasing her that she’d fail before she’d even begun.

  Then a thread of magic worked its way up from the depths of the ship. At first, the masculine essence made her want to refuse, to toss it back where it came from.

  But this energy wasn’t filled with the force and roughness she’d come to loathe; it was gentle, supportive.

  Narid. He trusted her, needed her, believed in her.

  She grabbed it.

  Muscle memory returned as it had with the lute. Her voice caught, centered, and landed solidly on the right notes. Tone, inflection, and the words themselves were all necessary to weave the spell she needed. Power gathered around her, merging with the gift Narid offered. She wove them together, the magic of wind and rain and the strength of physical movement, and sent it into the clouds. She caught lightning before it struck, bright energy burning before she flung it away.

  She thrust more power into air itself, gentling it, urging the wind to stop battering the ship and roughing the waves. At last the punishing rain ebbed. The ship’s bobbing became less violent, the waves less forceful.

  She peered over the side of the ship. Iryana had weakened. She lay on her back, riding the surf. Dena sang to the waves, calming them, urging them to bring Iryana nearer, to support instead of submerge.

  The sailor threw the rope again, and this time it landed within Iryana’s reach. She grabbed hold, and two sailors quickly hauled her aboard. She collapsed on the deck, dripping and coughing up water.

  All this Dena was aware of only peripherally as she focused on dissipating the storm’s remnants. She sang until her voice was raw and painful and every bit of her energy as well as Narid’s was spent. She sank to her knees, exhausted, staring up at the clear blue sky.

  ~o0o~

  Dena woke not in the brig as she’d expected, but in a bed. Iryana sat beside her, one arm supporting her hawk, the other in a sling. “About time,” she said. “That was some trick you pulled out there. I never would have believed it.”

  “We’re safe?”

  “A little off course, but yes, we’re safe. The captain’s relieved that his ship is still in one piece. He would have offered you a job on the spot if you hadn’t fainted.”

  “Narid, too? He helped.”

  “He said as much.” Iryana sighed. “You saved my life. I owe you for that. I suppose I can tell Lord Joris that your boyfriend drowned in the storm when the hold flooded. I’ll take a lock of his hair as proof.”

  Hope flared in Dena’s chest. “You mean it?”

  “Hide him. Cut and dye his hair. Change his name. And for the sake of whatever god you believe in, get him to stop stealing energy. If anyone else catches him doing that, they’ll be on him faster than a hawk on a rabbit.” She glared at Dena. “As for you, don’t waste your talents. If you become a hermit again, I’ll hunt you down and tie you to the nearest mast.”

  She grinned, having no doubt Iryana meant what she said. The tracker left, replaced shortly by Narid. Dena held out her hand. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  Narid hung back. “No. I don’t want to hurt you. As soon as we reach land, I’ll get off and—”

  “I want you to be my apprentice.”

  “You—what?”

  “What we did back there—I’ve never felt my magic combine so easily with another’s. There’s a lot of good we could do together.”

  “I think so to.” His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “But I become your apprentice in exchange for what?”

  “I figure someone’s got to make sure you stop leeching; it might as well be me.”

  “And if I can’t stop?”

  “Then I’ll toss you overboard. That sea serpent is probably still hungry.”

  “I think I liked you better when you didn’t talk.”

  “So, do we have a deal, Apprentice?”

  Narid grinned and grasped Dena’s hand. “Deal, Mistress.”

  Dena squeezed, relieved, until she felt that telltale tingling. “Narid.”

  “Sorry.” His grin turned sheepish. “I’ll quit. First thing tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Today?” The tingling eased but didn’t quite stop.

  “Right now,” Dena said, and gently blocked Narid’s energetic connection. Korinth would never have been so understanding; he would have simply slapped Dena upside the head and expected him to obey. I’m not like you. I never will be.

  This time, there was no answer.

  Magic Words

  by Alisa Cohen

  Dragons hold such fascination for fans of sword and sorcery fantasy that I suspect they create a localized magnetic anomaly. Not content with their portrayal as incarnations of rapacious evil (St. George and the Dragon, Smag in J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit), they have inspired more creative interpretations. It should be pointed out, in addition, that in non-Western cultures, dragons often represent wisdom and healing, with an occasional foray into scholarship.

  Aside from a few sections of the Indiana Code which have been superseded long since and a couple of poems in state anthologies of poetry by high school students in years beginning 197_, “Magic Words” is Alisa’s first professional publication. It was also her first professional submission. Since she has heard cautionary tales about rejection letters since her teens, starting with a conversation with Madeleine L’Engle, she never expected such good fortune.

  She has, in the course of her life, had occupations as varied as Alterations Manager, Dressmaker, Attorney, (now gratefully retired) Pre-school teacher and craft instructor. She is now a full time care-giver for her son and mother, and in her copious free time sings, indulges in her many and varied crafts (knitting, crochet, cross stitch, quilting, and jewellery making), reads, collects cookbooks which she doesn’t follow (they’re good inspiration), bakes, and—of course—writes.

  She describes herself as a red-haired, green-eyed, middle-aged matzo ball, and lives in the wilds of Northwest Indiana with her beloved husband, son, mother and four cats. It’s their house; they just let the humans stay there and pay the bills.

  No day that begins with several hundred pounds of crushed and half-melted armor dropped in the palace courtyard is going to be good.

