Book of Enchantments

by Patricia C. Wrede

  Clearing her mind of everything save Evan and the Dhainin, Mariel raised her arms and began the invocation. Her hands moved almost without conscious thought, lighting the fire, sprinkling the water, catching the flying ashes in the cloth. She sprinkled the fire again, sending more flecks of ash whirling upward with the steam, and breathed in the smoky scent. And knew before she opened the cloth what answer she would find there.

  When Evan woke, Mariel was sitting beside his bed. Half dreaming still, he put out a hand, and she drew away. His hand dropped; she looked at him gravely.

  "Are you determined?" she asked.

  "What other choice do I have?"

  "Then the earth magic will aid you," she said in a cool voice.

  Evan sat up. "Thank you, Mariel."

  "It is no doing of mine," she said sharply. "And the price is yet to be paid. You may still fail if you have lied about your motives." Evan did not reply, and after a moment she shook her head. "Come, then, if you are sure."

  She led him through a dark and twisting passage, back to the pool where he had first seen her. At the iron brazier, she stopped and pointed. "Stand beside the pool," she said, "and do not move or look behind you until I tell you. Watch the water, and think of your purpose."

  Evan stepped to the place she had indicated. A flicker of orange light glittered suddenly on the surface of the water and Mariel's voice began a harsh-sounding chant, but he did not turn. He sensed power slowly growing around him, until it surged in invisible waves, and he felt the very rocks were watching him. He stared at the water and thought of his dying men, his burning villages and war-torn land, and his own powerlessness.

  The water became darker, reflecting nothing. Slowly it drew away from the center of the pool, and Evan saw something lying there, or growing, a shape blacker than darkness, darker than night: a sword. He did not move. He hardly dared to breathe.

  Mariel's voice, the voice of the Earthwitch, rose behind him in a rasping command, then stopped. The water of the pool surged forward, then back, then forward again, and dull orange light from the brazier glittered on its surface once more. Outlined against the reflected light, the sword stood upright in the water, visible only as an interruption in the sparkling ripples. Hands reached past Evan, holding a cloth. A moment later, the sword had been pulled from the water, and a voice said, "You may turn."

  Feeling as stiff and tired as if he had just fought a long battle, Evan looked away from the pool. His eyes met Mariel's blankly; then he saw the sword she held. It was made of black stone, dead black, the black of the center of the world where no light had ever fallen. He reached for it, and Mariel drew back.

  "Not yet."

  "That sword—"

  "—is the means the earth has given you. The time for its use has not yet come. Veryl and Niza will see to you now. I have more preparations to make."

  "Will I see you again before . . . whatever is to happen next?"

  She hesitated, half turning. "Perhaps. Go now." With that, she vanished into the depths of the cave, carrying the stone sword carefully so that her cloth-wrapped hands would not touch its surface.

  Two girls appeared in the doorway and escorted him back to the chamber where he had awakened. They brought him water and food, and he ate, trying to contain his impatience. He asked for, and received, writing materials and passed some time composing his letter to Corbin. He had nearly finished when Mariel returned.

  "What is that?" she asked when she saw what he was doing.

  "A letter to my chief commander." He signed it and stamped the bottom with his seal ring, then rolled the letter up and slipped the ring over the top. Finally, he tied them securely to the hilt of his sword and looked up. "Will you see that he gets this after. . . afterward?"

  "I will arrange it."

  "Thank you."

  They sat for a few moments in silence. Then Evan said, "I thought I had a great deal still to say to you, but I find that two words cover most of it: I'm sorry."

  "I, too."

  "How much longer? Have you more preparations to make?"

  "We can begin as soon as you are ready."

  Evan swallowed hard and stood up. "I'm as ready as I can be, I think. But can you at least tell me what to expect?"

  "No. I mean, I do not know myself. The earth does what it does, never twice the same, any more than two roses are identical, leaf for leaf. Whatever happens will rid your land of the Dhainin, but how, I do not know."

  "Then let us go."

