Sorcery & Widgets: Science Fiction and Fantasy Collections 1 & 2

Sorcery & Widgets

Collections 1 & 2

by

Beth Powers

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Sorcery & Widgets: Collections 1 & 2

Copyright © 2019 Beth Powers

Claimed by the Sea copyright © 2016 by Beth Powers

First published in Deep Magic.

Konstantin copyright © 2012 by Beth Powers.

First published in Shelter of Daylight.

Dear Superhero copyright © 2015 by Beth Powers.

First published in Daily Science Fiction.

Racing the Sand copyright © 2012 by Beth Powers.

First published in Shelter of Daylight.

Retirement copyright © 2015 by Beth Powers.

First published in Outposts of Beyond.

A Small Kindness copyright © 2016 by Beth Powers.

First published in FrostFire Worlds.

H²O copyright © 2014 by Beth Powers.

First published in Trysts of Fate.

Inheritance of Nightmares copyright © 2018 by Beth Powers.

First published in Fell Beasts and Fair.

Sparkles copyright © 2013 by Beth Powers.

First published in Outposts of Beyond.

Changing Keys copyright © 2015 by Beth Powers.

First published in Outposts of Beyond.

Nothing Altered copyright © 2013 by Beth Powers.

First published in Plasma Frequency.

The Day the Future Invaded copyright © 2016 by Beth Powers.

First published in Daily Science Fiction.

Trying to Fly copyright © 2014 by Beth Powers.

First published as an ebook.

Running Into the Rain copyright © 2016 by Beth Powers.

First published in Aurealis.

Captain Sable’s Crew copyright © 2014 by Beth Powers.

First published in FrostFire Worlds.

A Prophecy and the People copyright © 2018 by Beth Powers.

First published in Outposts of Beyond.

All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the written consent of the author except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles or reviews. For information, please contact the author at bethpowers.com.

Cover Design by Beth Powers

First published, October 2019, revised October 2020

Published in the United States of America.

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is entirely coincidental.

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To my parents, Mike and Kim, who have helped make this collection possible in so many ways; and to all of the editors who first chose these stories to share with the world.

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Contents

Claimed by the Sea

Konstantin

Dear Superhero

Racing the Sand

Retirement

A Small Kindness

H²O

Inheritance of Nightmares

Sparkles

Changing Keys

Nothing Altered

The Day the Future Invaded

Trying to Fly

Running Into the Rain

Captain Sable’s Crew

A Prophecy and the People

About the Author

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Claimed by the Sea

The fisherfolk wanted to leave the body where it lay in the wet sand by the edge of the tide. It was bad luck to save those already claimed by the sea, they insisted. Besides, they were searching for a child, and even at a distance, the body clearly belonged to an adult woman. They eyed the body warily, shook their heads, and moved on to continue the search farther up the beach.

But the mender hung back. Even with the walking stick, his limp caused him to make slow progress, leaving him at the back of the group that wound along the sand like a row of seabirds searching the shallows for dinner. He paused, still on dry sand, to study the body. If a gale had raged without reaching the shore, the mender would have felt it in his bad hip. Any closer and he would have gotten wet. He didn’t try to outrun the storms anymore. No, there had been no storm on the island to throw a ship against the reef that protected the bay, and no wreckage told the tale of a doomed vessel farther out to sea.

As the search continued on without him, the mender slipped out of his sandals and took a halting step forward, bracing himself for the chill of the approaching wavelet. Once his feet remembered the cold that never seemed to leave the sea, especially here in the northern waters, he waded in with his slow stuttering gait toward the motionless form. He had no intention of denying the sea her prize. He merely wanted a closer look, to see if the woman had legs or if she was some sort of fish creature found in the old tales and birthed by the sea.

Even as he reached her side, the mender still couldn’t tell. Her dark garments clung to her form in tatters, leaving long strips to dance with the incoming tide and obscure her lower half. He considered pulling her out of the surf to satisfy his curiosity, but he doubted the strength in his leg would be up to the task. The undertow dragged sand from beneath his bare feet, and were it not for the walking stick, waves that barely reached halfway to his knees would have threatened to topple him.

