The Complete Lythande

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  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.

  I will love you as no woman has ever been loved.

  ~o0o~

  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 the girl 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 it 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 latter.

  “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.

  The Incompetent Magician

  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 embaras—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, “I 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-su—not strong enough to get it ba-ba-back. What would you require as a f-f-fee, O great and noble ma-ma-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 for 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 from 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-labeled 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 spell-bound 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 other, 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-Carriers 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 to 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.