Bradley, Marion Zimmer - SSC 03 Page 3

  With a mighty effort, Lythande's magic wrenched at the very fabric of Time itself; the girl stood motionless, aware of no lapse, as Lythande stepped away far enough to read her aura. And yes, there within the traces of that vibrating field, was the shadow of the blue star. Rabben's; overpowering her will.

  Rabben. Rabben the Half-handed, who had set his will on the girl, who had staged and contrived the whole thing, including the encounter where the girl had needed rescue; put the girl under a spell' to attract and bespell Lythande.

  The law of the Blue Star forbade one adept of the Star to kill another; for all would be needed to fight side by side, on the last day, against Chaos. Yet if one adept could prise forth the secret of another's power . . . then the powerless one was not needed against Chaos and could be killed.

  What could be done now? Kill the girl? Rabben would take that, too, as an answer; Bercy had been so bespelled as to be irresistible to any man; if Lythande sent her away untouched, Rabben would know that Lythande's secret lay in that area and would never rest in his attempts to uncover it. For if Lythande was untouched by this sex-spell to make Bercy irresistible, then Lythande was a eunuch, or a homosexual, or ... sweating, Lythande dared not even think beyond that. The Secret was safe only if never questioned. It would not be read in the aura; but one simple question, and all was ended.

  / should kill her, Lythande thought. For now I am fighting, not for my magic alone, but for my secret and for my life. For surely, with my power gone, Rabben would lose no time in making an end of me, in revenge for the loss of half a hand.

  The girl was still motionless, entranced. How easily she could be killed! Then Lythande recalled an old fairy-tale, which might be used to save the Secret of the Star.

  The light flickered as Time returned to the chamber. Bercy was still clinging and weeping, unaware of the lapse; Lythande had resolved what to do, and the girl felt Lythande's arms enfolding her, and the magician's kiss on her welcoming mouth. .

  "You must love me or I shall die!" Bercy wept.

  Lythande said, "You shall be mine." The soft neutral voice was very gentle. "But even a magician is vulnerable in love, and I must protect myself. A place shall be made ready for us without light or sound save for what I provide with my magic; and you must swear that you will not seek to see or to touch me except by that magical light. Will you swear it by the All-Mother, Bercy? For if you swear this, I shall love you as no woman has ever been loved before."

  Trembling, she whispered, "I swear." And Lythande's heart went out in pity, for Rabben had used her ruthlessly; so that she burned alive with her unslaked and bewitched love for the magician, that she was all caught up in her passion for Lythande. Painfully, Lythande thought; if she had only loved me, without the spell; then I could have loved ...

  Would that 1 could trust her with my secret! But she is only Rabben s tool; her love for me is his doing, and none of her own will . . . and not real . . . And so everything which would pass between them now must be only a drama staged for Rabben.

  "I shall make all ready for you with my magic."

  Lythande went and confided to Myrtis what was needed; the woman began to laugh, but a single glance at Lythande's bleak face stopped her cold. She had known Lythande since long before the blue star was set between those eyes; and she kept the Secret for love of Lythande. It wrung her heart to see one she loved in the grip of such suffering. So she said, "All will be prepared. Shall I give her a drug in her wine to weaken her will, that you may the more readily throw a glamour upon her?"

  Lythande's voice held a terrible bitterness. "Rabben has done that already for us, when he put a spell upon her to love me."

  "You would have it otherwise?" Myrtis asked, hesitating.

  "All the gods of Sanctuary—they laugh at me! All-Mother, help me! But I would have it otherwise; I could love her, if she were not Rabben's tool."

  When all was prepared, Lythande entered the darkened room. There was no light but the light of the Blue Star. The girl lay on a bed, stretching up her arms to the magician with exalted abandon.

  "Come to me, come to me, my love!"

  "Soon," said Lythande, sitting beside her, stroking her hair with a tenderness even Myrtis would never have guessed. "I will sing to you a love-song of my people, far away."

  She writhed in erotic ecstasy. "All you do is good to me, my love, my magician!"

  Lythande felt the blankness of utter despair. She was beautiful, and she was in love. She lay in a bed spread for the two of them, and they were separated by the breadth of the world. The magician could not endure it.