As he contemplated his precarious position, the mender caught sight of toes in the foam of a retreating wave as the sea pulled at the stranger, trying to reclaim her prize.

The mender shifted momentarily toward the horizon, leaning more heavily on the stick for balance as he breathed in the smell of salt and let the sea spray mist his face. He inclined his head slightly. The sea had spoken; the mender would not interfere with her claim.

Turning carefully, he stepped around the crown of feathery dark hair, which hid the woman’s features from view and branched out like the tentacles of a sea creature trying to hinder his already uncertain steps. Momentarily mesmerized by the movement of hair and cloth, the mender caught a glimpse of a dark crescent marring the pale skin of the woman’s upper arm. At the sight of it, the mender’s blood ran colder than the seawater that lapped at his ankles.

The stranger wore the islands on her arm. Guardian.

Without taking his eyes from the spot, once again obscured by torn fabric, he tried to call to the others. His voice failed to issue from his damaged throat in anything above a harsh whisper. He paused, carefully inhaled a deep breath of salty-wet air from the sea, and putting his power behind it, the mender tried again. The result was painful on his abused throat, but his voice carried down the beach, and the last of the searching fisherfolk turned back. Heedless of the water, the mender dropped to his knees, abandoning the walking stick to the tide, and tried ineffectually to move the waterlogged body that was firmly anchored by the sand.

Mender, you cannot defy the wishes of the sea, a returning woman chided him from dry land. She had turned at his shout and retraced her steps, but she made no move to assist him. Instead, she stood on the shore with one hand raised to shade her eyes against the sun. We need to finish searching this part of the beach before the tide comes in at sunset, she reminded him patiently as though wading out into the waves was perfectly natural and he simply needed to be directed back on course. Practical, imperturbable Kirsi. Normally, the mender appreciated that about her.

No, he tried to respond, but his voice came out in a croak, and he shook his head as it set him to coughing. When he could continue, he explained, She’s a Guardian! The mender couldn’t see Kirsi’s eyes, but her mouth opened and closed without speaking. After a pause to call to the rest of the fisherfolk, she gathered her skirts and splashed out to join him, shoes and all.

Guardian. Guardians protected the islands. Guardians called dragons from the sky.

Itziar swam through fevered dreams. Tumbled and tossed, attacked on all sides by unseen sharp objects. For long stretches of time, she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs burned until she encountered a fleeting pocket of air that was snatched away too soon, causing more salt water to burn down her nose and mouth. She tried to cough, to expel it, but there was only more, more, more. It was everywhere.

Questions drifted toward her, spoken by voices she didn’t recognize. They drifted up from the dark water that swirled her around. The words were different, but the meaning was always the same. What happened? What happened, Itziar? What did you do? Slowly, the dark water drained away to be replaced by a myriad of faces—attractive and plain, striking and common, and one that looked like she felt—haggard like a scrap of wet shoe leather left in the sun too long.

None of the faces remained stable. One moment, stormy gray eyes looked out from a delicately freckled face, which was surrounded by soft short curls that seemed to have taken their inspiration from the pelt of a seal and reminded her of the feeling of salt when it dried on the skin. In the next instant, that face was replaced by eyes the blue-green color of the southern sea set in features built from the scrap of old shoe leather and framed by wispy strawberry-blond curls. That face would stay long enough to raise the hair on the back of Itziar’s neck and ask its question before swirling back into the mix of features. The pale green eyes were always laughing and brought with them a smell that blended many fragrant flowers. The unkempt stringy dark hair was accompanied by a sense of displeasure, but also kindness. The soft sun-kissed brown skin never lost the tension in its jaw, nor the attractiveness of its features.

But it didn’t matter how many different combinations presented themselves. They all demanded something Itziar couldn’t give. Each cycled back to silence, accompanied by the image of a woman: intricate black braids that tamed wild curls, the too-still, broken rune–covered features, and eyes that would have been brown had they been open. Of them all, that was the only face Itziar recognized.