  Most parents teach their children about magic words before they’re four. No, not those, the Magic-with-a-capital-M words that will light or extinguish candles or loosen burnt barley from the bottom of a kettle. I mean the simple courtesies that dispose others to at least listen to you rather than dismissing you as a rude little beast. All our children learned to say please, thank you, you’re welcome, and excuse me before they had seen three winters. I knew I’d succeeded when I heard my youngest son say, “excuse me” as he pretended to decapitate the dragon (my fireweed bush) with his sword (a long stick). After all, as I said to my husband Anlaw later as we laughed over the story, just because you’re killing someone isn’t any reason to be rude about it.

  Evidently our king’s late parents either hadn’t taught their son to be polite or he’d slept through the lessons, because he had never made a request when he could give an order nor expressed gratitude in his life. The immediate result was that his noblemen somehow “lost” his demands for money, “forgot” to send their work levies, and generally let him run the country almost bankrupt rather than work with him for everyone’s good. And ultimately and inevitably, that led him to think of the dragon’s hoard as the cure for all his woes.

  It had been months since the king had last made a public appearance. Rumors were circulating that he was mad, or dead, or had been turned into an ass by an irritated faerie. I favored the last, as he certainly had behaved like one. The last public act he had undertaken had been to set forth to slay the dragon who lived about half a day’s walk north of the capital. He said the beast’s sheer presence was a menace, never mind that it had never menaced anything other than the occasional deer. It was obvious that he was after its hoard to supplement his (rapidly draining) treasury. So off he rode, waving the Sword of State over his head as his horse reared and galloped off. I found myself rather wishing he would just fall backwards off its rump and put an end to his showing off, but he really was too good a horseman for that. The Council of Mages had kept things running pretty much as usual in his absence, but they weren’t going to be able to do so much longer.

  Finally, with the King’s Birthday holiday approaching and no king to appear on the royal balcony, the Council announced that the King had been captured by the dragon, and offered a reward to any who could free him or provide proof of his fate by bringing back the Sword of State. Knights and young men with too many muscles and not enough brains came by the dozen. Each of them announced his intention to Slay the Monster and Free the King. They rode off, singly or in groups, and finally the pestered and annoyed dragon flew over the castle, dropped a large clanking heap of charred armor parts in the courtyard, and announced that if any more knights came charging up its mountain (Anlaw muttered about the stupidity of charging uphill) we would regret it.

  I found myself impressed by that demonstration of intelligence and subtlety. The non-specific nature of the threat allowed the Council members’ imaginations free rein, as a specific threat of, say, leveling the castle could never have done. But that left them with a dilemma: whether they believed that His Majesty was dead or transformed he was in no condition to rule, and they really needed the Sword. In the absence of a designated heir, the Sword would only permit itself to be unsheathed by the rightful ruler. Without that hunk of enchanted metal, we would have civil war in a few months at most. Finally one of the councilmen came to my son Perryn, a magistrate with a reputation for subtlety and wisdom.

  I was not party to that conversation, though Perryn had told me about it ahead of time so that I could listen in if I wished. The Council generally prefers to ignore my existence. Not only is my magic not of the flashy sort, I’m female and middle-aged. It’s always embarrassing for them to have to ask for my help, so they prefer to do it indirectly. (For the same reason, Anlaw and I live a little distance from town. It’s more comfortable for everyone that way.)

  My son suggested that if force had failed, perhaps diplomacy was a better alternative. (I can picture his raised eyebrow and dry tone as he said it.) “Diplomacy?” the councilman had squeaked. “With a monster?” “An intelligent, speaking monster,” Perryn pointed out. “Try it. It can’t make the situation worse at this point.” That, I thought, was an epic understatement.

  So the Chancellor sent an envoy to the dragon. I knew when he was going, and was curious enough to have arrived ahead of him, perching on a boulder above the entrance to the dragon’s cavern. I’m sure the dragon knew I was there; I made no effort to be quiet. But I also bore neither sword nor armor, nor did I try to climb down, and as I had hoped, it ignored me.

  The envoy arrived, arrayed in formal robes and riding a gorgeously caparisoned white horse. He wasn’t much of a horseman, and the horse knew it. He drew himself upright in the saddle in preparation for his grand pronouncement and promptly slipped off as the animal side-stepped. I’ll give him credit; he didn’t let it rattle him. He just stood up, shook his robes out, and bellowed, “Dragon! Come out; we have come to speak with you!” I winced at his tone of command and use of the imperial “we.” Did he not remember that he was speaking to a creature that was old before the capital city was built and outweighed him by tons? And hadn’t his parents even taught him to say please?

  The dragon evidently felt the same. It spoke a single word: “NO.” The punctuation was supplied by a puff of smoke.

  “In the name of the king, I order you to come out!” bellowed the envoy.

  This time the smoke came with a heart of flame. It burned the small bush a few feet in front of the man to ash but did not so much as singe his robes. The control it demonstrated was breathtaking. “I SAID NO,” issued forth from the cavern, loud enough to shake the ground.

  The envoy may have been arrogant, but he wasn’t stupid. He turned around and left...without his horse, which had quite sensibly run off at the first whiff of smoke. I grinned to myself; I was liking that dragon better by the moment. I was also wondering if it wasn’t time to take matters into my own hands before the Council mucked it all up beyond recovery, and went directly to speak to my son before the envoy could try to somehow twist his ineptitude into heroism in his retelling of the tale.