  Lythande sang, in that rich and beautiful voice; a voice lovelier than any spell:

  Half the night is spent; and the crown of moonlight Fades, and now the crown of the stars is paling; Yields the sky reluctant to coming morning; Still I lie lonely.

  Lythande could see tears on Bercy's cheeks.

  / will love you as no woman has ever been loved.

  Between the girl on the bed, and the motionless form of the magician, as the magician's robe fell heavily to the floor, a wraith-form grew, the very wraith and fetch, at first, of Lythande, tall and lean, with blazing eyes and a star between its brows and a body white and unscarred; the form of the magician, but this one triumphant in virility, advancing on the motionless woman, waiting. Her mind fluttered away in arousal, was caught, captured, bespelled. Lythande let her see the image for a moment; she could not see the true Lythande behind; then, as her eyes closed in ecstatic awareness of the touch, Lythande smoothed light fingers over her closed eyes.

  "See—what I bid you to see!

  "Hear—what I bid you hear!

  "Feel—only what I bid you feel, Bercy!"

  And now she was wholly under the spell of the wraith. Unmoving, stony-eyed, Lythande watched as her lips closed on emptiness and she kissed invisible lips; and moment by moment Lythande knew what touched her, what caressed her. Rapt and ravished by illusion, that brought her again and again to the heights of ecstasy, till she cried out in abandonment. Only to Lythande that cry was bitter; for she cried out not to Lythande but to the man-wraith who possessed her.

  At last she lay all but unconscious, satiated; and Lythande watched in agony. When she opened her eyes again, Lythande was looking down at her, sorrowfully.

  Bercy stretched up languid arms. "Truly, my beloved, you have loved me as no woman has ever been loved before."

  For the first and last time, Lythande bent over her and pressed her lips in a long, infinitely tender kiss. "Sleep, my darling."

  And as she sank into ecstatic, exhausted sleep, Lythande wept.

  Long before she woke, Lythande stood, girt for travel, in the little room belonging to Myrtis.

  "The spell will hold. She will make all haste to carry her tale to Rabben—the tale of Lythande, the incomparable lover! Of Lythande, of untiring virility, who can love a maiden into exhaustion!" The rich voice of Lythande was harsh with bitterness.

  "And long before you return to Sanctuary, once freed of the spell, she will have forgotten you in many other lovers," Myrtis agreed. "It is better and safer that should be so."

  "True." But Lythande's voice broke. "Take care of her, Myrtis. Be kind to her."

  "I swear it, Lythande."

  "If only she could have loved me"—the magician broke and sobbed again for a moment; Myrtis looked away, wrung with pain, knowing not what comfort to offer.

  "If only she could have loved me as I am, freed of Rabben's spell! Loved me without pretense! But I feared I could not master the spell Rabben had put on her . . . nor trust her not to betray me, knowing ..."

  Myrtis put her plump arms around Lythande, tenderly.

  "Do you regret?"

  The question was ambiguous. It might have meant: Do you regret that you did not kill the girl? Or even: Do you regret your oath and the secret you must bear to the last day? Lythande chose to answer the last.

  "Regret? How can I regret? One day I shall fight against Chaos with all o
f my order; even at the side of Rabben, if he lives unmurdered as long as that. And that alone must justify my existence and my secret. But now I must leave Sanctuary, and who knows when the chances of the world will bring me this way again? Kiss me farewell, my sister."

  Myrtis stood on tiptoe. Her lips met the lips of the magician.

  "Until we meet again, Lythande. May She attend and guard you forever. Farewell, my beloved, my sister."

  Then the magician Lythande girded on her sword, and went silently and by unseen ways out of the city of Sanctuary, just as the dawn was breaking. And on her forehead the glow of the Blue Star was dimmed by the rising sun. Never once did she look back.

  Introduction to The Incompetent Magician

  When I was given the chance to edit my first anthology (Greyhaven, a series of stories showcasing the other members of my extended family who had become writers, more or less under my auspices and/or following my example), I realized that I must, of course, include one of my own stories, and since the publisher asked for original stories without reprints, I knew I must write one especially for this anthology.

