Tales From The Golden Feather, Pt. 9

THE SCRIVENER'S TALE

Rain pattered on the tiles of the Golden Feather's roof. The forester was staring out the window when I rose from my breakfast. "The weather has turned," he said to me. "It will not be long before we can travel on." As if to punctuate his statement, a load of melting snow slipped off the inn's roof and fell past the window, landing with a faint whump.

"Thank goodness!" the physician said. "I mean no offense - you all have been fine company - but nine days of close confinement would wear on anyone's nerves."

"Especially with these two always at their sneaking and prying," the Harper said with a roll of her eyes toward the summoner and the soldier. "What do you care who is doing what to whom during the night?"

As it seemed another argument was about to begin, I thought it best to start my story quickly, and seating myself again, I cleared my throat.

***

In a tower by the sea lived an elderly enchanter and two young women who had come to him to learn the art of magic. One, Morgaine, was tall and slender, with red hair and skin so fine it was almost translucent. The other, Isabel, was much shorter, with blond hair that curled and soft blue eyes. Each was beautiful in her own way, and each had the morals of a starving vixen. They desired nothing more than power and contended endlessly for their master's favor, and rare was it that they felt anything more than jealousy or hatred. Each coveted the other's grimoires and talismans so that they might learn the other woman's secrets. Isabel would have happily murdered to spend even a few minutes with Morgaine's obsidian mirror, which answered questions put to it during the dark of the moon. While Morgaine would have just as gladly given an eye for even a single page from Isabel's copy of the Book of Dzyan, the last annual of a vanished race. But each woman also knew of the other's desires, and they kept their chambers so tightly locked, enspelled, and warded against theft and prying eyes that not even their master, puissant as he was, could enter without asking permission.

One day, the enchanter left on a journey to speak with an alchemist friend of his, and he took Isabel with him. Normally, Morgaine would be in a fury of rage and despair at having been left behind, but not this time. She had a plan in mind. A few weeks ago, she had come across a book in the enchanter's library that she had never seen before. Translating it was laborious, but after she was done, she realized that it contained the details for a spell unlike any she knew. It seemed useless at first, but then, passing by Isabel's chambers a few nights before, she noticed that rats had chewed a hole in the bottom of the door near the jamb. It took only a second's thought for the plan to spring into her mind.

Now, standing before the door again, Morgaine weighed the book in her hand and smiled. She had already drawn a small magic circle around her feet and inscribed the proper runes. All that was needed now was the incantation, which she began, carefully intoning the strange words from a dead language. Her skin prickled, her hair swung and ruffled behind her as if blown by a wind. Morgaine's voice rose to a pitch, and then her gown collapsed to the floor. A heartbeat later, the book thudded down -- but Morgaine herself had vanished. A second later, when something moved under the gown. Red hair shone in the dimly lit corridor as it pushed the
last of the heavy fabric aside and stood. Now barely two handspun high, Morgaine looked at her fallen gown in disgust. The book had not told her that her clothes would not be reduced with her. No matter -- there was no one to see her, and she could live with a momentary embarrassment.

The rat hole would be a tight squeeze, but she could crawl through, and once in the chambers beyond she could cancel the spell with a few words, unlock and unseal Isabel's door, and loot her rival's possessions as she pleased. Grinning wickedly at her cleverness and the thought of her rival's fury, Morgaine dropped to hands and knees and twisted first her head, then her shoulders, through the rat hole. The wood scraped harshly on her bare skin at first, but once she got her shoulders through, it would be easy.

Or so Morgaine thought. As her waist passed through the hole, something powerful grabbed hold of her, stopping her dead. A glance over her shoulder showed nothing there, but she could go no farther, nor crawl backward. Then she noticed a line of runes carved over the rat hole on this side of the door. Some were unfamiliar to her, but she could see that they were set up to create a barrier of some kind. She twisted and stretched, but could not quite reach the runes to erase them. And naked as she was, without books or adjuncts to aid her, she was limited in what magic she could do -- nothing that would free her from this predicament. All she could think of was to reverse the spell that shrunk her, and to return to regular size with her waist in a rat hole would be painful, if not fatal. Morgaine slapped a hand on the floor in frustration, cursing her foolishness. Had Isabel protected the rat hole only as a matter of course, or -- Morgaine's eyes widened as the thought came to her – had the whole thing been a trap? Had Isabel somehow arranged for her to find the book, and created the hole knowing that Morgaine would take advantage of it?

