Kent Shelta

Muse

Kent Shelta had lived his life in the shadow of Lord British’s palace. Oldest son in a family of crafters, his mother a tailor to minor nobility, his father had forged steel blades for knights of both order and chaos. There had never been a question of what Kent would do with his life, only a matter of which of the artisans’ paths he would follow.

By the time he was twenty, he had shown surprising talent in all of the arts, his strong hands shaping wood and metal alike, his eye sure and keen in its appraisal of fabric and fletching, and by the time he turned twenty-five, Kent had surpassed his masters and been commended to the court. He had served there, living well if dully for several more years, though often it seemed to him that life felt strangely incomplete, the mastery of valorite and exotic hide not enough to chase away his daydreams.

Nor the dreams that filled his nights.

In those dreams, he lived in a dark tower in a forest, a place of strange magic and wild passion, at the beck and call of a woman of incomparable beauty, a dark-skinned siren whose song he was privileged to obey. After a time, the dreams began to seem as real as his waking life and he sought his bed at night as one might a doorway between rooms. In the Tower of Dreams, he had a lover, a half-elf woman with a taste for strong ale and rough play, and there were other women, desirable and willing. He built a clockwork giant like the ones the Jukas made, and he reveled in the presence of the dark woman who was all women, her skin scented with nightshade and her eyes the color of night-kissed seas.

But when he awoke, there was only Britain, only the same requisitions for boots and chairs, lanterns and hammers, the dust of the city streets and a succession of days, like beads of coal on a dull copper wire.

He began to believe that the dreams showed him another world and that he might travel there if he were to sleep and never wake and his fellows in the shop began to mock him and call him Noddy and Star-eyes, though he hardly heard them.

In the spring, his dreams changed, as though something in the fabric of the world had shifted subtly. He no longer dreamed of the tower, but of the common world around him made magical by a presence within it, dreams of lust so consuming it seemed enchantment. The dark-skinned woman filled his nights now, touching him, turning midnight to dawn with rites that woke him sweating and spent.

Kent considered seeing a priest to exorcise his nights, but his purpose evaporated when the dreams came, once or twice each month, vivid as life, and full of promise. He began to believe that the dreams were far more than night-born visions, but glimpses of possibility, and the curve of the wood beneath his chisel became the curve of a dark hip, the gleam of a shadow iron blade was the eye of the succubus, bright with invitation.

And then in the winter, at the solstice, a messenger brought Kent a letter, sealed with the emblem of an owl, with his name in script graceful and flowing.

The letter smelled of nightshade and he felt the world open even as he slit the envelope and read,
And he did not question, did not pause even to bid his family farewell, but loaded his tools into the pouch beneath Gregor’s carapace and headed south. Britain fell behind him, its dust and the empty lives of the court’s servants, the boots and lanterns, forks of gleaming gold that held food tasting of ashes. He traveled all the night and came to Trinsic just as the sun rose.

In the light of winter morning, all golden and white, the city might almost have been a dream.

Kent Shelta

Kent slept on the bear rug by the embers of the fire, among the lathes and racks of his labor, wakened in the morning by the soft padding of her footsteps, the faint creak of the old Post Office door as she opened it and came in. There was always a moment, when he woke, when he was not sure if he dreamed, that her arrival might betoken fever and flesh beyond anything he had ever known in Britain or the world of light.

The days fell into a familiar pattern and Trinsic already seemed like home. The world lay still in the grip of mid-winter, frozen and still, as though even spring resided in some other land entirely and summer was only a notion, a forgotten season that Kent had heard of but never felt.

Alraune would give him instructions in the morning for what she wished him to make and do, her eyes black and pure as midnight sky in summer, the curve of her smile as beautiful as she had ever been in dreams when she came to him and set his nights aflame. Then Kent would leave the old Post Office and take the short walk down the road, through the city gates, past the guards and the colorful lot of characters who lingered there, past the stocks where sometimes criminals served out their penance, to the smith's shop and the tailors for the goods and supplies he needed to do her will.

She and her man would often go away during the day, and Kent had no idea where they went, but sometimes Alraune would stay with Kent, guiding his work and even working beside him to move furniture into place, to hang a tapestry or arrange a table. She wore winter clothes, for the old stone building was chill in spite of the burning hearth, but he saw the lines of her body as he had so often seen it in dreams, beneath her clothing, like the true shape of life beneath the veil of waking illusion, radiant and perhaps unbearably beautiful to look upon, the stretch of an arm as she reached, the curve of her ankle where her skirt rode up, the line of her neck where he longed to press his lips.

