Songs of Love & Death by George R. R. Martin, Gardner Dozois Page A

to rape her, and here in his house there would be no noble Sir Robert to stand between. She felt her own hot tears on her cold cheeks.
    He kissed them. “Don’t be afraid, love. I won’t harm you. But I had to bring you here. I had to try.”
    He put her down on the steps to open the door, but only for amoment and still swaddled, so her feeble struggles achieved nothing. They entered total darkness, but he must know it well. Of course he did.
    Then wild candlelight showed a high, painted ceiling. “My boy, my boy! You’re home and with your bride. Praise be to God!”
    Martha turned her head and saw a tousled-haired man in a night robe, candle in hand.
    “Welcome, my dear, welcome. Oh, happy day. But why such a journey? The poor girl must be chilled through. Bring her up, bring her up. She can lie in my bed for now.”
    “No!” Martha cried. Not the father, too.
    “No,” Rob Loxsleigh said. “I must take her to the old hall.”
    “The old hall? She’ll catch a lung fever.”
    “I hope she’ll catch credulity.” Already striding across the entrance hall, he called, “The calendar change. It changed my birthday. We have no time! Bring brandy and water. Rouse the servants to prepare her a bed.”
    “Please,” Martha cried. “Please, don’t.”
    But he rushed forward into darkness, struggling to open doors, leaving them wide behind him, and all around her a cacophony of voices swelled—high voices, low voices, merry and angry, coaxing and threatening, tangled up in a song. In that song. Her nightmare song.
    A man growled, “He plans to rape you. Fight, mortal creature, fight!”
    She tried, but was helpless.
    Then Loxsleigh stopped. Small-paned windows let in a trace of light and Martha’s eyes were accustomed to the dark. They were in the ancient part of Five Oaks. And the nightmare song and creatures whirled around.
    A dream. This had to be a dream!
    He put her on her feet, supporting her still.
    The lady was there, the one in iridescent robes. She smiled like a Madonna, but with blank eyes. Titania.
    The man paced around them like the panther she’d seen in the Tower of London. “He cannot rape you. He’s too puny for that. You have only to resist.”
    Titania pressed close in a cloud of woodland perfume. “Dear child, you have only to surrender to Rob, to that which you most desire.” Her hand brushed Martha’s forehead and the dull throb there faded. The room seemed brighter by the moment, and all her senses heightened. The song turned sweet.
    “You love Rob Loxsleigh,” whispered the Queen of Faery. “He loves you. You were destined from birth. And the threat is real, dear child. Refuse and my lord will have his way.”
    “Then stop him.”
    “I have brought you together. Now it lies in your hands.”
    “You demand that I sin!”
    Titania laughed. “I demand nothing. It will annoy me if my lord wins this little contest, but there are many others.”
    Faery, Rob Loxsleigh had said, are not benign.
    Martha realized that whether the light came from a magical glow or from the fey folk themselves, she could see. The room was long and low and paneled in dark oak, but held no furniture. Rob stood nearby, wild haired and grim, watching her, but prepared, she understood, to abide by her decision.
    Here, now, she could not deny the reality of the threat. It showed in Titania’s heartless smile and in handsome Oberon’s simmering anticipation. He waited to exact revenge for an offence half a millennium old. Others flowed around the room and in and out of the dark walls, watching and chattering. They were enjoying the show, as people watch animals fight to the death simply for amusement.
    The unearthly song swelled—sweet, yes, but chanting both love and death.
    Martha turned to Rob. “They are vile. We must deny them both.”
    He took her hands. “Martha, Martha, they are as wind, wave, and lightning. Deny them if you will, but you will still die. Or rather I will, and my father. My uncle and