  Mariel nodded and put up the hood of her robe. Silently, she gestured for him to follow and led him out into the maze of passageways. How long and how far they walked, Evan could not guess. At last they came to a flight of stairs, carved in rock, and Mariel led him upward.

  They emerged abruptly into the pale golden sunlight of late afternoon. Evan blinked and looked about him. He stood on a narrow strip of barren earth. On one side, the mountain rose to its peak, shining in the sun; on the other, a lake of molten rock boiled and smoked between him and the edge of a cliff. Directly in front of him was a gray boulder with a flat top and on it lay the black stone sword. Seeing it, Evan took a swift step forward, then stopped in sudden doubt and glanced toward Mariel.

  The dark green hood inclined in Evan's direction. Mariel's voice echoed strangely as she spoke, as if her words came from a great distance or through a long tunnel. "Evan Rydingsword, you have asked the aid of the earth magic to rid your country of the Dhainin. For this you came to Firewell Mountain; for this you have offered whatever the magic demands as the price of power. State now without fear: is this true?"

  All the cruel tales of the Earthwitch and her magic rose in Evan's mind, and he hesitated. Other memories crowded in to match the tales, pictures of battle and burning. "It is true," Evan said, firmly putting his last doubts aside.

  "Then step forward and take the sword of the earth, and let what will be, be so."

  Evan walked slowly forward and reached for the hilt of the black sword. As he touched it, he saw Mariel—no, the Earthwitch—throw something toward the orange lake of fire. A cloud of smoke grew swiftly beside him, and in a moment he was surrounded by swirling, featureless gray. He lifted the sword.

  Cold struck through his arm, and his eyes began to burn. The gray smoke cleared or became transparent in front of him. Looking through it, he saw, not the mountains, but a field, black with the Dhainin army. He shouted and held the sword aloft. Power ran down his arm in a wave of cold fire that continued on through him until it melted into the ground beneath his feet. A ripple of motion went through the Dhainin army, and then, with a terrible slowness, they began to sink.

  Evan could not move, could not shout, could not even blink. With a fantastic clarity, he saw their faces twist in terror as the ground softened and the grassy earth rose around them. They sank with the slow inevitability of a pebble in a jar of honey, and when the surface of the plain closed at last above their heads there was no sign that they had ever existed.

  Evan drew a single, shuddering breath—I wanted the Dhainin gone, but no warrior deserves such a death—and the scene changed. This time he saw a smaller group of Dhainin, strolling through the streets of a small town—Lemark, that was the place. He had lost it to the Dhainin barely two weeks before. Again he felt power run through him; again the earth softened beneath the feet of the men he saw, and they sank screaming into the cobbled street.

  The scene shifted again, and again, until Evan hardly knew or cared what it was he watched. He tried to tell himself that the visions were unreal symbols, not images of actual events happening elsewhere, but with the earth's power surging through him he could not make himself believe it. Once the earth sucked down a troop of Dhainin raiders in the midst of a battle, leaving their opponents staring in fear and horror, and he recognized some of his rear guard.

  At last the visions ended, and Evan felt the power fade. Slowly, he lowered the sword, and the gray smoke swirled tiredly, thinned, and dissolved. His people were safe, but he felt
no triumph. There was no honor or glory in killing helpless victims, and the destruction of an entire people in such a way left him sick at heart, as no battle had ever done. He turned and saw Mariel standing at the edge of the cliff, her hood pushed back and her hair blowing in wisps around her face.

  And the sword moved in his hand.

  Evan looked down, stunned, and saw the stone sword rise, pulling his hand upward and forward. Pulling him toward Mariel. He cried out and tried to drop the sword, but his fingers would not obey him. He looked up and saw Mariel with the same unnatural clarity as he had seen the Dhainin. She watched for a moment, her face calm and grave, while the sword pulled him inexorably closer. Then, smiling slightly, she stepped forward to meet him.

  Horror swept him; whatever price he had expected to pay, this was not it. He fought the pull of the black stone sword, but it was too strong. Left-handed, he groped for his own sword, but it was still in the sleeping chamber with his letter. His dagger, then. He drew it with difficulty. "I will not kill her," he said between clenched teeth, and slashed at his right wrist.