  The reason for two non-original stories in the Greyhaven anthology was simple; Robert Cook had died, and could not write an original story for this anthology except perhaps by medium, of an Ouija board—and contractual negotiations for such a story would be too complicated—while Randall Garrett's state of health did not permit his contributing anything. So Robert, and Randall, were repesented by published works which had not been published yet in this country.

  When 1 realized that I must simply sit down and turn out a short story (I do not think of myself as a short story writer—1 tend to think in terms of 80,000 words and up. 1 mean, when you have a good idea why waste it on 5,000 words?)

  But Lythande had haunted me since the first story, so 1 decided to write another of her adventures. Besides, I was fascinated with the concept of an incompetent magician, and Rastafare and his "bag of holding" which the stammerer realistically named "not Carrier, but Ca-ca-carrier," struck me as an amusing concept. I don't write funny material that often and I didn't want this one to get away.

  THE INCOMPETENT MAGICIAN

  Throughout the length and breadth of the world of the Twin Suns, from the Great Salt Desert in the south to the Ice Mountains of the north, no one seeks out a mercenary-magician unless he wants something; and it's usually trouble. It's never the same thing twice, but whatever it is, it's always trouble.

  Lythande the Magician looked out from under the hood of the dark, flowing mage-robe; and under the hood, the blue star that proclaimed Lythande to be Pilgrim Adept began to sparkle and give off blue flashes of fire as the magician studied the fat, wheezing little stranger, wondering what kind of trouble this client would be.

  Like Lythande, the little stranger wore the cloak of a magician, the fashion of mage-robe worn in the cities at the edge of the Salt Desert. He seemed a little daunted as he looked Up at the tall Lythande, and at the glowing blue star. Lythande, cross-belted with twin daggers, looked like a warrior, not a mage.

  The fat man wheezed and fidgeted, and finally stammered "H-h-high and noble sor-sor-sorcerer, th-this is embarras—ass—assing—"

  Lythande gave him no help, but looked down, with courteous attention, at the bald spot on the fussy little fellow's head. The stranger stammered on: " must co-co-confess to you that one of my ri-ri-rivals has st-st-stolen my m-m-magic wa-wa-wa—: he exploded into a perfect storm of stammering, then abandoned "wand" and blurted out "My p-p-powers are not suf-suf-suf-—not strong enough to get it ba-ba-back. What would you require as a f-f-fee, O great and noble mama-ma—" he swallowed and managed to get out "sorcerer?"

  Beneath the blue star Lythande's arched and colorless brows went up in amusement.

  "Indeed? How did that come to pass? Had you not spelled the wand with such sorcery that none but you could touch it?"

  The little man stared, fidgeting, at the belt-buckle of his mage-robe. "I t-t-t-told you this was embarrass-as-as— hard to say, O great and noble ma-ma-magician. I had imbi-bi-bi—"

  "In short," Lythande said, cutting him off, "you were drunk. And somehow your spell must have failed. Well, do you know who has taken it, and why?"

  "Roy—Roygan the Proud," said the little man, adding, "He wanted to be revenged upon m-m-me because he found me in be-be-be—"

  "In bed with his wife?" Lythande asked, with perfect gravity, though one better acquainted with the Pilgrim Adept might have detected a faint glimmer of amusement at the corners of the narrow ascetic mouth. The fat little magician nodded miserably and stared at his shoes.

  Lythande said at last, in that mellow, neutral voice which had won the mercenary-magician the name of minstrel even before the reputation for successful sorcery had grown, "This bears out the proverb I have always held true, that those who follow the profession of sorcery should have neither wife nor lover. Tell me, O mighty mage and most gallant of bedroom athletes, what do they call you?"

  The little man drew himself up to his full height—he reached almost to Lythande's shoulder—and declared, "I am known far and wide in Gandrin as Rastafyre the Incom-comp-comp—"

  "Incompetent?" suggested Lythande gravely.

  He set his mouth with a hurt look and said with sonorous dignity, "Rastafyre the Incomparable^."

  "It would be amusing to know how you came by that name," Lythande said, and the eyes under the mage-hood twinkled, "but the telling of funny stories, although a diverting pastime while we await the final battle between Law and Chaos, puts no beans on the table. So you have lost your magic wand to the rival sorcery of Roygan the Proud, and you wish my services to get it back from him—have I understood you correctly?"