Alraune had shown him some of the wider world already -- the taverns around Trinsic and one in Vesper that she described as rough but warm -- and he felt like a swimmer at the very edge of a great sea, a world filled with excitement and danger. Once he had happened upon the aftermath of a pitched battle at Trinsic gate -- not an episode in the ongoing war with Yew, but some bandit raid turned back by brave defenders -- and he had patched the armor of one of the heroes, a role he would gladly embrace in this city, his new home.

The Trinsic officials had been welcoming enough, selling him the work permit he needed and he had met women in the city who were fair to look on and who did not scorn him for being only a craftsman in a city of warriors. Kent could see the shape of his future in this city, but mostly there was his work for Alraune, every stroke, every stitch inspired by her, by the dreams she visited upon him, by the desire he felt for her.

Like fever, the hunger to make the dreams true, to touch her and kiss her and more. He did not want her as wife or even companion, though he sneered at the thought of the weakling whose bed she shared. He did not deserve her -- no man did. She was the embodiment of desire, meant for passion unbounded, the release of self that came only in the rarest of moments, the dream of pleasure so great that flesh fell away and one touched stars and the essence of beauty.

Each night, when Alraune left him, Kent longed for her. He did not speak at first, but he knew she felt the weight of his gaze, the urgent insistence of his longing for all her smile and her eyes promised.

"In dreams," she said, and the promise was fulfilled, bare angel of his nights descending upon him, hands and mouth of fire, opening the old building into worlds, dark and light and eternal until he hated waking, until he heard her footstep upon the threshold, her voice speaking his name to wake him.

After many nights, one evening in the hour nearest midnight, the entreaty of his heart found words and he spoke to her of his longing, and she paused at the door and turned back to him where he sat. Bending down, she pressed her lips against his forehead and a current passed through him like a killing stroke.

Kent was on his feet in a moment, his arms around her, the press of her body real, no dream at all. His hands gripped her shoulders, traveling down her back, worshipful.

"I will visit your dreams," she said.

"Dreams," he whispered. "Can't you see what you are doing to me?"

Her dark eyes regarded him with loving warmth. "I would spare you," she said, "the disappointment of waking flesh."

But his hands insisted and his mouth found her throat and Alraune pulled away from him.

"Adam and I trust each other, Kent, and jealousy does not exist between us, because we both understand the nature of passion and love. You too must understand," she said, "that whatever passes between you and I, I will always be Adam's."

"I do not want to own you, Alraune. I ain't sure any man can. Just to know you . . .."

Then she had stepped back from him, regarding him for a long moment with eyes as dark as midnight skies, her mouth slightly open, the tip of her tongue touching her lip, and what passed between them after that was beyond all his hopes.

More fulfilling than any dream, fire to turn the winter bright, heat enough to bring midsummer dawn.

Kent Shelta

Blue vein in golden marble, the grain of dark wood, supple leather warm beneath his palm.

Everywhere Kent looked in the room, he saw her influence, her essence, a memory or a sense, like the fire that flowed where she touched him, like the scent of nightshade that pervaded the room.

He understood that what Alraune was doing here, what she wove with him, was a kind of spell, that her spirit moved his hands and her vision animated his eyes, that the single flesh they made in the fevered night ensured that this place would be hers in its every detail. She was using him, his talent, even as they gave each other pleasure so intense that all else he had ever known paled beside it, and he cherished her hunger and gave her willingly everything he had to give.

Red roses in a vase the color of midnight sky, each petal fresh and vivid.

Kent heard the rhythm of the axe outside in the forest, Preston, the young man who had come to cut wood for them, to bring it in green and carry it to the roof where it lay in curing piles. The man sang as he worked, his voice sweet with youth, so that the axe blows became drumbeats and his song a staccato celebration. Kent had seen the lad?s eyes grow dark with desire when he looked upon Alraune, and he wondered if young Preston dreamed of her at night in his little room in town.

The work down here was finishing, Alraune busy now with the details. Kent?s lathes and racks had already been moved upstairs where the next projects would begin in a few days. They needed a miner soon, someone to bring the colored ores and stones that she required to make her vision ? and Kent?s work ? complete. Would Alraune call someone else here, another hand to work her will? Kent did not ask her, but he had no doubt that, soon enough, there would be colored metal and another man or woman would labor within the weave of Alraune?s magic.

