an_alien_sky (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} an_alien_sky) wrote,@ 2005-11-13 01:07:00 |
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quenching
This tale was **stolen** by Marion Zimmer Bradley & one of her pet writers for one of the Sword & Sorceress anthologies (#13, I think it was). I'd sent it in, and it got rejected with no reason given. But they took it and rewrote it; the idea, the plot, the characters, the situation, even the frickin' dialogue were all there in chunks & lines & recognizable. Bitch. I've since heard from a couple other writers that MZB had done the same to them. Double-bitch, and I hope she's rotting as worm-shit by now.
It hurt worse when a lawyer told me that I basically had no legal recourse -- completely untrue, I know now.
---------------
“Power,” he said. “That is what I want.”
For all that the man facing her was lord of the land, he was a skinny wretch, pale and sickly, with pimples spattered across his cheek and nose. She would have preferred other company, but the fates had decreed otherwise. For the moment, anyway. She looked out her cell window at what would be her final company, the stake and piled wood awaiting her burning in the courtyard. “A care what you wish,” she murmured, “you will get it.”
“Aptly spoken, witch,” he said. “But are you truly witch enough to grant such wishes?”
“Do I look as such?” she countered.
He eyed her. “No,” he said finally. “You are tall and plain. Not a great beauty, nor a hag.”
“You are the expert in witchery, of course.” She turned away to study the sigil-etched stone of her cell -- useless sigils, in her case, given her limitations.
His hand gripped her arm, forcing her to face him again. “But you are. I know you are.”
She looked into his rheumy eyes, and saw desperation -- not that she cared. But she was honest, after all. “You may say I claim that title. Truer to say it claimed me.”
“As I thought,” he breathed. “Then grant me my wish. Grant me power.”
“Power?” Her upraised arm took in the sigil-etched stone, the cold iron bars, the warded guards. “You ask a prisoner for power?”
“I do not ask,” he said. “I demand. You will grant it.”
“You will lose your soul, consorting with me,” she said sarcastically.
“I do not believe in that nonsense.”
“For all your non-belief, I am still here.”
“Politics,” he said, excuse and explanation both.
The explanation, she knew. The excuse, she would not accept. “So is this ‘politics’ the reason you confront me now?”
He ignored that. “Enough, witch. Grant me the power I ask.”
“Or what? I will burn?” Laughter shook her in harsh, hacking spasms. “I will do that already. You cannot stop that -- now. You ensured that.”
“You will grant it,” he said, “because I ask.”
Her mouth thinned at his reminder of her weakness -- to use her gift only for others, never for herself, and to use it for all who asked. Her gift, her curse, and her undoing. “Because you ask,” she conceded bitterly.
“Then grant.”
“You have power already, my lord.” Her mouth twisted on the title. “What more do you desire?”
“It is not enough!”
“Of course,” she said. “But to my poor eye, all power is the same. Describe the power you want, m’lord.”
He scowled at her, as if looking for deception. “I want power over all that lives. I want to tear down mountains, to humble the proud. To feed my realm when times are lean and to scourge those who would rein me in. That is what I want, witch, and you will grant it!”
“That is all? You are certain?”
“Of course I’m certain,” he snapped. “That is what I want. Now grant it.”
She stepped away from the sigil-etched stone, towards him. To his credit, he did not flinch -- not that she cared about that, either. “Then, m’lord,” she said, drawing the land’s energy in around her, “listen carefully: rain and flood and gentle stream, power is not what you seem.”
“What nonsense is that?”
But then she let the energy go, saw it wash over him, saw his face shock in fear. He had time for a loud, surprised shriek of betrayal and terror before the change took hold, and the shriek gurgled to silence.
Carefully, her legs trembling from exhaustion, she stepped around what used to be the ruling lord. Daintily, she bent to scoop him into her hands, just as the guards burst into her cell. She would still burn; she could not avoid that. But now this lord would not see it, could not gloat his triumph over her and her kin.
She would take him with her.
The guards stopped short, seeing their lord vanished and only the witch standing there, her hands cupped in front of her.
“Here now,” one said gruffly. “Where is he, witch? And what you got there?”
