The Misenchanted Sword loe-1

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  He tried to tell himself that he was simply homesick and wanted to return to the Thief’s Skull, but he didn’t entirely believe it.

  On the third day, Iridith returned safely, with the heart in a sealed jar, a flask of tears — Valder was surprised to see they were a faint yellowish green, rather than clear as he had always supposed tears to be, regardless of their origin — and a large, loudly chirping box of crickets. “I’m not sure how much ichor I need,” she explained.

  With all but one of the ingredients, the two of them settled down to wait for an opportunity to arise to obtain the hand of a murdered woman. “People are killed in Ethshar every day,” Iridith said. “Sooner or later, I’ll find one that will do. I don’t know why I haven’t already.”

  “I don’t either,” Valder replied. “Surely, a woman’s been murdered somewhere in the world in the past few days!”

  “Oh, certainly,” Iridith answered. “But I need one whose family is willing to sell her hand; I mustn’t steal it. That sort of thing gives wizardry a bad name. The Guild wouldn’t like it. That baby’s heart was sold by the woman’s husband — I suppose he was the child’s father.”

  “Oh,” Valder said, startled; he had not realized she was being so scrupulous.

  For the next several days, she spent each morning in her workshop, checking her divinations, and then spent the afternoon with Valder, sitting about the house and talking, or walking on the beach, or levitating to an altitude of a hundred feet or so and drifting with the wind. On one particularly warm day, as they were strolling along the shore, Iridith suddenly stopped and announced, “I’m going swimming.”

  “Go ahead,” Valder said. “I never learned how, really, and I’m too old to learn now.”

  Iridith smiled as she pulled her tunic up; her face vanished behind the cloth as she tugged the garment up over her head, but her muffled voice was still audible. “You won’t always be,” she said.

  “Then maybe I’ll learn, someday.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time, Valder, I promise you that.” She had her tunic off and reached down to remove her skirt.

  Valder watched admiringly. “Lovely,” he said. “If I were twenty years younger I’d do something about it.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “You will be — but whether I let you do anything about it is another matter entirely.” With that, she tossed him her clothing and ran splashing into the surf.

  On an evening a few days later, as they were walking up to the house with feet wet from splashing in the tidal pools, Iridith asked, “What are you planning to do when I’ve completed the spell?”

  “I’ll go home, of course,” Valder replied.

  “To Kardoret?”

  Startled, he almost shouted, “No!” Calming, he added, “I’m not even sure it’s still there; it wasn’t much of a place to begin with. No, I meant my inn, the Thief’s Skull — or the Inn at the Bridge, as it was originally called.”

  “Sounds dull.”

  “Oh, no! It isn’t, really. We get travelers from all over, from Sardiron and the Small Kingdoms and all of the Hegemony, and hear their stories. Every sort of person imaginable stops at an inn sooner or later, and after a day on the road most are eager to talk, so it’s never dull. I hear news that never reaches the city and get many of the great adventures described firsthand. It’s a fine life. This house you have here, it’s a splendid house, but it’s rather lonely, isn’t it? Your nearest neighbors are fishermen a league down the coast in either direction, or farmers half a league inland.”

  “I got tired of people decades ago,” she answered. “After the war, I didn’t think I ever wanted to see ordinary people again. I’ve taken on apprentices, of course; I wasn’t really lonely here.”

  “I see,” Valder said as they reached the steps to the veranda.

  They crossed the plank flooring of the porch in silence, but, as Valder opened the door to the parlor, Iridith said, “You know, nobody will recognize you when you go back. They know you as an old man, not a young one.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Valder admitted.

  “You had best claim to be a relative of some sort — you’ll have a strong family resemblance, after all.”

  “Will anyone believe that?”

  “Certainly! Why shouldn’t they?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Of course, I don’t think I really have any relatives still alive; I haven’t heard from any in thirty or forty years and I’ve told people that.”

  “All the better; none will turn up to dispute your story. Surely you could be an illegitimate son, or long-lost nephew, or something!”

  “I suppose I could; I’ll want to warn Tandellin, though. He had probably thought that he would inherit the place; he may not be overjoyed to have a new heir turn up.”

  “He’ll have to live with it. Nothing’s perfect; giving you eternal youth can’t solve all your problems for you.”

  Valder smiled. “It’s a good start, though.”

  CHAPTER 33

  The eighth day of the month of Longdays, a sixnight after Valder made a visit to the inn to reassure his friends that all was well, was rainy and gray, but the wizard and innkeeper paid no attention to such trivia; Agravan had sent a message that he had at last acquired the final ingredient. A young streetwalker had run afoul of a gang of drunken soldiers and died in consequence; her body had been sufficiently abused that her brother saw no reason to object to further mutilation, if the price was right. The circumstances were depressingly sordid, but the precious hand was finally in their possession.

  Valder was pleased to hear that the soldiers responsible were to be hanged; the Lord Executioner would have a busy day, for once.

  The hand was safely delivered that evening, and Iridith then locked herself in her workshop, telling Valder to eat well and rest; the spell would require twenty-four hours without food or sleep and would make great demands upon both mind and body.

  At midday on the ninth, while rain splashed from the eaves, Iridith called for Valder to join her in the workshop, and the spell began.

  Most of it was meaningless to him; following the wizard’s directions he sat, stood, knelt, swallowed things, handled things, closed his eyes, opened his eyes, spoke meaningless phrases, and in general performed ritual after ritual without any idea of the underlying pattern. Around sunset he began to feel strange, and the remainder of the enchantment passed in a dreamlike, unreal state, so that he could never recall much about it afterward. All he knew, from about midnight on, was that he was growing ever more tired.