  The steel cut cleanly through in spite of the awkward angle of the blow. Too late, Mariel cried out in protest, echoing Evan's scream of pain. The black stone sword hung in the air for another instant; then it fell and shattered on the ground at his feet. As the stone broke, he felt the power that had filled him break apart, and the vision of Mariel shattered like a picture in a breaking mirror. The shards of power and vision stabbed at his eyes, and he fell forward, the stump of his right arm gushing redness across the broken bits of black stone.

  He woke in darkness with a throbbing pain in his right arm. He was lying on a rough, uncomfortable surface, and he could hear movement beside him. "Mariel?" he said weakly.

  "I am here. I have bound your arm, and you will not bleed to death, but you need more tending than I can give you here. Can you walk back to the caves? I am afraid you are too much for me to carry."

  "If you light the lamp so I can find the stairs, I think I can manage," Evan said.

  "Light the lamp? But—" Mariel stopped, and Evan felt suddenly cold.

  "Mariel, how long was I— How long has it been?"

  "Not long."

  "Not long," Evan repeated, peering vainly into the darkness. "Then—" But he could not finish. He felt more than heard Mariel move beside him and knew she was nodding.

  "Yes. I should have seen before. You are blind, Evan." Her voice shook.

  "Ah." He closed his eyes. "Well, take my life, then. It is the price I agreed to, and it is no longer much hardship to pay."

  "No, Evan. The earth magic does not want your death, but your life." Her voice sank almost to a whisper. "I tried to warn you that there would be a price."

  "The price was you!" Evan shouted. "Why else do you think I did this?" He tried to raise the stump of his arm and nearly fainted again from the pain.

  "You crippled yourself because you were already blind," she answered, and he could hear the ring of power in her voice and knew that she spoke as the Earthwitch and not only Mariel. "You would not see what the earth tried to show you, so now you do not see at all. The price of the magic is your life and service."

  "Like this? Blind and crippled?" he spat. "How can I live like this?"

  "You must learn." The voice was gently implacable. "I will help you, if I can. But live you must. You are the earth's, now."

  "You cannot help me rule," Evan said. "Even if I could persuade the people to accept a cripple as king—"

  "You still do not understand," Mariel said sharply. "You are a king no longer. Your life belongs to the earth; when you are recovered and have sufficient training, you will become the next Earthwitch."

  "You would have me be a blind mage." He snorted. "No."

  "What the earth has taken, the earth can restore, if you accept what it shows you," Mariel said. "In any case you have no choice in this."

  She hesitated, and the echo of the Earth magic faded from her voice. When she continued, he heard only Mariel. "It is not forever. You will serve seven years, as I have. When you have trained your successor, you will be free. And then—"

  "And then?" He felt a wisp of hope.

  "And then perhaps we will both be strong enough to be simply Evan and Mariel," she said slowly, as if the thought was so new to her that she must test each word as she spoke it.

  Evan felt a hand on his good arm. Reluctantly, he let Mariel help him up and lead him carefully to the stairs.

  * * *

  The Sword-Seller

  The tiny sword-seller's booth was almost hidden behind a row of tinker's stalls and jewelry stands; Auridan very nearly passed by without seeing it at all. When he did notice it, he paused. Then he shouldered his way toward it with a smile. He needed a sword, and half the fun of a fair was hunting bargains in the smaller booths.

  The booth's proprietor, an old man in a dark blue robe, looked up as Auridan ducked under the awning. Auridan braced himself for the usual exhortations, but the man regarded him with a silent, unblinking stare. Auridan gave a mental shrug and bent over the counter. He was surprised at the disorder he found; knives, daggers, and swords of all lengths were jumbled as randomly as a child's game of catch-straws. Some had sheaths, some did not; some were polished and sharpened, others were black with age. A cursory glance was enough to tell Auridan that nothing here was likely to be worth haggling over. He shrugged again and turned to go. As he did, a glint of color caught his eye.

