Bradley, Marion Zimmer - SSC 03 Read online

  Rastafyre struck a soft chord on the lute and began to play a soft, melancholy tune. Lythande scowled and demanded, "What do you—?"

  Rastafyre gestured imperatively for silence. As the notes quivered in the air, there was a little stirring in the dark hallway, and suddenly, in the heavy air, a woman stood before them.

  She was small and slender, with flowing fair- hair, clad in the thinnest gown of spider-silk from the forests of Noidhan. Her eyes were blue, set deep under dark lashes in a lovely face; but the face was sorrowful and full of pain. She said in a lovely singing voice "Who thus disturbs the sleep of the enchanted?"

  "Koira!" cried Lythande, and the neutral voice for once was high, athrob with agony. "Koira, how—what—?"

  The fair-haired woman moved her hands in a spellbound gesture. She murmured, "I know not—" and then, as if waking from deep sleep, she rubbed her eyes and cried out, "Ah, I thought I heard a voice that once I knew—Lythande, is it you? Was it you who enchanted me here, because I turned from you to the love of another? What would you? I was a woman—"

  "Silence," said Lythande in a stifled voice, and Rastafyre saw the magician's mouth move as if in pain.

  "As you see," said Rastafyre, "it is no longer the lute you knew." The woman's face was fading into air, and Lythande's taut voice whispered, "Where did she go? Summon her back for me!"

  "She is now the slave of the enchanted lute," said Rastafyre, chuckling with what seemed obscene enthusiasm, "I could have had her for any service—but to ease your fastidious soul, magician, I will confess that I prefer my women more—" his hands sketched robust curves in the air, "So I have asked of her, only, that now and again she sing to the lute—knew you not this, Lythande? Was it not you who enchanted the woman thither, as she said?"

  Within the hood Lythande's head moved in a negative shake, side to side. The face could not be seen, and Rastafyre wondered if he would, after all, be the first to see the mysterious Lythande weep. None had ever seen Lythande show the slightest emotion; never had Lythande been known to eat or to drink wine in company—perhaps, it was believed, the mage could not, though most people guessed that it was simply one of the strange vows which bound a Pilgrim Adept.

  But from within the hood, Lythande said slowly, "And you offer me this lute, in return for my services in the recovery of your wand?"

  "I do, O noble Lythande. For I can see that the enchanted la-la-lady of the lute is known to you from old, and that you would have her as slave, concubine— what have you. And it is this, not the mu-mu-music of the lute alone, that I offer you—when my wa-wa-wand is my own again."

  The blaze of the blue star brightened for a moment, then dimmed to a passive glow, and Lythande's voice was flat and neutral again.

  "Be it so. For this lute I would undertake to recover the scattered pearls of the necklace of the Fish-goddess should she lose them in the sea; but are you certain that your wand is in the hands of Roygan the Proud, O Rastafyre?"

  "I ha-ha-have no other en-en-enem—there is no one else who hates me," said Rastafyre, and again the restrained mirth gleamed for a moment.

  "Fortunate are you, O Incom—" the hesitation, and the faint smile, "Incomparable. Well, I shall recover your wand—and the lute shall be mine."

  "The lute—and the woman," said Rastafyre, "but only wh-wh-when my wand is again in my own ha-ha-hands."

  "If Roygan has it," Lythande said, "it should present no very great difficulties for any competent magician."

  Rastafyre wrapped the lute into the thick protective covering and fumbled it again into Ca-Ca-Carrier's capacious folds. Rastafyre gestured fussily with another spell.

  "In the name of—" He mumbled something, then frowned. "It will not obey me so well without my wa-wa-wand," he mumbled. Again his hands twisted in the simple spell. "G-g-go, confound you, in the name of Indo-do-do—in the name of Indo-do—"

  The bag flopped just a little and a corner of it disappeared, but the rest remained, hovering uneasily in the air. Lythande managed somehow not to shriek with laughter, but remarked:

  "Allow me, O Incomp—O Incomparable," and made the spell with swift narrow fingers. "In the name of Indovici the Silent, I command you, Carrier—"

  "Ca-Ca-Carrier," corrected Rastafyre, and Lythande, lips twitching, repeated the spell.

  "In the name of Indovici the Silent, Ca-Ca-Carrier, I command you, go!"

  The bag began slowly to fade, winked in and out for a moment, rose heavily into the air, and by the time it reached eye level, was gone.