  Rastafyre nodded, and Lythande asked, "What fee had you thought to offer me in return Tor the assistance of my sorcery, O Rastafyre the incom—" Lythande hesitated a moment and finished smoothly "incomparable?"

  "This jewel," Rastafyre said, drawing forth a great sparkling ruby which flashed blood tones in the narrow darkness of the hallway.

  Lythande gestured him to put it away. "If you wave such things about here, you may attract predators before whom Roygan the Proud is but a kitten-cub. I wear no jewels but this," Lythande gestured briefly at the blue star that shone with pallid light irom the midst of the high forehead, "nor have I lover nor wife nor sweetheart upon whom I might bestow it; I preach only what I myself practice. Keep your jewels for those who prize them." Lythande made a snatching gesture in the air and between the long, narrow fingers, three rubies appeared, each one superior in color and luster to the one in Rastafyre's hand. "As you see, I need them not."

  "I but offered the customary fee lest you think me niggardly," said Rastafyre, blinking with surprise and faint covetousness at the rubies in Lythande's hand, which blinked for a moment and disappeared. "As it may happen, I have that which may tempt you further."

  The fussy little magician turned and snapped his fingers in the air. He intoned "Ca-Ca-Carrier!"

  Out of thin air a great dark shape made itself seen, a dull lumpy outline; it fell and flopped ungracefully at his feet, resolving, itself, with a bump, into a brown velveteen bag, embroidered with magical symbols in crimson and gold.

  "Gently! Gently, Ca-Ca-Carrier," Rastafyre scolded, "or you will break my treasures within, and Lythande will have the right to call me Incom-comp-competent!"

  "Carrier is more competent than you, O Rastafyre; why scold your faithful creature?"

  "Not Carrier, but Ca-Ca-Carrier," Rastafyre said, "for I knew myself likely to st-st-stam-that I did not talk very well, and I la-la-labelled it by the cogno-cogno—by the name which I knew I would fi-find myself calling it."

  This time Lythande chuckled aloud. "Well done, O mighty and incomparable magician!"

  But the laughter died as Rastafyre drew forth from the dark recesses of Ca-Ca-Carrier a thing of rare beauty.

  It was a lute, formed of dark precious woods, set about with turquoise and mother-of-pearl, the
strings shining with silver; and upon the body of the lute, in precious gemstones, was set a pallid blue star, like to the one which glowed between Lythande's brows.

  "By the bloodshot eyes of Keth-Ketha!"

  Lythande was suddenly looming over the little magician, and the blue star began to sparkle and flame with fury; but the voice was calm and neutral as ever.

  "Where got you that, Rastafyre? That lute I know; I myself fashioned it for one I once loved, and now she plays a spirit lute in the courts of Light. And the possessions of a Pilgrim Adept do not pass into the hands of others as readily as the wand of Rastafyre the Incompetent!"

  Rastafyre cast down his tubby face and muttered, unable to face the blue glare of the angry Lythande, that it was a secret of the trade.

  "Which means, I suppose, that you stole it, fair and square, from some other thief," Lythande remarked, and the glare of anger vanished as quickly as it had come. "Well, so be it; you offer me this lute in return for the recovery of your wand?" The tall mage reached for the lute, but Rastafyre saw the hunger in the Pilgrim Adept's eyes and thrust it behind him.

  "First the service for which I sought you out," he reminded Lythande.

  Lythande seemed to grow even taller, looming over Rastafyre as if to fill the whole room. The magician's voice, though not loud, seemed to resonate like a great drum.

  "Wretch, incompetent, do you dare to haggle with me over my own possession? Fool, it is no more yours than mine—less, for these hands brought the first music from it before you knew how to turn goat's milk sour on the dungheap where you were whelped! By what right do you demand a service of me?"

  The bald little man raised his chin and said firmly, "All the world knows that Lythande is a servant of L-L-Law and not of Chaos, and no ma-ma-magician bound to the L-Law would demean hi-hi-himself to cheat an honest ma-ma-man. And what is more, noble Ly-Lythande, this instru—tru-tru—this lute has been cha-changed since it dwelt in your ha-ha-hands. Behold!"