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Book: Rags & Bones: New Twists on Timeless Tales by Melissa Marr and Tim Pratt
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Authors: Melissa Marr and Tim Pratt
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Kanselaire in weeks, in months, not years. But there was no such pass to be found and so, although the two kingdoms shared a common border, no travelers crossed from one kingdom to the next.
Even the dwarfs, who were tough, and hardy, and composedof magic as much as of flesh and blood, could not go over the mountain range.
This was not a problem for the dwarfs. They did not go over the mountain range. They went under it.
Three dwarfs were traveling as swiftly as one through the dark paths beneath the mountains.
“Hurry! Hurry!” said the dwarf in the rear. “We have to buyher the finest silken cloth in Dorimar. If we do not hurry, perhapsit will be sold, and we will be forced to buy her the second-finest cloth.”
“We know! We know!” said the dwarf in the front. “And we shall buy her a case to carry the cloth back in, so it will remain perfectly clean and untouched by dust.”
The dwarf in the middle said nothing. He was holding his stone tightly, not dropping it or losing it, and was concentrating on nothing else but this. Thestone was a ruby, rough-hewn from the rock and the size of a hen’s egg. It would be worth a kingdom when cut and set, and would be easily exchanged for the finest silks of Dorimar.
It had not occurred to the dwarfs to give the young queen anything they had dug themselves from beneath the earth. That would have been too easy, too routine. It’s the distance that makes a gift magical, so the dwarfsbelieved.
The queen woke early that morning.
“A week from today,” she said aloud. “A week from today, I shall be married.”
She wondered how she would feel to be a married woman.
It seemed both unlikely and extremely final. It would be the end of her life, she decided, if life was a time of choices. In a week from now she would have no choices. She would reign over her people. She would havechildren. Perhaps she would die in childbirth, perhaps she would die as an old woman, or in battle. But the path to her death, heartbeat by heartbeat, would be inevitable.
She could hear the carpenters in the meadows beneath the castle, building the seats that would allow her people to watch her marry. Each hammer blow sounded like a dull pounding of a huge heart.
The three dwarfs scrambledout of a hole in the side of the riverbank, and clambered up into the meadow, one, two, three. They climbed to the top of a granite outcrop, stretched, kicked, jumped, and stretched themselves once more. Then they sprinted north, toward the cluster of low buildings that made the village of Giff, and in particular to the village inn.
The innkeeper was their friend: they had brought him a bottleof Kanselaire wine—deep red, sweet and rich, and nothing like the sharp, pale wines of those parts—as they always did. He would feed them, and send them on their way, and advise them.
The innkeeper, chest as huge as his barrels, with a beard as bushy and as orange as a fox’s brush, was in the taproom. It was early in the morning, and on the dwarfs’ previous visits at that time of day the roomhad been empty, but now there must have been thirty people in that place, and not a one of them looked happy.
The dwarfs, who had expected to sidle into an empty taproom, found all eyes upon them.
“Goodmaster Foxen,” said the tallest dwarf to the innkeeper.
“Lads,” said the innkeeper, who thought that the dwarfs were boys, for all that they were four, perhaps five times his age, “I know youtravel the mountain passes. We need to get out of here.”
“What’s happening?” said the smallest of the dwarfs.
“Sleep!” said the sot by the window.
“Plague!” said a finely dressed woman.
“Doom!” exclaimed a tinker, his saucepans rattling as he spoke. “Doom is coming!”
“We travel to the capital,” said the tallest dwarf, who was no bigger than a child, and had no beard. “Is there plague in thecapital?”
“It is not plague,” said the sot by the window, whose beard was long and gray, and
Even the dwarfs, who were tough, and hardy, and composedof magic as much as of flesh and blood, could not go over the mountain range.
This was not a problem for the dwarfs. They did not go over the mountain range. They went under it.
Three dwarfs were traveling as swiftly as one through the dark paths beneath the mountains.
“Hurry! Hurry!” said the dwarf in the rear. “We have to buyher the finest silken cloth in Dorimar. If we do not hurry, perhapsit will be sold, and we will be forced to buy her the second-finest cloth.”
“We know! We know!” said the dwarf in the front. “And we shall buy her a case to carry the cloth back in, so it will remain perfectly clean and untouched by dust.”
The dwarf in the middle said nothing. He was holding his stone tightly, not dropping it or losing it, and was concentrating on nothing else but this. Thestone was a ruby, rough-hewn from the rock and the size of a hen’s egg. It would be worth a kingdom when cut and set, and would be easily exchanged for the finest silks of Dorimar.
It had not occurred to the dwarfs to give the young queen anything they had dug themselves from beneath the earth. That would have been too easy, too routine. It’s the distance that makes a gift magical, so the dwarfsbelieved.
The queen woke early that morning.
“A week from today,” she said aloud. “A week from today, I shall be married.”
She wondered how she would feel to be a married woman.
It seemed both unlikely and extremely final. It would be the end of her life, she decided, if life was a time of choices. In a week from now she would have no choices. She would reign over her people. She would havechildren. Perhaps she would die in childbirth, perhaps she would die as an old woman, or in battle. But the path to her death, heartbeat by heartbeat, would be inevitable.
She could hear the carpenters in the meadows beneath the castle, building the seats that would allow her people to watch her marry. Each hammer blow sounded like a dull pounding of a huge heart.
The three dwarfs scrambledout of a hole in the side of the riverbank, and clambered up into the meadow, one, two, three. They climbed to the top of a granite outcrop, stretched, kicked, jumped, and stretched themselves once more. Then they sprinted north, toward the cluster of low buildings that made the village of Giff, and in particular to the village inn.
The innkeeper was their friend: they had brought him a bottleof Kanselaire wine—deep red, sweet and rich, and nothing like the sharp, pale wines of those parts—as they always did. He would feed them, and send them on their way, and advise them.
The innkeeper, chest as huge as his barrels, with a beard as bushy and as orange as a fox’s brush, was in the taproom. It was early in the morning, and on the dwarfs’ previous visits at that time of day the roomhad been empty, but now there must have been thirty people in that place, and not a one of them looked happy.
The dwarfs, who had expected to sidle into an empty taproom, found all eyes upon them.
“Goodmaster Foxen,” said the tallest dwarf to the innkeeper.
“Lads,” said the innkeeper, who thought that the dwarfs were boys, for all that they were four, perhaps five times his age, “I know youtravel the mountain passes. We need to get out of here.”
“What’s happening?” said the smallest of the dwarfs.
“Sleep!” said the sot by the window.
“Plague!” said a finely dressed woman.
“Doom!” exclaimed a tinker, his saucepans rattling as he spoke. “Doom is coming!”
“We travel to the capital,” said the tallest dwarf, who was no bigger than a child, and had no beard. “Is there plague in thecapital?”
“It is not plague,” said the sot by the window, whose beard was long and gray, and