The salon still awaited a painting, the space on one wall reserved for it, and Kent knew that Alraune had asked the Trinsic guard Kaelyn to paint her portrait. When it was finished and hung, Alraune?s mark would truly lay upon the room, its mistress certain and ever-present. He wished that he had the skill to paint, because he knew that the act of painting Alraune would be, for him, intimate and magical.

But he was a craftsman, not an artist of oil and brush, and from all Kent had heard, the woman Kaelyn was a mistress of her art, so Alraune?s essence would inhabit the paint, even as it filled the things that Kent had made here.

Pillows scattered on the floor still bore the shape of Alraune?s body, where he had lain with her and Kent felt his pulse quicken as he anticipated her return from wherever she had gone. She had called him out of Britain ? he had no doubt of that now ? the voice of his destiny, the heart of his craft, to do the very best work he had ever done.

This place would be hers, her parlor, her salon, she called it, an intimate place to read the cards, to touch the dreams of other men and women, to practice her arts of magic and ecstasy, and Kent was honored beyond words to be a part of it, but he wondered what he would do when her vision was realized.

Would she still see him? Or would she dismiss him?

The thoughts of life without her were like old fables of men who had heard the song of sirens and lived afterward, empty of everything but desire, ever longing to hear the songs again. But the concern was distant, nothing to worry him now. The work might go on for weeks yet.

He touched the golden wood of the statue that he carved and even as his finger traced the curve of a smooth shoulder, the door opened and he turned. Her dark shape eclipsed the fading daylight outside, the fall of her hair like silver light catching sunset fire.

She came to him laughing lightly, dark eyes dancing with mischief, as she surveyed the work he had done and she embraced him. He took her there, on the pillows again, in the midst of all he had wrought for her, brought out of dreams and worked in wood and metal and stone, her vision and his craft, embracing, ascending.

The divine union of artist and muse.

__________________

Kent Shelta

(for Velvet)


?V, you can?t go. You just can?t! Britain?ll just chew you up and spit you out. They ain?t like us. They got airs ?bout ?em.?

Velvet never hesitated in her movements. Like the timeless rhythm of her hammer against fired steel, her hands reached into the drawers of the rough wood dresser to grab thick wool and stiff cotton clothing, a half turn, and she then stuffed them unceremoniously into the pack on her bed.

?V, what?s Agatha going to say??

Velvet paused and glared at the old man who stood at the head of her bed. ?Timothy, I don?t give a miner?s arse what Aggy says. She doesn?t own me.? Timothy?s eyes widened, the lines of shock on his forehead bulging into rolls of panic. Velvet watched, waiting for the inevitable hand-wringing to begin, and when on queue, his hands started washing over each other, Velvet continued her packing.

?She?s the guildmistress, V. She can make it so you don?t work again! Don?t be foolish. She?s got powerful friends, lass,? he squeaked, his fingers running through the thin gray hair that dusted the top of his head.

?Timothy, there?s nothin? more for me to learn here. I asked Aggy for help and she just laughed in my face, callin? me silly, ?n sayin? my elf-blood?s got me all bothered. Well, maybe it does.? Velvet pushed down on the solid mound of clothing and possessions within the seam-strained leather pack, making room for the last piece of clothing in the dresser, a threadbare golden sash.

She looked at Timothy and smiled. ?I?m tired, Tim, tired of makin' the same clunky armor, tired of poundin' out dents for rough louts that pinch my arse or spit on me ?cause they see the elf in me.?

?Talk to Aggy again, V, please,? Timothy begged, his eyes misting.

She shook her head, her fiery red hair escaping from the loose pinning. ?No, Tim. I know the truth. Aggy doesn?t know how to make the armor I saw. She doesn?t have the skills. We?ve seen her best work. It can?t come close to comparin? to what that lady wore. I want to learn how to make that armor, and if that means goin? to Brit and puttin? up with guff, then I?ll do it if I can learn how to make that kind of armor! Besides, Tim, I gotta find out about my kin. I can?t do that here.?

Timothy looked at her, the worry lines fading slightly as a flicker of understanding touched his gaze. ?Yeah? ain?t no denyin? the elf in ye, girl. I guess was only a matter o? time ?fore ye went seekin? yer daddy?s folk. I?m just worried since yer sister ain?t never come back.?