She didn't have to wait long. Footsteps and a familiar giggle in the hall outside gave her her answer. "I've never seen a hairless rat before," came Isabel's voice.

"Damn you!" Morgaine shouted back. "If Master finds out about this --"

"Master is on his way to town," Isabel interrupted. "He thinks I suddenly took sick and came back here to rest. And by the time he gets back..." She let her voice trail off ominously.

"If you harm me, it'll be you who suffers," Morgaine threatened.

"But I don't mean to harm you." A rustle of skirts outside, and then Morgaine felt many soft bristles pass across the soles of her feet. She jerked forward against the magical barrier, and a giggle was jolted out of her. The bristles brushed her feet again, and she kicked her legs in reflex, sprawling on the stone floor. Isabel laughed, and applied the brush to Morgaine's rump, the tickling strands sweeping over the smooth curve and down and between the backs of her thighs. The sensation, the gentle touch on those soft, intimate places, was nearly unbearable. Morgaine let out a wail of anguish, but even that was mild compared to what came next: Isabel pinned her calves in place with a single thumb and began to brush first one foot, then the other.

"Damn you!" Morgaine yelled again, and several worse curses, but there was nothing for it: she had to laugh. And laugh she did, for Isabel was merciless, continuing the teasing until Morgaine's tiny howling voice rose to a scream. How had Isabel learned she was so ticklish? Morgaine herself barely remembered it, from those dim days when she was not an enchantress in training but just another pretty girl in her village, made sport of by the boys. Her feet, her whole body were unbearably sensitive, and she was easily tickled to hysterics by a blade of grass, a feather, or an artfully wielded finger. How had she forgotten all those times a boy had sat on her and extorted a kiss or some other favor by tickling her until she surrendered? It was even worse now that she was an adult, being humiliated by the one person she hated most in the world. A feeling of helplessness that had nothing to do with her tiny nude state choked Morgaine even as the brush made her cackle and pound her fists on the unyielding floor.

At last, the brush withdrew. Morgaine panted for breath, then let it all out in a gasp as Isabel took hold of her legs and pulled her back out the rat hole. Morgaine found herself being raised to Isabel's face, the blond enchantress smiling. It was not a pleasant smile. "You wanted to enter my chambers," Isabel said as she took a key from her skirts. "Now you will see them. I have some surprises prepared for you..." She unlocked the door, murmuring several words too low for Morgaine to catch, and then swept in, shutting the door behind her.

At a dizzying speed, Morgaine was borne across the room and finally set down, none too gently, on top of a smooth wooden surface. Tall, curved walls of glass shimmered nearby, and though still dazed from the tickling, Morgaine guessed that they were vessels and that she was now on Isabel's workbench. Her rival covered her with a hand, pinning her in place, while she did something just out of Morgaine's sight. Now was Morgaine's chance -- Isabel's hand was nowhere as unyielding as the wood of the door was. So rapidly they almost blurred together, Morgaine yelled the words that would end the spell. Nothing happened, and her heart sank as Isabel laughed again.

"It's not so easy to reverse as that," Isabel said. "I know how, of course -- but I won't do so until you give me what I want." She pulled Morgaine's arms out beyond her head and wrapped something around them. It was only a slender silk ribbon, but in Morgaine's reduced state she could no more break it than she could have torn steel apart at her full size. The wall behind the workbench was lined with pegs and hooks for hanging equipment on, and Isabel looped Morgaine's bound wrists over the lowest such. Morgaine's arms were stretched high above her head, her feet barely touching the workbench, so that she stood almost on tiptoes, nearly immobile. Normally Morgaine had no trouble looking imperious, even intimidating, but there was little of that about her as she stood there, clad in nothing but a tumble of flaming hair, eyes snapping defiance as she stared up at her huge tormentor.