  "Indeed, bargain or no," Lythande said, "I must recover your wand, O Incompetent, lest the profession of magician become a jest for small boys from the Salt Desert to the Cold Hills!"

  Rastafyre glared, but thought better of answering; he turned and fussed away, trailed by a small, lumpy brown shadow where Ca-Ca-Carrier stubbornly refused to stay either visible or invisible. Lythande watched him out of sight, then drew from the mage-robe a small pouch, shook out a small quantity of herbs and thoughtfully rolled them into a narrow tube; snapped narrow fingers to make a light, and slowly inhaled the fragrant smoke, letting it trickle out narrow nostrils into the heavy air of the hallway.

  Roygan the Proud should present no very great challenge. Lythande knew Roygan of old; when that thief among magicians had first appeared in Lythande's life, Lythande had been young in sorcery and not yet tried in vigilance, and several precious items had vanished without trace from the house where Lythande then dwelt. Rastafyre would have been so easy a target that Lythande marveled that Roygan had not stolen Ca-Ca-Carrier, the hood and mage-robe Rastafyre wore, and perhaps his back teeth as well; there was an old saying in Gandrin, if Roygan the Proud shakes your hand, count your fingers before he is out of sight.

  But Lythande had pursued Roygan through three cities and across the Great Salt Desert; and when Roygan had been trailed to his lair, Lythande had recovered wand, rings and magical dagger; and then had affixed one of the rings to Roygan's nose with a permanent binding-spell.

  Wear this, Lythande had said, in memory of your treachery, and that honest folk may know you and avoid you. Now Lythande wondered idly if Roygan had ever found anyone to take the ring off his nose.

  Roygan bears me a grudge, thought Lythande, and wondered if Rastafyre the Incompetent, lute and all, were a trap set for Lythande, to surprise the secret of the Pilgrim Adept's magic. For the strength of any Adept of the Blue Star lies in a certain concealed secret which must never be known; and the one who surprises the secret of a Pilgrim Adept can master all the magic of the Blue Star. And Roygan, with his grudge. . . .

  Roygan was not worth worrying about. But, Lythande thought, / have enemies among the Pilgrim Adepts themselves. Roygan might well be a tool of one of these. And so might Rastafyre.

  No, Roygan had not the strength for that; he was a thief, not a true magician or an adept. As for Rastafyre— soundlessly, Lythande laughed. If anyone sought to use that incompetent, the very incompetence of the fat, fussy little magician would recoil upon the accomplice. I wish no worse for my enemies than Rastafyrefor their friend.

  And when I have succeeded—it never occurred to Lythande to say if—I shall have Koira; and the lute.

  She would not love me; but now, whether or no, she shall be mine, to sing for me whenever I will.

  If it should become known to Lythande's enemies— and the magician knew that there were many of them, even here in Gandrin—that Roygan had somehow incurred the wrath of a Pilgrim Adept, they would be quick to sell the story to any other Pilgrim Adept they could find. Lythande, too, knew how to use that tactic; the knowledge of another Pilgrim Adept's Secret was the greatest protection known under the Twin Suns.

  Speaking of Suns—Lythande cast a glance into the sky—it was near to First-sunset; Keth, red and somber, glowed on the horizon, with Reth like a bloody burning eye, an hour or two behind. Curse it, it was one of those nights where there would be long darkness. Lythande frowned, considering; but the darkness, too, could serv
e.

  First Lythande must determine where in Old Gandrin, what comer or alley of that city of rogues and impos-ters, Roygan might be hiding.

  Was there any Adept of the Blue Star who knew of the quarrel with Roygan? Lythande thought not. They had been alone when the deed was done; and Roygan would hardly boast of it; no doubt, that wretch had declared the ring in his nose to be a new fashion in jewelry! Therefore, by the Great Law of Magic, the law of Resonance, Lythande still possessed a tie to Roygan; the ring which once had been Lythande's own, if it was still on Roygan's nose, would lead to Roygan just as inescapably as a homing pigeon flies to its own croft.

  There was no time to lose; Lythande would rather not brave the hiding place of Roygan the thief in full darkness, and already red Keth had slipped below the edge of the world. Two measures, perhaps, on a time-candle; no more time than that, or darkness would help to hide Roygan beneath its cloak, in the somber moonless streets of Old Gandrin.

  Kic.

  The Pilgrim Adept needs no wand to make magic. Lythande raised one narrow, fine hand, drew it down in a curious, covering movement. Darkness flowed down from the slender fingers behind that movement, covering the magician with its veil; but inside the spelled circle, Lythande sat cross-legged on the stones, flooded with a neutral shadowless light.

