Bradley, Marion Zimmer - SSC 03 (4 page)

 
          
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 of 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.

 
          
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.

 
 
          
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!"

 
          
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?"