Some part of Itziar knew that when her strength and magic had failed, she had plummeted into the sea. She only wished that it would stop tormenting her and finish its task. After countless tides of faces, she came to realize that it wasn’t the sea that held her in its grasp. She no longer felt the mad desperation of lungs burning for air, or the chaotic tumble of the relentless surf. No, her body was racked with a different kind of pain: shivering-hot fever chills laced with fire-hot slices of wounds, new and old.

At some point, she managed to outrun the pain enough—or maybe she took to her dragon form and flew—to leave the fever dreams behind. Not a single face haunted her slumber.

Itziar’s first thought upon waking was how thirsty she felt. But her eyeballs scratched against her eyelids like sand whenever they moved, so she left them closed and still. She pushed aside the thirst and ignored the aches and pains at the edges of her awareness, kept at bay by something numb and pleasant that crackled through her. Her own magic allowed her to feel other magic, but the lingering smell of food distracted her from determining whether the crackling feeling came from whatever was numbing her wounds or from something—or someone—else nearby.

She suspected there might be more than one source, because along with the hair-raising crackle, she felt an undercurrent of the tight sensation produced when ocean water dried on skin. Both were laced with the distinct buzz that told her magic or a magic user was close.

Near her head, a chair creaked, and she decided to open her eyes to find out more.

Well met, the man said, his voice low and gravelly. His face was composed of fragments of the fever dream that had never quite aligned—storm-gray eyes set in old shoe leather surrounded by unkempt stringy dark hair that failed to be contained by its tie. The old shoe leather skin and the lines around his eyes made him seem older at first, but upon a closer inspection, Itziar suspected him to be closer to her age, around his mid-thirties. At the moment, the expression mixed understanding and caution. He set aside the piece of cloth—it looked to be a garment of some sort—he had been mending, and added, Welcome, Guardian.

Don’t call me that, Itziar said, her voice coming out dry and harsh, as though unused, but the anger and pain behind her words didn’t diminish.

His eyebrows drew together, and Itziar could see a question forming on his lips, but something drew his attention to the other side of the bed. Itziar heard it too and shifted, startled to find another man, slightly younger than the first, on her other side. He held out a clay mug, nodding for her to take it before he spared a scowl at the man who had spoken. This one accounted for soft seal curls, blue-green eyes, and sun-kissed brown skin. These features worked in harmony to form a uniquely beautiful face.

Thank you, Itziar croaked, her voice seeming to lose ground against the dry patch, as she took the mug. She drank before adding, I’m Itziar. Only pausing slightly before looking back to include the first speaker in her introduction as well. She could hardly blame him for calling her Guardian if she didn’t give him another name to use.

The man had already moved to retrieve his work, but he paused before pulling out the needle and nodded to his companion, adding in a voice that maintained its rough tone, We call him Nalu. He doesn’t speak. With that, he returned to his task.

And you? Itziar asked, her voice leveling out at something akin to its usual low pitch.

He raised an eyebrow, holding up the garment, which she could now see was a child’s dress, and said, I’m the mender. Itziar noticed that while the rest of the room was sparsely furnished, collections of tools and materials clustered here and there. She wondered if it was a workshop of some kind.

Is she awake, Mender? The owner of the remaining features—strawberry-blond wisps, freckles, laughing green eyes, and the scent of flowers—breezed in with a basket on each arm. Without waiting for an answer, she asked Itziar, Is he giving you a hard time? In addition to the smell of flowers that seemed to belong to her, Itziar caught the scent of baked goods. Her stomach rumbled, distracting her from the question and causing her to wonder how long it had been since she had eaten. It didn’t seem to matter that she hadn’t responded as the woman shot the mender a scolding look before turning back to Itziar. I’m Kirsikka. You can call me Kirsi. Don’t let this crusty old salt make you nervous. She dropped one basket unceremoniously on the mender’s lap and set the other on the end of the bed, opening it and causing the smell of bread to increase tenfold. He’s just hungry. She tossed the mender what appeared to be a roll without looking. He was in the process of setting her other basket on the floor and almost didn’t look up in time to catch it.