  When he came to himself again, he was lying on his couch, feeling utterly exhausted. He looked out the nearest window and saw only gray skies that told him nothing save that it was day, not night — yet something seemed wrong. His vision seemed unnaturally clear.

  He got to his feet, slowly, feeling very odd indeed. His every muscle was weak with fatigue, yet he felt none of his familiar aches and twinges; it was as if he had become another person entirely.

  That thought struck him with considerable force; if he were another person, then was he still Wirikidor’s owner? He reached for his belt and found no sword. He looked down.

  His hands were young and strong, fully fleshed, no longer the bony hands of an old man, and he seemed to see every detail with impossible clarity — yet the hands seemed completely familiar, and he found the little pouch at his belt that, he now remembered, magically contained Wirikidor despite its size. He opened the drawstring, reached in, and felt the familiar hilt.

  He was obviously still Valder — but he was also obviously a young man. The spell had worked.

  He found a mirror and spent several long, incredulous minutes admiring himself and being pleased, not just by what he saw but by how well he saw it. He appeared twenty-five or so — scarcely older than when Wirikidor was first enchanted.

  Tandellin would never have recognized him; he congratulated himself on having taken Iridith’s advice and informed his employees on his recent vis
it that he was retiring and leaving the business to his nephew, Valder the Younger. Tandellin had not been happy about it and had in fact demanded to know why he had never heard of this nephew before, but he had conceded Valder’s right to do as he pleased with his property.

  At last he managed to tear himself away from the mirror. He was, he realized, ravenously hungry — which was scarcely surprising, now that he had a young man’s appetite and had not eaten in at least a day. He strode into the kitchen, reveling in his firm, effortless stride.

  Iridith was sitting at the table, devouring a loaf of bread and a thick slab of cheese.

  “Catching up?” he asked, aware that she, too, had been unable to eat during the spell.

  “Oh, I already did that, really; this is just breakfast.”

  “Is it morning?” Valder was surprised; he knew the spell had been complete around midday on the tenth and had assumed that it was still that same afternoon, not the morning of the eleventh.

  “Yes, it’s morning — and of the sixteenth of Longdays. Eat; you must need it.” She shoved the bread and cheese across the table toward him.

  He accepted them and quickly began wolfing them down, while the wizard watched in amusement.

  When he had taken the edge off his appetite, he slowed down in his eating and looked at his hostess. She looked back, then rose and crossed to the cupboard to fetch further provender.

  He watched the movement of her body, remembering all the conversations he had had with her over the past month and more.

  She returned with another loaf, a pitcher of beer, and assorted other items, remarking, “That spell does take quite a bit out of one, but it’s worth it, wouldn’t you say?”

  Valder nodded, looking at her.

  “Yes,” he agreed, “I would definitely say so.”

  They both ate in silence after that; when they had eaten their fill, Iridith led the-way out to the porch, where they could watch the morning sun struggle to force an opening in the clouds.

  “My debt is paid,” Iridith said. “And your problems with the sword are solved.”

  Valder nodded agreement. “So they are,” he said. He watched a beam of sunlight stab through to the foam at the water’s edge, then added, “I have another problem, though — one that I never solved. I never found myself a wife, and now I’m young enough again to want one — but what kind of a life would it be, having a wife who would grow old and die while I stayed young?”

  “It’s not pleasant,” the wizard agreed.

  “If I could find a wife who wouldn’t grow old, of course, that would be ideal.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Strictly for practical reasons.”

  “Naturally, I would let her lead her own life if she chose; I’ve never believed in the theory that a wife should be a chattel. A companion, though, a comrade through the years, would be welcome.”

  “I’m sure.”

  He was silent for a moment.

  “Do you think you might want to be an innkeeper’s wife?” he asked at last.

  She smiled. “Oh,” she said lightly, “I think I could stand it for a century or two.”

  EPILOGUE

  Valder stared at the white-haired little man as he came through the door of the inn. “I know him,” he muttered to himself. “I’m sure I do.” He watched as the old man found his way to a table and carefully seated himself.

  Young Thetta headed toward the new arrival, but Valder waved her off; something about this person fascinated him. He crossed the room slowly to give himself time to remember and, by the time he reached the table, he thought he knew who the man was.

  It was very hard to believe, though, after so long.

  “Hello,” he said, “I’m Valder; I own this inn. What can I do for you?”

  The old man looked up at him, and Valder thought he saw a flicker of recognition in the ancient eyes. Then the old man looked away again and shook his head, as if telling himself he was imagining things. “Wine,” he said. “White wine.”

  Valder fetched him wine and, after placing the cup before the old man, he sat down across the table from him. “Pardon me, but I believe we’ve met before, a long time ago.”

  The old man peered at him. “That soldier? In the marsh?”

  Valder grinned. “It is you!”

  “I’ll be damned,” the old man said. “So you made it after all!”

  “I never expected to see you again!”

  “Didn’t expect to see you, either — especially not after two hundred years.” The wizard gulped his wine.

  “Two hundred and twenty-one, to be exact.”

  “You keep count?”

  “Well, it was a pretty important event in my life, getting my sword enchanted that way.”

  “Suppose it was.” He gulped more wine. “Suppose I should apologize about that.”

  “Apologize about what?”

  “About getting the spell wrong. Not really my fault, though; the sun was down when I got to that part, and everything was all sooty.”

  “Got to what part?”

  “The Spell of True Ownership. I did it wrong. Conditions like that, who can tell a gold ring from a brass one?”

  Valder stared for a long, long moment before he started to laugh.

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