Velvet nodded, her fingers caressing the gold sash reverently. ?I never thought she would, Tim. Minoc was never to her likin?.? Velvet blinked, shoving aside her concerns and memories, and allowing her growing excitement at the prospect of the adventure to bolster her resolve. She closed the flap on her pack, tying off the cover with a quick jerk of the leather straps. She shouldered the pack and turned to Tim with a gentle smile.

?You take care, old man. Don?t let Aggy push you around.? She reached out to him, and when he stepped up to her, she wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug.

?Don?t forget ole Tim, now. I?ve known ye since I was a boy and ain?t goin? to like not knowin? yer all right. Write when ye get settled.?

?I will, I promise.? Velvet released the old man, and turned quickly to the door, the fog of tears in her eyes annoying her with their weakness.

?Take care, Tim.?

?Ye too, lass.?

**

Shining tendrils, the gentle curve of the intricate knot work an endless pattern of mystery that drew the eyes and held her mesmerized. Shadow plate armor, inlaid with gold and silver, the metal delicately shaped to fit the woman?s every curve. The chain beneath was crafted of the most precise rings, so small and refined they looked as if they might break upon touching them, but she could see the strength within the fine weave.

Velvet approached the tall, woman, her white hair flowing over her shoulders in waves of misty invitation.

The mysterious woman stood in front of the statues in the town square, a red cloak flowing to her ankles, rippling in the icy breeze.

Velvet?s heart ached with the beauty before her, the woman, serene and alluring, the air around her almost shimmering with unknown heat. The breeze caught her hair, turning it into a cloud of desire around her shoulders and face.

Velvet stared, stunned by the vision, her throat tightening with emotion ? need, regret, longing, jealousy, and from a forgotten corner of her soul, desire.

The woman?s gaze turned to Velvet, the smile on her face one of smoke and invitation. ?Can I help you?? She asked, her voice a tickle of promise in Velvet?s ears.

She almost bolted, terror at being discovered staring suddenly lancing through her being. She looked away quickly, down at her stained, rough leather apron and worn boots. If she talked to her, would she disappear, like a wisp of legend?

Such art had never been seen by her, that metal could be pounded and carved to be so beautiful and flattering, and yet still be functional. Velvet looked up, relief and fear vying for her spirit as the woman approached her. Up close, the armor was even more amazing then Velvet could imagine. This was the work of a master?s master.

?Where did you? if I may ask, milady, who made your armor? I?ve never seen anything like this?? Velvet?s senses flew away, her hand its own mistress, reaching out to touch the warm metal, tracing the inlaid pattern reverently.

Silence at first, then the woman?s voice bathed Velvet in a fateful whisper. ?Seek Master Shelta.?

**

Velvet shook the pack from her shoulder and rubbed the back of her neck. Three weeks on the road, first to Britain, then to Trinsic, the dream of the mysterious white-haired woman and the masterful shadow armor her only companion. The main gate of Trinsic shimmered in the warm winter sun, figures in red, stoic at the entrance. Supposedly Master Shelta now called Trinsic home. Velvet hoped her search would end here, but if she found that Master Shelta had moved on, she?d follow the trail.

But Trinsic offered even more then a master?s knowledge. She?d heard in Britain that the elves had a community outside Trinsic. Velvet didn?t believe in providence, but she also would not throw opportunity away. She had no idea how tight-knit an elven society might be, or if the elves that lived near Trinsic would have any knowledge of an elf who lived long ago and settled with a human in Minoc, but she would seek them out, and ask her questions.

But first, she had to find Master Shelta. She had run the speech through her head a thousand times. She wasn?t a peasant, she wasn?t some minor journeyman smith; she was a master in her own right. She?d approach him with dignity and reason. She offered the gift of nearly endless continuity of his craftsmanship. Long after he was dust, she would still be able to create works of art that moved with the wearer, that immortalized and communicated power, strength, and an appreciation for all the riches of life. In her mind?s eye she saw the maker?s mark, an amalgam of Master Shelta?s and her own.

Yes, he?d listen to her proposal, see the wisdom, and of course he?d agree.

Velvet lifted the pack on to her shoulder, took a deep breath, and started toward the gate.

And if reason didn?t work, Velvet did not dismiss the intrinsic appeal of a well voiced grovel.