But he did, and Itziar thought she caught a smile before his expression vanished into chewing as he took a quick bite. Kirsi handed Nalu and Itziar a roll, keeping one for herself.

I would have brought more, she explained as she retrieved a chair from the corner and positioned it at the end of the bed, but I didn’t know you’d be up and about today.

Itziar shook her head as she struggled to pull herself into a sitting position, discovering several wounds that she didn’t remember and a few that she did in the process. Don’t worry, I don’t think I’m likely to be up and about just yet. She took a bite of her roll—it was sweet and flaky and warm.

Itziar remembered the rocks near the shore. The ocean had smashed her against them as she came in with the tide. She had barely noticed in the confusion—she was trying too hard to keep her head above water—but the rocks must have scraped her arm and her side. Her bandaged right hand ghosted over the matching bandages on her left thigh. Underneath, she felt a dull sting that echoed the one on the side of her face. Burns. She remembered getting those.

Kirsi—Itziar wasn’t sure she had paused for a breath—switched tracks. That was a nasty burn—looked like it got infected before you were dumped in the ocean. Otherwise, the salt would have cleaned it out. Right, Mender?

The man nodded without comment, his hands alternating between eating the roll and mending the dress, but he spared a few intent glances in Itziar’s direction.

I make sure he doesn’t starve, Kirsi explained as though Itziar had inquired into their relationship, and he teaches me how to sew without making the cloth all lumpy. She wrinkled her nose at the thought before adding wistfully, And sometimes, he tells me of the sea.

Using salt water to clean wounds is hardly a riveting tale, the mender returned dryly.

Believe me, Kirsi assured Itziar. Any story is impressive when you normally have to pry more than two words out of a person.

Immhmmm, Itziar responded with a noncommittal noise while trying to hide her own bemused expression. She couldn’t imagine most people would get the chance to say more than one word in a conversation with Kirsi.

Kirsi, the mender quietly interrupted. It took her a minute to wind down before he could ask, What’s the news? A shadow that hadn’t been present during their earlier banter deepened the lines around his eyes and mouth.

Kirsi’s expression sobered as well before she responded, Not good, Mender. There have been no signs of the first two, and another has been taken since. Kirsi’s eyes darted from Itziar to Nalu, whom Itziar had almost forgotten sat on her other side quietly munching his roll. Now is not a good time to be an outsider in this village, she told them quietly.

Do they need help with the searching? the mender asked. I’m willing to do what I can, he offered, gesturing to the door, but Itziar didn’t understand the reference—all she saw was a walking stick and a cloak.

People are disappearing? Itziar started to ask, struggling to pull herself further upright. She had forgotten about the burn on her palm, and her arm collapsed beneath her, dropping her weight on the bed and sending a spasm out from one of the wounds on her back. One jerky movement in an effort to alleviate that pain threw her off the side of the bed. Everyone in the room rushed toward her, but only Nalu was fast enough to catch her before she hit the ground. Before the sparks of pain overwhelmed her senses, she had a clear view of his handsome face and his concerned blue-green eyes.

The next time she awoke, Itziar found Nalu alone in his former position beside her bed. He gave her a quick bright smile, left the room through a door she hadn’t noticed before, and returned moments later with the mender. The mender’s gait was halting, as though one leg didn’t work properly, and he carried a steaming plate of food. Setting it on the bed, he helped Itziar sit up before resuming his seat. While she ate, he asked how her wounds were feeling, and she assured him they were much better. The pain had dulled to a background annoyance, and she no longer felt the buzz of healing magic, so she suspected that whatever it was had done its part.

