My Favorite Fantasy Story [anthology]

I

"Who pipes upon the long green hill,
  Where meadow grass is deep?
The white lamb bleats but followeth on—
  Follow the clean white sheep.
The dear white lady in yon high tower,
  She hearkeneth in her sleep.

"All in long grass the piper stands,
  Goodly and grave is he:
Outside the tower, at dawn of day,
  The notes of his pipe ring free.
A thought from his heart doth reach to hers:
  'Come down, O lady! to me.'

"She lifts her head, she dons her gown:
  Ah! the lady is fair;
She ties the girdle on her waist,
  And binds her flaxen hair,
And down she stealeth, down and down,
  Down the turret stair.

"Behold him! With the flock he wons
  Along yon grassy lea.
'My shepherd lord, my shepherd love,
  What wilt thou, then, with me?
My heart is gone out of my breast,
  And followeth on to thee.'

II

" 'The white lambs feed in tender grass:
  With them and thee to bide,
How good it were,' she saith at noon;
  'Albeit the meads are wide.
Oh! well is me,' she saith when day
  Draws on to eventide.

"Hark! hark! the shepherd's voice. Oh, sweet!
  Her tears drop down like rain.
'Take now this crook, my chosen, my fere,
  And tend the flock full fain:
Feed them, O lady, and lose not one,
  Till I shall come again.'

"Right soft her speech: 'My will is thine,
  And my reward thy grace!'
Gone are his footsteps over the hill,
  Withdrawn his goodly face;
The mournful dusk begins to gather,
  The daylight wanes apace.

III

"On sunny slopes, ah! long the lady
  Feedeth her flock at noon;
She leads them down to drink at eve
  Where the small rivulets croon.
All night her locks are wet with dew,
  Her eyes outwatch the moon.

"Over the hills her voice is heard,
  She sings when light doth wane:
'My longing heart is full of love.
  When shall my loss be gain?
My shepherd lord, I see him not,
  But he will come again.' "

When she had finished Jack lifted his face and said, "Mamma!" Then she came to him and kissed him, and his father said: "I think it must be time this man of ours was in bed."

So he looked earnestly at them both, and as they still asked him no questions, he kissed and wished them goodnight; and his mother said there were some strawberries on the sideboard in the dining-room, and he might have them for his supper.

So he ran out into the hall, and was delighted to find all the house just as usual, and after he had looked about him he went into his own room, and said his prayers. Then he got into his little white bed, and comfortably fell asleep.

That's all.

LIANE THE WAYFARER by Jack Vance Chosen by George R. R. Martin

In a field where all too many writers sound alike, Jack Vance's voice has always been unique. I first encountered Vance back in the '50s, in an Ace Double that I bought for thirty-five cents. These days his work is published in beautiful hardcover limited editions that cost somewhat more, but I buy every one the moment I can get my hands on it, and devour them almost before I get them home.

He is a storyteller, a stylist, a poet; you can get drunk on his names alone.

Vance has written more science fiction than fantasy, but he is one of the rare writers who excels at both forms (and at mysteries as well, as his Edgar Award gives proof). His Lyonesse novels of the 1980s rank as one of the great fantasy trilogies, and in the Dying Earth series he created one of the most memorable imaginary settings of all time, a world to rank with Tolkien's Middle Earth, Fritz Leiber's Nehwon, and Robert E. Howard's Hyborian Age. To populate his haunted ruins, tired hills, and ancient cities, he gave us a cast of characters just as wonderfully varied and colorfuclass="underline" Cugel the Clever, Rhialto the Marvelous, the Laughing Magician, and all the rest.

Liane the Wayfarer was one of the first. The Dying Earth began back in 1950 with a slim little volume of stories from an obscure publishing house. Half a century later, every story in that book remains fresh and vivid in my mind. Picking one favorite was no easy task. Turjan of Miir, T'sain and T'sais, Ulan Dhor… Guyal of Sfere's haunting quest for the Museum of Man… any of them would have been just as worthy of the nod. But in the end I had to choose the tale of Liane the Wayfarer.

It was simply… well… unavoidable.

—George R. R. Martin

* * * *

Through the dim forest came Liane the Wayfarer, passing along the shadowed glades with a prancing light-footed gait. He whistled, he caroled, he was plainly in high spirits. Around his finger he twirled a bit of wrought bronze— a circlet graved with angular crabbed characters, now stained black.

By excellent chance he had found it, banded around the root of an ancient yew. Hacking it free, he had seen the characters on the inner surface— rude forceful symbols, doubtless the cast of a powerful antique rune…. Best take it to a magician and have it tested for sorcery.

Liane made a wry mouth. There were objections to the course. Sometimes it seemed as if all living creatures conspired to exasperate him. Only this morning, the spice merchant— what a tumult he had made dying! How carelessly he had spewed blood on Liane's cockscomb sandals! Still, thought Liane, every unpleasantness carried with it compensation. While digging the grave he had found the bronze ring.

And Liane's spirits soared; he laughed in pure joy. He bounded, he leapt. His green cape flapped behind him, the red feather in his cap winked and blinked…. But still— Liane slowed his step— he was no whit closer to the mystery of the magic, if magic the ring possessed.

Experiment, that was the word!

He stopped where the ruby sunlight slanted down without hindrance from the high foliage, examined the ring, traced the glyphs with his fingernail. He peered through. A faint film, a flicker? He held it at arm's length. It was clearly a coronet. He whipped off his cap, set the band on his brow, rolled his great golden eyes, preened himself…. Odd. It slipped down on his ears. It tipped across his eyes. Darkness. Frantically Liane clawed it off…. A bronze ring, a hand's-breadth in diameter. Queer.