"What do you want?" Morgaine demanded.

"What do you think?" Isabel inquired. She picked up something from the bench: a pinfeather from a sparrow's wing. "The words to get into your chambers. I have the key already, but I need to know how to get past your wards."

Morgaine wondered for a moment how Isabel had gotten the key, but then remembered the fallen gown. Curse her for a fool. "I will not -- " she began, then broke off as Isabel reached out with the small feather.

"You will," she said, "and I will enjoy doing this." And she set the point of the feather in Morgaine's armpit.

No one would have ever felt the touch of that tiny feather, no matter how sensitive they were -- not even someone as sensitive as Morgaine was. But at the scale she was, the feather was just the size to tickle, and tickle unbearably. Morgaine had been determined to remain stone-faced, to deny Isabel as much pleasure as possible, but it was not to be. Giggles leaked out of her as the feather touched her ticklish skin, and the leak became a torrent when Isabel twirled the feather, brushing the entire hollow of her armpit. Morgaine tugged on the silk ribbon, but in her position she had no leverage, and the strong silk did not allow her to move her arms an inch. Her head dropped, her hair curtaining her madly giggling face, but nothing could disguise the sound of her laughter or the way her body twisted, seeking some way to make the tickling stop. Her shoulders rolled, her hips swayed, she even raised a knee in a desperate attempt to curl up before letting her foot fall again, defeated. One thought and one thought only lived in Morgaine's mind now: she could not let Isabel make her beg. No matter how much it tickled...

Smiling a fiend's smile, Isabel brought forth the small, soft-bristled paintbrush she had used to tease Morgaine's legs and feet in the corridor and lightly swirled its tip in Morgaine's other armpit. Morgaine's eyes snapped up, and her eyes stared with horrified disbelief through the scarlet strands of her hair before that emotion -- and all rational thought -- were banished by a howl of laughter. Tickled on both sides now, there was no relief at all for her. Feather and brush were in constant motion, tickling all the way from her wrists to her delicately curved waist. Morgaine was laughing so hard now there was barely enough time to draw breath between each wild peal. Her cheeks were pink with effort, the color spreading rapidly down her neck and beyond. Isabel was thoroughly enjoying her miniature victim's hysteria. Morgaine was too small to be tickled by fingers, but the feather and brush were just the right size to drive her to paroxysms of laughter. And Isabel had other cruelties in mind for her helpless rival, so that she was actually hoping Morgaine did not surrender too hastily...

Isabel quickly tickled Morgaine's quivering thighs with the tip of the brush. Morgaine yelped and clamped her legs together. Giggling to herself, Isabel slid the feather along the workbench, tickling Morgaine's tiny pink soles, left exposed by her nearly tiptoed stance. Morgaine shrieked again, hopped, and her legs sprang apart in a frantic effort to get away, exposing their insides to the brush again. Isabel alternately tickled feet and thighs until Morgaine was sobbing with frustration and laughter. "You can't win," she taunted. "Not while you're ticklish all over."

Something snapped within Morgaine. "You may be able to make me laugh!" she yelled, nearly incoherent in her rage. "But I will never, never give in to you! I hate you! Tickle all you want, but one day I'll -- " Her tirade splintered into mirth as Isabel touched the feather first to one armpit, then the other, then swirled the brush around her belly at the same time the feather sought out Morgaine's feet again. Morgaine rose up on her toes as high as she could go, her buttocks slapping the wall behind her, but the fraction of an inch she could move was no use in avoiding the tickling. Her mouth continued working on its own, stretching wide to let the laughter rush out, screaming, "No!" and "Stop!" even though Morgaine was desperate to be able to suffer in silence. But her entire body seemed to have a mind of its own now, driven by the delicate touches on its skin rather than any desire of Morgaine's. When Isabel finally stopped, Morgaine hung bonelessly at the end of the ribbon, her shoulders shaking as she fought to draw breath. Isabel goosed Morgaine with the brush to get her attention again. "It gets worse now," Isabel said pleasantly. "You have only one chance: tell me what I want to know."

