Bradley, Marion Zimmer - SSC 03 (7 page)

 
          
Lythande's
breath came loud in the silence as the Pilgrim Adept wiped the slime from the
magical dagger, thrust it back into one sheath,
then
sought on the floor for where the right-hand dagger had fallen. There was slime
on the magician's left hand, too, and the Adept wiped it, viciously, on a bolt
of precious velvet; Roygan's things to Roygan, then! When the right-hand dagger
was safe again in the other sheath, Lythande turned to the frantic search again
for Rastafyre's wand. It was not to be thought of, that there would be much
more time. Even if Roygan toyed with the wife who was all his now Rastafyre's
power was gone, he could not stay with her forever, and if his magical power
had created the bane-wolf, surely the death of the creature, drawing as it did
on Roygan's own vitality, would alert him to the intrusion into his treasure
room.

 
          
Through
the lid of one of the boxes, Lythande could see, in the magical witchlight
which responded only to the things of magical Power, a long narrow shape,
wrapped in silks but still glowing with the light that singled out the things
of magic. Surely that must be Rastafyre's wand, unless Roygan the Thief had a
collection of such things
—
and the kind of incompetence
which had allowed Roygan to get the wand, was uncommon among magicians . . .
praise to Keth's all-seeing eye!

 
          
Lythande
fumbled with the lock. Now that the excitement of the fight with the bane-wolf
had subsided, shoulder and arm were aching like half-healed burns where the
enchanted teeth had met in Lythande's flesh. Worse than burns, perhaps,
Lythande thought, for they might not yield to ordinary burn remedies! The magician
wanted to tear off the tattered tunic where the bane-wolf had torn, but there
were reasons not to do this within an enemy's stronghold! Lythande drew the
mage-robe's folds closer, bitten hands wrenching at the bolts. The Pilgrim
Adept was very strong; unlike those
magicians
who
relied always on magic and avoided exertion, Lythande had traveled afoot and
alone over all the highroads and by-roads lighted by the Twin Suns, and the
wiry arms, the elegant-looking hands, had the strength of the daggers they
wielded. After a moment the first hinge of the chest yielded, with a sound as
loud, in the darkening cellar, as the explosion of fireworks; Lythande flinched
at the sound . . . surely even Roygan must hear that in his wife's very
chamber!
Now for the other hinge.
The bitten hands
were growing more painful by the moment; Lythande took the right-hand dagger,
the one intended for objects which were natural and not magic, and tried to
wedge it under the hinge, prying in grim silence without success. Was the
damned thing spelled shut? No; for then Lythande's hands alone could not have
budged the first bolt. Blood was dripping from the blistered hand before the
second lock gave way, and Lythande reached into the chest, and recoiled as if
from the very teeth of the bane-wolf. Howling with rage and pain and
frustration, Lythande swept into the chest with the left-hand dagger; there
was a small ghastly shrilling and something ugly, horrible and only half
visible, writhed and died. But now Lythande held the wand of Rastafyre, triumphant.

 
          
Wincing
at the pain, Lythande stripped the concealing cloths from the wand. A grimace
of distaste came over the magician's narrow face as the phallic carvings and
shape of the wand were revealed, but after all, this had been fairly obvious
—
that Rastafyre would arm his wand with his manhood. It was,
after all, his own problem; it was not Lythande's karma to teach other magicians
either discretion or manners. A bargain had been made and a service should be
performed.

 
          
Hastily
wadding the protective silks around the wand
—
it
was easier to handle that way, and Lythande had no wish even to look upon the
gross thing
—
Lythande turned to the
business of getting out again. Not through the walls. Darkness had surely
fallen by now; though in the windowless treasure-room it was hard to tell, but
there must be a door somewhere.

 
          
Lythande
had heard nothing; but abruptly, as the witch-light flared, Roygan the Proud
stood directly in the center of the room.

 
          
"So,
Lythande the Magician is Lythande the Thief! How like you the business of
thievery, then, Magician?"

 
          
A
trap, then.
But Lythande's mellow, neutral
voice was calm.

 
          
"It
is written; from the thief all shall be stolen at last. By the ring in your
nose, Roygan; you know the truth of what I say."

 
          
With
an inarticulate howl of rage, Roygan hurled himself at Lythande. The magician
stepped aside, and Roygan hurtled against a chest, giving a furious yelp of
pain as his knees collided with the metalled edge of the chest. He whriled, but
Lythande, dagger in hand, stood facing him.

 
          
"Ring
of Lythande, ring of Roygan's shame, be welded to this," Lythande
murmured, and the dagger flung itself against Roygan's face. Roygan grunted
with pain as Lythande's dagger molded itself against the ring, curling around
his face.

 
          
"Ai!
Ai! Take it off, damn you by every god and godlet
of Gandrin, or I
—
"

 
          
"You
will
what?"
demanded Lythande, looking with an aloof grin at
Roygan's face, the dagger curled around the end of his nose, and gripping, as
if by a powerful magnet, at the metal tips of Roygan's teeth. Furious, howling,
Roygan flung himself again at Lythande, his yell wordless now as the metal of
the dagger fastened itself tighter to his teeth. Lythande laughed, stepping
free easily from Roygan's clutching hands; but the thief s face was alight with
sudden triumphant glee.