When Itziar finished eating awkwardly with her left hand, Nalu took her empty plate and disappeared through the second door. The salt-on-skin feeling vanished with him, leaving only the hair-raising crackle of nearby magic. Itziar quietly decided that both men had power, and the former belonged to Nalu, while the latter signaled that of the mender.

Itziar realized she had been staring at the mender when he asked, How would you like to stretch your legs?

Carefully swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, Itziar assured him, If I can walk, I’ll be on my way. I’ve imposed on your hospitality long enough. She added more quietly as she stood, You don’t want the kind of destruction I bring.

Putting a hand under her elbow, the mender steadied her before retrieving the intricately carved walking stick that stood by the door. He handed it to her with a nod of agreement and said, Okay, let’s see how far you make it.

She took the stick, surprised that he hadn’t protested.

I won’t chase you, he told her, limping toward the far corner where another, plainer, walking stick rested before adding, but if you walk slow enough for me to keep up, I’ll help you back when your strength gives out.

Itziar started forward, wincing at the tendrils of pain that spiderwebbed out from the burned area that ran the length of her left leg. It remained steady with each step. Itziar waited for the mender at the door in tacit agreement to his plan. As it turned out, the fastest pace she could manage was about the same as his. As they walked, she studied him and decided that whatever had caused his limp was an old wound. He had a few scars on his weather-beaten face, and they traced down into the out-of-season scarf he wore around his neck, which made her suspect there were more that she couldn’t see. As she watched the determined set of his mouth and the pain-filled creases on his face, she decided not to ask, knowing that old wounds could hurt just as much as fresh ones.

They only made it as far as the edge of the trees that day, but over the course of the next week, their walks became a daily routine. When they made it close enough to smell the sea, Itziar asked about the missing children. Three had been taken during heavy nighttime rains in the last month. The water obliterated all traces that might have remained.

At first, they suspected me, he explained. He didn’t tell her why he would be worthy of suspicion, and he didn’t need to—the mender might have lived here for years, but it wasn’t difficult to see that he was still an outsider among the fisherfolk. It was easy to convince them otherwise. They know I do not have the physical strength to wrestle a child away from its home.

But do they know you have the power?

She hadn’t meant the question to be accusing—she didn’t think it likely that he was stealing children—but he glanced at her sharply, pulled his mouth tight, and didn’t respond.

Do they not know? she asked, genuinely curious. She was fairly certain his power had helped mend her wounds. How could the fisherfolk not suspect that their mender had a little bit of healer in him? I felt the wards around your house, she explained. They’re strong.

He nodded thoughtfully, studying her a bit longer than necessary. Itziar hoped that he didn’t know which kinds of magic users could feel the power of others. The wards are in place to keep Nalu inside the house. The village also suspects him—we found him shortly after the first child was taken. I bound him inside the house because if left to roam free, he tries to throw himself into the ocean. But now the wards serve an additional purpose. They hold, proving that it is not he who is snatching children in the night.

Itziar chose not to tell him that she was pretty sure Nalu had the power to break through the wards, perhaps even to rework them unnoticed. She had already told him too much about herself, and she didn’t want him to guess what she was. Besides, Nalu had been nothing but kind and gentle toward her. She doubted that he was guilty of this.

Itziar had another reason for keeping her secrets safe. Although the mender hadn’t accused her directly, outsiders were suspects. She would be on the village’s list, and she didn’t need to make them more suspicious by revealing her other set of powers. It was better that they believed her to be a Guardian, tasked with protecting the islands.

In the evenings, the mender worked quietly on his ever-constant pile of garments. As near as Itziar could tell, Kirsi brought him the linens of the entire village to repair, but he never objected, simply applying himself to them one at a time. Itziar considered offering to help, but she didn’t know the first thing about sewing. She’d always been better at tearing things apart than putting them together.

Without work of her own, Itziar usually sat on the bed playing sea stones and glass against Nalu on a small homemade board. While Nalu didn’t speak, Itziar rarely had difficulty reading the enjoyment in his expression and his sparkling eyes as he beat her time and again. Occasionally, Kirsi joined them—the mender was apparently