"Die," Morgaine said with as much hate as she could muster.

"Still that way? Suit yourself. It'll take a lot of laughter to draw the venom from your fangs, but I can give you that." Isabel quickly knotted Morgaine's ankles together with another bit of silk ribbon, then put her down on the workbench, legs stretched in front of her. She threw a cloth over Morgaine's legs, then reached over to her measuring scale, found a small bar of iron, and laid it on top of the cloth. Morgaine wriggled, to no avail. The iron bar pinned her legs in place as firmly as Isabel's own hand had, and the cloth kept the pressure from becoming painful. And with her bare feet poking out just beyond the bar, it didn't take much to guess what torture Isabel had in mind for her now. Sure enough, the brush descended, tracing every curve of the feet. Morgaine cringed, hating the giggles that racked her trembling body. But something was wrong -- the brush felt…wet? Morgaine could feel the moisture trickling down her soles. And Isabel laid the tickling brush aside before it could become unbearable.

Isabel reached under the bench and came up with a small wooden case. Setting its lid aside, she reached in and drew something out. She held her cupped palm out to Morgaine. Morgaine tossed hair out of her eyes and peered at it -- and two huge black eyes peered back at her. She gasped, and then registered the quivering pink nose, the two rounded ears, and realized that this dog-sized creature was only an ordinary mouse. Another mouse poked its head over the edge of Isabel's hand as the first turned away. What did Isabel want with these? Morgaine had a terrible feeling she knew...

"I keep my little pets fed well," Isabel said. "They won't take a bite out of you, but they might nibble or lick...and they will certainly appreciate the sugar-water on your feet." She scratched a mouse between the ears with a fingertip.

Something cold and heavy settled in Morgaine's stomach. It would be so easy, she thought, so easy to just give up and spare herself. But another part of her said: Don't be a fool. She hates you as much as you hate her. Give her what she wants now and she'll torture you anyway. Your only chance is to last until Master comes back and finds out what's going on.

She said nothing, only bracing herself as Isabel put the case in front of her, then set the mice down on the other side of it. "When I lift this away, they will come for you," Isabel explained unnecessarily. "But one last little detail first." Isabel took hold of Morgaine's arms and bent her backward, pulling the silk binding her wrists over a broad-headed nail driven into the workbench and stretching her out tight once again. Only then did she lift the case. Morgaine could no longer sit up and watch the mice, only hear the faint skittering their claws made on the bench. Sounding closer and ever closer...She squirmed involuntarily, then gritted her teeth and tried to keep still. Her toes curled. This time, she told herself, she would keep some dignity...somehow.

"Talk or scream," Isabel said, watching Morgaine's terror with amusement. "Either way, I will be entertained."

And then it came -- the light, quick feeling of an inquisitive nose investigating her sole. Morgaine, all dignity forgotten, shrieked. And then shrieked louder as the nose was followed by a swiping tongue on her toes. She heaved with the strength of desperation at the iron bar, but it would not move, and the terrible ticklish sensation continued unabated. Then the second mouse joined its fellow, and Morgaine's body arched as she did indeed scream. The feel made the tickling she'd endured already seem like nothing more than a friendly caress. The mice were utterly indifferent to her hysterical laughter and her struggles, intent only on finding every last bit of sweetness on her wildly flailing feet. Their noses poked and tongues rasped along her soles endlessly and unbearably, never stopping to give her even a second's relief. Even the light brush of their whiskers on her skin tickled more than she could stand.