“Just water,” she said.
And drank.
This tale was **stolen** by Marion Zimmer Bradley & one of her pet writers for one of the Sword & Sorceress anthologies (#13, I think it was). I'd sent it in, and it got rejected with no reason given. But they took it and rewrote it; the idea, the plot, the characters, the situation, even the frickin' dialogue were all there in chunks & lines & recognizable. Bitch. I've since heard from a couple other writers that MZB had done the same to them. Double-bitch, and I hope she's rotting as worm-shit by now.
It hurt worse when a lawyer told me that I basically had no legal recourse -- completely untrue, I know now.
---------------
“Power,” he said. “That is what I want.”
For all that the man facing her was lord of the land, he was a skinny wretch, pale and sickly, with pimples spattered across his cheek and nose. She would have preferred other company, but the fates had decreed otherwise. For the moment, anyway. She looked out her cell window at what would be her final company, the stake and piled wood awaiting her burning in the courtyard. “A care what you wish,” she murmured, “you will get it.”
“Aptly spoken, witch,” he said. “But are you truly witch enough to grant such wishes?”
“Do I look as such?” she countered.
He eyed her. “No,” he said finally. “You are tall and plain. Not a great beauty, nor a hag.”
“You are the expert in witchery, of course.” She turned away to study the sigil-etched stone of her cell -- useless sigils, in her case, given her limitations.
His hand gripped her arm, forcing her to face him again. “But you are. I know you are.”
She looked into his rheumy eyes, and saw desperation -- not that she cared. But she was honest, after all. “You may say I claim that title. Truer to say it claimed me.”
“As I thought,” he breathed. “Then grant me my wish. Grant me power.”
“Power?” Her upraised arm took in the sigil-etched stone, the cold iron bars, the warded guards. “You ask a prisoner for power?”
“I do not ask,” he said. “I demand. You will grant it.”
“You will lose your soul, consorting with me,” she said sarcastically.
“I do not believe in that nonsense.”
“For all your non-belief, I am still here.”
“Politics,” he said, excuse and explanation both.
The explanation, she knew. The excuse, she would not accept. “So is this ‘politics’ the reason you confront me now?”
He ignored that. “Enough, witch. Grant me the power I ask.”
“Or what? I will burn?” Laughter shook her in harsh, hacking spasms. “I will do that already. You cannot stop that -- now. You ensured that.”
“You will grant it,” he said, “because I ask.”
Her mouth thinned at his reminder of her weakness -- to use her gift only for others, never for herself, and to use it for all who asked. Her gift, her curse, and her undoing. “Because you ask,” she conceded bitterly.
“Then grant.”
“You have power already, my lord.” Her mouth twisted on the title. “What more do you desire?”
“It is not enough!”
“Of course,” she said. “But to my poor eye, all power is the same. Describe the power you want, m’lord.”
He scowled at her, as if looking for deception. “I want power over all that lives. I want to tear down mountains, to humble the proud. To feed my realm when times are lean and to scourge those who would rein me in. That is what I want, witch, and you will grant it!”
“That is all? You are certain?”
“Of course I’m certain,” he snapped. “That is what I want. Now grant it.”
She stepped away from the sigil-etched stone, towards him. To his credit, he did not flinch -- not that she cared about that, either. “Then, m’lord,” she said, drawing the land’s energy in around her, “listen carefully: rain and flood and gentle stream, power is not what you seem.”
“What nonsense is that?”
But then she let the energy go, saw it wash over him, saw his face shock in fear. He had time for a loud, surprised shriek of betrayal and terror before the change took hold, and the shriek gurgled to silence.
Carefully, her legs trembling from exhaustion, she stepped around what used to be the ruling lord. Daintily, she bent to scoop him into her hands, just as the guards burst into her cell. She would still burn; she could not avoid that. But now this lord would not see it, could not gloat his triumph over her and her kin.
She would take him with her.
The guards stopped short, seeing their lord vanished and only the witch standing there, her hands cupped in front of her.
“Here now,” one said gruffly. “Where is he, witch? And what you got there?”
“Just water,” she said.
And drank.