  Auridan stopped. A blue stone winked at him through a gap in the crisscrossed pile of weapons. Auridan moved two swords and four daggers and uncovered an ancient short-sword without a sheath. The blue stone was one of a pair set in the hilt, amid carving so clogged with grime that it was impossible to determine what the decoration represented. The blade of the sword was black with age, and thicker and wider than those Auridan was used to. Almost in spite of himself, Auridan lifted the sword, testing the heft. The hilt fit his hand as if it had been made to measure, and the balance of the blade was perfect.

  "That sword is not for sale," a harsh voice rasped.

  Auridan started and looked across the counter into the unfathomable eyes of the sword-seller. "If it is already spoken for, you should not display it with the rest of your wares," Auridan said in mild annoyance. He twisted the blade from side to side, studying it with regret. It would be a deal of work to clean and sharpen, but something about the weapon called to him . . . He shook himself and held the sword out to the sword-seller.

  The old man made no move to take it from him. "I did not say the sword was spoken for," he said.

  "No, I suppose you didn't," Auridan replied with a smile. "But what else am I to think when you refuse to sell it?"

  "Think as you will," the man said, "so long as you do not think to buy that sword."

  "As you will," Auridan said. Again he held out the sword. The old man sat watching him with the same unblinking stare.

  "Very well, then." Auridan set the sword down gently atop the welter of other weapons in front of the old man. His fingers uncurled reluctantly from the hilt, and as he stepped away from the counter he was surprised to find that his breathing had quickened. "Good day, and fortune follow you," he said, and turned away. "Wait."

  Auridan looked back, but kept one hand poised to lift the fringe of the awning. "What is it?"

  "The sword is not for sale. It is given. Today, it is given to you. Take it."

  Auridan stared. Was the old man mad? Even an old and battered sword was worth a good deal, and this weapon was well made. The sword-seller looked as though he could make good use of whatever coin it would bring. "Why would you give me the sword?"

  "That is my affair," the old man said. "The sword is yours. Take it."

  Auridan heard finality in the sword-seller's voice, and the man's eyes were bright and knowing. They did not look like the eyes of a madman. Auridan reached for the hilt of the sword, then hesitated. Whatever the reason for this strange offer, he could not take s
uch advantage of an old man. His hand went to the pouch at his belt and removed half of the scanty coins remaining. He held them out to the sword-seller. "Here. It's not the worth of such a weapon, by any means, but—"

  "The sword is a gift!" the old man snapped. "Did I not say it?"

  "I'll take it as a purchase, or not at all," Auridan said. Briefly, he wondered if he had not run as mad as the old sword-seller. Forcing a merchant to take coin at a fair! Whoever heard of such backward bargaining?

  The old man snorted. "Take the sword and go."

  Auridan shrugged. He tossed the coins onto the counter, where they made tiny noises as they clinked against the jumbled weapons and fell into the spaces between them. Only then did he put his hand to the hilt of the ancient sword.

  "For your courtesy, I give thanks," Auridan said, and picked up the weapon.

  He thought he saw a flash of worry in the sword-seller's eyes. Then the man said, "You are a blank shield. I am sometimes asked to recommend such men to those who seek to hire them. If someone asks, where shall I send him?"

  Auridan blinked in surprise, but said courteously that he could probably be found in the serving tent after sunset. He thanked the man and left, wondering why he had bothered. He doubted that anyone would seek to hire a mercenary by such roundabout methods. Still, he thought the suggestion had been well meant. He put the matter out of his mind and began looking for a leather-maker's booth where he could buy a sheath for the sword.

  For the next several hours, Auridan strolled among the booths and tents, enjoying the warm sunshine and watching the eager, noisy crowds. The annual Fyndale fair had been resumed shortly after the end of the long war with the Hounds of Alizon, and it had grown every year since. Ten merchants' flags had flown above the booths at that first fair; now, four years later, there were thirty or more, and the tents and carts and tables of the lesser tradesmen sprawled in a disorderly semicircle around the gray stone pillar where men swore to keep the peace of the fair.