Read Online Legends: Stories By The Masters of Modern Fantasy by Robert Silverberg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Silverberg
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ye’re hungry!” Louise protested. “I’fee don’t eat, James, how will’ee get’ee strength back?”
“Send Jenna. I’ll eat what she brings.”
Sister Mary’s frown was black. “Ye’ll see her no more. She’s been released from Thoughtful House only on her solemn promise to double her time of meditation … and to stay out of infirmary. Now eat, James, or whoever ye are. Take what’s in the soup, or we’ll cut ye with knives and rub it in with flannel poultices. Either way, makes no difference to us. Does it, Louise?”
“Nar,” Louise said. She still held out the bowl. Steam rose from it, and the good smell of chicken.
“But it might make a difference to you.” Sister Mary grinned humorlessly,
baring her unnaturally large teeth. “Flowing blood’s risky around here. The doctors don’t like it. It stirs them up.”
It wasn’t just the bugs that were stirred up at the sight of blood, and Roland knew it. He also knew he had no choice in the matter of the soup. He took the bowl from Louise and ate slowly. He would have given much to wipe out the look of satisfaction he saw on Sister Mary’s face.
“Good,” she said after he had handed the bowl back and she had peered inside to make sure it was completely empty. His hand thumped back into the sling which had been rigged for it, already too heavy to hold up. He could feel the world drawing away again.
Sister Mary leaned forward, the billowing top of her habit touching the skin of his left shoulder. He could smell her, an aroma both ripe and dry, and would have gagged if he’d had the strength.
“Have that foul gold thing off ye when yer strength comes back a little—put it in the pissoir under the bed. Where it belongs. For to be even this close to where it lies hurts my head and makes my throat close.”
Speaking with enormous effort, Roland said, “If you want it, take it. How can I stop you, you bitch?”
Once more her frown turned her face into something like a thunderhead. He thought she would have slapped him, if she had dared touch him so close to where the medallion lay. Her ability to touch seemed to end above his waist, however.
“I think you had better consider the matter a little more fully,” she said. “I can still have Jenna whipped, if I like. She bears the Dark Bells, but I am the Big Sister. Consider that very well.”
She left. Sister Louise followed, casting one look—a strange combination of fright and lust—back over her shoulder.
Roland thought, I must get out of here—I must.
Instead, he drifted back to that dark place which wasn’t quite sleep. Or perhaps he did sleep, at least for a while; perhaps he dreamed. Fingers once more caressed his fingers, and lips first kissed his ear and then whispered into it: “Look beneath your pillow, Roland … but let no one know I was here.”
At some point after this, Roland opened his eyes again, half-expecting to see Sister Jenna’s pretty young face hovering above him. And that comma of dark hair once more poking out from beneath her
wimple. There was no one. The swags of silk overhead were at their brightest, and although it was impossible to tell the hours in here with any real accuracy, Roland guessed it to be around noon. Perhaps three hours since his second bowl of the Sisters’ soup.
Beside him, John Norman still slept, his breath whistling out in faint, nasal snores.
Roland tried to raise his hand and slide it under his pillow. The hand wouldn’t move. He could wiggle the tips of his fingers, but that was all. He waited, calming his mind as well as he could, gathering his patience. Patience wasn’t easy to come by. He kept thinking about what Norman had said—that there had been twenty survivors of the ambush … at least to start with. One by one they went, until only me and that one down yonder was left. And now you.
The girl wasn’t here . His mind spoke in the soft, regretful tone of Alain, one of his old friends, dead these many years now. She
“Send Jenna. I’ll eat what she brings.”
Sister Mary’s frown was black. “Ye’ll see her no more. She’s been released from Thoughtful House only on her solemn promise to double her time of meditation … and to stay out of infirmary. Now eat, James, or whoever ye are. Take what’s in the soup, or we’ll cut ye with knives and rub it in with flannel poultices. Either way, makes no difference to us. Does it, Louise?”
“Nar,” Louise said. She still held out the bowl. Steam rose from it, and the good smell of chicken.
“But it might make a difference to you.” Sister Mary grinned humorlessly,
baring her unnaturally large teeth. “Flowing blood’s risky around here. The doctors don’t like it. It stirs them up.”
It wasn’t just the bugs that were stirred up at the sight of blood, and Roland knew it. He also knew he had no choice in the matter of the soup. He took the bowl from Louise and ate slowly. He would have given much to wipe out the look of satisfaction he saw on Sister Mary’s face.
“Good,” she said after he had handed the bowl back and she had peered inside to make sure it was completely empty. His hand thumped back into the sling which had been rigged for it, already too heavy to hold up. He could feel the world drawing away again.
Sister Mary leaned forward, the billowing top of her habit touching the skin of his left shoulder. He could smell her, an aroma both ripe and dry, and would have gagged if he’d had the strength.
“Have that foul gold thing off ye when yer strength comes back a little—put it in the pissoir under the bed. Where it belongs. For to be even this close to where it lies hurts my head and makes my throat close.”
Speaking with enormous effort, Roland said, “If you want it, take it. How can I stop you, you bitch?”
Once more her frown turned her face into something like a thunderhead. He thought she would have slapped him, if she had dared touch him so close to where the medallion lay. Her ability to touch seemed to end above his waist, however.
“I think you had better consider the matter a little more fully,” she said. “I can still have Jenna whipped, if I like. She bears the Dark Bells, but I am the Big Sister. Consider that very well.”
She left. Sister Louise followed, casting one look—a strange combination of fright and lust—back over her shoulder.
Roland thought, I must get out of here—I must.
Instead, he drifted back to that dark place which wasn’t quite sleep. Or perhaps he did sleep, at least for a while; perhaps he dreamed. Fingers once more caressed his fingers, and lips first kissed his ear and then whispered into it: “Look beneath your pillow, Roland … but let no one know I was here.”
At some point after this, Roland opened his eyes again, half-expecting to see Sister Jenna’s pretty young face hovering above him. And that comma of dark hair once more poking out from beneath her
wimple. There was no one. The swags of silk overhead were at their brightest, and although it was impossible to tell the hours in here with any real accuracy, Roland guessed it to be around noon. Perhaps three hours since his second bowl of the Sisters’ soup.
Beside him, John Norman still slept, his breath whistling out in faint, nasal snores.
Roland tried to raise his hand and slide it under his pillow. The hand wouldn’t move. He could wiggle the tips of his fingers, but that was all. He waited, calming his mind as well as he could, gathering his patience. Patience wasn’t easy to come by. He kept thinking about what Norman had said—that there had been twenty survivors of the ambush … at least to start with. One by one they went, until only me and that one down yonder was left. And now you.
The girl wasn’t here . His mind spoke in the soft, regretful tone of Alain, one of his old friends, dead these many years now. She
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