  Holding one hand toward the circle, Lythande whispered: "Ring of Lythande, ring which once caressed my finger, be joined to your sister."

  Slowly the ring remaining on Lythande's finger began to gleam with an inner radiance. Beside it in the curious light, a second ring appeared, hanging formless and weightless in midair. And around this second ghost-ring, a pallid face took outline, first the beaky and aquiline nose, then the mouthful of broken teeth which had been tipped like fangs with shining metal, then the close-set dark-lashed eyes of Roygan the Proud.

  He was not here within the spelled light-circle. Lythande knew that. Rather, the circle, like a mirror, reflected Roygan's face, and at a commanding gesture, the focus of the vision moved out, to encompass a room piled high with treasure, where Roygan had come to hide the fruits of his theft. Magpie Roygan! He did not use his treasure to enrich himself-—like Lythande, he could have manufactured jewels at will—but to gain power over other magicians! And so, the links retaining their hold on their owners, Roygan was vulnerable to Lythande's magic as well.

  If Rastafyre had been even a halfway competent magician—even the thought of that tubby little bungler curved Lythande's thin lips in a mocking smile—Rastafyre would have known of that bond, and tracked Roygan the proud himself. For the wand of a magician is a curious thing; in a very real sense it is the magician, for he must put into it one of his very real powers and senses. As the Blue Star, in a way, was Lythande's emotion—for it glowed with blue flame when Lythande was angry or excited—so a wand, in those magicians who must use them, often reflects the most cherished power of a male magician. Again Lythande smiled mockingly; no bedroom athletics, no seduction of magicians' wives or daughters, till Rastafyre's wand was in his hand again!

  Perhaps I should become a public benefactor, and never restore what Rastafyre considers so important, that the women of my fellow mages may be safe from his wiles! Yet Lythande knew, even as the image lingered, and the amusement, that Rastafyre must have back his wand and with it his power to do good or evil. For Law strives ever against Chaos, and every human soul must be free to take the part of one or another; this was the basic law that the Gods of Gandrin had established, and that all Gods everywhere stood as representative; that life itself, on the world of the Twin Suns as everywhere till the last star of Eternity is burnt out, is forever embodying that one Great Strife. And Lythande was sworn, through the Blue Star, servant to the Law. To deprive Rastafyre of one jot of his power to choose good or evil, was to set that basic truth at naught, setting Lythande's oath to Law in the place of Rastafyre's own choices, and that in itself was to let in Chaos.

  And the karma of Lythande should stand forever responsible for the choice of Rastafyre. Guardians of the Blue Star, stand witness 1 want no such power, I carry enough karma of my own! I have set enough causes in motion and must see all their effects . . . abiding even to the Last Battle!

  The image of Roygan, ring in nose, still hung in the air, and around it the pattern of Roygan s treasure room. But try as Lythande would, the Pilgrim Adept could not focus the image sufficiently to see if the wand of Rastafyre was among his treasure. So Lythande, with a commanding gesture, expanded the circle of vision still further, to include a street outside whatever cellar or storeroom held Roygan and his treasures. The circle expanded farther and farther, till at last the magician saw a known landmark; the Fountain of Mermaids, in the Street of the Seven Sailmakers. From there, apparently, the treasure room of Roygan the Thief must be situated.

  And Rastafyre had risked his wand for an affair with Roygan's wife. Truly, Lythande thought, my maxim is well-chosen, that a mage should have neither sweetheart nor wife. . . . and bitterness flooded Lythande, making the Blue Star glimmer; Look what I do, for Koira's mere image or shadow! But how did Rastafyre know?

  For in the days when Koira and Lythande played the lute in the courts of their faraway home, both were young, and no shadow of the Blue Star or Lythande's quest after magic, even into the hidden Place which Is Not of the Pilgrim Adepts, had cast its shadow between them. And Lythande had borne another name.

  Yet Koira, or her shade, knew me, and called me by the name Lythande bears now. Why called she not. . . and then, by an enormous effort, almost physical, which brought sweat bursting from the brow beneath the Blue Star, Lythande cut off that memory; with the trained discipline of an Adept, even the memory of the old name vanished.

  / am Lythande. The one 1 was before 1 bore that name is dead, or wanders in the limbo of the forgotten. With another gesture, Lythande dissolved the spelled circle of light, and stood again in the streets of Old Gandrin, where Reth, too, had begun dangerously to approach the horizon.