Isabel chose that moment to begin plying the feather on Morgaine's body again, tickling her heaving belly and then slowly circling each armpit. She was rewarded almost immediately by the sight of tears of laughter running down Morgaine's crimson face. Morgaine was screaming soundlessly now, her voice gone. The frantic writhing of her body continued unabated, the most delightful sight Isabel had ever seen – her despised rival completely at her mercy and suffering torments she had never imagined possible. "You brought this on yourself," she told Morgaine, and dipped the brush in the sugar water again, repainting Morgaine's soles so the mice renewed their attack with increased vigor and Morgaine redoubled her hopeless effort to get loose. "You could have told me how to get into your chambers, but you thought you could outlast me, and now I'm going to make you pay. Talk if you can, but until you do, you get no mercy."

Somewhere, somehow, Morgaine managed to gather the breath to scream, "STOP! STOP! PLEASE!" But Isabel only shook her head as the feather traced the curve of one side with cruel deliberation and the tiny pink mouse tongues licked and licked. Morgaine, half-crazy with wild laughter, knew all was lost. "I'll TELL!" she shrieked as the wet brush descended toward her soles again. "JUST STOP!"

Isabel lifted the feather and pushed the mice back with one hand. "The next words out of your mouth had better be the key to pass your wards, or I tickle you until you laugh yourself mad."

Morgaine was trembling all over from exhaustion, sweat draining off her body. Her soles could still feel the mouse tongues on them, and she shuddered and let out an involuntary giggle. Defeated, she recited the sequence of words that would lay her chambers open to Isabel.

Isabel picked up the key from the workbench, put the mice back in their case, and rose. "Aren't you going to reverse the enchantment?" Morgaine gasped.

"It's not reversible," Isabel said, smiling down at the tiny red-haired enchantress. "It will go away on its own...in a few days. I'm going to go loot all your secrets, and then I'm coming back for you. Don't go away -- the fun has just started." And she left the room, leaving a trembling Morgaine lying on her workbench to await her return.

How this story ends, none know for sure. Some say that Isabel graciously allowed Morgaine to regain her own size, and that Morgaine, humiliated, left the tower by the sea not long after. But others say that Isabel, who now is a mighty enchantress in her own right, keeps her old foe, still shrunken, in a case of her own and brings her out to torment further when the mood takes her....

***

When I had finished telling my tale, there arose a debate over whether Isabel had been overly vicious, with some holding there was no place for such rough treatment, and others arguing that Morgaine would no doubt have done the same to her had their positions been reversed. Still, even those who defended Isabel could not help but feel uneasy at the possible thought of Morgaine's terrible fate. "Such is the lot of those who deal with the supernatural," the summoner said, though we were weary of his moralizing and no one bothered to respond.

The snow outside the window was already, it could be seen, eroding swiftly beneath the steadily pounding rain. "The passes will have cleared by morning," our hostess predicted, "and I don't doubt you ladies and gentlemen will be able to resume your various travels. I want to thank you all for your stories; it's rare that I've had such a diverse group under my roof, and never have I passed dreary winter days so intriguingly." She winked at me, and I felt myself redden.

"Now wait!" the Harper protested. "One of us hasn't shared a story with the others!" And she pointed at the quiet young lady who sat at the end of the table. Now it was her turn to blush as all eyes turned to her. She looked down, meeting no one's gaze.

"What do you say?" the Harper urged. "Tomorrow morning before we set off -- "

"Do not cajole her," the physician said sententiously. "If she has no story to tell, or does not wish to tell a story, then that is her right."

The Harper was not dissuaded. "Why is she the only one allowed to remain silent? I told you about -- "

"Not everyone is shameless as you," the summoner remarked in a very audible whisper, and it looked for a moment as if we would finally have a fight on our hands as the Harper turned on him, the forester scowling blackly at her side. Then a voice rose, a voice we had heard only a few times in the nine days we had stayed at the Golden Feather:

"I will tell a story. Tomorrow." And rising from her place, the young lady went upstairs without haste.

Her consent took the ire out of the Harper, and we all fell to making plans for resuming our journeys the next morning. But what, I wondered, would the lady have to tell us?