 
          
"Hoy,"
he mumbled through the edges of the dagger. "Now I have touched Lythande
and I know your secret. . . . Lythande, Pilgrim Adept, wearer of the Blue Star,
you are
—
ai!
Ai-ya!"
With a fearful screech of pain, Roygan fell to the floor, wordless as the
dagger curled deeper into his mouth; blood burst from his lip, and in the next
moment, Lythande's other dagger thrust through his heart, in the merciful
release from agony.

 
          
Lythande
bent, retrieved the dagger which had thrust into Roygan's heart. Then, Blue
Star blazing magic, Lythande reached for the other dagger, which had bitten
through Roygan's lips, tongue,
throat
. A murmured
spell restored it to the shape of a dagger, the metal slowly uncurling under
the stroking hands of the owner's sorcery. Slowly, sighing, Lythande sheathed
both daggers.

 
          
I
meant not to kill him. But I knew too well what his next words would be; and
the magic of a Pilgrim Adept is void if the Secret is spoken aloud. And, knowing,
I could not let him live.
Why was she so regretful? Roygan was not the
first Lythande had killed to keep that Secret, the words actually on Roygan's
mutilated tongue;
Lythande, you are a woman.

 
          
A woman.
A woman, who in her pride had penetrated the
courts of the Pilgrim Adepts in disguise; and when the Blue Star was already
between her brows, had been punished and rewarded with the Secret she had kept
well enough to deceive even the Great Adept in the Temple of the Blue Star.

 
          
Your
Secret, then, shall be forever; for on the day when any man save
myself
shall speak your secret aloud, your power is void. Be
then forever doomed with the
Secret you yourself have chosen, and
be
forever in the eyes of all men what you made us think
you.

 
          
Bitterly,
Lythande thrust the wand of Rastafyre under the folds of the mage-robe. Now
she had leisure to find a way out by the doors. The locks yielded to the touch
of magic; but before leaving the cellar, Lythande spoke the spell which would
return Roygan's stolen jewels to their owners.

 
          
A small victory for the cause of Law.
And
Roygan the thief had met his just fate.

 
          
Stepping
out into the fading sunlight, Lythande blinked. It had seemed to take hours,
that silent struggle in the darkness of the Treasure-room. Yet the sun still
lingered, and a little child played noiselessly, splashing her feet in the
fountain, until a chubby young woman came to scold her merrily and tug her
withindoors. Listening to the laughter, Lythande sighed. A thousand years, a
thousand memories, cut her away from the woman and the child.

 
          
To love no man lest my Secret be known.
To love no woman lest she be a target for my enemies in quest of
the Secret.

 
          
And
she risked exposure and powerlessness, again and again, for such as Rastafyre.
Why?

 
          
Because I must.
There was no answer other than
that, a Pilgrim Adept's vow to Law against Chaos. Rastafyre should have his
wand back. There was no law that all magicians should be competent.

 
          
She
laid a narrow hand along the wand, trying not to flinch at the shape, and
murmured, "Bring me to your master."

 
         
Lythande
found Rastafyre in a tavern; and, having no wish for any public display of
power, beckoned him outside. The tubby little magician stared up in awe at the
blazing Blue Star.

 
          
"You
have it?
Already?"

           
Silently, Lythande held out the
wrapped wand to Rastafyre. As he touched it, he seemed to grow taller,
handsomer,
less
tubby; even his face fell into lines
of strength, and virility.

 
          
"And
now my fee," Lythande reminded him.

 
          
He
said sullenly "How know I that Roygan the Proud will not come after
me?"

 
          
"I
knew not," said Lythande calmly, "that your magic had power to raise
the dead, oh Rastafyre the Incomparable."

 
          
"You
—
you
—
k-k-k-he's dead?"

 
          
"He
lies where his ill-gotten treasures rest, with the ring of Lythande still
through his nose," Lythande said calmly. "Try, now, to keep your
magic wand out of the power of other men's wives."

 
          
Rastafyre
chuckled. He said "But wha-wha
—
what
else would I do w-w-with my p-p-power?"

 
          
Lythande
grimaced. "Koira's lute," she said, "or you will lie where
Roygan lies."

 
          
Rastafyre
the Incomparable raised his hand. "Ca-ca-Carrier," he intoned, and,
flickering in and off in the dullness of the room, the velvet bag winked in,
out again, came back, vanished again even as Rastafyre had his hand within it.

 
          
"Damn
you, Ca-ca-Carrierl Come or go, but don't
flicker
like that! Stayl Stay,
I said!" He sounded, Lythande thought, as if he were talking to a
reluctant puppy dog.

 
          
Finally,
when he got it entirely materialized, he drew forth the lute. With a grave bow,
Lythande accepted it, tucking it out of sight under the mage-robe.

 
          
"Health
and prosperity to you, O Lythande
,!
' he said
—
for once without stuttering; perhaps the wand did that for
him too?

 
          
"Health
and prosperity to you, O Rastafyre the incom
—
"
Lythande hesitated, laughed aloud and said, "Incomparable."

           
He took himself off then and
Lythande added silently, "And more luck in your adventures," as she
watched Ca-ca-Carrier dimly lumping along like a small surly shadow at his
heels, until at last it vanished entirely.

 
          
Alone,
Lythande stepped into the dark street, under the cold and moonless sky. With a
single gesture the magical circle blotted away all surroundings; there was
neither time nor space. Then Lythande began to play the lute softly. There was
a little stirring in the silence, and the figure of Koira, slender, delicate,
her pale hair shimmering about her face and her body gleaming through wispy
veils, appeared before her.