  Lythande set off toward the Street of the Seven Sail-makers. Keeping ever to the shadows which hid the dark mage-robe, and moving as noiselessly as a breath of wind or a cat's ghost, the Pilgrim Adept traversed a dozen streets, paying little heed to all that inhabited them. Men brawled in taverns, and on the cobbled streets; merchants sold everything from knives to women; children, grubby and half-naked, played their own obscure games, vaulting over barrels and carts, screaming with the joys and tantrums of innocence. Lythande, intent on the magical mission, hardly saw or heard them.

  At the Fountain of Mermaids, half a dozen women, draped in the loose robes which made even an ugly woman mysterious and alluring, drew water from the bubbling spring, chirping and twittering like birds; Lythande watched them with a curious, aching sadness. It would have been better to await their going, for the comings and goings of a Pilgrim Adept are better not gossiped about; but Reth was perilously near the horizon and Lythande sensed, in the way a.magician will always know a danger, that even a Pilgrim Adept should not attempt to invade the quarters of Roygan the Proud under cover of total night.

  They dissolved away, clutching with murmurs at their children, as Lythande appeared noiselessly, as if from thin air, at the edge of the fountain square. One child clung, giggling, to one of the sculptured mermaids, and the mother, who seemed to Lythande little more than a child herself, came and snatched it up, covertly making the sign against the Evil Eye—but not covertly enough. Lythande stood directly barring her path back to the other women, and said "Do you believe, woman, that I would curse you or your child?"

  The woman looked at the ground, scuffing her sandaled foot on the cobbles, but her hands, clutching the child to her breast, were white at the knuckles with fear, and Lythande sighed. Why did I do that? At the sound of the sigh, the woman looked up, a quick darting glance like a bird's, as quickly averted.

  "The blinded eye of Keth witness that I mean no harm to you or your child, and I would bless you if I knew any blessings," Lythande said at last,
and faded into shadow so that the woman could gather the courage to scamper away across the street, her child's grubby head clutched against her breast. The encounter had left a taste of bitterness in Lythande's mouth, but with iron discipline, the magician let it slide away into limbo, to be taken out and examined, perhaps, when the bitterness had been attenuated by Time.

  "Ring, sister of Roygan's ring, show me where, in the nose of Roygan the thief, I must seek you!"

  One of the shadowed buildings edging the square seemed to fade somewhat in the dying sunset; through the walls of.the building, Lythande could see rooms, walls, shadows, the moving shadow of a woman unveiled, a saucy round-bodied little creature with ringlets tumbled overa low brow, and the mark of a dimple in her chin, and great dark-lashed eyes. So this was the woman for whom Rastafyre the Incompetent had risked wand and magic and the vengeance of Roygan?

  Do I scorn his choice because that path is barred to me?

  Still; madness, between the choice of love and power, to choose such counterfeit of love as such a woman could give. For, silently approaching the walls which were all but transparent to Lythande's spelled Sight, the Pilgrim Adept could see beneath the outer surface of artless coquetry, down to the very core of selfishness and greed within the woman, her grasping at treasures, not for their beauty but for the power they gave her. Rastafyre had not seen so deep within. Was he blinded by lust, then, or was it only further evidence of the name Lythande had given him, Incompetent?

  With a gesture, Lythande banished the spelled Sight; there was no need of it now, but there was need of haste, for Reth's orange rim actually caressed the western rim of the world. Yet I can be in, and out, unseen, before the light is wholly gone, Lythande thought, and, gesturing darkness to rise like a more enveloping mage-robe, stepped through the stone wall. It felt grainy, like walking through maize-dough, but nothing worse. Nevertheless Lythande hastened, pulling against the resistance of the stone; there were tales, horror tales told in the outer courts of the Pilgrim Adepts where this art was taught, of an Adept of the Blue Star who had lost his courage halfway through the wall, and stuck there, half of his body still trapped within the stone, shrieking with pain until he died. . . . Lythande hated to risk this walking through walls, and usually relied on silence, stealth and spells applied to locks. But there was no time even to find the locks, far less to sound them out by magic and press by magic upon the sensitive tumblers of the bolts. When all the magician's body was within the shadowy room, Lythande drew a breath of relief; even the smell of mold and cobwebs was preferable to the grainy feel of the wall, and now, whatever came, Lythande resolved to go out by the door.