Endeavors of Will Read online

  The Prince smiled wearily and shambled from the room, leaving Thomas at last free to cry.

  Princess Gwendolyn arrived precisely at noon. It was lamentable that she chose to display her lack of sensibilities by riding in before a gilt-and-silver carriage, horsed and outfitted like a man, long cloak flung back to reveal her lack of figure, set off handsomely--if indeed she had been a man instead of a great, unwed girl of twenty--in dark blue tunic and hose, sword at her side, bow slung in the saddle at her knee.

  The Prince, watching from the library balcony, winced as the Prime Minister approached Her Majesty’s horse and made to assist her dismounting.

  She waved him aside, swung down, and murmured something in the ear of the stableboy that wreathed the lad’s face in unexpected smiles. The Prime Minister, meantime, approached the carriage and handed out a portly and regal blue-haired lady who could only have been Aunt Astra. She rewarded His Grace with a brilliant smile and kept his arm firmly in hers, allowing him to guide her delicately through the crowd and out of the Prince’s sight, Gwendolyn striding along behind.

  The Prince considered suicide again, rejected it, and went to prepare for dinner.

  * * *

  THE PRINCE SAT at his father’s right, with Gwendolyn at his right. Aunt Astra sat at the King’s left and immediately began to weave a web of elegant and sprightly gossip, leaving the Prince and Princess free to speak to each other. The Prince watched Gwendolyn out of the corner of his bloodshot eye.

  She was obviously uncomfortable in her blue silk and seed-pearl gown, and spent a good deal of effort keeping the flowing sleeves out of soups and gravies. She ate with robust good appetite, however, and seemed disinclined to speak with anyone.

  She wouldn’t even look at the Prince.

  The meal wore on. Aunt Astra and the King talked and laughed much. The Prince was aware of the eyes of the Court upon him. He knew that something momentous was expected, but could not recall exactly what it was. His head buzzed and his eyes burned; sleep seemed but a few deep breaths away, and to aid its coming he drank rather more wine than usual. It only made his head muzzier. He thought he should retire before making an utter fool of himself, but could think of no way to do so gracefully.

  Something stroked his sleeve. He glanced down to see a large, unwomanly hand resting there. He raised his eyes to her face. Heavy brows pulled together over disconcertingly direct brown eyes. She seemed to understand his weariness and confusion at once, and leaned over to murmur in his ear:

  "I think we could both use a little fresh air, don’t you? A walk through the garden is a valid remedy, I’m sure, for two heads gone fuzzy with the wine. Especially our two heads ... this evening, at least."

  The Prince was speechless in gratitude. Here was thought at its finest. Perhaps there was something to this girl, after all. He leaned to his father’s ear and whispered their excuses. The old man beamed at them and nodded. Gwen remembered to stay seated until the Prince came ’round to hold her chair. She took his arm and steadied him as they walked from the room.

  The evening was brisk, and the Prince’s head cleared a bit of wine-mist, though the bone-grinding weariness remained. They took several slow turns about the patio, then set off down the path between the flowerbeds.

  He stood with his shoulders braced against the crushing sleepiness and let her exclaim over the blossoms--almost like a proper woman, he thought--and touch them with one gentle forefinger. She slanted a look upward to him, inviting him to share an especially lovely bloom; but her face closed suddenly, and she moved to a bench and sat, patting the seat at her side.

  He folded himself with a sigh.

  Gwendolyn turned to face him, and said, in a small, humble voice, "Is it so bad, then, the thought of marrying me?"

  The Prince swallowed his gasp. Curse her forwardness! Why had she been taught no manners? "Well, of course, it is the shock of the thing, I suppose. The, mmm, the taking away of a choice that one had assumed was one’s own...."

  "And you would not have chosen me, I know." She cut off his protest with a wave of her never-still hands. "Of course you wouldn’t. Who would? Every other country that desired alliance with Orelewon found other means to manage it. But your father judged it best that we wed. And perhaps he is right. Tyka is small and my half-brother inclined to be greedy. Without my father to hold the reins, one day ..." she sketched a quick sign of the cross.

  "Ah, well, my Prince. May there be peace between us, as between our homelands."

  She was taking this far too calmly. Was it proper for a woman to know the mechanism by which she lived? The Prince tried to think logically through the fog of unslept nights. Useless, useless.

  "You’re quite formidable, you know," the girl was saying, still in that apologetic voice. "The catch of the season, Aunt Astra says." Her mouth twitched as if she would smile, then went limp again. "There’s no reason you should want to marry me. Except the politics." She looked at him, eye to eye.

  His mind was awash with weariness; he could think of no way to ease the sorrow he saw in her. She sighed. "I’ll never question you. Prince. But I ask you not to shame me."

  This was surely too much. From some inner reserve he brought forth what remained of his wit, his nobility. "Here, now. Here, now--what’s this? Why, looks aren’t everything, as my old nurse used to say. God knows you’ve a quick enough mind . . . and a pleasant way about you, for that matter." He was almost fully awake.

  "I’m not the man to shame any woman. Would I do less by my wife? Let’s have an end to that nonsense right now, my girl. Wed we’ll be, in line with our parents’ wishes, but there’s no demand made that we be unhappy with the match. Why," he said, suddenly knowing it to be true, "I believe I rather like you."

  Her smile almost dissolved the sleepfog. Still, he was a bit puzzled as she leaned forward. Noting his confusion, she hesitated, then leaned even closer and planted her lips firmly on his.

  A moment later, she pulled back, eyes wide, as the Prince slid off the bench to stretch across the garden path, head pillowed in a bed of marigolds, face serene in sleep.

  First published in Fantasy Book, May 1981

  Cards

  THE CARDS fall in their own design for eyes like mine to read;

  Lovers, Jester, Mooncard, Death--

  Sweep those words away.

  Regather all into your hand,

  Mix them, back to face...

  Lovers, Clown, Full Moon and Death --

  Again?

  No, let them rest.

  Light the candle,

  Stroke the cat,

  Begin your working day.

  Love and Laughter,

  Peace and Sleep

  The cards were kind.

  Today

  First published in Amazing Stories, September 1981

  About this Book

  Fiction writers are in a strange business -- one with deadlines but without timeclocks -- and one where success may often be measured over months and years rather than at the end of a quarter. Some fiction writers measure their careers in numbers of stories, numbers of books, numbers of words -- with statistics.

  For writers there's rarely a chance for direct applause, rarely a stadium full of appreciation, never an instant replay, and hardly ever a curtain call.

  Well, hardly ever. The writer's "curtain call" comes in the form of extra printings, and in reprints, from editors asking "What else do you have for me" and from readers asking "where can I find the rest of your stories?"

  Sharon's been asked that question, and until now has only been able point to Variations Three -- her first chapbook -- and to the piles of hard-to-impossible to find magazines from the past.

  Endeavors of Will collects some of the rest of the stories of Sharon's science fiction career, which started 20 years ago. The statistics fans can see that not all of Sharon's stories are here -- but here are some of the hardest to find, those from the smaller and often long dead publications that litter the recent history o
f the SF field.

  Casual readers of Sharon's recent work will see familiar themes and motifs. Readers of the Liaden Universe books and stories will find semi-familiar characters and an ongoing joy of wordplay and subtle humor. More sercon readers may try to trace influences -- there a Bradbury-inspired story, there a Norton-inspired story, and there a Zelaznyesque idea -- and thus track stages of her growth.

  Whatever kind of reader, we think you'll see why Sharon's writing career is still in bloom 20 years after its start.

  -- Steve Miller

  May, 2000

 

 

  Sharon Lee, Endeavors of Will

 

 

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